Josiah Webster

Contact: josiahwebster.lit@gmail.com, or Instagram

PUBLICATIONS

-Sad Vacation | Bellwether Review

-The Spanking Machine | Figwort Literary Journal

-Jeremiah's Brain | ergot.press

SOME FLASH

OPENING DAY AT THE WEIRD START GRIFT SHOW-

          And I can tell you about the diesel bulb dust storms they had in the old days. And I can bluster about the war. And I can smoke for you, all chimney-like. And I can be a man. And I can stand up straight outside my house, and be a man. And I can deal with the head-hurt, because my head hurts. And I can be okay regardless, because my being okay is not a requisite to the total act of phenomena-taking. And so, supported by my vast phenomena-taking apparatus, I can take what there is to take and see what there is to see, and still be better for it yesterday.

          And I can still be just lucky enough to be here, and engage in my witchery over the day’s modern motions, to make them mote in such a way as to be… almost seemingly agreeable… and to seem, almost like…

          Dear god, have you ever looked at yourself? What are all these unexplainable tentacles trailing everywhere? They’re black and ink and sap-stained monstrosities of ridiculous proportions. The kind you get at Undercover Republic’s Food Dystopia, and similar restaurants. Not the kind you see here, but god, now that we have them, I guess we have to deal with them.

          Lunar infestations notwithstanding, how can I expect to prepare you for a reading… of any kind? When things are this disorganized? I’m sorry I even brought you here, because what we were promising was liable to be a very nice thing, but now it’s just misplaced fireworks and smoke, and no-one seems to know what’s going on anymore. And I-

          [dear god, some kind of fire appearing which I am liable to have to put out myself]

          And I- listen, I have some stuff to do, but would you mind if I left you with a couple friends of mine? Just for a minute, I promise. Just for a second-


FUGUE-

          You slip into this strange vortex of time as fluid, of motion without reference, uneasy circles of motions of actions repeated over and over as if it’s the first time, every time, except of course you know it isn’t the first time despite that at some near-desperate moments you convince yourself it is or could be, where on levels deeper inside you, led by wisps with which you rarely openly confer you know this to be false, you know that you've misled yourself, and are continuing to as if to shield your consciousness from the morbid truth of your entrapment in the maze and the stifling, shoulder-tapping horror of so many walls all looking like the same wall, each day and day - the question on the tip of your tongue becoming ever more hopeless as these days fold into the following, until you may forget that you are even here, or what these walls may symbolize, or what your horror’s finger feels like as it raps and gently taps, as knocking on a door - making a door of you - and deftly tapping, clicking, scrabbling at the handle to get in.


BEFORE THE CLOUDS SINK IN-

          Staring at the full moon, it’s the supermoon. Wondering what’s so super about it, and if that leery, twisted feeling at the sight of it is primeval or learned, if that body in fact resembles the spectral eye you think it does, piercing downward meant especially for you, gaze charged and aimed at you–or if it’s just an innocent, detached body on its own orbit around the earth but not around you.


THE SNAKE-

          And I kept saying, well hey there’s a snake! Only when I looked it was actually just my pen had fallen there amongst the grass, having kind of a snakelike quality unto itself. And I would pick it up and put it somewhere else and a few minutes later I’d see this snake again. And you know me, I said well there’s a snake! Only it wasn’t a snake, it was my pen again. And we all laughed and laughed at my daffishness. And then someone said why don’t we come over here for a bit Linda, and I haven’t been invited to a company picnic since.


SUICIDE CULTS V ORDINARY CULTS-

          Suicide cults are a problem, especially for the ones who are too young or naive to avoid induction into one, but at least they don’t proliferate beyond a certain point. In fact, we can be thankful that, if left to their own devices, most suicide cults worth their salt pretty much sort themselves out. It’s the multi-generational life-loving child-rearing cults we really have to worry about… such as, oh, cast a rock and you’ll hit one. These cults are everywhere, and none are without sin.

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