O! and they did burst into our homes with all fire and bleating, and O! did they tear from our arms all so merciless, the little things which we would hold dear! And it was a bad day, I think we seen it written, yes, we did sculpt it all into our memories, them cold awful bastards, them Devils all fire, did rip us asunder and tear to like ribbons.

And like they appeared all up in our homes like a bad dog all up from hell, they did vanish as quick and as gone without notice. And we was left there on our floors all bleeding in cold to piece back together some semblance on whatever that was what we had. We tried our best and we retained all our sanity and most of our organs. Some was privy to cough up all blood and stain our tattered carpet, but these things they became of such little consequence.

And we did clean it up and try to forge forward, remembering them treasured things what was lost and to patch up them holes in our minds, we did try.

We moved on, yes, we plodded on forward and told stories to cheer a fainting mind. We kept ourselves awake and alive in hiding our thoughts.

And it came that we one day I think we did forget them. We remembered, O yes, we remember what went on, the carnage they sowed and the things they did take, the treasures and things that they tore from us screaming, but then for the life of us could not remember just who what done did it. Them Devils all fiery came up from hell, but we couldn’t place it in our minds. Them things what ruined us turned faceless demons, we left out a name and left out a face.

We knew what did happen, we didn’t knew who.

Ha! Those were the days they were. But them Devils evidently they knew us and our thoughts and they took none too kindly to us all forgetting.

And so, while we slept, up from hell they come back.

Our world been repaired from previous torn asunder been ripped once again and burned to smithereens. Them Devils, they stood there before us and made us remember. They did ensure we could never forget. They did go and put nails in. They ensured in their silence we would always remember, and look back in terror forever and ever.

Them Devils up from hell did set us ablaze then. And like to carve their screaming image to our screaming flesh.

They did it all unspeaking the whole while we melted and formed like new creatures, detestable beasts with them in our skin. And to look on each and other was to see all again, and I think that we may have died then.

Surely though, this is not we.

This crispy burned and carved up flesh.

This thing crucified all on one another.

Cannot be, no.

And we do turn our heads and as crispy flakes off, we see Devils in our skin.

And we always remember them just as they stood there.

And sometimes we scream.



"Devils"

Copyright: © 2011 Josh Myers

-------------------------------------

Josh Myers is one of them humans living in them hideous states, particularly New Jersey, specifically Lambertville. He eats and sleeps mostly, and writes like a good fishy. He’s too fat and is going to die probably. He is not him, though could be if he has to, though does he? We think not.

He is not, we repeat, NOT him.

He appears here on gracious loan from the A.B.C., thank you.

Please refer all complaints to the Consultant.







Scattering about and looking like as chickens all what with no noggins. Searching all up and down we did, but no avail. All happiness and joy and not in our time.

Ground went thick and sloshy, yes it did, all squishing up and out ‘tween our toes and like staining our feets. It’s all and everything like they said it would, and we ache in our cringing. Looked all about and eyed us a rock which for us to climb onto and save us from this detestable mud what we done writhed about it.

And look at that, would you! What would be carved into that stone but words from our own majestic and all joyous savior, that Tim what we savor, him and that fat brother, him weepy all detestable Jim, for shame, for shame.

But alas, them words! We known them words by heart, we did! And carved in that rock there all ten miles high:

“Brave sun shines on me on my own it’s only for me

As cold as can be in and English sea

Which could mean something other…”

Says us to all and to other and it, “Say, I remember you!”

We climb all up on it and do we shake hands and pat us on our backs, remembering these words as we do
from another time, another more happier place in this land (and in the sea).

We trenched up our muddy footies all up on our rock and it did leave its mark, we tried to make it vanish but the filth just wouldn’t have it. So we offered instead our sincerest all sorry, to make them amends to our rock, our buddy, and to him our words from sweet, sweet Tim, living on out there, so we hope, in his house and doing so quite happily, we also do hope.

We love him so. We miss him all terribly.

O, and for shame, Jim.

He have an upper hand now, with Tim gone all struck down.

But we think he wouldn’t have it.

Jim’s too fat and is going to die probably.

And in this we find solace.

O, but it make us sad to think of him there…not knowing just where out there does he be, our sweet Timmy. Somewhere in his home, we hope, maybe making amends and fixing all up to save us all over.

We’d like to think so, and we do.

We weep for him in our thoughtful hearts and it does stain us unto our feet again.

But no, we wipe away our tears and struggling though, celebrating happiness and joy as he gave us, on land and in the sea. We take this rock to be a help of his hands, his sweet giving hands and we crawl up and lie down atop them to sleep now, O please.

And we thank him for it.

Once as is waking, we pitch about and start up with creeching as we see the sea from atop our great rock, all carved with his words. Our mud done all gone, and now here in this dim and dank time we see the sea all rising up around us and dispensing with the filth we crawl in!

(As crawling is my world, it dispense with my world.)

(And I thank him for it.)

All water comes rising, we hear it go sloshing, we hear it all there and of forever, might never stop. Could be we won this time. Is a very good possibility, but we’re all too bad ‘cause we just can’t remember.

Maybe, and likely, but possibly not.

