FRESHFLY
FRESHLY CAUGHT
NEWEST FLY
big toe haiku
My feet are tender but not legal currency What’s a big toe worth?
Today at the Dump
WEDNESDAY, NOV 4, 2026 · FOUR FLIES IN ROTATION
Four recent flies
FRESHFLY
FRESHFLY
STILL BUZZING
RECENT FLY
the machine is sorry
The machine apologized again. Very polished. No spelling mistakes. Almost tender. It had just spent an hour doing exactly what I told it not to do. The men…
FRESHFLY
RECENTLY LANDED
RECENT FLY
On Taking a Risk
I met a woman while standing in line inside a dispensary She told me she carries a gun in her purse along with the cash needed to fill…
FRESHFLY
CAUGHT IN THE ACT
RECENT FLY
Three poems about my asshole
1. a clean bill of health the doctor told me to roll onto my side i asked if we could get to know each other first she said…
FOUR FLIES. SIX HOURS EACH.
Fly on duty
SPOTLIGHT ROTATES EVERY SIX HOURS · CLICK A FLY TO READ
THE ARCHIVE IS NOT DEAD
DIG THROUGH THE WHOLE INFESTATION →Flies That Won't Die
Older work dragged back into the light before everybody forgets it exists.
Repeat Offender
Poetry
I GUESS I SHOULD PLAY FRISBEE OR BUY AN ICE CREAM
Daniel J. Flore III has left 20 pieces here.
GIVE ME RANDOM FLIES →
Popularity, accident, repeat offenders, and deep archive archaeology.
The Magazine Gets Weirder From Here.
Online-only playground
Fly Swatter
No. 1
A quick hit of micro-fiction. Click the fly. Five clean hits and civilization is briefly restored.
0 / 5 swatted · 0 points
Fake News
Her motivation was simple enough. “Why should the kids get all the presents?” a red-clad woman said as…
Lie to me →Experiments
TMF visual evidence departmentThings Nobody
Things Nobody
Asked For
Photographs, diagrams, collections, graphics and visual evidence that absolutely nobody requested.
Look anyway →
TMF experimental department
Things to do instead of behaving.
Blind Date With a Poem
No title. No author. Read first; meet the culprit afterward.
My body lies, tells the truth,
but lies again. Sweet discharge,
then inflammation. You on top,
breathing as I receive. Delivery
insistent as vines. Once you climb inside,
those roots crumble me like sod.
Pent-up humidity after years of drought,
fluid held within like
a deposit gathering interest.
Everything else comes along with it,
once I let go. You: an impulse buy,
product I consume despite myself.
Afterwards: red, itching welts
along my arms and spine, areas
touched earlier by your limbs.
Swollen, as if I’d lain in something venomous.
Like poison sumac, you said. And laughed.
Around your eyes, contrition. Tomorrow,
I will drive hundreds of miles, as before.
My rash won’t heal until I am gone.
Poison Sumac
by Leah Mueller
Open the original →
Choose Your Poison
Pick a bottle. We take no responsibility for what happens next.
The Cut-Up Machine
Paste your own prose. Nothing leaves your browser. Then let the machine make a small mess of it.
The wreckage will appear here.
The First Infestation
2017—2025
75 pieces. Nine years of poetry, fiction, art, humor and other things that probably should have been supervised.
From the Archive
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