He did not speak for the first hour and thirty minutes. We were alone in the darkness of the cell. Cold water dribbled onto his head from the ceiling of chipped brick and concrete. We had cuffed him to the chair so tightly that his wrists began to bleed. He didn’t complain. The young man’s body was pale and mostly hairless. His legs, his chest, and his forearms had been waxed or shaved. I remember he was balding in a very peculiar way. There was no singular bald spot on the back of his head or any recession of the hairline. Instead the entire top layer was fading out of existence like shredded cotton. With every rivulet falling down his face, I could see his scalp exposed through the follicles. Remnants of smeared lipstick and mascara lingered on his stoic face like a cruel joke. Though we estimated he was between twenty and thirty years of age, any man would have said, after looking at him, that he was already a hollow corpse.

I finally asked him his name. He would not tell me. I told him that if he continued to remain silent we would begin torturing him. I described each of the tactics using as much visceral detail I could without propagating the notion that I relished torture, which, I must adamantly submit to you, was never the case. I could barely stomach torture. The faces of all the men and women I have seen screaming in agony have been indelibly etched into my rotting, infected conscience.

Speaking of torture, however, did not break down the wall that had been so furiously constructed around his nerves.

Thinking of the quiet evening rainstorm outside and a the possibility of going home to a warm cup of tea, I lost my patience and ordered another guard into the room to assist me beating the “stoic faggot” as we called him.

The other guard, whose name I can no longer recall, came through the iron door with a bunched mass of knotted rope in his hands. He swung it into the young man’s stomach a few times. He did not yell or curse at us. The guard punched him few times in the face and screamed in his ear. Then he handed the rope to me and fished a small pocketknife out of his pants. The blade was no longer than an inch and he quickly jabbed it onto the young man’s shoulder. We began to threaten him with blindness. He remained silent.

I asked the guard to remove the knife and go out to get me a hammer. We were alone once again. Blood trickled from his arm to the side of his white torso. His expression did not change.

I lit a cigarette—I smoked in those days—and offered him one. He ignored the offer but he spoke for the first time. “Are we below the city?” he asked.


“Are we below the city? Is this cavern built above or below the city?”

I hesitated and exhaled through a gray plume of smoke. “This facility is built both above and below the city.”

“I noticed there are homes near his building. Do people complain about screaming?” he asked.

“I don’t think they can hear anything,” I said.

“I think people hear more than you want them to,” he said.

I cast the cigarette into a puddle and asked him, for the last time, what his real name was.

The young man had entered the German Democratic Republic from the West by train as a woman. He wore a long black sweater, a skirt, and an auburn wig. He had a Swedish ID card with a feminine name: Katharina Vanderborg. He was gifted in linguistics and masking his male voice. He worked as a secretary and interpreter at a tourist bureau that specialized in trips to Cuba and Czechoslovakia. He—or she for that matter—was allowed in the country to live and work after claiming political asylum as a communist. It was good to welcome the stray individuals who actually wanted to live in the DDR. It kept up the hope of the masses that wanted nothing more but to leave that godforsaken wasteland, so monotonous, so void of color. But under the fa├žade that we were happy to allow Miss Vanderborg into Berlin, we kept a vigilant eye on her. We tapped her phone and screened her mail. On a fall evening, we apprehended her in the plaza after discovering, through an English-language telephone conversation, that she was a man. Based on the accent analysis, he was American. It was obvious to us that he was an agent of some sort.

I asked him his name one last time in the damp chamber. He said his legal name was Katharina Vanderborg. I asked him his birth name.

“Kurt McGinnis,” he said.

He did not speak again. He didn’t have to. We could not find an American agent with such a name in our records. We tortured him for three days on the grounds that he had given us a fake name. Eventually we contacted the Americans and attempted to organize a trade off for one of our men. They denied having an operative enter the country under the guise of being a Swedish female. I assumed they were embarrassed, though it was possible that certain agents had gone so underground their retainers lost sight of them. Kurt would not respond to any further questioning.

We were tired of dealing with this anomaly. We dressed him as the woman he had been living as, forged a suicide note that explained his gender, and threw him from the top window of a government building in the dead chill of an October night.

I suppose that’s why you snuck into my house tonight. Trust me I have done worse things in my lifetime. I have done far worse things. I doubt you’ll indulge me in the luxury of knowing whom Kurt or Katharina Vanderborg was. Of course, it doesn’t matter to me. I stopped caring the night I tossed him out that window. Oh, so you brought a gun. Go ahead…

Copyright: © 2011 Connor de Bruler


Connor de Bruler has been published in Yellow Mama, Dark Anima Journal, Micro Horror, Glossolalia Magazine, PEEP, The Horror Zine, PJM's Southern Gothic Shorts Anthology, Death's Head Grin, and Lit Up Magazine. He grew up in Greenville, South Carolina. He is currently 20 years old.

A deer lifts its head…factories loom over the treetops, spewing gallons of black smoke into the sky…birds fall en masse…corpses line the highways…the deer falls dead, its stomach bloats, pops…a chemical spill of intestines and maggots and blood.

A sudden explosion…all over the world smoke stacks sprout from the soil…they grow and swell like time-lapse mushrooms.

Septic tanks erupt…shit rain…dysentery…A vile black cloud stretching from the Atlantic to the Pacific. A man in military garb stands over a rotten moose carcass.

“This isn’t your father’s pollution,” he says as he runs a steel-toed work boot through a mass of putrescence.