And that sticky and shiny atmosphere it did change itself while we was dozing. Used to be it was all awful hot, what did melt at our skin and make us sweat it and leak down our faces, our backs, going dripping along in the filth and trace patterns on our dirty flesh. Was very hot, yes.

But now gone all cold, yes I should think so. Chilly in its worst way and blows now all freezing on our faces to wake us up while we slept.

So very cold now, a welcome change. And it stings on our sweated flesh, in glue in the muck as it freeze to our being.

And now we becoming all, as it does freeze so, we to become some like new creatures, and we take it as commonplace. These small little changes on us now and again, we take in stride and accept it as so. O yes, we scream some and like as to tear at our skin, but we accept it, yes.

And in our new flesh, we look all around and did come to agreement, we leapt from our rock with its beautiful carving and into the sea to live as we might. Our new freezing likeness does open up to the sea and let it in and we soak in it, accepting it as us and it take us up and take us down, and once and twice and all over again.

It turning all gorgeous.

And maybe…

Yes, this is very good at that.

We’ll be very content, yes.

Happy at that, yes.

O, praise him, do.

And our toes do scrape on the filth way down there, it squish through our toes.


"Up and Down Like Stupid Toys"

Copyright: © 2011 Josh Myers

-------------------------------------

Josh Myers is one of them humans living in them hideous states, particularly New Jersey, specifically Lambertville. He eats and sleeps mostly, and writes like a good fishy. He’s too fat and is going to die probably. He is not him, though could be if he has to, though does he? We think not.

He is not, we repeat, NOT him.

He appears here on gracious loan from the A.B.C., thank you.

Please refer all complaints to the Consultant.







And we ran so fast and so far, all feet going THUD on them smacking the ground.

They gone all THUDDING and crashy on the dirt, it was so hard, so thick and so very very awful. And like it we continued, on and on, so far and so good.

We did, we hid past the daylight and far from the night, we went running and THUDDING and CRASHING and CREECHING as our legs would not stop. We did try to convince them, but our heads was too quiet, our legs was too stubborn.

O, so fast and so far, and some of us like as to die, I should think. We couldn’t to stop and to save them, I shouldn’t think, for that would entail us stopping our tracks and to freeze on the spot, dead like a doornail, or walk like a loosefish.

We couldn’t remember, I shouldn’t think, what it was we was running from, not all entirely, maybe hideous noises or bastards then, probably.

O, but then…yes, I’m afraid it was, then. When the earth split wide open and we saw us reflected in his skin, it did make us turn and retreat, yes. All screaming and yelling, our feet going all THUD THUD THUD as we turned and beat feet.

O, and ha ha! We do try to forget these things, as they tend to so poison our mind.

We instead we do memorize cheerful happy tunes, good tunes with lots of fiddly bits and happiness and joy. We whistle them in our frightened heads and hum all long:

“When they who to the sea go down and in the waters ply their toil are lifted on the surges crown and plunged where seething eddies boil…”

It give unto us poor filthy retreaters and great and grand and magnificent comfort, them we words seen, what we heard written and passed down from such many generations, from fathers and so on.

We repeat them in our heads we do, as we kept on our running, our THUDDING of feet on the filth. And we did run, and it did cost us our breath.

We all to take pleasure in finding something pointier.

We hit upon a house out there in that distance, rose up on the horizon and shone out in the darkness like a silvery space-dog out amongst the constellations. We did though keep running so, and as we passed it and glimpsed him inside, a frowning little man, we made motion with hands to signify him to move on along like us there, the smart ones, but he couldn’t get it I don’t think.

Poor him, though let us never say that we didn’t try.

I think maybe the house and him, it may have erupted way back there where we left it, but then again, we hope not. He did seem to tired there, that little man and a house. Maybe it gone all quiet for him, the days all gone and his body retreated back home where it like to belong.

We tried to keep thinking like these things, maintaining a positive mental query and holding with both hands the neck of our sanehood.

And THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD gone our feet on the filth! O, I remember it as though yesterday, yes!

We hated it, O didn’t we? All full of fear, of course we ran. Any lesser soul would’ve crumbled right there on the spot, but we did beat feet and we kept right on running from there where it split open and up he done came, right down from heaven and up from hell.

We did run on, propelled like forward by them sights and sounds and knowing our reward should we reach it.

We did though, didn’t we?

Yes, and we like it very much thank you.

Our absolute freedom as we found it, all spectacular, yes.

And we found ourselves at the top of the hill, despite we probably didn’t climb it. We not to complain, as it was welcome change and what we had looked for. Down there at the bottom we saw our waiting salvation, the water in all its glory, beckoning with its dripping arms open, tossing itself all up and down and calling us to it.

And we came running down the hill, feet THUD THUD THUD, all aching gills, and did we collapsed into the sea, to our everloving joy to forget what we seen and what did done rose up out there, back behind that house what’s probably all gone now, poor thing. We ran straight there into the water and under the waves, drifting on down all lazy and soft like meadow-grass under the flood.

We went and we hid down there as we knew we should, maintaining a distance and joining the plankton.



