Recently by Vincent Dermody

Jeffrey Dorchen is an essayist, fiction writer, and internationally produced playwright. He has also served the theater as a composer, musician, music director and dramaturg. He is an autodidact scholar of Jewish folklore and agaddot.

Hi.
This is the Q-mail send program at yahoo dot com. I'm afraid I wasn't able to deliver your message to the following addresses. This is a permanent error; and I've given up. Sorry it didn't work out. Sorry, I couldn't find any host named E-Z web dot H dot E dot J.P. Number five, dash twelve. Below this line is a copy of the message. Return path: Won You Hwa at S.B.C. global dot net. Received Q-mail seventy-eight thousand two hundred fifty nine, invoked from network on 31st of January 2008 at five-fifty one and twenty eight seconds, p.m., Central Standard Time. Domain key signature: A equals R.S.A., dash S.H.A.L., Q equals D.N.S., C equals N.O.F.W.S., S equals S, dash one thousand two hundred and four. Received from unknown ...

Former phone salesman has paranormal experience while trying to phone home. The visions prove to be life changing as he divines 19 seers to bravely take up the ancient challenge of completing the oracle. The twenty texts, subsequent phone calls, and nitro-booty mixtape that result change the course of global warming, end all war in the Middle East, and create a generally cozy feeling among all the world's peoples. Lives out days as a Human Nature D.J.™, three-legged furniture salesman, and breeder of world-class talking parakeets.
Dear Seers,
I don't feel responsible for my visions. The Gods are to blame. I must confess that I have been hearing voices and succumbing to seizures for the last few years that intensify when I huff the vapor and/ or hit the bottle. I have been completely unaware of their purpose until now.
The phenomena became impossible to ignore when I rented a rat-infested coach house built on a weird steaming chasm. The only place in the house where cell phone reception was to be found was the decrepit pantry. This seemed to link up nicely with the voices in my head and my day job, as I sold telephone book advertising from under the dim bulb there. The house burned down in 1978. Only to materialize like a ghost ship, long enough for me to sign the lease and set sail. My little home was most definitely haunted by the ghost of the Thick Grandmother who perished in my bedroom, lit cigarette at her fingertips. I was positive that I was sensing her balmy presence and green aura lurking over me while I tried to sleep. She smelled like onion borscht. I felt her cold breath on the back of my neck whenever crossing the threshold
Recent Comments