Fish crawl from the black oceans trailing lungs…a new evolution…miasmas of gore…a man squats in the jungle shitting out a miles-long tapeworm…extreme chaos as Nuclear Reactors grow from the dirt, reaching for the sky like concrete tree trunks…chemical gardens filled to the brim with toxic death.

Some of this is unnecessary…we call it “setting the scene”. The viewer is made to feel as if all of this is in some way their fault.

Maggots make short work of our deer…face and personality are eaten away…an elongated skull is revealed to be the final product. A smoke stack belches a toxic plume of purple-grey smoke…a cloud is ripped to shreds…blood rains down…people race from vehicles to fast-food chains holding red soaked newspapers over their heads. “What’s black-and-white-and-red all over?”

Two nuns in a chainsaw fight.

A dirty Jesus character with mud-caked beard slumps under the heaviness of a shovel-load of dirt and debris…slow pan…pull back…the world comes into view…bodies being thrown into mass graves…high-definition bead of sweat rolls down an emaciated cheek…maggots pouring from rotten wounds and ribcages. Now the camera is falling down the mouth of a fathomless cavern…hundreds of broken bodies slumped under shovels.

Dirty Jesus looks off camera. A deer is grazing atop a mountain of garbage.

Fade to black.

"Final Scene Before End Credits"

Copyright: © 2011 Dustin Reade


Dustin Reade has brown hair and a Ringleader mustache. He has written and sold many stories for several magazines and anthologies. He still believes in Bigfoot.

Cheese-a-saurus Rex came to me in a dream.

“Chuck,” Rex said, “You have been chosen to receive a wonderful gift.”

“An X-Box 360?”

Rex frowned. “No,” he said, “immortality.”

“What good is immortality without video games?” I asked.

Rex twiddled the fingers on the ends of his unusually short arms.

“Didn't anyone ever tell you not to look a gift-a-saurus in the mouth?”

“No,” I said. “But someone did tell me once that a life without video games is like an ocean without fish, a sky without birds, a...”

“Enough of this nonesense!” Rex roared, baring his pointy, cheese-colored teeth. “Do you want this gift or not?”

“I suppose I could buy my own X-Box 360,” I said. “Sure. What do I have to do?”

“Eat one box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese a day,” Rex explained, “and you'll live forever.”

“I have to eat the whole box myself?”


“I can't share it with anyone?”

“No,” Rex said, growing angry. “The gift is for you, not the macaroni and cheese-eating public at large!”

“So if I share the mac and cheese, anyone who eats it will live forever, too?”

“No, only you,” Rex said. “The magical power of immortality is within you, not the macaroni and cheese.”

“So why do I have to eat the macaroni and cheese at all?”

In an instant, Rex's face was inches from my own.

“I don't have time to explain every little nuance of how this works to you!” Rex's breath blew the hair back from my forehead as he screamed. The smell of macaroni and cheese filled my nostrils. Cheese sauce spattered my face. “You either accept the gift now, or I'm outta here!”

I gave it a moment's thought. It was clear that Cheese-a-saurus Rex expected a more immediate response, but he waited, wringing his tiny hands.

“Is there anything I'm required to do in exchange for the gift of immortality?”

“One thing, and one thing only,” he said. “Many children mistake me for the dinosaur actor in the movie 'Toy Story'."

“There is somewhat of a resemblance,” I said.

Rex was not amused. “You must actively help me quash the misunderstanding that he and I are one in the same. If another child who says he loved me in 'Toy Story' asks me for my autograph, I may not be able to contain my rage.”

“Have you thought about getting help for your anger issues?”\

The Cheese-a-saurus' eyes narrowed to slits. “Do we have a deal?"

“Yes, we do.”

Rex's face broke into a huge, toothy grin. “Excellent! You'll want to get started first thing tomorrow.”

The next thing I knew, I awoke in my bed. That was a little over five years, two additional “Toy Story” movies and countless boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese ago. Kids still mistake Cheese-a-saurus Rex for the dinosaur in the movies (he hasn't killed any of them yet, as far as I know), and I'm still alive. I weigh 450 pounds now and my doctor says eating so much macaroni and cheese is going to kill me. But I know better.


Copyright: © 2011 Robert C. Eccles


I tapped my stomach waiting for a response.


That’s all I wanted to know. It was a simple question, nothing difficult or complex about it. I wasn’t asking for a solution to a quadratic equation.

Why me?

I looked down at the small, but noticeable bulge in my stomach waiting for a response.

Nothing. Nada.

The baby fucked with me. I knew it. When I slept it would pound and kick the tender walls of my belly, but when I was awake with bloodshot eyes, it slept peacefully.

I had to get rid of it. It would be for the good of humankind.

*   *   *

I asked around for a cheap doctor, someone who could get rid of the thing for a few greasy bills, but it wasn’t that easy. There was paperwork to be signed and tests run.

It was all a waste of time if you asked me.

And to make things worse, I couldn’t afford to have the operation. I was your run-of-the-mill cashier at the grocery store for god’s sake.

I eyed the hanger in my closet a few times and thought about drinking some whiskey to dull the pain, but I wasn’t that desperate.

Someone else had to do it. I didn’t need to dirty my own hands.

So I scoured the internet, the big World Wide Web, for someone nearby. Someone who could cut this thing out of me and not blink an eye.

After a few days and thousands of useless webpages, I found that special somebody, Doctor Valis, and he lived only ten miles away.

I knocked on his door and stared at the chipped paint and grungy welcome mat till he answered.