"Loosefish and Fastfish"

Copyright: © 2011 Josh Myers

-------------------------------------

Josh Myers is one of them humans living in them hideous states, particularly New Jersey, specifically Lambertville. He eats and sleeps mostly, and writes like a good fishy. He’s too fat and is going to die probably. He is not him, though could be if he has to, though does he? We think not.

He is not, we repeat, NOT him.

He appears here on gracious loan from the A.B.C., thank you.

Please refer all complaints to the Consultant.







He come stepping through grass ever so slow as he does, passing over and granting indifference to a cluster of ants swarming in an ants’ nest.

He look up with face smiling all glistening solitude. All shaky hands and spittle resolving and lining his quaky foundation.

We hope on him to line his pockets.

He keep go along and we do watch him in silence. We to observe him and see what to repeat. His actions all glorious, though we do hate him. This bastard oppressor, he suck at our doors. He do not know what we feel out toward him and likely he won’t never will.

Our doors is all locked, we watch from out window. Him who does step through as slow as like snails, he so careful to never step and harm a small being.

Him ever so careful, he is. We seeing his hands as they jibber and twitch about his cold body, check now his cufflinks, check now his buttons. He wipe down his brow, he scratch at his nose, him to never let fingers a-come to a rest.

Though we may have mis-spake, for now once now or twice so he does stop his fiddling and bark out in sing-song syllables:

“3. 1. 18. 4. 9. 1. 3. 19.”

And we dare not to question it.

While in general we do as instructed and scrawl out scribblings about his behavior, in this we reject. It have gone now too far.

We do not write it down, we do not dare translate.

We been so mistaken.

Him out there, he checking all cufflinks and snappy lapels, he turn head and he eye us, he spy through our window and give us a grin.

It shake to our core as our day here is there and it lies out there with him.

As we sits weeping he out there is dancing and blasting his grin up there onto the sky.

Arms gone straight and fingers done twitching, he hold his face up and bark like a bad dog. It give us a scare and it give us a start. We to jump out our skin if we wasn’t sealed it.

He dancing and singing like it say he would do. We consult we do our scribbly scrawls and we search for a purpose. We quiver in our sick discovery.

And then here come Organ, down from heaven and up from hell. A blasting all screechy and beautiful noise it is, shaking our silence and to cheer a fainting mind. He make us all to wipe at our eyes, to stare out our window into the Whole World.

Now living out there is our Organ resplendent. He live and he breathes all same air as we do.

Everyone laughed we were all so happy.

Jim came running down the hill.



"Tattered Title in a Different Time"

Copyright: © 2011 Josh Myers

-------------------------------------

Josh Myers is one of them humans living in them hideous states, particularly New Jersey, specifically Lambertville. He eats and sleeps mostly, and writes like a good fishy. He’s too fat and is going to die probably. He is not him, though could be if he has to, though does he? We think not.

He is not, we repeat, NOT him.

He appears here on gracious loan from the A.B.C., thank you.

Please refer all complaints to the Consultant.







Glen Horn believed his mother was a portal for interstellar travel.

When she requested he remove his dirty socks from the rug or wash behind his ears in the tub, he could almost visualize the wormhole stretching from her tongue, threatening to crush him in her steadily collapsing words. He never argued with her. He feared she might accidentally transport him into a void of frigid space and dead stars.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said politely, but always kept a careful eye fixed on her every move.

On Saturday, he helped her make homemade chocolate moon pies. It was a weekly ritual they both enjoyed.

“You’re like addicted to them,” he mumbled and voraciously licked the rubber spatula clean.

“It’s the reason I stayed on this planet,” she confessed. “Our people love marshmallow.”

“You do know you sound crazy, right?”

Her red hair was layered in flour and cocoa powder.

“Only on this side of Orion’s Belt,” she chuckled and slapped her hands together.

As she was persistently peculiar, Glen attempted to switch gears.

“Can I have twenty dollars for the movies, mom?” He wanted to meet his best friend, Carlos in front of the theater.

“Paper money won’t do you any good.” There was a flash of light and the kitchen seemed to momentarily ebb from existence.

“It won’t?” He was perplexed and somewhat disoriented.

“No, son. A second ago it would have, but not in this new galaxy.” She stared at him, tight-lipped, rapidly blinking her eyes.

He scratched his chin and swallowed hard. “Well, I was really hoping to buy some popcorn and a soda while I was there.”

“Here,” she replied and dropped white sugar cubes into his cupped hands. “This will provide you entrance into the cinema and sufficient funds for nourishment.” She turned her back to him and began to wash the dishes.

He nervously slipped them into his jacket pocket and ran out the back door of the kitchen.

At first, he thought she had finally gone off the deep end. But later, when Carlos pushed a plastic bag full of brown sugar under the ticket booth window and used it to pay admission for both of their movie tickets, he was unquestionably spooked.

“Carlos?” He asked and took hold of the boy’s arm. “Have we always used sugar to pay for things?”

Carlos balled up his face like a paper bag. “Nooooooooooooo,” he said sarcastically and pounded his chest. “We cavemen used to use rocks and dry twigs.” He flicked Glen’s ear. “Weirdo!”

