“Quit hogging the Cheetos, you stupid fuck.”

Bill rolls his eyes at Lester's lame excuse for a dirty look. More of this shit? Bill sighs. He doesn't even like Lester.

“Is that your way of saying you want some Cheetos,” Bill asks, “because I'm more than happy to share.”

Lester glares at Bill, clearly not appreciating the sarcasm. Bill glares back. He opens his eyes as wide as possible, and flares his nostrils, causing Lester to look away.

“So gimme the Cheetos already,” Lester says. He tries to glare again, but Bill is still making the ridiculous angry-Anime face. Lester folds his arms, sighs disgustedly, and fixes his gaze back on the television. Bill laughs, and tosses the bag of Cheetos at Lester. Several of them spill out on Lester's lap, causing him to recoil. He lets out a shriek, and Bill rolls his eyes again.

“Jeez... you believe this guy?” Bill says to the bonobo seated beside him.

“Frankly, no. He's crass, whiny, keeps a messy flat, and it's no secret that he doesn't bathe very often,” Jimmy, the bonobo, replies. Jimmy knows the question was rhetorical, but he doesn't care. He's in that sort of mood. "I'd go so far as to say he bloody well stinks."

“Why are you guys even here?” Lester is leaning over his chair, picking Cheetos from around the cushion. He huffs and glares again, this time at Jimmy.

“Bill is here because you invited him over to watch croquet,” Jimmy says, “and I'm here because Bill told me, and I didn't believe anyone would actually watch croquet on television. I thought he was putting one over on me, and made a friendly wager of twenty dollars that croquet was not even broadcast--”

“Ahem, speaking of which?” Bill says, hooking his thumb toward the television.

“Ah, yes. Very well, then.” Jimmy opens his messenger bag, removes his wallet, and places a twenty in Bill's outstretched hand.

“Yeah, well feel free to leave at anytime,” Lester says, still plucking Cheetos from the chair, “especially you, you... you pretentious ape. Why do you even talk like that? You're from Connecticut. You've never even been to England.”

Jimmy turns to Bill, and is obviously displeased with Lester's comment. Bill looks to Lester, shaking his head slightly. “Aw, c'mon man, don't be like that.”

“You two come to my house, say rude things to me, eat my Cheetos...”

“Lester, calm down. Why don't we all relax and just watch some croquet. Remember, you've been looking forward to it for weeks.” Bill smiles at Lester.

“Uh, um, OK. Just quit being jerks.”

“Sure. Whatever you say. Now, didn't you say you had some beer,” Bill says, “because these Cheetos are making me thirsty.”

“A Guinness for me, thanks,” Jimmy says, “and perhaps some popcorn, but not microwave popcorn. I eat stove top popcorn popped with coconut oil.”

Lester stares at Jimmy in seeming disbelief. Jimmy stares back.

“Shall I take that as to mean you only have the microwave variety?”

Lester's face turns red, and it becomes quite obvious he has had enough.


All three of their heads turn toward the hall as they hear the sound of the toilet flushing. Lopez, the alpaca, enters the living room, and places last month's issue of Rolling Stone on the coffee table.

“So, fellas... what'd I miss?”

"Cheeto Monkey"
Copyright: © 2010 Chris Bowsman
Chris Bowsman lives in Springfield, Ohio with his wife, three sons, and a lot of books. He recently turned 30, and has gotten over most of the associated issues.

“Pay up, Benjamin Bluetooth!” Reez Newman said, tossing the pool stick on the green felt.

Benjamin’s eyes constricted. He shook his spiked-blond head as he gave Reez a stunned, hateful look. Benjamin’s mind raced… Had he really just seen the eight-ball disappear into the side pocket? Had he, the greatest pool player of Fairvale High School, really lost his first game of eight-ball to the baby-faced Reez Newman who wasn’t much taller than a leprechaun? Yes. Yes he had. And he couldn’t believe it.

“Yea, bro!” Bethany Bluetooth said, taking a seat on the basement steps. She tugged at her pink whirly skirt, then crossed her slender, tanned legs. “Pay up!” She took her finger and started twirling at her blond hair while thinking, Reez is hot! I wonder since he’s small if maybe he didn’t get blessed in the midsection area?!

Benjamin’s gaze turned to Bethany. Her eyes never left Reez who was smiling from ear-to-ear. Benjamin crinkled his brow and hissed, “Shut up, Bet! This is between me and Reez!”

She paid no attention to him at all. Her unblinking, lust-struck eyes watched Reez’s every move. He noticed her looking, so he gave her a cocky, full-of-himself, smile.

Benjamin rolled his eyes at the two. “Damn! You two want me to go leave so you can fuck?!”

Reez got red in the face.

“No,” Bethany expressed. “Well, not with the ATM’s upstairs!”

“You better not let mom hear you call her that,” Benjamin said. “You know how she hates your slang talk.” Benjamin turned to Reez and said, “Look, Tiny-Tim. I’m not going to be able to pay up.”

“Don’t call me that!” Reez barked, raising his chest. “You know I hate being called that!”

“Apologies,” Benjamin said smiling. “I didn’t mean to call you that. What I meant to say was… Look, you wanna-be Tiny-Tim fuck! I’m not paying up!”

Reez charged at Benjamin and landed a nice right hook to Benjamin’s jaw. Benjamin returned the punch with a right of his own, then the two of them fell to the floor in a down-and-out braw.

Bethany gasped. She took off running up the staircase yelling, “Mom! Dad! The dumbass and the leprechaun are fighting!”

Reez and Benjamin exchanged several blows. Benjamin laughed once and said, “You hit like a girl!”

Reez retorted, “Yeah, well later on, I’m gonna have your sister put the stink on me!”

Benjamin’s dad, Buford, came rushing down the stairs with Bethany following closely behind him. Buford wasted no time, he grabbed Benjamin with a muscular arm and stood him up. “Stop this nonsense right now,” he said with a gruff voice. “And tell me what the hell is going on!”

“It’s nothing, dad,” Benjamin answered, rubbing his sore jaw.

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Buford exclaimed, turning his attention to Reez and saying, “Young man, would you please tell me what’s going on?”

Reez seemed hesitant, but his words came out quickly. “Look, man. Benjamin and I were playing a game of pool when I suggested that we make a small wager. He agreed. But when he lost he didn’t wanna pay up!”

Buford looked at his son. “Is this right, Benjamin?”

“Yea, dad. But Reez is an asshole! He even made a crude comment ‘bout Bethany!”

“Now, son. I’m not worried about what he said…”

“But DAD!” Benjamin broke-in. “He said that he wanted Bethany to put the stink on him!”

Buford’s confused face turned to Bethany. “Okay, Bet. What does that mean?”

Bethany was smiling like a kid with a new toy. “It means that he wants to have sex with me!”

Buford shook his head. “Okay. Now how about you go on upstairs. I need to have a word with these boys.”

“But…” Bethany tried to say.

“Now!” Buford ordered, pointing upstairs. “I’ve got some parenting to do!” Buford turned to Reez and said, “You know, young man, you shouldn’t say such things about women. One of these days you might have a daughter of your own and you wouldn’t want somebody talking about her in that type of manner. Now would you?”

Reez lowered his head. “Nah. I don’t guess so.”

“And you,” Buford’s voice rose, his eyes gawking at Benjamin. “How many times have I told you not to gamble! Especially if you can’t pay off your debts!”

“But dad.”

“Don’t but dad, me,” Buford rebuked. “Pay up, son! Stop being such a sore loser!”