Doctor Valis waddled in, a whale of a man. His once white lab coat was stretched beyond belief, straining against his gut. His beady black eyes were barely hidden behind some designer glasses. He looked me over from head to toe and nodded.

“Come inside.”

His house was surprisingly neat; however, it stunk of bacon and fried food.

I felt a bit of pain in my stomach and cursed the thing growing inside me.

Doctor Valis led me to a room with a yellow adjustable chair. Wax paper wasn’t enough to cover its ugly color.

“Have a seat, ma'am.”

I sat down and took a deep breath.

“Relax, this won’t be that painful. I promise you you’re in good hands.”

“I’m not worried about the pain. It’s just… I’ve never done this type of thing before.”

“Once I give you some anesthesia, it’ll be over in a snap.”

He snapped his stubby fingers and flashed a smile, revealing his yellow teeth.

I couldn’t help but to shiver.

“Hold on a minute, I’ll be right back.”

I stared at the sterile walls till I saw small dots. I turned my attention to the jars stacked on the shelf. I wasn’t sure how I could’ve missed them. There was something about them. Something that caught my eye.

I got up, looked behind me, and approached the jars. I picked one up and watched the murky yellow liquid swirl around. A small grey ball sat inside. I bought the jar closer to my eyes and gasped a little too loudly for my own comfort.

"Oh my god," I muttered, "an elephant fetus."

I quickly put it back and stepped backwards, bumping into Doctor Valis.

“Oh you noticed my collection. It’s quite the sight isn’t it?”

“The pachyderm is one of my favorite animals. There’s a quiet magnificence about elephants that goes unnoticed by the masses. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I nodded and eyed the doorway. I looked down at my stomach and remembered why I was here. I had to go through with it. I couldn’t let a few baby elephants creep me out.

I sat back down in the chair.

Doctor Valis pulled out a syringe and shot out some liquid.

“Like said before just relax. This will be over before you know it.”

I watched him stick the needle into my arm and felt the liquid course through my thin veins. My eyelids grew heavy like stones. Before I knew it everything turned black.

*   *   *

I woke up and yawned. I stared at the white walls and something felt off. There was something missing.  An absence.

Doctor Valis had his back turned to me. He started humming a Christmas tune. I couldn’t remember which one.

“D-Doctor Valis?”

“Yes.” He turned around, cradling a jar inside his hand. Blood splotches stained his lab coat in sickening swirls.

“What is that?”

“It’s part of you. The part of you you didn’t want.”

I grabbed the jar and stared inside. A fat pale thing sloshed around. Then it opened its eyes.

And I screamed.

"Die, Baby, Die!"

Copyright: © 2011 Grant Wamack


Grant Wamack writes weird fiction and sails the seven seas. You can reach him here. http://grantwamack.wordpress.com/

Bill Paxton awoke, covered in sweat, and screamed from the horror of his nightmare. His lover, Michael Biehn, shot out of his peaceful slumber, and yelled “Bill!” as he coddled him, “Shush, it was just a dream honey.”

“No, no, NO!” Bill exclaimed. “I can feel it. It was real! I SAW WHAT SHE DID!” He looked up into his lover’s big brown eyes, brimming with tears. “Why don’t you ever believe me?!”

Michael Biehn sighed, and started looking around for his underwear.  He found them on the floor against the wall, remembering that’s where Bill had thrown them last night when he ripped off all of his clothes in a wild fury of passion and lust. The night had been exhausting.  Michael realized he had dried semen all over his chin and felt dirty with regret. He wasn’t gay. Neither of them were gay. Things had happened, bad things, and he and Bill had turned to eachother for support, but found more than that. They had found comfort in each other. They found love. Michael thought he’d forgo the underpants for a shower and some fresh clothing instead. He turned on the TV and went over to Bill and kissed him on the head.

“Come on, let’s get cleaned up and I’ll make you breakfast.” Bill still looked upset, but smiled and said “Pancakes?”

Michael smiled back. “You betcha, buddy!” rubbing Bill’s head like a cute puppy dog. Bill perked up, obviously feeling much better.

When they left the bedroom, a news bulletin about Kathleen Turner massacring a horde of shoppers at a Ralph’s grocery store blared on the television.

"The Lovers"

Copyright: © 2011 Vince Kramer


I was chopping wood at night, when I saw a faint light through the hazy fog. I trudged through the forest to get to it, wondering who could be out here this late. I stepped through the mud and ruts and weeds and over large rocks and logs and stumps and twisting roots. From a distance it looked like a fuzzy glow - a distorted flicker in the smoky fog. The light looked too big to be just the headlights of a truck that may’ve gotten stuck in the mud while the driver was out fishing or hunting. As I got closer, it looked more like a solid piece of something, like the entire thing was glowing. I parted the leaves and branches of bushes and stepped closer. When I finally got to about forty feet away, it appeared to be some kind of craft, glowing a dull white through the leaves of the woods. As I balanced my way toward it, stepping over downed trees and large rocks, I was not afraid, I was more curious. There’s not much to do way out here, so trying to locate the unexpected light had been a real thrill.

As I drew near to the object, three unusual beings stepped from the darkness. One of them was very tall, and the other two were very short. The tall one was at least six-foot-eight and looked like a plant that was all wrapped up, as if its long, broad leaves were combed upward to protectively cover its head and arms, like a dark olive banana that had been peeled and then reassembled, with the peels overlapping and protecting what was inside. The plant-like thing had three thin little legs and feet like suction cups.

