Urethramonas Candiruensis, an invasive microbe, enters the human body through the urethra. The parasite multiplies in water sources and then scurries into a host organism through the victim’s urine stream.

Daydream Misfit is your home for the very best fiction on Daydream Misfit. The following tales of revenge, lust, travel, and existential despair have been lovingly culled from our library of fascinating, experimental fiction. These stories truly represent the pinnacle of words.

Mania is a surreal Daydream Misfit image capturing heightened perception, fractured reality, and psychological intensity in a moment of unstable clarity.

We approached this new series, "Sleep is No Escape" wanting to explore horror themes from the Lovecraftian tradition -- with a little HR Giger if he flesh-melded with a demon-possessed Andrew Wyeth, all slathered in chicken skin. These pieces were bounced back and forth between Ideogram and Gimp until they were moist and scabby. Some came together quickly. "The Garden of Heavenly Dismay" turned out to be massive and took several weeks!

"If you fail, it's because you weren't hungry enough, or smart, or willing to work. The formula is simple enough - sacrifice sleep, joy, time, and doubt. Replace these with measurable outcomes. Why are so many unwilling to do what is required?

Knock at the door. What the hell? I hate this shit. Nobody knocks on your door when you own your house because they know they get the business end of a Glock in their face. What time is it? 11 am. Who is it? I am not to be fucked with.

And up high, there’s a sweatshirt tangled in the branches, flapping rhythmically. Makes a little jam with the traffic, something to rock to, back and forth. Perfectly good sweatshirt. When I get woke up, I’m going to go over and get it.

Around a goldfish pond, unwashed kids tormenting love bugs, lips powder-yellow with pollen, slathered in Bahiagrass seed. The bed of an umber Ford rusts through and green is bursting bright.

Across the gray glass stain of the sky, water droplets collect and run as if chased by the wind. They merge into rivulets. I reach out, I strain for them with my hair, and (now we’re getting somewhere) I feel the waters of the sky run up individual strands of hair to my scalp and into the veins in my temple, into the sea, and (breathe) I open myself and start to think in a language not my own.