Maybe it’s not my mother after all, he thought. But it can’t be me, could it?

The answer came to fruition on Monday morning when the family car wouldn’t start. His mother calmly sat behind the steering wheel and whistled.

“I guess it’s time for plan B,” she said happily.

“Great! Now I’m going to be late for school.” Glen was stressed and didn’t know what she was talking about. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and slid his body down the length of the passenger seat. “And of course, mid-terms start today of all days.”

“Relax, son.” She took hold of his face, parted her lips and pressed them above his eyebrows. “I’m going to make it all better.” The gentle framework of her cosmos dripped over his head like warm honey. In less than a nanosecond, he materialized before the entrance of his high school in a completely parallel universe. Up ahead, a group of blue-skinned adolescent girls giggled and waved hello with their glimmering white wings.

He stood there dumbfounded, not realizing it was the chalky surface of the moon he wiped from his damp forehead, and not his mother’s parting kiss.



"Moon Pie"

Copyright: © 2011 Angel Zapata

-------------------------------------

Angel Zapata was born on Earth. His horror short story collection, The Man of Shadows is available in paperback or eBook through Panic Press. Visit http://arageofangel.blogspot.com







My great-grandfather fell off a bridge on a horse into a river and drowned. The ghost of my great-grandfather caught a wasp in his bare hands and ate it. It stung him. He suffocated. His eyes bulged. The ghost of my great-grandfather became the ghost of a ghost and stared at his hands and refused to eat until eventually the sun burned through him like morning fog. The ghost of the ghost of the ghost of my great-grandfather turned into a mirror reflecting a mirror. The feedback from a microphone. Static electricity. The way your eyes ache when your teeth get cold. He told me if he had to die again his last wish was to see Anna Karenina naked in Heavy Metal Magazine. He told me he knew that wishing for things he'd never get was what ended up killing him last time but that he wouldn't put it out of his mind and that he also wanted the Dodgers to move back to Brooklyn even though that was out of any of our control. I told him I didn't think there would be any more ghosts of ghosts after this one so he better be careful. He stuck a fork into the toaster to prove me wrong. I heard the sound of rushing water. The lights flickered. The ghost of the ghost of the ghost of my great-grandfather smirked. His mouth was a Moebius strip. His voice was a lit fuse. He said he guessed he was here to stay and then popped like firecracker. He left a charred black stain like a star on the linoleum floor.

 
 
"The After After Life"
 
Copyright: © 2011 Shea Newton
 
-------------------------------------

Shea Newton lives in Idaho. He doesn't return gifts. Sometimes he publishes in online. If you want to you can find him there.







Allen was born blind. His childhood was spent nestled in Momma's overprotective bosom; he even slept in the same bed as Momma. This left the poor adult Allen unable to deal with the world and he became a severe agoraphobic. The one bedroom apartment he resided in was sparsely furnished with a television, love seat, twin bed and a lamp. His only connection to the outside world was the telephone and noise of the T.V. Allen was on complete disability and even had his meals delivered to him daily.

Momma eventually left him to fend for himself to begin a new marriage, but she still called him every evening to say Good night to her little boy.

“Come see Momma,” she would cajole to Allen. “You could take a plane and I will be right at the terminal to meet you when you land.”

Allen would shiver at just the mere thought of leaving his tiny apartment, let alone the entire apartment building. Momma set him up in this apartment before she left and Allen planned to stay put until death forced him out.

*   *   *

One afternoon there came a soft knock on Allen's front door.

“Lunch,” rang a cheerful female voice that sounded completely familiar, but Allan just could not put his finger on that southern accent.

“Come in,” Allen answered.

“It sure is dark in here!” the lady exclaimed as she stepped in the room with a tray of roasted chicken.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Allen answered matter of factly. “I’m blind.”

“Light is not only for the sighted people,” the lady explained. “It is imperative for a healthy soul!”

Allen forked the chicken, “I suppose I can see it your way, No puns intended,” Allen smirked.

“I have a light bulb in my car. Let me fetch it for you?”

“Sure,” Allen shrugged and the lady left the room.

A few minutes later the lady returned and screwed the bulb into the lamp on Allen's floor.

“OK, this bulb can do something for you no ordinary bulb can.”

“Sure, lady,” Allen entertained her silly words and sipped his coffee.

“No, really. When you turn this lamp on the bulb will illuminate your world, interanlly and externally.. You will then see what the bulb has to show you.”

“Why give me this magic bulb?” Allen humored her.

“Because you are going to give me something small in return.”

“OK, take whatever lady. I don't have a single thing I would miss.”

“Thank you,” the lady clapped. “When you turn on the lamp it signifies the signing of our contract.”

With that the lunch lady left. Allen immediately switched on the lamp and just about fell face first into the floor, his brown carpeted floor. Allen could see! He spent the whole afternoon looking around his apartment, watching television and gazing out the window. He saw the world for the first time with new born eyes.

Allen called his mother that night and excitedly told her of the news.

“Impossible!” she exclaimed. “I am flying in this weekend to take you to the doctors, maybe a psychiatrist!”

Allen snorted at his mom and hung up the phone, he had television to watch.