The smaller beings were more like little people - three feet tall, and again with large flaps that seemed to start at their thighs and rise up like broad flower petals or leaves to cover their heads. It was hard to distinguish them from the other plants in the darkness and fog. It seemed as if the little ones were part human, as if a cross between the tall plant guy and a regular person. The small ones stayed in the background and peeked at me shyly through the gaps in their petals.

The big one stepped forward and began speaking to me. But his voice, if you could call it that, was nothing but a series of squawks that quickly wore on me and soon lost my attention. I looked over to what I assumed was their means of transportation - a spaceship-looking craft the size of a van. “This yours?” I raised my voice over the tall one’s muffled squawks and mumbles, “Or did you all lurch out from the swamp?”

The ship was not that impressive as far as spaceships go. Not that, to my knowledge, I’d ever seen a real spaceship before. I just thought that if I ever did see one, well, I guess I assumed it would be shinier and more impressive. This one just looked very bland and utilitarian, not super flashy or cool or even all that sleek. It was kind of egg shaped, like a flattened out oval, or sort of like a slightly deflated football. It wasn’t even a cool, shiny color really, it was more of a tone - a dull gray tone that slowly pulsated a soft white glow somehow.

Finally the tall plant guy’s voice sort of evened out, as if he had been tuning it, as if trying to tune in to me the entire time they shuffled out of the shadows. His squawks quickly evolved into short clips of words. “Spaceship ours,” he bellowed deeply as he stepped to me. The other two small ones stayed in back, in the shadowy darkness.

“Who are your little friends?” I asked suspiciously, clutching my shotgun.

“Your offspring,” he said. “A cross between you and one of ours. But a mistake on our part. We discovered later, when we got them back home, that they did not work out so well at all.”

“Why? What’s wrong with ‘em? Couldn’t breathe your atmosphere or something?” I wondered aloud.

“No. They dumb. Like you. . . Stupid. Lummox. . . Can not learn real good. . . Too slow,” he groaned like a broken trombone.

“Hey, I’m pretty smart,” I squared my shoulders, a little offended.

“For your kind,” he said, “Dumb. Slow. For our kind.”

“So?” I snapped, “You came all this way to tell me I’m stupid?”

“No. To leave them with you. They yours now. You take them,” he groaned like a rusty gate hinge.

“So, you tried to create some worker drones. They didn’t work out. And somehow that’s all my fault? Yeah, that figures,” I sighed and squinted, raising the brim of my hat with the barrel of my shotgun.

“You take. They yours now,” the tall plant-guy repeated, then turned and waddled back to his ship on his spindly little legs. He disappeared into the glow of his ship without opening a door, then rose without a sound and disappeared into the smudge of dark, sludgy clouds. And then he was gone.

I looked over at the other two beings standing off to the side in the darkness. They were looking up, watching their ride leave them here in this cold, dark, swampy, wooded, foggy, foreboding place. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for them because I could tell they knew what was going on, that they were being left behind, abandoned. “Come on,” I called to them, “Let’s get you home. It’s getting cold out here. . . Let’s get you something to eat. You must be hungry,” I turned and waved them over as I started back to my farm. “I’m sure we can find you something to eat. . . But I don’t know what that could be."

Later, I felt badly that things didn’t work out for any of them, despite my growing feelings of being used.

"The Light in the Darkness"

Copyright: © 2011 Tony Rauch


Tony Rauch is an architectural and urban designer, and an all around great guy filled with nothing but good things. Good things.

Rauch has three books of funky/jazzy/arty short stories out, "I'm right here," from Spout Press, and "Laredo," and “Eyeballs growing all over me . . again” from Eraserhead Press (some dark and gothic, some kinda sci-fi, some absurdist, some experimental, some fairytale, some fantasy-ish, some dream-like and surreal, some whimsical, some social satire). Both presses have web sites. Eraserhead Press plans to publish additional collections of his short stories in the coming months/years. He also writes screenplays.

For more info, refer to his wordpress page:  http://trauch.wordpress.com/

“So, Andy,” William said. “Why do I have to take my pants off again?”

“Just do it.”


Andy puffed on his cigarette and stuck his hand between the couch cushions. “Then when you’re done pulling your pants down I want you to do me a favor.”

“You mean this doesn’t count as the favor I owe you?”

Andy laughed. “Are you kidding me? You owe me, like, a thousand favors.”

William stood in front of the couch, naked from the waist down because he had refused to wear underwear since he had banged his kindergarten teacher way back in third grade. He looked at Andy’s face: that pallid mask of regret and lost hope. Then he said, “I kinda thought we were even since I did that other…..thing for you.”

Andy waved his hand. “That was small potatoes, Billy.”

“No one calls me Billy. Not anymore."

Another puff of the cigarette by Andy. “Bend over, Billy.”

Four hours go by and the cigarette hangs in the air like a loser cloud. William watches sweat drip down the bridge of his nose, making him cross-eyed and half-delirious due to his morbid fear of sweat. He cleared his throat. “So Andy,” he said. “You think we can wrap this up?”

"Jesus Christ, Billy, I’ve never met someone so impatient."

“Stop calling me Billy.”

“I’ll stop calling you Billy when you start acting like a man.”

William sighed. “But you know that’s impossible.”

More cigarette smoke. “Nothing is impossible.” Andy leaned his head forward, getting a face full of sweat. “NOTHING.”

"So Andy"

Copyright: © 2011 Jordan Krall


Two men faced each other in the center of an ornate metal ring.

One was big, white, oafish, and bald.

The other was short, stocky, handsome and black with long dreadlocks.