“I’m not a sore loser, dad. I just can’t pay off Reez.”

“Why not?” Buford said, looking pissed-off.

“Because I bet your ‘66 Corvette.”

“Oh,” Buford said, the pissed-off look leaving his face. He looked at Reez, who’s smile grew wide. Buford let out a deep groan. “Well, that’s not going to happen. Son,” Buford said, placing a hand on Benjamin’s shoulder. “You do remember what I’ve told you to do when you can’t pay off a debt. Don’t you?”

Benjamin looked puzzled. “I dunno.”

“Boy do you ever listen to me?”

Benjamin’s puzzled look grew deeper.

Buford snorted, “Boy, I’ve always told you that if you can’t pay off your debt… then kill the debt collector!”

“Oh, yea!” Benjamin exclaimed, pierced lip curling into an evil grin. He leered at Reez who was trembling in fear.

“Just remember, son,” Buford said, heading up the stairs. “To make it quick, and keep it quiet. We don’t want the neighbors thinking we’re a bunch of crazy psychopaths.”

"Pay Up"
Copyright: © 2010 Chad Case
Chad Case lives in Lawrenceburg, Kentucky, with his wife, Melissa. He enjoys writing short horror fiction in his spare time. To date his works have been published on MicroHorror.com, The New Flesh Blogzine, Flashes In The Dark, Flashshot, and in the anthology: Toe Tags.

“Death is hard to come to terms with,” I say. “I know that first hand, but when I think about the prospect of dealing with death and financial ruin at the same time, that to me is terrifying.”

I am trying to sell a married couple a lucrative life-insurance policy. They smile and nod every so often. I have not had much luck lately selling much of anything.

The man stops nodding and raises his finger and points towards me. “Your eye is falling out of your head, sir.”

Being a member of the living-undead tends to distract people from the finer points of your talking points. I put my extended hand out and nod. I touch my eyeball, which feels like a wet stress ball in the form of a large marble, and pop it back into its socket. “You get used to it after a few months I guess.” I say, I’m slightly embarrassed.

The wife looks down and tries to smile.

“See I’m a prime example,” I smile. “If I had gotten life insurance I wouldn’t need to provide for my wife and kid right now and I could go and do things I enjoy.”

“What sort of things do you people enjoy?” the man asks.

“I like the beach a bit. If it wasn’t for the gaping hole of scar tissue in the center of my chest that shows my graying and moth-eaten organs that makes me feel like an old coat in an attic, I might go out and catch a tan. You’d be amazed what a tan does for the self-esteem.”

They nod.

“Mostly though, I like eating garbage from outside of Wal-Mart and reading Eastern European literature.”

“Is it hard?” asked the man.

“Well the Russians were always a little dense…”

“No, I mean the zombie thing?” he half-whispers the word zombie.

I do my best not to cringe at the word. “As a living-impaired member of society, I have found that life is different. My wife won’t kiss my cheek ever since the time she got a piece of worm on her lip. My daughter has nightmares if I read her a bed time story, but I still can think and I feel a good portion of what goes on around me.” I do not want to lose the sale. “If you’ll consider these brochures” I say and quickly toss the literature in their direction.

The woman looks at me for the first time in the meeting. “What happened?”

I try to focus on the wall behind her. “I was walking home and I got bit by a large dog. It got infected. I didn’t last long…maybe a week. I should have gone to a doctor. I remember the last day I was conscious my daughter was watching Spongebob Squarepants and I kept waking up to the sound of his laughter. I kept thinking that I was in some sort of purgatory or hell.”

The family kept looking at me. “How did this happen?”

I smiled. That’s what people called it, “this”. “Not sure.” I say. I readjust my foot and I notice that my leg has popped out of place. I quickly reach down to pop it back in. It makes a noise that sounds like twigs cracking in a bucket of jello. “It works out, you know, my wife Chris needs to take care of Jessica, so I can still work.”

“Have you always been in health insurance?” the woman asks.

“The past five years.” I fight the urge to start drooling and moaning.

“And you never thought to get life insurance yourself?” asks the man. His wife slaps his wrist and mouths a silent warning to stop talking.

I smile at both of them. “I never thought it was important. Now I think differently. I mean, if I had life insurance, my family would be set. Sure, they would still have me drooling around the house and they would still need to find new places to hide the cat more often so I didn’t eat it, but they would know where the next meal was coming from.”

There is an uncomfortable silence. I can see my wall clock ticking. It has no numbers and it says, “It’s a great time to be alive” in their place. I suppose I keep it up as a joke for the rest of the office folks. They are good sports about this whole thing. I guess when you get down to it, I’m sort of a good sport too. I mean I’m practically a billboard for life insurance. Don’t end up like this undead son of a bitch who has to pay taxes and satisfy his craving for brains after work! I can see the commercials, me walking around yelling brains and then shaking hands with a satisfied customer, brains still inside his head.

“Well, you’ve given us a lot to think about. We appreciate your time.” The man says, rising. “We’ll be in touch.”

I get up and shake both of their hands. They recoil from my clammy handshake. I know I will not see them again.

I sit down in my chair, defeated. I really need a sale as I am paid largely out of my commission pool. I fight the urge to say, “This business is killing me!” loud enough for everyone to hear. I think that joke is getting old. I slam my head on my desk; I see the picture of me standing next to a tree, my wife and child standing slightly apart from me with confused looks on their faces. This picture was taken last week. Most people would be upset, but my tear ducts don’t work any longer, and I’m not really sad either. I pick up the phone, think positive thoughts, and hope that this call leads to something new.

"What Comes Next"
Copyright: 2010 Andrew Kaspereen
Andrew Kaspereen is a young, moderately attractive writer/educator from Northern New Jersey. Andrew is a regular contributor to the Broad Set Writing Collective (www.thebroadset.com), and founder/editor of Revistion Magazine (revistion.blogspot.com). His work has been featured in Avanlanche Tinder 1 and 3, Lo-Fidelity magazine, Foreveryyear, 50-to-1, and Six Sentences. He likes rap, books, and being ironic. You can learn more at his blog, The Sloth of Righteousness (theslothstillknows.blogspot.com)

The crowd parted for the great Lucchesi. Men in uniforms met his eyes with reverence then averted them in fear. The women, they buckled and moistened, for Lucchesi had come to save the day.

“What have we got, Muldono?” Lucchesi shook a cigarillo from a pack and situated it between his pursed lips. The torch from his Nibo flared in his pupils before disappearing behind a cloud of smoke from the black roll of tobacco.

“Ah, jeezus, Lucchesi, thank God you have come.” Muldono looked up at Lucchesi with sparkling eyes. Lucchesi snarled at the short man, with his thin hair and his sunken sockets and his paunch. This man who is already dead and might as well have his toe tag made out ahead of time.

The same could be said for Lucchesi. The crowds who came to see him work, the people who hovered near their short wave radios and police bands waiting for that one name to crackle through the air, they came for the spectacle. They knew that Lucchesi would one day explode.

Muldono shook a crooked finger at the building. “It is on the first floor, Lucchesi. It is a nasty one. Dirty and crude, but very solid.”

Lucchesi dragged on his cigarillo long and hard. He watched Muldono from the corner of his eye as the man, little more than a middle manager of thugs and back hills corruption, held his breath waiting for a response from the great Lucchesi.

Muldono licked his lips and wiped sweat from his balding head with a stained rag which he stuffed into the front pocket of his uniform.

“You have what you need, yes Lucchesi?”