The weekend finally arrived and Allen was eagerly waiting for his mother's knock on the door. It finally came right before midnight; Momma must have had a late flight.

“Come in!” Allen called eagerly with a huge smile, but that smile quickly faded.

“What? Not happy to see Momma?”

Allen finally placed that lunch lady's familiar twang. All Allen could do was babble nonsense as Momma bent over him with her eyes closed. Her skin was completely translucent and Allen could see hundreds of featureless figures emitting a doleful moan as their bodies circled the window of Momma's skin.

“I see you have not accomplished much with the present I gave you, what a shame.” The Momma beast finally opened her closed eyes and Allen could see his fate. “You see eyes are not only windows to the soul, but they are windows for the soul. Now turn out the light Allen; I don't want you to see Momma tear your soul apart.”


"The Light Bulb Collector"

Copyright: © 2011 Stacy Bolli

-------------------------------------

Stacy Bolli is a single mother residing in the sun soaked state of Florida. She has several works appearing online and in written anthologies. Her most recent stories can be found in "Sins and Tragedies" with Panic Press and "DOA: Extreme Horror Collection" by Blood Bound Books.






“Rita Ruth McKendrick, why you always talking to yourself?"

Talking to myself? Them damn fools, thinkin’ I’d waste time telling myself things I already knowed.

But the others saw her lips move and drew their conclusion: Rita Ruth talked to herself. One old fool claimed it started with grace at breakfast and she just kept going.

Rita Ruth did not say grace. Never in her life had she said grace. Or gone to church or read the Bible. What mattered was Rita Ruth believed in God, though the way she understood Him was murky. And she was proud of the murkiness. God is unknowable.

God had taken her baby. Now that was knowable. The why of it, unknowable. Even the man who thought he knew everything couldn’t say why God took Jimmy Jack, could not answer that one question. Yet he wanted her to answer his question. The man had “Doc” in front of his name. Thought that gave him the right to ask.

“As a child, Rita Ruth, were you ever mistreated by anyone, anyone at all?”

Never told him, not in the years she’d been there. This time, she was set to say. Had to, it was eating her up inside, the keeping quiet.

You ready, Doc? Well, there was ten of us, Ma, Pa, five boys and us three girls. Lived in the old Church on River Street at the time. Charity, thanks to them Methodists. ‘Course Pa was a big man and Ma just a slip of a woman. So she couldn’t a done a thing ‘cept what she did when she got sick of what Pa did. And I reckon that’s what you’re after, Doc, what Pa did, the reason Ma shot him. 

Doc closed his eyes, put a hand to his forehead. “Rita Ruth, you have to speak up if you intend me to hear what you’re saying."

Rita Ruth struggled her body out of the chair, walked across the darkened office, walked the empty corridors, walked and wondered what was wrong with Doc? She’d spoke up, loud. She’d screamed it, what Pa did.


"The Whisperer"

Copyright: © 2011 Margie Hamilton

-------------------------------------

Margie Hamilton is a UC Berkeley graduate, living in Grinnell, Iowa. In between, she enjoyed her career as a technical writer during the exciting Dot Com era. She looks forward to attending the Iowa University Writer Festival writing summer class. Reading, writing and movies pretty much keep her out of trouble.






Him all smacking and shake it against his little home, he beat it on the bars and cry out with injustice. Him there in his home, smack with his fat fingers, our dear little him, never dreadful and monstrous, him delightful him.

He lift up his little toy what we won him at the outside and he grin with his big shiny tooth. Him to hold it up with beaming sincerity and mumble a word what could very well be a great hearty thank you.

We do not and could not would ever reprimand him. Sweet sticky thing down there in his little home, scrawls on the walls some words we can’t fathom and can’t dare muster up.

We mumbles out words and our him he goes:

“Yes.”

We mumbles out more and more and he lift up his face:

”Yes!”

He show us in his damned fat fingers his precious what we won him. We grin all down on him and he hold it in abundance.

In nighttime him lie there, breathe silent and plunging off into that dream town.

We stand all around him and stare at fat body. The toy what we won him does fall from fat fingers and we each and all of us do so admire it. We scoop it up slightly and watch its sweet magic.

With sacred patience and a short silence, we retrieve our majesty from that little toy and we keep careful monitor that him does not awaken and see us as we do it.

Filthy fingers of ours slip over the toy and unlock the crying chorus that will sing us to sleep.

The sound what it comes out does lift us on high. It like nothing before and we weep as it sing us, with cosmic projection and sound of constellations spinning in time with silvery space dogs.

It will sing us to god, to sweet him if we are lucky.

“Holding these things in my hand, and I end up seeing everything.”

When him awaken he see us all smile, we stroke his fat face.

Him reach for his toy, what we won for him on the outside and he hold it near and dear. He grinning up and we spy a shiny tooth, slick with hours of timeless life living.

We watch him crawl around on all fours like a good dog and we praise him for it.

Him cuddle down in his little home and run fat fingers across the bars we put for protection.

Them, they may want him but we do protect it. Our sweet little him, we love him so, we do. They’ll never have him, for this him is ours. We found and we bore him, we made and shall raise him. We was it, yes, who won him that toy from out there on the outside, and with it shall we be, and through us shall it be to him. Our precious protection and the glory of the cosmos. We love and protect him, our sweet little Jim.