Despite all outside appearances, the two men were brothers. They had both watched in chains as the big blue eyed mother that they shared was torn apart in the cruel gears of some Vladrott steam machine just days before their minds were sufficiently warped, pumped, and prepared for the gas.

Hundreds of cramped and creeping spectators surrounded the ring in a living, purple-black mass of phallic eyes, malformed tentacles, and other writhing, groping, oddly twisted limbs. A musky chemical smell like stale semen seeped through their alien pores as the tension built.

The big white man looked down to his brother, “I love you Charlie”

Charlie never had the time to respond. The gas was soundlessly released.

The white man dove into his brother before he could even think about his first move. He picked Charlie up and slammed him down upon the cold metal floor with a sound like sledgehammer meeting a side of frozen beef. Charlie attempted to roll and minimize the assault to his spine while simultaneously locking his ankles around his brother’s midsection, taking the giant down with him, on top of him.

The big man continued his assault; pummeling Charlie’s head against the floor. Charlie’s face slowly begin to dissolve into pulp beneath his brother’s heavy fists, until the smaller man somehow shifted his mass, and in a flurry of unseen movement it was Charlie now atop and behind his brother, ebony arms locked around his thick neck, bleeding crimson upon his pale face.

And just like that it was over; the snapping of the bigger man’s neck punctuated the lustful hiss of the Vladrott mob.

Charlie dropped to his knees and draped himself across his brother’s, naked, lifeless body.

It was then that the assembled Vladrott were informed over Ship’s telepathic communication system that males with darker skin pigmentation, such as those descended from Middle Eastern, Latin, Asian, or African stock, had because of some, as of yet undiscovered genetic anomaly, become resistant to the effects of the gas.

The circle of Vladrott erupted in a burst of maniacal, alien laughter.

Charlie, now prone over his dead brother, let loose a bloody sob.

"A Tiny War Between Brothers"

Copyright: © 2011 Ash Lomen


THE NEW FLESH is going print!

Hey weirdos!

Yup, you heard me right, THE NEW FLESH is going print!  The Library of Bizarro Horror has been kind enough to agree to publish/fund this little project of mine and I couldn't be any more excited to work with them!  For the last few weeks Jonathan Moon and I have discussed our ideas, plans, goals for this project and now we're ready to start taking submissions.

First of all, I'd like to mention that for this project we will NOT be publishing flash fiction.  Flash fiction will only be published on the online version, as usual.  Secondly, I want to stress to you how important it will be to get your submissions into me ASAP.  This book will fill up QUICK and once it does, I will close submissions early.  With that said, please do not rush through and sloppily write something just to get it in, because I will quickly send you a rejection.  We aim to publish only the best in weird/bizarro fiction.

Here is the tentative cover design for the book.  The author's names will be added to the cover once they have been accepted and sign the necessary contracts.



What we want: Looking for dark, weird, bizarro fiction. Nothing is too taboo or out of bounds.

Tip: Read the types of stories posted on THE NEW FLESH. Yes, we want them that weird.

Length: 3,000 - 7,000 words.

Deadline: July 31st, 2011 [or until book is full]

Payment: We pay 1 cent per word for original fiction, paid on publication. You will also receive one contributor’s copy.

How we pay: The Doc typically pays through check, sent with your contributor’s copy.

Rights: One time exclusive rights to publish the story in the anthology. The Publisher shall retain rights of printing the story five years from the date of publication. The same rights are given for a Kindle edition. Podcasting rights are also given for the five year period. If after the five year contract the Publisher and Author agree, printing of the story in the Anthology will continue. All subsidiary rights such as (film, comic, etc) remain with the author.

How to submit: We accept electronic submissions only. Send submissions to newflesheditors@gmail.com . Make sure to put [NEW FLESH ANTHOLOGY] and the title of your story in the subject line. We use the same e-mail address for all submissions and without the proper subject line we won't know where your story fits in our publications.

Format: No need for a cover letter; but make sure to include a short bio (written in third-person) embedded in the body of the e-mail. Please include a few previous publishing credits.

Submission Format: RTF (.rtf) or MS WORD (.doc) file sent as an attachment. Underline all italicized text. Please include all contact information with your manuscript. Use Times New Roman 12pt font and double space your lines, please.

Multiple Submissions: No.

Simultaneous Submissions: No.

Reprints: We do not accept reprints at this time.

Response time: Quick. We don’t mess around. You WILL NOT wait months for a response. If you do, then we never got your submission.

Publication date: There is no set publication date for this anthology. Once the anthology is full, we will publish it within twelve months. The plan is to hopefully have this bad boy released late 2011.

Good luck to you all!  I can't wait to read your stories.
Take care... and keep it weird!

“Hey Andy, can I ask you a question?” Matthew Revert said, farting silently into his wicker chair.

Andy squinted through cigarette smoke. “I guess.”

“You like me?”

“What do you mean?” Andy puffed on his fag and squinted some more.

“I mean, do you like me? As a fellow author…”

“Uh, not sure. Haven’t given it much thought. I guess not.”

Matthew farted again but this time it made a squeaking noise not unlike the crying out of a homesick mouse. “What about as a human being? Do you like me, respect me, as a human being?”

Andy put out his cigarette, took a swig of his fancy imported beer, and said, “You’re Australian, right?”

Matthew farted. “Yeah.”

“And you’re asking me if I respect you, like you, as a human being?”

"Yeah,” Matthew replied, farting.

“Last time I checked, Australians weren’t human beings.”