Lucchesi looked at the front entrance of the building and nodded and waved Muldono away. He resettled his jacket on his broad shoulders and clutched his bag in his left hand. With his right hand, he reached into his coat and produced a pair of D & G Gold Edition sunglasses and slid them on. He heard the tittering from the women in the crowd behind him. They surged against the police barricades, packed together and glistening beneath the hot sun, as though drawn out on this sweltering day by a magnetic force. The men did this, too.

The crowd muttered as he strode for the front door. A man said, “Lucchesi does not sweat. He does not get nervous. That is how he can do what he does.”

A woman said, “My cousin Ophelia says Lucchesi took her to bed and had her from the time the sun rose until it set again. Never once did he tire and when she was near to fainting from the dehydration, Lucchesi was called out to Venice to disarm a gondola bomb, a fortuitous turn which saved her life.”

Lucchesi heard these things and smiled, for they were true. He paused at the entrance of the building and turned so the crowd could see his face once more. His eyes were hidden behind the mirrored glare of his D & Gs, which reflected the setting sun out over the doting people. Then he entered.

From his bag, Lucchesi produced a folded, lead-lined blanket, which he opened and strung across the doorway. Once inside, away from the eyes of the hopeful, fearful crowd, he relaxed and exhaled deeply.

The bomb sat in the middle of the room, wrapped in brown paper covered with postage stampings. The paper was pulled away to reveal the workings of the device. Lucchesi lowered to his knees before it and pulled up his shirt to reveal the tumor. Balled in the hollow of his stomach, the tumor unfolded from its compartment.

This was Lucchesi.

Arms and legs, short and wiry, extended out from the round ball – from Lucchesi. The man from whom he emerged slumped on his knees as though sleeping while Lucchesi flexed the joints of his fingers and hands and knees and opened his eyes. He yawned and reached down his throat to detach the esophagus that ran from him to his vessel. He gently placed the tube back into the stomach cavity, his home.
Lucchesi wobbled forth to his bag and rooted around for his tools. This would be an easy job. Crude and stubborn was this type of device, but simple for one of Lucchesi’s expertise to dismantle.

The man mumbled and bobbed his head forward.

“Quiet now,” Lucchesi told his vessel. “Leave me to my work. We will be done quickly and then we will feast. Did you see the crowd out there? We will enjoy ourselves this night, I think.”

Lucchesi grinned, revealing a toothless mouth that stretched around the sides of his orb-like body. He turned back to the bomb and hummed an aria.

“No… more,” the vessel-man whispered.

Lucchesi did not turn away from his work this time. “No more of what? I told you to be still.”

“Let me be.” The vessel-man flopped forward on his hands, wobbly and weak. His head hung between his shoulders and saliva dripped from his lips. His esophagus dropped from the cavity of his stomach to drag along the dusty floor.

Lucchesi turned with a set of snips in one hand and pliers in the other. “What is this about, then?”

Before he could react, the vessel lurched onto his face and struck out with his left hand. It landed on the jumble of wires protruding from the bomb. The green wire slid free.

The crowd reacted to Lucchesi’s cry; hands covered mouths when his “NO!” shattered the still air. The explosion knocked them to their backsides and stole the breath from their lungs. The blast brought down the entire building in a cloud and the sad people trudged home dusted with terra cotta.

Their hero was gone, and they searched for solace in each other. The streets were quiet that night, the air thick and moist. Babies were born months later, many of whom would bear the name Lucchesi.

"BOOM! Goes Lucchesi"
Copyright: © 2010 Steve Lowe
Steve Lowe writes dark stuff, except when he doesn’t. His first book, Muscle Memory, will be released in October 2010 as part of the New Bizarro Author Series from Eraserhead Press. His second book, Wolves Dressed as Men, will be released in November 2010 by Eternal Press. His short fiction is forthcoming or has appeared in Drabblecast, Three Crow Press and Allegory, among other places. In his spare time, he asks fellow authors and creative types odd, mostly random questions for something called The 2-Minute Drill.

Gunner Davis pulled at the bottle of Taaka Vodka. Dry air met his tongue. He scowled. A flick of his finger brought the window down. A toss of his hand sent the bottle flying into the cool October night. He bent low, his face brushing the steering wheel, and searched the floorboard with desperate fingers. The new bottle must have slipped under the seat. "Damn it!"

Gunner straightened and stared ahead. Suddenly, his eyes grew wide and a yelp escaped his throat.

A little girl sat in the center of the roadway. She stared down at a piece of paper in her hands. Gunner smashed the horn, but the girl didn’t look up. His frantic foot smashed the brake pedal and he jerked the steering wheel to the right. The tires hit the loose, rocky shoulder at eighty miles per hour. The F-250 shot forward and careened out of control. It struck a culvert with tremendous force. There was a moment of suspended silence as it went airborne.

When gravity jerked the truck back to the ground, Gunner’s head lurched forward with such force that his neck snapped like a twig. A numbing shock reverberated down his spine. The truck flipped end over end and came to rest in a soft patch of marsh grass. Uncertain earth gave in to the tons of steel that forced its way to the bottom of the soupy mud. Brackish water seeped in through smashed windows.

"Help! Help me!" Gunner's breath came in gasps. The cold swamp water began to wrap its deadly arms around his broken body. He lay helpless amidst the smashed wreckage. The water rose slowly, threatened to envelope his entire frame. Weak eyes slid shut and, for the first time in his life, he prayed.

Gunner didn't know how long he lay there, but he felt a sudden glimmer of hope when he heard the sound of footsteps splashing in the water. "Here! I'm in here! I need help!"

The footsteps stopped just outside the wreckage. Gunner tried to turn, but couldn't.

"Are you dead yet?" asked a soft voice.

Gunner strained his neck and was able to see a pale face leaning over. His pulse quickened. It was the little girl who had been sitting in the road! She dropped to her hands and knees in the water, and crawled to where Gunner lay twisted in the cab. She was still holding the piece of paper.

"You? How can it be?"

The girl frowned. A large, open wound on her temple spilled blood onto her plastic costume.

Gunner started to speak, to apologize, but the girl put a hand over his mouth. With her other hand, she held the paper for Gunner to see. It was a newspaper clipping that bore her picture. The accompanying story was one that Gunner knew well. With moist eyes, he read it for the thousandth time:

Because of an unfortunate loop hole in the DWI statute, Gunner Davis was able to walk out of court a free man today, after spending only eight months in jail for the vehicular homicide of Rae Lynn Madison, a six year old who was killed while trick-or-treating last Halloween. When asked if he believes he got away with murder, Davis smiled and said, "Justice was served."

Rae Lynn Madison dropped the paper and placed her other hand over Gunner's nose. He shook his head, fought for air. His struggles were futile against the uncommon strength of this tiny child. Panic-stricken, Gunner stared wildly into the lifeless eyes of the girl he had killed just a year ago.

Gunner’s eyes bulged, rolled back in his head. His muscles relaxed. He lay still. Rae Lynn Madison released her grip on his face and muddy water replaced her small hands in blocking Gunner’s airway. As the newspaper clipping floated away on the water, she floated away on the breeze. Etched into Gunner’s face were three simple words: “Justice was served.”

"Tiny Hands of Justice"
Copyright: © 2010 BJ Bourg
BJ Bourg lives in southeast Louisiana with his beautiful wife and two wonderful children. To learn more about the author, visit his website at www.bjbourg.com.

