Welcome to
Carnage House

– this is your trigger warning

The Liminal Fuckspace

by Amanda Worthington

WELCOME TO THE Liminal Fuckspace. This is where people like you come to be violated liminally, but not criminally. You signed the waiver, after all. You said you’d lost the will to live, needed a little dick-fribillator to restart your heart, which popped its clogs sometime between the death of the Great Barrier Reef and the tenth Trump administration. No one knows that old flesh puppet’s secret to immortality, but his face looks like it was force-fucked raw by a weed eater and allowed to heal—and not well, if you know what I mean. You could poke at it and feel the decay jiggle underneath. The flies swarm around his head and the Secret Service’s main task is batting them away.

I feel a little sorry for the flies. Our fearless leader, or what remains of him, is like a buffet with a tarp draped over it. And anyone can see that the poor buggers are hungry.

But back to your needs as a human.

You don’t want the same old missionary action. No god ordained this penetration, but it’s what you need. You need someone who can find the holes that don’t yet exist, not really. But they’ll exist someday, and the artful lover can find them, knead at them, find a way inside parts of you you can’t even fathom.

Isn’t that what a good lover does? Take your breath away? Elicit orgasms that feel like supernovae from stars that have yet to be born? Cumming is better when, well, when you don’t see it coming.

And the world is dark and cold.

Okay, no. It isn’t cold, but hot, but you know what I mean. Things are heating up in the worst of ways. You know how drone bees that become stressed ejaculate until they die? Well, it’s kind of like that. The humans have fucked this planet and fucked it hard. And we are right on the brink of the ecstasy that will kill us. Is it pain? Is it pleasure? Is there any difference, really? The workers grow fat on distraction and their bodies distend and a twinge of discomfort begins to register, but the sensation is still more heaven than hell. When it becomes agony, it will be too late. But isn’t that the way of things?

The world we’ve built is like Trump’s cratered, destroyed, half-healed devastation of a face. Liquid bubbles beneath the crust, ready to force its way to the surface at any moment. The foundation was never meant to last this long.

The end is nigh.

But creation and destruction share a border. And it is thinning all the time. And that space is infinitely fuckable.

And the Earth? The Earth is a canvas that has allowed herself to be used. She has borne the mark of a million tribes. She wipes the grime from her isthmus legs and atoll breasts and makes room for the future, exhibits the emptiness and hope of the blank page that way. The Earth waits. She both is and is not. She is empty and full of meaning in her emptiness. She is both soiled and clean when one understands that time is infinite and nonlinear.

To be honest, Earth was once amused by the contests of men but has since grown bored. And what woman can’t say the same? Fireworks blossom in the heavens, but when they’ve discharged their load, exploded their color across the sky, well, there’s really not much else to see.

Even the men don’t think so.

The Liminal Fuckspace is that place where humans can all meet and mingle and ask for the briefest of reprieves from the predictable onslaught of darkness.

Now, women reject the role of the canvas and men are no longer content to spray the world with their negligible insight. We have all played the role of finite, linearly minded humans for too long. And the finale is coming. Or maybe it’s already arrived and this is our encore.

At any rate, the Liminal Fuckspace is just another distraction, and it’s not for everyone. But within it is something of the past and something of the future too. We came from something. We will be something after. This is only an end for the current iteration. New roles can be assumed—they will be whether we want them to or not. We might as well start the process of opening here and now. It might seem too big at first, but it will fit. It will. We’re more elastic than we think. We can stretch. And when we do, it will be bliss. Our lips will tug upward in spasmodic oblivion. We will burst from so many holes that we’ll sink like a ship taking in the whole ocean. And then we will rise, victorious. Exhausted but full of so much cosmic that we’ll be dripping space-time cum-tinuum for eons to come.

The Liminal Fuckspace is for those of us who welcome transition.

You’re all in, you say?

Well, not yet, but you will be. There’s more of you than you imagine. It’s still growing. Jesus.

Yes, that’s a hole. Push at her. I know you don’t know her, but push at her. She’s agreed to be here. And you’ll have your turn. Don’t give it if you can’t take it. That’s what we always say.

What? It came out the other side? Don’t feel bad. That feels really fucking good when that happens. Take it from me.

That? That’s one of your holes? You can’t expect humans to be solid all over can you? That’s the spot on your back where your mom comforted you when you were getting bullied at school? Compassion breaks us down, makes us like putty.

You’re scared? Don’t be. It’s already so thin. It will only hurt for a second. A couple thrusts and it will give. Trust me.

What? It hurts? I’m sorry. Deep breaths. He’s almost through. It’s like tissue paper. I can see your bones dissolving.

There it is. See? He does fit. He fits so perfect.

It’s warm, isn’t it?

Can you do it again for me? This world is ending, but there are others. Are you ready? Are you ready to join them? Do you have another thrust in you? We have another customer who’s getting close. Her tender place is her lips. I think you could wear each other down if you just let her take you in. Yes, just slip it inside. Ahhh, doesn’t that feel nice?

Okay, I can see you’re fading. It’s been so grand, hasn’t it? And isn’t this better than burning to death or starving or?

What’s that? Oh, sure, I can answer one last question.

The Earth? The sun will take her if no one does it before then. She’s made of hardier stuff. Harder to find holes, if you know what I mean. Sometimes meteors crash into her, and they make an impact but… she’s a tough one. The sun will take good care of her though. Don’t you worry. This isn’t her final role either. She is, after all, atoms, same as you.

What? You’re coming? It’s the big O, the real Oblivion?

Ah, I’m so glad we could meet your needs, Sir.

See you on the other side.


About the Story:
Liminal Fuckspace is what happens when a dying planet, collapsing reality, and frenetic sex drives coalesce into one pulsating ball of What the fuck? You have two choices—ride the lightning or let the lightning ride you. Sometimes how you go depends on how you come.