Matthew stood up from his wicker chair and farted. “I give up.”

Andy shrugged, took a sip of his beer, and lit another cigarette. “Me too,” Andy said as he farted into the bleak Ohio wind.

"Hey, Andy!"

Copyright: © 2011 Jordan Krall


Mike ignored the creaking and cracking sounds. Ever since he stepped into the open field you couldn't hear anything except the howl of the bitterly cold wind, you couldn't even hear boots crunching snow. So he missed those sounds. The wind felt like razor blades hitting his face, he couldn't enjoy the full moon hanging over the snow drowned forests up here in the Adirondack mountains.


He shouldn't have stormed out of the cabin, but Kim should never have suggested they came out here. He believed it was for a romantic get away from the kids. He shouldn't have bought her the matching lace bra and panties.


The bottle of wine was a worse idea,the shots of whiskey the worst idea of them all. It was a bitter cold January night he just wanted to warm his insides. Kim wore a turtleneck, and kept her arms crossed all night. Mike should have known she would not want to try on, or be relieved of the new bra.


How long did it take her to get those divorce papers drawn up? She wanted to come to the lake cabin so the kids didn't see them fight. Mike walked in the room with two wine glasses and a condom in his pocket. Kim waited with a legal document and a ball point pen. He was drunk already and made up his mind – he wasn't signing. He needed fresh air and time to sober up.

Crack, loud one.

Mike didn't look down, he was so angry he forgot an important detail. There was no field near the cabin. Only the forest and the...Oh shit. THE LAKE!

Louder crack.

Mike felt freezing water swallow his legs, He held on with his arms and kept his head over the broken ledge of ice. He lost feeling in his legs. Across the lake he could see the cabin in the moon light. His hands were numb before now he was slipping, the frozen water felt like it was pulling him down.

Creak. Crack. Snap. Pop.

The ice broke under him. The shock of the cold water squeezed his heart. Kim's last words to him echoed in his head. Cold and emotion-less. Mike laughed a manic laughter as his heart slowed. This marriage would end but he smiled that she never got that goddamn signature.

Copyright: © 2011 David Agranoff



Thank you for your submission to The New Flesh but I'm afraid we're going to pass on this one. Please feel free to submit again in the future.

William Pauley III


Not only am I going to pass on this story but allow me to say a few things about it. First of all, simply writing a play by play of you taking a shit is not a story. It's not even acceptable as an entry in your diary. In addition I want to say that we here at The New Flesh have no room for writers who lower themselves to the level of using toilet humor. We are a strictly a classy operation and our readers expect only the most respectable material around. Finally, I would like to add that referrring to yourself as the Jay-Z of Bizarro fiction in your bio only makes you look like a complete ass. Not only is that absurd way for an artist to describe themself but, in your case, it is totally unfounded.

William Pauley III


Normally I wouldn't even take the time to respond to this sort of submission but in your case I will make an exception. How the fuck did you think you would get away with simply resubmitting your poop story and using Jordan Krall as a pseudonym? You have been told before that this is not the kind of story that will be published here. And how did you think that we would be fooled by your pen name? IT CAME FROM YOUR E-MAIL! Are you insane? I'm not sure if this is a new form plagiarism you have discovered but you should consider yourself lucky if this doesn't lead to some sort of legal action against you.

William Pauley III


Please be advised that this e-mail is set aside solely for story submissions. I would be upset that you tried cast a spell on me via e-mail if it hadn't been such a miserable failure. It seems that your lack of writing ability has been eclipsed by your inability to perform magick. And that's saying a lot! You clearly have no powers of sorcery and this is illustrated, for one example, by your inability to even spell any of the names of the Elder Ones correctly.

Also I would add that the sigils you attached show a crude understanding at best of The Necronomicon. I suggest that you not only take a break from writing and spellwork but from life in general and take a long, hard look at yourself before continuing with anything in your life.

William Pauley III


Your recent idea for a story that is nothing but a series of rejection letters from TNF is a new low even for you. It's such a shoddy story. I refuse to subject my readers to such an obvious gimmick. Let me advise you that a story contains a narrative and this contains none. Well, unless you count this being a chronicling of your swift descent into madness as the narrative, in which case I would suggest you present this story to a psychiatrist rather than to any publisher.

William Pauley III


Before you even consider submitting to The New Flesh again, please allow me to reject you in advance. Nothing you have ever written or will ever write will be published by me, nor will it be published by anyone anywhere. You may even be the first person to be rejected by a self-publisher. Please take my advice and give up on yourself.


William Pauley III

"Rejected by The New Flesh
-or- Submissions From An Asshole"

Copyright: © 2011 Jason Armstrong


Jason Armstrong considers himself to be the Jay-Z of Bizarro fiction.
He spits out stories unlike any other.
He runs the game like he's a Parker Brother.

Kathleen Turner was at Ralph’s grocery shopping in her electric go-cart, trying her best to get the things she needed on her list without ramming into shelves and knocking over displays. The obstacles were too many and she was very hungover and pissed off.

A crate of oranges slammed to the ground, scattering in every direction. She started screaming out loud. “SON OF A MOTHERFUCKING BITCH, MOTHER OF HELL! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!!!" A nearby shopper took notice, realizing who the horribly aged actress was and took out his camera, running at her to snap photographs.

He yelled, “Mrs. Turner! Is it true that Michael Douglas punched you in the face on the set of Romancing the Stone and took a shit in your purse??!”