"Jim Parades a Toy"

Copyright: © 2011 Josh Myers

-------------------------------------

Josh Myers writes things like a good fishy and he eats and sleeps mostly. He's too fat and is going to die probably.







I’m trying to decide who to be. My floor is littered with faces I have torn from magazines. Most of these people are thin. It will be fun being a blade, being clear-skinned with thick hair. When I was Angelica, things got out of hand. I am na├»ve and too easily flattered, even when it’s all make believe, lies and come-on’s. Still I met him at the bar. Actually I’d been waiting an hour earlier than scheduled. He was fatter and hairier than his internet photos, but otherwise the same guy. He must have had an ear zit because he kept digging his finger in the canal and wincing. He kept looking around for me, looked right at me and onto the next one. That’s because he’d never seen the real me, the chubby chick was small boobs.

I paid the waitress a Lincoln to give him a note I’d written on the napkin, then dashed to the restroom. A hot Latina was applying lipstick. She nearly threw up when I screamed at her to get out.

I hit the light switch. My heart was hurdling. I felt as bloated as an unshorn sheep. He knocked first as I’d indicated. The door swept open. I pushed him against it. His mouth tasted like a fireplace, his tongue felt pasty. When he pushed me off and wiped his lips across the back of his hand, I should have run. Fire lit his pupils. He slapped me side-armed, nearly flinging me off my feet. I don’t know he could see me so well in the dark, but I guess even blind men would figure out a way to learn how ugly am I am.

On the internet, I had a stable of men. Stable. I like the sound of that. Drop the “t.” Sable. That’ll be my new name. I’ll use this picture of the brunette with the mink around her neck, the one with cobras for lips.

My goal this time around is to get each guy to fall hard. Then I’m going to cut their hearts out with a rusty knife, one by one. I want to see them beg and kneel on their Skype screens. I want to hear them squeal like piglets, which they’ll do, I’m sure of it. Oh, this is going to be fun, better than any bathroom kiss.



"Bathroom Kiss"

Copyright: © 2011 Len Kuntz

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“Hey, sweet-pea, comin’ on that bike trip after exams? Four-five days from Duluth to Lake Geneva, then par-tee all weekend at Gertie’s parents’ mansion by the lake. She invite you?”

“Yeah.”

"Her parents are outfitting everybody with new bikes, 10-speeds! sweet-pea, that’s 9 speeds mor’n that wreck o’ yours”

“My grandfather’s bike runs just fine — I told Gertie I had my own bike, an’ I’d get it to Duluth myself.”

“Jes—” he broke off, seeing her glare.

*   *   *

Having left the campground near Columbus before dawn on the fourth day, Jim, Eula, and three others who had opted not to be driven to their destination, were headed down Tri-County Rd., brashly boasting how they’d make it by suppertime. After Eula came to a slow halt on a flat tire, only a few scattered cows bemusedly watched them walk to the nearest farmhouse. Sitting down to a late breakfast, the family invited them in to ham and eggs, all washed down with cold milk.

Promising to follow the route they had mapped out, and catch up with them, Eula went off to the barn where the compressor was housed, while the others, thanking their hosts, took their leave — Jim rather reluctantly. Eula’s tire proving to be torn, a trip to a nearby General Store left her a good hour behind and some of miles off course.

*   *   *

Barring a few pit-stops, Eula had ridden hard all morning. By two that afternoon, she still hadn’t caught up. Emerging from the State Forest south of Palmyra, she stopped, dejected. From the hilltop she could see County Rd. H extending far across a rolling landscape. No one in sight — but on a second look — someone ... someone on a bicycle? maybe, or walking? just one — perhaps the others were hidden behind a ridge. She sped down the hill.

Her exhausted legs propelled her from crest to crest; sometimes the cyclist —yes it was a cyclist — appeared closer, then seemingly farther, and sometimes not at all. Fatigue drove away the sights and sounds around her, leaving the road’s white edge and the cyclist her sole, narrow focus. Only two short ridges ahead now — it was Jim, it had to be — it just had to be. Closer still, he topped the crest as she reached its base, she pressed on harder.

A car whizzed dangerously past, inches from her, frightened her and clearing her head. Reaching the crest, she saw the speeding car topping the next crest, but no sign of a cyclist — none whatsoever. She coasted down the slope doubting her sanity — nobody — but wait — amongst the reeds of a gravelly-banked ditch! Dropping her bicycle, she ran.

“Hey, sweet-pea, took the shoulder a bit hard,” Jim grinned through a wince. “Holy Mother of God!” she cried, ignoring the blood and holding him tightly. Under the now glaring sun it took a moment for her to take in the gash that ran from his eyebrow down to his cheek, and the bloody rawness, filthy with debris, down his left side to the knee. “Hey! nuthin’s broke.” “Hush,” she whispered, tearing a pair of T-shirts and beer cans from her backpack. Turning she found him standing unsteadily. “Sit the hell down!” she almost screamed, and more softly, “this is going to hurt.” Washing the muck and duckweed from his wounds with the frothing beer, she wrapped his wounds with torn up cloth. “It’ll have to do for now.”