“You’re going to regret that, young lady,” said Billy Thompkins, who kept an eye on the register while Mildred Conrad took a quick bathroom break. Most people in Bolton were trust-worthy, but the rich folks had to be watched carefully.

Calista Jordan, the pretty teen daughter of a local banker, a girl who was a regular in the general store, probably out of boredom and the fact the closest mall was fifty miles away, gave Billy the stink-eye and smeared lip gloss on her mouth and put it back on the shelf where she found it.

She sampled the cosmetics in the clearance bins--breaking the seals on everything.

Mildred returned. “Thanks, Billy.” She waved him away from the register and resumed her position.

“Keep your eye on that’n,” he whispered in Mildred’s ear as he made his way around to the other side of the counter.


“No, putting her germs all over your makeup.” He turned and scowled at Calista.

“Calista, you can only test the stuff marked ‘tester’. If you need help, let me know.” Mildred smiled.

With a defiant smirk, Calista took the lip gloss back off the shelf, opened it, coated her lips with another layer, and promptly screwed the lid on and sat the gloss on the edge of the shelf. Wiping her hands on her jeans, she kept rubbing her lips together as she sauntered down the aisle—periodically glancing up at Mildred.

“The nerve of that girl…” Mildred mumbled under her breath to Billy.

He kept his back turned to Calista—refusing to give the brat his attention. He’d seen her many times before—spoiled, beautiful, and disrespectful. “I done told you, young lady, you’re gonna regret that. You best be getting on outa here before things get ugly.”

Mildred frowned and shook her head at Billy. “Don’t threaten.”

“I wasn’t. I’m just stating fact.” He looked in the surveillance monitor and watched Calista’s reaction. She got fidgety, like they always do, tough stuff ‘til somebody stands up to them and he hadn’t even tried to scare her, yet.

A few minutes later, Calista came to the register with a soda in her hand. She placed it on the counter and dug money out of her designer purse.

“Guess you ain’t noticed our new security camera.” Billy inched himself closer to Calista to get a good view. He could almost smell her nervousness.

Her eyes grew wide; she took a tiny gasp and stopped scrounging around in her purse for a second. She stiffened her back. “Whatever, old man.” With a dramatic head toss, she turned toward him.

He grinned and savored the anxiety in her eyes. “Daddy might like a private viewing of his little princess and her escapades about town.”

“It’s not against the law to sample.” She squared her shoulders with Billy and hid her fear like a girl accustomed to lying and manipulating. Typical.

“No need to make a big deal out of this,” Mildred said—winking at Billy behind Calista’s back. “Calista’s been coming in here since she was a little thing. She knows we don’t have a security camera.”

A wide grin spread across Calista's lips as she stuck her hand on her hip.

Her triumphant glow amused Billy. He pulled the digital camera sized monitor from his pocket and held it in front of her face and pushed rewind and play.

She leaned in and stared.

“Where’d you get that?” Mildred asked while trying to stifle her laugher as her voice quivered.

Calista was too busy studying the images on the monitor to notice the giggles hiding in Mildred’s question.

Staggering backward, Calista raised a hand to her face and felt about. She opened her mouth as if to scream, but only a whimper came out.

Then, she summoned her voice and wailed, “What the fuck happened to my face?”

“I told you to stop before things got ugly.” Billy snarled and played the video again. This time, Calista watched with tears in her eyes--fingertips tracing her porcelain skin and classic features.
Mildred regained her composure and said, “It ain’t so bad, Calista. Some folks just have nasty reactions to that brand of makeup.”

Calista turned and asked, “Is it permanent?”

“Usually, “ said Mildred.

Purse held over her face, Calista ran out of the store and sped off in her little sports car--wheels squealing out of the parking lot and cellphone pressed to her ear.

“She’s calling Daddy now, I bet.” Billy walked over to the window and watched her disappear over the hill.

“That was the best one yet.” Mildred held her sides--laughing. “Oh no, now I gotta pee again.” She ran to the restroom and Billy took her place behind the register.

He pulled out the Illusions Security Monitor instruction manual from his pocket and read the next section: Stop an armed robber in his tracks by showing his face, name, phone number, address, and driver’s license info beneath the video footage. Aim the scanner at his head and all the information will be retrieved and flashed up on the screen. For an extra kick, his worse fear will be accessed and shown to be nearby. If he is afraid of snakes, he’ll think there are snakes behind the register and they are headed his way. Warning: some robbers have been known to soil themselves while fleeing the premises. Don’t use this feature unless you have a mop handy.
Billy laughed out loud, “Damn, too bad we never get any of those around here.”

An old lady walked in and headed over to the coffee area. He set the camera to record. She stuffed a handful of single creamers, sugars, and napkins in her purse then grabbed a newspaper and shuffled toward the register. Slapping fifty-cents on the counter, her diamond rings glittered in the late afternoon light.

Billy grinned, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Jordan. You just missed your granddaughter. Calista was in her less than five minutes ago. She favors you more and more every day.”

"Security Monitor"
Copyright: © 2010 Paula Ray

Paula Ray is a musician from North Carolina who repairs musical instruments and writes fiction and poetry in the margin of her life. Her work has appeared in New Flesh Magazine, Flashes in the Dark, SNM Horror, Everyday Weirdness, and others. For more information about Paula, visit her blog: http//:musicalpencil.blogspot.com/

Edinburgh, Scotland, 1995.

This is my first time abroad. I’m here to talk to an Englishwoman.

I’ve met plenty of English people. I’ve worked with about ten Brits over the past six years. I never knew them very well, of course. One doesn’t develop many friendships working in a secret multi-national scientific research lab. It’s designed that way.

We don’t fraternize outside of work, though we all live on base while we’re on the job. It’s in the rules.

Besides, if the rest of the team is like me, they take their work home with them. There’s no time (ha!) for relaxation on this project. No time for the wife, especially no time for the kid and his inane crap.

Anyway, the English people I’ve dealt with are absolutely brilliant—isn’t that a British expression? They’re the top of the crop. I can’t say that I’ve been exposed to a fair sampling of their countrymen. Certainly, none of my colleagues were obnoxious, obscene, or downright ridiculous. Not like this other English person with whom I’ve become intimately acquainted—through no fault or desire of my own. The one I’m here to meet.

Dreadful woman.

It is because of her that working at home became nearly impossible. It’s her fault about Thomas.

My son is a genius. He’s destined for great things.

His mind should be directed toward higher math, astrophysics, membranes, strings, and the ways around relativity! But Thomas doesn’t spend hours building representative models of DNA and its radio-frequencies. He doesn’t stare at the reaches of the universe through that telescope I bought him.

No, it seems there are more important things for an eleven-year-old to study. It seems that memorizing the table of elements is not nearly as important as memorizing dreadful dialogue, a vast collection of difficultly named characters and how they’re all intricately related, and a huge array of senseless words that one must shout around the house at all hours of the day, while waving a pointed stick, jumping off the furniture, and talking to the damned cat like it’s a person!

No matter what I’ve done to curb Thomas’ behavior and set him on the right track, he still dashes about in a purple-lined cape and those stupid John Lennon glasses, screaming things like, “A-Gloria!” and “I’ve got a cadaver!” or whatever the hell it is.

I fully expected Thomas to develop some hero-worship, his dad being such an important part of such an amazing project—though he’s not quite certain what it is I do, he knows it’s important. There are texts lying around the house from the greatest minds of history! I go on and on about Planck, and Einstein, Marconi, Edison, even Tesla—their discoveries, practices, and how their amazing minds led us to the most exciting time ever.