Kathleen Turner twisted in her chair and screamed, blocking the bright flashes with her hands. She started flipping out completely, and pathetically sobbed and begged, “Leave me alone! Please get away!”

A teenage boy ran up behind her and took his dick out and started smacking her on the back of the head with it. She turned her head to see what was happening and his penis hit her in the eye.

“RAPE!! RAPE!!!!” she cried. “Someone call the POLICE!!!!” Kathleen Turner starting convulsing, and pissed herself. Everyone in the entire store gathered around her to point and laugh. She yelled, “No! NOOOOOOO! Stop it! Please stop it! What have I done to deserve this? WHAT, I ask you?!”

The man snapping photos called her a cunt and told her to shut up.

At that moment Tom Cruise broke through a skylight and landed on the photographer, crushing him with his weight in a hail of shattered glass. The crowd gasped. Kathleen Turner’s mouth was agape with this shocking turn of events. Tom Cruise looked at her, offered his hand, and said, “Kathleen Turner, we need your help.” Kathleen farted and shit her pants.



Copyright: © 2011 Vince Kramer


When he kissed her, he couldn’t help remembering the first time he’d seen her face. She’d been sitting on a park bench about a block away from his office. Very much out of character, he’d decided to go for a walk during his lunch break instead of heading over to the deli for a sandwich. His midsection, while not the worst anyone had ever seen, seemed, to him, to get flabbier by the day. A quick jaunt through the park, in place of his normal ham and Swiss, would be the perfect remedy.

He pressed his lips gently to hers, savoring the taste. Involuntarily, his hand stroked the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the golden waves. He’d forgotten what he was doing that day. His walk had been purposeful, confident. But when he saw her, the sunlight turning her celestial, he stopped in his tracks. All thoughts of sandwiches went by the wayside as he experienced her presence for the first time, as he thought about what it would be like to love her.

If he was honest, he couldn’t remember what he said during that first conversation. There had been intense heat in his face, but then it was all a blur until the day she married him. He remembered that. He could never forget the moment he had proof, solid, substantial proof, that she loved him back.

His tongue pushed insistently at her teeth. Slowly, her mouth opened to accept it. The electric feeling coursed through his body, as if he’d touched a battery and not his wife. That was the effect she had on him. Losing himself in the moment, he tasted her like he’d never done before, allowing her flavor, a spiced fruit, overwhelm his senses. He was, he knew, the luckiest man alive.

“Hey!” he heard someone say, spoiling the moment. He tore his head away, seeking out the sound. He couldn’t make out a human form, but saw the bobbing beam of a flashlight cut through the darkness. Climbing quickly to his feet, he gave his wife one last look before he bolted. He tripped, in his haste, over the shovel and planted himself face first in the damp soil. He lifted himself and ran, not bothering to wipe the dirt from his eyes. His feet carried him away. Away from the prying eyes of the flashlight. Away from his wife’s loving embrace. Away from the cemetery.

"The Kiss"

Copyright: © 2011 Caris O'Malley


My phantom soul itches at the sight of something vaguely human shambling in the distance. Upon closer inspection I see that whatever it is… it's male. His missing arm, ripped recently from his muscular shoulder, is more than made up for by his hairy, dangling, third leg.

"And testicles the size of grapefruits."

I realize that I am talking out loud, and masturbating my own miniscule member.

"Fuck it, something to rape is something to rape."

I shift my weight atop my perch of piled human heads as I discard my notions of female companionship for the moment, jumping down to ground level and landing cleanly on my filthy feet, displacing the fine layer of bone dust that covers the entire rocky surface of New Hell (giving it the false look of snow).

He spots me and thinks to run, but I have a blade buried in his heart before his brain can even process the thought. I stand above his pleasantly twisting corpse and look down into his fading eyes. I watch intently as his soul leaves his oddly proportioned body and passes onto the final plane of existence… but before it does… he looks up at me and (probably unaware of what I intend to do with his remains) says the strangest (or perhaps, upon further reflection, not so strange at all) thing.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." I reply.

"An Unintentional Act of Kindness"

Copyright: © 2011 Ash Lomen


Lisa stood in the corner, tapping her foot impatiently. Another woman, Linda, was perched over the bookshelf like a gargoyle. A few waited outside, sitting like a row of feminine crows on the telephone poles. Mary sat at the foot of the bed, gorging herself on his feet.

He lowered the saw and began cutting through sinew, meat and bone. His left hand plopped on the floor and Sandra and several other women began fighting over the bloody appendage. They frothed at the mouth like dogs. He raised the hand still clutching the saw.

“Ladies, please,” he said. “There’s plenty of me to go around.”

Even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. He was quickly running out of body parts. And he was becoming increasingly light-headed as more and more blood pumped from the holes in his torso where limbs used to be. He felt a sudden, deep loss for his legs.

Linda wrestled the bloody hand away from the others and began shoving the fingers into her lipstick stained mouth. Her features were soft, but made sharper and more distinct by heavy make up. Watching her shovel his severed hand into her mouth, He could not for the life of him remember what he had ever seen in her. The other women retreated to their perches over the bed. Some hung upside down from the overhead lights. Some slithered under the bed and lapped up the heavy droplets of blood before they could soak into the carpet.

He sawed through his left elbow, wondering who would get the forearm. His vision began to flicker in and out. Flashes of blue, red, and yellow. He laughed at nothing as his forearm hit the ground with a wet plop. Linda leapt at the limb, tearing it from Jennifer’s grasp and flew out the window gnawing on it.