No bikes or traffic — she managed to sit him on the crossbar, and ride awkwardly into Elkhorn. Quiet and drowsy, he only managed to whisper, “I’ll love you forever, sweet-pea,” when she left him outside the pharmacy. Witchhazel, tape and gauze served to clean and bandage him, and Coke to quench his thirst. Returning the bottle, she emerged to find him jauntily climbing the steps to a burger joint across the road. Running across, into the low, late afternoon sun, she couldn’t see him, but heard him at a distance: “I’m feelin’ much better, let’s have a bite.”

Three hamburgers, fries and a malted later, Eula, warm and sleepy, briefly dozed off. The waitress woke her, asking, “finished all that by yourself, did you?” Distractedly handing her a $10, Eula ran to door — Jim was outside with her bike and another. “Lookey-here Sweet-pea, borrowed this — gotta move, its late and a storm’s coming in.”

Rumbling, darkening skies first chased them, heavy rain and swirling winds then drenched them, and finally the lightning-streaked skies drove them to shelter in a barn which stood intact beside a farmhouse long ago wind-battered and lain open like a doll-house. Flashlight between her teeth, Eula helped Jim climb up to the hayloft. Some old feed bags atop a layer of disintegrating hay bales made for a place to lay out her sleeping-bag and Jim’s bed-roll. Turning, it took a moment to find him standing stock still in the gloom. Stripping him down as best she could, she wrapped him up in his blankets.

Peeling off her wet clothes, she sat listening to the rain, going over the day’s events in her mind — what he’d said outside the pharmacy. “Com’ere, sweet-pea,” she heard in the darkness. Bringing her sleeping bag, she curled up close to him. He touched her shoulder softly, and his hand slipped down to cup her breast. Eula whispered, “I love you too.” They drew closer...

A bar of sunlight woke her, and a moment’s glance confirmed Jim wasn’t there. She quickly climbed down; his bike was gone. Had her avowal and its consummation scared him off? — probably — who knew with guys?

The trooper pulled up in front of her by the “Welcome to Lake Geneva” sign, — he would take her into town, reunite her with her concerned friends. Climbing in the back seat, she heard him say, “Damn,” and stopped midway through tossing the morning edition of the Madison Capital-Times across the seat — “Cyclist victim of fatal hit-and-run.”



"Last Ride"

Copyright: © 2011 Georges Dodds

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Published in strong competitors to The New Flesh like International Agrophysics and Estudos de Literatura Oral, Georges Dodds has until recently kept his weird writing under mouldy cerements. His recent genre activities include textual resurrection for a publisher of Gothic novels, unearthing and presenting in an e-library some thematic precursors of Edgar Rice Burroughs' Tarzan of the Apes, translating early French science-fiction to English, and preparing a collection of American dime-novelist William Murray Graydon's earliest adventure stories. Georges and his 3-species family (4 with the goldfish), lives in a former bus garage, on the now relocated site of an 18th century cemetery -- so far tilling the garden hasn't revealed its past.







[Author’s disclaimer: Ladies this is a sexist tale. It isn’t written for you, but for MEN, MEN, MEN. Stop reading right now or else . . . just don’t blame me afterward . . . ahem]

-----------

As the result of humanity’s losing the war with the Andromedans, all human women were stripped of their buttocks. Yes, those twin pads of fat which human men lust after were stolen by the alien fiends.

Earth’s men woke up the next day feeling strangely cheated, and yet strangely at peace with themselves, as for the first time in their lives they found themselves able to stare at female members of their species without any lust whatsoever.

Even more amazing, most men now began to view women as persons rather than sex objects.

If men were pleased with this state of affairs however, the female of the species most definitely wasn’t.

*   *   *

Fifty miles above the Earth’s surface, the ruling committee of the Female Emancipation and Domination of Man (FEm-DoM) society were deliberating what to do about this latest sex crisis.

“This is a total disaster,” the goddess Electra growled, “it’s almost as bad as when the feminist lobbies got equal pay for women in the workplace.”

“That was easier to resolve,” Athena interjected, “All we had to do to ensure we kept the upper hand was get the sexual harassment legislation passed through congress.”

“We’re about to lose the ability to use sex as a weapon to disorient men for good ladies,” Hera said miserably. “Six thousand years of work is about flushing down the drain because some alien invaders . . .”

“Er . . . mankind started the war . . .”

“You KNOW what I mean!”

“Girls,” Electra chided gently, “fighting will get us nowhere. This is way beyond any crisis we’ve ever faced. With the loss of buttocks, ass, tush - call it what you will, these damn Andromedans have unwittingly crippled femalekind. Of what use is it having sexes if sex can’t interfere with the smooth running of society, create endless unresolvable issues, perpetually fuck up the gears of the relationship machine?”

“Yeah, all men love ass,” Hera said reflectively.

“Gay men don’t.”

“Yes they do; they just love a guy’s ass!"

Hera’s two compatriots stared at her narrowly. “Try to be serious.”

“What about trying to shift the focus from back to front, to the tits instead?”

