LEAKED SHORT STORY BY WALTER MACKEY - I WAS BORN INSIDE OF A TOASTER

  It was a really cold morning. It was sometime around November. Or maybe it was in
January—nobody really remembers the specific date or time. A person woke up and the
person felt very hungry. A person decided to go into the washroom and wash their face and
hands. Another person came into the washroom and decided to wash their face and hands.
Both of the people looked in the mirror at their reflections and frowned. One person frowned
more than the other person. One person went to the bathtub and turned on the water.
Another person left the bathroom. The person filled up the bathtub and got inside the
bathtub. The person washed their body parts. The person scrubbed there, under there, over
there, and inside there. The other person was busy in their bedroom trying to find an outfit to
wear. The other person showered before they went to bed and decided that it would be
foolish to wash their body parts again. The person got out of the bathtub and dried off their
body parts. The person put on a pair of underwear. The person put on a housecoat. The
person met the other person in the hall to the kitchen. The people said something to one
another. The person went into the kitchen and took a raisin bagel out of the freezer. The
person said something to the other person. The other person did not hear the person. The
person spoke a little louder. The other person said something and the person put two bagels
in the toaster. The person watched the raisin bagels turn brown. The person took the raisin
bagels out of the toaster. The person put butter and cinnamon on the raisin bagels. The
person gave the other person a raisin bagel with butter and cinnamon on top. The people ate
the bagels. The people did not say anything. The person took off the housecoat. The person
put on a dress. The person grabbed a purse and left the house. The other person grabbed a
briefcase and left the house.


  I stayed behind. I am a raisin that fell out of a bagel. Nobody knows that I am here
and nobody will remember the exact time that I was born. I will die over a period of time. I
will die by being burned to death. Other bagels and pieces of toast will visit me from time to
time but I will be in the bottom of the toaster forever. I will scream. I will be burnt to a crisp. I
will turn to ash. I will cry

WOW WE LEAKED AN UNPUBLISHED BLOG POST FROM BEACH SLOTH - MIGHTY MORPHIN POWER RANGERS

                William S. Burroughs went through life being celebrated and reviled often in the same sentence. Countless people considered him one of the most important writers of the 20^th century. Transgressive writing maintains a writer’s interest for only so long. After a while the most daring thing you can do is not describe doing heroin but selling out to the Fox Kids channel.

                Decades in the avant-garde writing circles taught William nothing about selling out. He was sick of living in some boring-ass part of Kansas. Fishing might be fun he reckoned. Living in Los Angeles getting fucked up and writing the most offensively stupid show ever sounded better. Taking his things, he hit the big, sprawling depraved decadent destroyed douchebag capital of the world. William was sure they’d love his pitch.

                Creative types sat eagerly awaiting William’s presentation. William nervously paced outside. Never had he needed to describe his art to anyone. Sitting there he’d crank it out the way he wanted. Suddenly he re-thought his idea about selling out this hard. Did he even have the potential to earn money off of his material? All these questions popped into his head like so many euphemisms for dildos. Perhaps another YUPPIE band would use a dildo’s name in vain like they did in the 70s.

                People stared at him, this gaunt old man in front of a room of eager, hopeful twenty and thirty something losers. William knew the type. They looked like Tea Heads, the kind who’d sell you up the river to the cops because they were weak. Coughing onto one of the corporate types without covering his mouth he began:

                “The Might Morphine Power Rangers are a group of superheroes living in Wholesome, America. Gaining their powers through the ingestion of vast quantities of morphine they manage to fight off vivid hallucinations from their nightmares from destroying their families. When they aren’t fighting they earn money by beating up drunks on subways and buses late at night. Morphine is their entire life; it perpetuates their fighting and not feeling any pain from the consequences of their actions. By doing Morphine they live in a constant sustained lower part of a downward spiral. No ups or downs exist in this bleak environment.”

                Upon completion of his pitch, William sat down to rapturous applause. Never one for smiling a slight smirk emerged on his face. Finally he’d sold the suckers a taste of their own medicine. The Trojan horse had arrived in Los Angeles. Inside their disgusting city he’d burn it to the ground, no questions asked.

                A few revisions came up. Slowly these revisions became full-on rewrites. William expected some changes but nothing to the extent they purposed. Gradually a certain pit grew in his stomach which he jumped into headfirst.

                First, they wanted the heroes to be full heroes, not the anti-heroes William suggested. ‘Morphine’ got shortened down to ‘Morphin’ to indicate the Rangers had normal lives outside of being super heroes. Morphing into superheroes appealed to family viewers more than watching freaked out drug addicts fight off hallucinations. No longer were these teenagers saddled with a debilitating drug habit. Instead, they fought in the name of love. Tangible, non-imaginary foes became the villains as the executives stripped away more of Burroughs’ flight of fancy.  Parts of his offensive ideas made it into the show particularly the utter lack of a coherent plot or purpose.