I did not expect his hero to be a fledgling wizard from the wasted mind of a… a writer!

Fantasy! It’s just what it says it is. Poppycock.

Science fiction is about as close as a fiction writer can come to truth. Otherwise, they’re wasting space and time for all of us. Maybe there’s something I can do about that now. After this, of course.

I’ve spent six years working on the most important invention of all time. I did it for the future—for my son. For science and the scientists it will breed. What will happen if those future men of greatness become namby-pamby wanna-be wizards instead? Wasting their best learning years talking about pseudo-mythical monsters and drawing schematics for magic schools and imaginary worlds! What if just one future great mind decides to write fantasy stories instead of deciphering the cosmic code? What if it’s Thomas?

So that’s why I’m here.

I’m waiting on this particular street for a particular young woman to come out of her home. She’s just finished writing the first installment of her utterly ruinous series of nonsensical novels.

I watched her last night, from the roof across the street. I watched her read and re-read the last of her first story for over an hour. She trolled about the house, window to lighted window, reading her fistful of pages. Twit.

When she comes out, I’m going to talk to her first. I’ll try and convince her to give it up. I haven’t thought much about what to tell her, other than she’s turned my son into a dribbling fruit with all her cabbitch games, flying cars, and pointing of sticks. I’ll tell her that if she never makes her silly stories available to the public, Thomas won’t waste his time and mind drowning in her made-up world.

Perhaps I’ll grab her, and take her to her delirious future of movies, action figures, and lightning-shaped plastic scars. Let her read the biographies, blog entries, and news articles about her special hand-written books. Maybe I should show her how easy it was to learn that she’d be coming out that door in about half an hour. No, that would only encourage her.

Who am I kidding?

I’ll probably just kill her. That’s why I brought the gun.

"Hunting J.K."
Copyright: © 2010 Kevin Shamel

Kevin Shamel writes weird stories and he does it on purpose. You can find his first book, Rotten Little Animals, at Amazon. People seem to like it. Magazines have printed his stories. More and more of his weirdness is showing up online and in print. Check out his website, ShamelessCreations, to find out where. And please accept his third-person thanks for reading!

Jennie heard them pounding on the front door. "Sid," she said. "They're here.""I'll be up soon," he called from the basement.

The pounding stopped for a moment. "We've got a new drill," someone shouted. The pounding started again.

"All right, all right," Sid hollered up.

"Come on," Jennie called. "We've got that last house payment to make and ..."

"Like it?" Sid said stepping into the kitchen.

"Oh. You think that will work?"

"Well, I heard them say that they've got new drills, but this should do the job." He was wearing a modified helmet from the museum raid. It was bronze, so heavy he could barely keep his head up, even without the modifications. He was wearing a neck brace. Pointing out around the helmet like frizzy hair, were dozens of springs, epoxied to the bronze.

"I wondered why you'd bought up all those pens," Jennie said.

Resting on the springs was a ball of clear plastic, nearly surrounding his whole head. "As soon as they start drilling, it'll just bounce them back."

"I wish we'd thought of that last time, then you wouldn't have those silly wounds and those odd higher function losses you've been experiencing."

"Yeah, but how were we to know?"
The pounding escalated. "Come on people. We're on a schedule out here."

"Coming," Sid called. "Sheesh, tell me again how much this one is worth?"

"Six months of the mortgage. In one hit. Then we're clear."

"I never thought we'd get this desperate." He wobbled along the hallway and opened the front door.

"Good evening," the foremost of three black-clad men said, staring at Sid's helmet. "We are from 'Penny for Your-'"

"I know where you're from. Let's get on with this."

"Make sure you get the check," Jennie called from the kitchen.

"We have your money." The last member of the group was hauling their clanking machine up the walk.

"Before they start drilling," Jennie called.

"You heard her," Sid said.

"Of course, of course." The lead member pulled out a billfold and slipped the check over to Sid.
Sid checked the amount, then put it on the hall table. "Okay, we're all set." He stepped out onto the porch. "Where's your gurney?"

"Oh," the head man said. "As I mentioned, we have new drills." He picked up the heavy tool from the top of the machine. Cables and wires dangled back.

"Where's the bit?"

A murmur of quiet laughter went around the group.

Sid stared at the blue and black unit. He was used to the machine that was like a cross between a dentist's implement and something from Home Depot. Rather than a Black and Decker tool, this looked like a retro-device invented by a movie props team. It gleamed with chrome and bright plastic coils. There were glowing indicator lights and circular gauges with thin red needles.

"No bit," the leader said. He lifted the apparatus. The tip began glowing and the box whined with a growing intensity.

"This is bad," Sid said.

"Nothing more than you agreed to. This is your final extraction anyway."

"The Perspex headgear is a nice touch," one of the others said. The rest laughed.

"Brings out his eyes," another said.

"We're fully charged," the one standing by the machine said. "Anytime you like and we can do a full drain."

The leader smiled. "It was nice to meet you, Sid." He lifted the tool up to Sid's forehead. "Most people are imaginative for the last visit, but I've got to say, you're one of the most intriguing I've met." He put his finger on the button.

"Wait!" the one at the machine said.

A bolt of green lightning leapt from the point of the tool. The lightning connected with the Perspex and skittered around, dividing into myriad sparks as if it was a horde of bugs. The springs glowed for a moment, then the lightning recondensed and jumped back across to the drill and along the shuddering cables. The machine exploded.

"He's got a brass helmet," the one who'd called 'wait' said. They all stood staring at their broken and smoking machine.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I tried."

They hauled the machine back to their van.

"So," Jennie said coming up to the door. "I guess it worked."

"And you doubted me," Sid said, lifting the helmet off.

Jennie smiled, holding the check. "Not for a moment."

"Bored Out of My Skull"
Copyright: © 2010 Sean Monaghan
Sean Monaghan’s thoughts are often extracted after dark by unknown entities while he sleeps and when he awakes he finds them transcribed into stories. Sean’s transcriptions have appeared before in The New Flesh Magazine and also in Flashes in the Dark and 365Tomorrows, amongst others. More information at his website www.venusvulture.com.

Cindy dropped her chin to insulate her face from the bitter bite of Jack Frost. Her arms laden with tools, she ran into her workplace, Woodhaven Funeral Home. She opened the door and took a minute to bask in the strangely comforting atmosphere. The air was warm and the aroma of brewing coffee mingled with the fragrance of freshly cut flowers.

"Close the door," Mr. Robbins, the director of the funeral home, ordered. "We living folks still need to maintain a certain body temperature."

Cindy nodded apologetically and shut the door.

"Thanks, Doll, I have Ms. Baptist prepped and ready for her final make-over!"

Cindy gave a washed out smile to the quirky, little man while walking into the small room that served as her office.

A petite form lay hidden under a white sheet on the steel table. Cindy organized her make-up in preparation. She took her job very seriously, considering it a personal favor to the grieving and the dead. She took extra time in covering the blemishes death left behind and beautifying the features that birth bestowed. Her motto was ‘the beauty in make-up artistry is to make it look as though you aren’t wearing any’. She wanted to make sure the final memory left behind was one of beauty.

"Okay girl," Cindy gave herself an encouraging cheer. She pulled down the thin shroud to reveal a withered woman in her late seventies. Her frame appeared to be miniscule as if she were shrinking in modesty of her nude form. Her hands were clasped tightly and resting at her waist, each finger serving as a lock. A lock, that Cindy would have to open.