Soon, everyone had eaten some part of him except for Lisa. While the others battled for their bits, she had remained in the corner, watching. She was always so dependable, so devoted. She would wait forever if she had to. He looked up at her beautiful face and managed a weak smile. Both his legs were gone, as were his arms. He’d had to gnaw through his right shoulder to get it off. It had taken some time, but in the end it hit the floor with the same plop as the others. Kylee had wrapped him in his bed sheets to minimize the bleeding. She was always so caring.

Lisa bent down and placed her hand against his cheek. Her long, thin lips stretched into a caring smile.

“Thank you for saving it for me,” she said.

He managed a bizarre shrug, made stranger by the fact that he had no arms.

“It’s no big deal. It has always been yours.”

She laughed. “You always were so sweet.”

She kissed him on the forehead as she picked up the saw and began sawing away at his penis.

"Lisa's Piece"

Copyright: © 2011 Dustin Reade


Dustin Reade lives in Port Angeles, WA with his daughter, Percephone, and a rat named Michael Jackson. His work appears in several anthologies and a handful of magazines, both online and otherwise. He can feel it when you google him.

Perched on the hilltop was the castle. It had been there since the middle ages, the home of the local Baron. Since the last of the Baron’s line, there had been no inhabitant. The people of the village that lay at the foot of the mountain were able to sleep peacefully again. No dark deeds were done in the night, and the lights, sounds, and smells that came down the hill were gone, for generations. The memory of the mad Baron and his vile experiments that went against God and nature was present, however. That made the chilly September night so horrible.

No villagers were sure just how the castle could have become inhabited without their notice, as the only approach was a long, winding drive up the steep mountainside, and it had been gated off long ago. Nonetheless, September 6 brought eerie lights and strange sounds, and an odor of formaldehyde came wafting down the hill at two minutes to midnight. It seemed the Baron’s progeny had returned, and brought his perverse scientific experiments back home.

The Mayor was already on horseback riding to the nearest large town, as frightened villagers huddled in their homes, and less frightened villagers milled about the ridge on the edge of town, holding lanterns and torches aloft as they watched the castle.
It was an hour later that, as the anger of the villagers grew, the Mayor returned with another rider, Dr. Phipps. Phipps’ forefather had been the man who had put down the old Baron and the fiendish things in his castle. The legacy of the Phipps family was eternal watchfulness, and it showed in the alert air of the dignified older Doctor as he rode up to the castle view.

“Men… what we see now is a continuation of the past. Just as my forebear Samuel Phipps strove against evil, the elder Baron sought to perpetuate it. His legacy is here, come to fruition on this cold and dark night.” He looked upon the castle with a numinous expression that seemed to convey a surprising pity. “Our duty is clear, men. To the castle… we ride!”

A hurrah rose in the air, and the bustle of the mob increased in volume and purpose. Runners went from farm to farm around the village, and at last all sensible, able-bodied men of fiery temperament were rounded up for an expedition to the castle.

They headed up to the castle, breaking the gate as they went, and at last were at the vast doorway. The castle loomed over them, a dark and craggy mass. The sounds that were so eerie down below echoed horribly up on the mountain, and from the cracks in shutters came the green glow that sent a few men scurrying back down the mountain to their families.

Dr. Phipps, boldly carrying a torch, approached the portal and turned once more to the men.

“Be bold, fellows. What comes to the door may look human and normal, but it will be the spawn of the old Baron in human guise. We must show no mercy!” The mob answered him with a shout and cry, then Phipps rapped boldly on the wooden doors, the sound resounding in the craggy space around them. It was a long moment, though no one dared as much as breathe, when at last came a rattling of the doors, and a deep voice from within.

“Who’s there?”

“It is us,” cried Phipps righteously, “the good and decent folk of this land, who have come on a mission of piety, to stop in the name of the Lord all diabolical acts against man and nature. The Baron’s hideous experiments have gone on too long!” Again the good Doctor was echoed by a brazen hurrah, when suddenly the door swang wide, revealing an enormous figure.

“I’m sorry… there’s no Baron here. I’m just the Tigerman.”

The name was a perfect description. The Tigerman stood eight feet tall, and must have weighed a thousand pounds of rippling feline muscle on an ogrish human frame. The head was that of an enormous tiger, with shining eyes, cruel fangs, and long whiskers. He wore a long white coat over his bulk. “Look at the monster!” cried John Stibbens the miller.

“Excuse me!” exclaimed the Tigerman. “How rude. You must have the wrong castle. And you can see,” he said as he gestured vaguely behind him, “that there is no Baron here. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to be left alone.” The bestial face expressed a curious mix of indignation and embarassment for the assembled villagers. Dr. Phipps, looking abashed with a torch in his hand, spoke up unsteadily.

“We’re very sorry to have disturbed you.” He looked behind him at the crowd which was waiting expectantly. “Come on men. Back to the village. We’ve wasted enough of the Tigerman’s time.”

They left dejectedly, muttering and scratching their heads. From the doorway, Tigerman watched them go, and once they had all returned to the village and all the lights were out, he returned at once to his hideous experiments and diabolical acts against man and nature.

"The Tigerman"

Copyright: © 2011 Jess Gulbranson


Jess Gulbranson is the author of 10 A Boot Stomping 20 A Human Face 30 GOTO 10, MEL, and Antipaladin Blues. His poetry has been featured in Umbrella Journal, the Portland Fiction Project, and Bradley Sands Is A Dick. Also a critic, interviewer, and actor, Jess makes music under the name Coeur Machant.

He lives in Portland, Oregon with his wife and daughter.