                Dejected would describe Burroughs’ mood upon hearing these changes. Happy would describe him after he received his first paycheck. Reviews of the show met his expectations so he decided to stay with it. Among the his favorite reviews were “Pointlessly violent and offensively stupid”, “Offensively violent and pointlessly stupid”, “this is a hallmark in children’s television programming”, “I’m more disturbing by the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers than I am by Naked Lunch”, “Wait, how old is Burroughs, doesn’t he do a ton of heroin, how did he survive this long?”, “this challenges what the word ‘entertainment’ means”, and “I guess this is why Burroughs joined ‘the church of the subgenius’”.

                Living in Los Angeles brought its own joy. Finally Burroughs was surrounded by people he hated. Being around people who adored getting spat upon made his life complete. Ending it watching his acclaimed program while out of his mind: Priceless.

LEAKED JOVIAL JELLYFISH VIDEOS OF HIM RECITING HIS PIECES

wow jovial jellyfish sends us these videos, of course we leaked them.
what will thepyramidpress 'leak' next?

MARK STEVENSON - ONCE THE NEWS OF MY DEMISE WAS READ, THE WOMEN CAME

Out from homes and across lawns, from behind smooth desks, off of packed shop floors, away from babies and bosses keening, pulled from toilet stalls, post office queues, and out of bed, the women came: A bank of cars double-parked, rallied busy at the flat shore of the hospital's doors, they stood along the pavement in static poses of the worried, the scared. Knuckles, fingers blushed white, wringing handkerchiefs dry. Makeup strewn and fixed and strewn again, and re-fixed. Hemlines tugged, a blouse rejigged, the women came.

As I lay hushed on my bed, these women – to the ward, down the hall to the cool of my room – this was where they moored.

They asked how, what evil, and why, but no doctor could present himself, no nurse appeared. All the equipment seemed in order – the transparent bags of thick fluids, the tubes pinned on skin, the monitor motoring on, scrolling green peaks of pulse – all of this, and yet the hospital held void. The women filled the mint-blue room around my form, hugged the walls, hunched on the tile. They sat, and each in turn pressed a moist rag to my brow, played with the bunched skin of my wrist. And they would sigh, blow a breath, say things like, "I like you very much, do not die. Please." 

The women would plead like this, plead with my dying self:
"Please. Don't die, not for anything, just don't."

They would come to profess of their love, eventually, expected. As I lay stunned with fever, lean and naked on a sheet, they would blurt out, "Love, please my love, survive this bad so that we may be happy together forever, in our love for one another." 

Sometimes they would mumble a short prayer, blushing, or bite a lip. Often they would kiss my cheek, and I would nod, then, or pull a smile, wink a dried eye.

On one occasion I could only part my lips and tongue a dead tooth, wet-black, out from my mouth. Which they retrieved, of course, one of them, gladly in palm, wearing the withered peg the next day, on a silver chain around their neck; grinning of it, the tooth already softening further, wetter, resting in a shaded patch at their breast. Such was their love.

Such was their love for me, that as my naked body began to bear bruised tumours, dense tan blisters, as my skin tightened, and split, and leaked and opened, and began to mouthe the smooth wrinkled red-brown of muscle beneath it, white strings of tendons shown foraging within my shell, the many women in their droves sat and ate by my side – mostly cold soups – and passed bread and water to my lips from theirs, and went on stroking gently my brow.

They told me, "Do not die, my love. I have a husband, a wife, a boy, but you are all I really am, and your death will make a death of my life. You would make a grave of me if you were to go."

(I would make graves of them all)

I told them, If you must come, wear a nurse's uniform. And so they did.

And so each day, this fleet of errant nurses attended to my bed, bringing with them their bodies wrapped in pressed white linen, hair hidden firm in a bun under cap. A dark rouge grin, eyes dimly powdered, a small blue flower pinned to their lapel. They told me of their world, all about themselves and their lives, but all about my own life, too:

All I had done, all I had still to do.

How well I loved and how much.

How tender, how good, how fierce.

Just how keen or cautious I was.

How much they needed me.

How much they could not live without. 

Nights drew in and on, days ballooned through the blinds of my room.

They spoke soft, brightly, as if I were some new knowledge, new language made manifest upon us from some blind part of human thought.

They took my hand, pressed it in both of theirs. Held a wide stare, squeezed. Blinked, looked away from me. Continued on...

As the confessions came, of course, there was inevitably a last: the procession felt the emptying in the air, quietened, whispered, wept, (No more prayers, now, I tried to say) as the nurses left my side shaken, paler, hats and flowers off, now, unfurled in fear, as the women of my life spilled out stumbling onto the outside, a grey street, suddenly struck with all kinds of complex loss, leaning in to walls and a hedge and a passer-by, each of them bearing my child, I died.

No one survived.