Cindy frowned as she attempted to separate her fragile hands. She pulled gingerly, so not to snap the fingers, but they seemed to be in a death grip. She exerted a little extra force and flinched as the digits parted. When the pruny palms separated a beautiful piece of Gossamer Silk fluttered to the floor. Cindy jumped back in surprise. She wondered why Mr. Robbins had not taken care of this during the embalming procedure.

Carefully she positioned Ms. Baptist’s arms across her chest and picked up the material. She noticed it wasn’t just a piece of silk, but a scarf, the most beautiful scarf she had ever seen. Among the dark and contrasting floral patterns were embedded golden threads. The intertwining threads shone brilliantly under the florescent lights. She could clearly see the illuminating symbol of a golden pentagram.

"Cindy, this is Ms. Baptist’s sister, Helena."

She dropped the scarf and turned to see Mr. Robbins standing inside the doorway with a woman, who had a commanding regal air. Her silver hair curled softly around her thin shoulders. Cindy quickly looked at the table then back to Helena. The resemblance to Ms. Baptist was striking.

She approached Cindy. "Where’s the scarf?" she spoke in a smooth, emotionless tone.

Cindy scooped the scarf from the concrete floor. "It’s right here."

Helena’s cold, dark eyes bulged as Cindy waved the silk cloth. "I don’t want to touch it! A touch of the scarf stains death on the soul." She shook her head in dismay as she studied the scarf from a safe distance. "It can’t be…it just cannot be. There’s no way that’s the same scarf, you ripped from my dead sister’s hands. Are you absolutely certain that’s the silk my sister was holding?"

"Yes," Cindy replied.

"That’s impossible, my sister’s scarf was," she paused to think, "dirty, and it was riddled with," again she paused trying to come up with a word, "holes!" she shouted as if she had the winning answer for a game show.

Her eyes sparkled in a forgotten misery as Cindy asked, "What would you have me do with it?"

"Burn it, burn every stitch. When you cremate Audrey’s corpse, you make certain that damned rag is in the flames with her."

Helena stormed out, leaving Mr. Robbins and Cindy scratching their heads.

"Let me see it." Mr. Robbins attempted to snatch the unwanted fabric.

She jerked back. "You’re not wearing rubber."

"Oh hell, Cindy, give it here, I’m not going to fuck it."

Cindy had a bad feeling that churned in the core of her gut and against her better judgment, she handed it over.

The undertaker folded the silky material into a triangle, placed it on his head, gave it a knot under his double chin, and danced about Cindy’s office. "Look at me, I’m a Russian immigrant." He batted his long eyelashes over his crystal blue eyes. "Do you like my new babushka?"

Cindy found this to be disturbing and demanded that he take it off. He laughed and tossed it down.

Cindy readied Ms. Baptist for her wake. As time passed, Cindy’s stomach grumbled, reminding her of lunch. She left her work of art, formally known as Ms. Baptist, and walked down the long corridor to Mr. Robbins’ office. "Hey, I’m going to 'Burger Barn'" There was no answer. She creaked open the office door and saw Mr. Robbins, reclined in his leather chair. His head drew forth the image of a rotten Jack-o-lantern; his facial features were disgustingly distorted, no longer human in appearance. She screamed and rushed to her office. She shoved her hands into a pair of latex gloves and picked up the frayed fragments of a filthy cloth. Bloody threads held it together. Cindy realized the importance of destroying the scarf. She knew the evil garment had been cursed, and it would leave a trail of innocent victims in its deadly wake.

That evening Cindy played funeral director for Audrey’s wake. When the last teary-eyed mourner left, she went to work. Cindy made sure the Devil’s hanky burned along with the body. She watched the scarf’s edges curl into the orange blaze as the red flames dined on the blackened flesh of Ms. Baptist. Their ashes mingled into one grey clump. When Cindy was satisfied every stitch had been desecrated, she closed the lid to the cremation chamber. She prayed the fire would kill the curse.

The days that unfolded were plagued by disturbing events at Woodhaven. The staff tried to conduct business as usual; however, the tension inside the funeral home had festered. In the absence of Mr. Robbins, the workers had become sloppy with the exception of Cindy. Later that week, a body was waiting for her with an un-removed toe tag, which read, 'Helena Ann Baptist'. Cindy felt her heart palpitate as she inched away the sheet. She unleashed a sigh of relief when she found Helena's hands unoccupied. No scarf, natural causes, Cindy thought, and with a lighter heart, she began her work. Laughing at herself for allowing the crazy notion, of a scarf surviving the scorching heat of the fire, to enter her troubled mind.

As she brushed and lined the contours of Mrs. Baptist, she noticed something in her mouth. Cindy reached into the toothless hole, in order to free the obstruction. To her horror, she pulled out an unscathed, shimmering Gossamer Scarf. In her panic, she threw the silk into the air. She observed, in slow motion and unable to move, as the Devil’s hanky softly danced down onto her sleeveless forearm. The golden pentagram glowed under the bright lights and Cindy knew her days were numbered. Helena’s tortured words clawed at her psyche, "A touch of the scarf stains death on the soul." The curse is spreading.

"The Corpse Painter and The Devil's Hanky"
Copyright: © 2010 Donna Jean Lyons and Stacy Bolli

Stacy and Donna Jean were drawn together by the powers of darkness. This cosmic connection could not be explained. However, they knew, between their twisted minds, they could unite as one and together they weaved a macabre tapestry of depraved words and horrific mental images. Allow yourself to feast on their linguistic offspring.

Stacy is a married mother to three amazing children and hails from the sun-soaked state of Florida.

The ball hit against the garage door. Repeatedly. Thumping. A swift rhythmic noise repeated over and over again. The mother never noticed. If she did, she didn't care. She had duties to attend to. She had dinner to cook and bills to pay over the phone before her husband got home.

The little girl sat on the driveway, kicking the ball. At an angle of forty-five degrees, it bashed off the garage door and fell back to her. Repeatedly. Repeatedly. Repeatedly. She was having a whale of a time.

The bushes on the right hand side of the drive way flickered slightly. The girl didn't seem to notice it. She was having too much fun. A loud stereo played in the kitchen. The door was open. The mum could see her daughter playing. Absentmindedly, she continued to wash the dishes, humming away to the latest Take That track.

A foot stepped out from the bushes. Not a human foot. Not an animal foot of any kind, no dog nor fox foot. Somewhat skeletal. A slow sinister laugh curdled the air.

The mum continued washing the dishes.

“Gonnae be careful doin' that? Yer dad'll pure kill you.” Giving the daughter a bit of warning.

The creature took one step forward. The ball bounced off the garage door. Repeatedly. Repeatedly. Repeatedly. Whale of a time. Repeatedly. Repeatedly. Repeatedly. The music blared. Loudly. Loudly. Loudly. The mum hummed along. Badly. Badly. The laugh... laugh... laugh.

The screaming, for a second only, temporarily.

Then it stopped.

The music stopped.

“Becky?” cried the mother. “Becky? Where are you?”

No reply to her mother’s call.

“Come out of the bush, would you...”

The mother never finished her sentence. Instead, she started screaming. And screaming. And screaming. And she was still screaming when the neighbours arrived, and the police arrived, and the husband arrived.

No one ever saw the daughter again. All they saw was the ball bouncing off the drive way, repeatedly, repeatedly, and repeatedly. The blood trickling down the drive way from where a girl once sat. Repeatedly. Repeatedly. Repeatedly. And the ball, as they all watched, continued to bounce off the garage door, repeatedly. Repeatedly. Repeatedly. At an angle of forty-five degrees.

