C. Rommial Butler
Bio
C. Rommial Butler is a writer, musician and philosopher from Indianapolis, IN. His works can be found online through multiple streaming services and booksellers.
Stories (109/0)
Portrait of the Creature as a Hapless Biped
You have this magnificent brain. It’s a complex lump of meat that’s evolved over millions of years to operate like a supercomputer that condenses an infinite amount of information into a small cache of relevant facts that allows you to survive and thrive.
By C. Rommial Butler15 days ago in Fiction
Open Letter to the Algorithm
A dog whines outside in the neighbor’s yard. I can’t see it through the brush, but I suspect it just wants in. The psychological manipulation is stupid as hell. You’re pushing me again. I’m pushing back. The veil was rent. Stepping through now. Across the threshold. Another Eucharist I ate.
By C. Rommial Butler17 days ago in Futurism
The Hearth
Louis Marshon was a master puppeteer. His life was consumed by his art. Forty-five years a virgin, he was uncomplicatedly asexual. Neither gender attracted him. Relationships with real people were less stimulating than quiet evenings alone in his shop, lovingly maintaining his puppets, and fashioning new puppets from many and varied a material.
By C. Rommial Butler17 days ago in Fiction
Buddha Throws Stones
"Perhaps if we toss stones into the Abyss, we’ll fill it up to the top, and no one will ever have to fall again," the poet said. "Dirt and rocks and seeds and a pleasant deluge of good intention could grow a garden of Heavenly delights."
By C. Rommial Butler18 days ago in Fiction
The Surreal Stream
Somewhere I read that the angles are perpendicular to the commiseration of distinct viewpoints on a map of the universe that jammed itself between the teeth of a giant seashell. . . or hell, HELL, maybe it bit into a volcano full of bubble gum and ate the sum of its own parts with licorice kisses on scaly flesh in the midnight hour of tower power so sour for whatever reason, how should we me know sirma’an on the mountain of fountain pens and cascading glens with no retreat from the beat of the crackalacka repeat bazooka joe chewing gum in the trash heap of binge drinking sink blinking random order out of meager benefits and sacred fits on the throwing mat of love in E minor with no concept of how long it took to get right here in the where the hell am I now, gibberish, slotted through monkey brain eating holes where the hammers still hang in GOD knows what void of Anglican discontent, wherever veils are rent.
By C. Rommial Butler18 days ago in Poets
- Top Story - March 2024
The Decrepit CopseTop Story - March 2024
Zilch wandered down from the mountain after discovering an indescribable treasure at its peak. An old juggler dared him to climb the mountain, but first gifted him a magic cap. Zilch felt silly wearing it—it was a jester’s hat, after all!—but it bestowed physical strength, endurance, and a level of awareness that helped him avoid and overcome the dangers of the mountain paths.
By C. Rommial Butler27 days ago in Fiction