"At An Angle of 45 Degrees"
Copyright: © 2010 Michael S. Collins
Michael S. Collins is a member of GSFWC (the Glasgow Strange-Fiction Writers Circle). He has been published in several countries (including Literature E-zine websites, ad writing for Bob Furnell) and does book review for magazines such as The Fortean Times.

His short fiction has appeared in magazines such as Aesthetica, Clockwise Cat, The Short Humour Site, MicroHorror, TBD, and was included in the DemonMinds anthology in 2008.

Osama’s hand slipped over Petunia’s mouth, trying to muffle her groans of pleasure. The feel of her pink skin beneath his naked body made his loins ache. He had never wanted another so much, never craved penetration more than this moment. His unoccupied hand slid over her plump body towards her erect nipple. He massaged gently, then harder. His erection grew with every snort uttered from her covered lips. He moved on to the next nipple, repeating the process, then onto the next, and so on. Sweat slicked over their bodies, as they moved together in ecstasy. Osama grabbed for his erect penis, it throbbed beneath his grip. He pushed it against her virginal opening, wanting to enter its heat and wetness.

Petunia kicked him away, her hoof landing square on his swollen testicles. Osama’s breath poured out, the pain waiting a moment before exploding into sparks of pure ache throughout his system. Vomit filled his mouth and he spit the vile taste onto the rocky floor. Petunia would lap it up later. He fell back onto the blankets, in fetal position unable to catch his breath. The hurt was too obscene to consider anything but soothing it, though that task is impossible. Stars burst on the under lids of his closed eyes. Teardrops escaped, along with a whimper or two.

"I’m sorry, Osama. I didn’t mean to nail you in the crotch. I just wanted to stop you from making a mistake we would not be able to erase."

Osama tried to respond, but the pain still bellowed. He needed to wait, unable to even form rational thought at this moment. Helpless, he watched her get up from the pile of blankets and strut to the other side of the cave. Even in agony, his watery eyes can’t help but focus on her curvaceous rump and that little swirly tail that bopped with every step.

After a few more moments, the ache lessened enough to sit upright. Osama fumbled to fix his head wrap that had become disheveled during the intimate moment.

"Petunia, I will make this decision for us. You know we both want the same thing. My desire for you grows day by day. I cannot bear it anymore. I need to have you, no matter how wrong the rest of the world thinks it is."

Petunia stomped her front hoof onto the stone encrusted ground. Her snout lifted upward holding uncertainty and stubbornness.

"I can’t have you throw away all you have lived for. Al-Qaeda will certainly fall if this love affair was ever to surface, Osama. I just can’t let that happen."

Osama pulled a white sheet around his thin waist and stood from the makeshift bed. He knew everything his sweet hog said was true. Everything would collapse. He most likely would be murdered, no, definitely murdered and tortured for committing such acts of indecency. Although every sane thought in his head said run away, stop this madness, he always seemed to find himself sneaking into her sty and ushering her back to his cave for a little midnight slap and tickle.

It had been hard enough even thinking of reasons he possessed a pig. His troops wondered, at first, why he would keep an animal he could not eat. They bought the lame excuse that he needed a pet much more easily than he thought.

Petunia’s sagging teats snapped his thoughts back to the present. He swallowed down the salacious contemplation that always accompanied her visual taunts.

"I don’t care Petunia. To hell with them, with all of them! If I could simply live here with you and do all those nasty things I’ve wanted since I first laid eyes on your pink hairy ass, then I would indeed die a happy man. Fuck jihad, and Al-Qaeda. I want you, and no one will stop me or this kinky love inside!"

Petunia’s crooked left ear shot up. Footsteps echoed, amplifying with every step they came, closer to their lurid back-cave getaway.

"Hide me, Osama!"

Petunia scampered past Osama’s knobby knees under the pile of sheets and blankets and burrowed herself deep.

"My love, I will not hide you anymore. We will leave this place together. I will build a castle in your honor; in that matter ten castles, where we will make animal sounds as loud as we want as we grind together as one."

Osama tried to walk to the small crevice leading back to his main cave, but the lingering pain made it impossible. So, he cupped his hands over his mouth, and yelled towards the invading steps.

"Leave me alone! I will have no more disturbances tonight!"

The footsteps stopped, hesitated, and then retreated back from where they came. Giddy with excitement of newfound thoughts of sexual bliss with his precious hog, Osama jumped on the improvised bed and snuggled his dearest swathed under 1000-count cotton.

"All our dreams will come true, Petunia."

Osama’s hand slipped under the sheet and felt Petunia’s moistened vagina, all ready for him.

"Mine sooner than you think."

With a sly grin he stroked his beard contemplating the road he could never return from. He ripped his sheet away, and grabbed his swollen phallus in his sweaty hand. Without hesitation, he entered her inviting crevice. With every thrust, he felt more exhilarated, closer to living life than ever before. For the first time, he felt alive.

This moment marked the beginning of the disintegration of Al-Qaeda as we know it. From that night on, Osama no longer craved infidel annihilation, but rather only pork pussy. Making the world, in fact, a safer place. God Bless America, and Petunia’s hot pig ass.

"Forbidden Desire in a Cave"
Copyright: © 2010 Annemarie Bogart
Annemarie Bogart's work has appeared in Liquid Imagination, House of Horror, Irish's Story Tymes and Dark Fire Fiction. She also has more work coming out in various anthologies including Dreams and Screams, Library of the Living Dead's Feary Tales, HOWL and Elements of Horror.

Bethany Bluetooth’s family was sitting in the living room when she brought her new boyfriend home. Her twin brother, Benjamin, sat on the couch, listening to his MP3 player and head-banging to some old Slayer music. At the other end of the sofa sat her mother, Bonnie. She was reading a Home and Garden magazine and fiddling with her blond hair that she’d had fixed-up in a cute fifties-style beehive. Bethany’s father, Buford, was kicked back in the recliner, flipping through the 280 channels and complaining about how there was never anything on TV.

Bethany put a stray lock of wavy blond hair behind her ear, and cleared her throat. “Hello, peeps!” she said loudly, tilting her head, throwing her arms out in an expression that said: Look at me. “This is my new B.F. Clark Moxon. He’s the star basketball player at Fairvale High School.”

Benjamin pushed pause on his MP3 player and pulled out an ear bud. He gawked at the two with livid blue eyes.

Bonnie quit playing with her hair, looked over her magazine and smiled charmingly at the two of them.

Buford sat up in the recliner, turned the TV off and said, “Damn it, Bethany! Why do you always bring home these skinny, little boys?” His pale-brown eyes leered at Clark Moxon like he was mere prey.

“Buford!” Bonnie yelped, playfully swinging the magazine at him. “Be nice.”

“Yea, dad,” Bethany said, crossing her arms. She smiled sheepishly at him, rolling her dazzling-blue eyes. “It’s not like you walked-in on me riding his vertical stick.”

Clark’s smooth face blushed. His manhood hardened at the thought.

Bonnie shrieked, “Bethany! I told you to not be using that silly slang in my house!”

“Sorry, mom. I meant to say riding his dick.”

Clark’s face grew redder while his eyes darted back-and-forth in his head. He couldn’t imagine saying “dick” in front of his parents. But this was the Bluetooth family, and he’d heard all of the rumors about how they were the craziest son-of-a-bitches this side of Texas. Yeah, he knew of the dangers of dating Bethany. But she had supermodel beauty who put-out rather easily, and Clark Moxon was just like every other seventeen-year-old teenage boy… Horny as can be.

Buford rose from the recliner and walked over to Clark. He picked up Clark’s slender arm and said, “Hell, there ain’t no meat on these bones.”

Clark’s heart sped up. Cannibals, he thought. That’s one of the rumors about the Bluetooth family. Is that they are… “Cannibals,” he whimpered, face losing color. “Are you guys cannibals?”

The family of four glared at him with bewildered eyes. Nobody said a word. Clark could hear his heart beating faster and faster in his ears, as sweat formed on his forehead and on his hands.

Then the Bluetooth family broke-out in laughter.

“We’re not cannibals, Clark,” Benjamin said, getting up. He patted Clark’s erect penis on the way out of the room and added, “We don’t eat meat.”

Bonnie snickered, “We do eat meat, Clark. Just not human meat.”

“Aw, ok,” Clark said relieved. “That was just a rumor I’ve heard about you peeps.”

“Yea, Clark. We’ve heard that before,” Buford agreed, putting his massive arm around Clark’s neck. “But it’s just a rumor. An evil, dirty lie. All we do is kill the people. Then sell their meat to a butcher that we don’t use.” He snapped Clark’s neck and dropped him to the floor. “And I’d say you’ll bring ‘bout a two-hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Daddy!” Bethany squealed, slapping him on his shoulder. “I wanted to screw him before you killed him!”

“Language, Bethany!” Bonnie snapped, eyes narrowing. “What have I told you about that silly slang talk?”

Bethany lowered her head. “Sorry, mom. I meant to say I wanted to fuck him before you killed him.”

“That’s better,” Bonnie replied, getting up and straightening the wrinkles out of her sundress.

“Now, lets go to the kitchen and start baking brownies. Your father has a long night of work ahead of him. And we need to talk about all of these little boys that you’ve been bringing home. Honey, don’t you remember what I’ve told you before? Size really does matter.”

"Bethany's Beau"
Copyright: © 2010 Chad Case
Chad Case lives in Lawrenceburg, Kentucky, with his wife, Melissa. He enjoys writing short horror fiction in his spare time. To date his works have been published on MicroHorror.com, The New Flesh Blogzine, Flashes In The Dark, Flashshot, and in the anthology: Toe Tags.

My nipples stiffen and my throat becomes desert dry. My heartbeat slows. I stagger to Rahmus, pushing my fingers through his angelic, blond hair, and leaning into his well-designed body. "I need you."

I slide the inner surface of my hand, up and over his life-giving firmness, while moving down his chiseled abs with my mouth. I stop and look up from between his bronze legs, blond waves of hair dangling over my Mustang Blue eyes speak to his soul. I turn and crawl inside the tent. With a heavy heart, Rahmus follows. His god-like body spreads my legs, his strong hands cradling my hips, and his hefty muscle threatening penetration. Our bodies merge and I feel whole. My bliss is short lived. "Rahmus, stop."

Rahmus doesn’t stop. He continues to force himself on me. The weight of his body buckles my arms. I crash forward. My stomach grows increasingly queasy and my mouth fills with hot water. "Please, wait."

I think he’s going to stop, but he’s only readjusting my body. I feel his hands squeezing my ankles as he twists me over onto my back. He mounts my flesh. I pound his upper body and kick my legs. Rahmus takes my arms and pens them over my head. He thrusts deeper and I become light headed. A soft tear falls from his denim blue eyes and moistens my dehydrated lips.

He lightly traces the thick scar, down the middle of my stomach, with his delicate finger. "All better, now?"

"Yes, of course."

Rahmus tightens up into a small ball and clutches his gut.

I smile while looking at Rahmus. He’s drenched in a cold perspiration and convulsing in the dirt. His summer tan fades to a dreary shade of winter. I drag him inside the tent and cover his perfectly formed body with a wool cloak. I gently brush his blond curls away from his forehead, leaving him with only a kiss and a promise.

I leave Rahmus alone and dying inside the gloomy tent. I cruise the campgrounds looking for a friendly face. I quickly locate one and we make our way, through the heavily wooded trails, back to the campsite. Once there, I don’t waste any time. I plunge my lips to hers while darting my tongue across her taste buds. I rush my hand up her bikini top, groping her breast. I untie her top, setting her large breasts free to roam. She lets go of a soft sigh as I drop my hand lower. "Do you like that?"

She grabs my hair and spins my back to her front. Her hand storms down the top of my shorts. I widen my stance, allowing her fingers to erupt. Heat ushers through my body, as she asks, "The question is. Do you like it?"

Rahmus wails out in pain from inside his canvas tomb. I realize the time for foreplay is over.

She jerks her hand free. "Who’s that?"

"Rahmus," his name tastes sweet on my lips.

She slaps her hands to my hips, tightening her grip, while giving a playful shake. "Listen, I’m just as kinky as the next girl, but if you’re looking for a three-way, I’m gonna have to pass."

I remove my clothes and pull back the canvas flap. "Don’t you, at least, want to look?"

I let the fold fall shut and wait for her by his side. I knew she’d follow me, they always do. Curious has killed a lot more than stray cats in the backwoods of Grayson’s Lake.

I expose Rahmus’ naked body and straddle the dense lesion on his abdomen. However, I do not risk taking him inside me. Instead, I set about traveling his scared trail of pleasure. Sweet sounds of gratification journey from my parted lips and find the inquisitive ears of our pretty, young friend, compelling her to peak inside, if only for a minute.

Her head appears and I reach for her hand. "It’s not a threesome if you’re only watching."

I reluctantly remove myself from Rahmus and venture to her back, pressing my hard nipples between her shoulder blades. Rahmus watches as I run my hand down along her tone midsection and spout kisses, like a fountain, over her collarbone. My hand disappears inside her bikini bottoms. I relax my pace and tug at the elastic waistband. "Why don’t you take these off for us?"

She unstrings the bikini while staring at my lover’s appendage. She inches to Rahmus. I watch while she enjoys the satisfaction of his body, my body, our body.

I approach her, working her hips faster. "Rahmus, take what you need from her."

Her body grows cold inside my hands as she gives into her desires. His breathing increases as his skin glows with a passion pink hue. I position myself on Rahumus’ thighs, behind her, and wrap my arms around her waist. I keep her body moving with mine.

Her body goes limp and I toss her lifeless corpse to the side. "All better, now?"

Rahmus smiles and says, "Yes, of course."

He digs a shallow grave for the mummified body then joins me in summer’s last, blaze orange sunset. I stare into his beautiful face; realizing I won’t see it again, until winter dies. Knowing life and death are one in the same and both are cruel to the grave. People come into this world alone, and they must leave it the same way. Rahmus and I are the only deviations to this wicked law.


Rahmus and I stand, as one, inside the cave. The morning songbirds prepare their spring nests, the tulips are in bloom, and a warm breeze pushes our hair to one side. We step out of the cavern and, once again, we enter the world as two.

My nipples stiffen and my throat becomes desert dry. My heartbeat slows. I stagger to Rahmus, pushing my fingers through his angelic, blond hair, and leaning into his well-designed body. "I need you."

"Wicked Deviations"
Copyright: © 2010 Donna Jean Lyons

Donna Jean Lyons recently escaped a maximum-security women’s prison for the criminally insane. She was last spotted fleeing the secluded mountains of West Virginia, dragging behind her a freshly acquired girlfriend and being followed by her two tick-infested Hell Hounds. Her true whereabouts remain a mystery.