“Won’t work, it’s considered sleazy to look at a woman’s chest instead of her face when she’s facing you. When she isn’t facing you however . . .”

“Damn, I forgot that!”

“Think, sisters think. There has to be something men like as much as ass; all we need is to give every woman a set of those instead and the status quo is restored, ergo, we’re in control again.”

They deliberated on this awhile.

“Guys love money.”

“No, cash-butts will send inflation skyrocketing.”

“Cars?”

“Yes but . . . women won’t be able to get through doors anymore. I like the transport concept though - keep thinking along those lines.

Finally they hit on the perfect solution.

-----------

[A brief explanation of what the FEm-DoM goddesses were so panicked about.

Despite all their protestations to the contrary, women have ALWAYS dominated men. If you’ve any doubts as to this, remember accurately your mother’s relationship with your father, possibly before he left home never to return.

The average man doesn’t abandon his girlfriend or wife, he flees for his life.

It makes no difference however though, as whoever they end up with, they still end up in the same place.]

*   *   *

And so it came to pass that every Earthwoman now has a motorcycle in place of her stolen buttocks.

Things are more or less back to normal now. It’s routine to hear guys ogling girls saying things like:

“Wow dudes, check out that babe’s Harley Davidson! Man those rear lights. And those tires - just incredible,”
“That girl’s a Grand Prix Honda man.”

“Nooooooo, she’s a Confederate Hellcat.”

“I’ll betcha five dollars.”

“You guys talking bout Mary? Dude, save your money. She’s some low-cost Korean brand!”

Cocktail party conversation:

“You know personally I’m a 16-inch rim guy myself; give me too much tire and I’ve no idea what to do with it.”

“I know exactly what you mean. My last girlfriend was a German three-wheeler, really heavy duty, she kept leaving tracks all over my . . .”

And the ladies themselves?

“So I asked him: Do you wanna go freewheelin’ sometime?”

“No you didn’t girlfriend! That’s just nasty!”

“Well you know me! He looked like the sort of guy who’d be able to get a good grip on my handlebars.”

“Personally I prefer a guy who fits neatly on my seat . . .”

“And you’re calling me dirty-minded . . .”

And lawyers?

“Your honor, I propose to show that Mr. Mackintosh here twice attempted to oil Miss Blakeley’s gears without her permission while she was working as his secretary, and also tampered with her starter-keys . . .”

Fresh expressions have been coined:

“Dave’s such a pain in the motorbike Kate.”

“Yeah, I know. He’s a real exhaust pipe.”

Teenage girls now all have either BMX bike or skateboard behinds by the way; teenage boys are extremely content with those.

*   *   *

So Earth’s women are happy again, no they’re overjoyed, no - ecstatic. The man-domination business is booming better than ever before.

Earth’s men however, though happy as hell to have something to ogle and lust after and fight over again, still can’t help feeling screwed.

It’s like they were let off the hook for a few days, and just when they’d gotten used to the sweet scent of freedom, bam! The hook’s been rammed down their throats again. Only much deeper this time.

And they still don’t understand what went wrong.

To find out I suggest they pick another fight with the Andromedans.



"Behind Every Successful Woman"

Copyright: © 2011 Wol-vriey

-------------------------------------

Wol-vriey is Nigerian, and quite tall. He believes that there actually are things that go bump in the night.







Since becoming wealthy enough to do so without fear of embarrassing myself, I’d liked attending the horse races. Since meeting Miss Carol Chang, I’d come to love them.

Carol was a jockey, see. Mad about horses. I was mad about Carol.

I bought a horse. Sorry ladies, it’s a normal guy maneuver - pretty woman loves horses, I buy a horse, I get to meet her. Works every time.

*   *   *

I hit my head.

I was walking through the stables looking for Carol, thought I heard her call me, turned about hastily, and knocked myself half senseless on a horseshoe hung on a nail by a stable stall.

After the resulting headache subsided somewhat I became aware of voices speaking next to me.

“Yes,” said a pretty mare stalled next to my horse, “Humans have no taste whatsoever; I wonder what he sees in the yellow-skinned chink neo-communist bitch.”

“Flat-chested slopehead slut,” my horse added.

The horses were talking?

This was too real for me. “Did any of you just say something?” I asked politely.

The horses gaped at me in shock equal to mine. “You can hear us?”

“Uh huh.” I made sure I had unobstructed access to the stable door in case of danger to my person.

“Okay, we’ll level with you,” my horse said. “We don’t approve of your sniffing around that slant-eyed jade.”

Bradley, my black chauffeur, came into window-view then. “Oh look, it’s the jungle bunny again,” another horse said. The rest laughed heartily in derision.

Horses talking was one thing, but there was something very disturbing about this now.

“Why’d you just call Bradley a ‘jungle bunny’?” I asked, suddenly certain great enlightenment was about to hit me.

“He’s black.”

“So, why not just call him a black man?”

“Where’s the fun in that? We’re racists - we’ve got to insult people based on their ethnicity, or if that’s in doubt, where they originate from.”

“Aaaahh. You’re joking of course.”

“Nope, we’re horses. All horses are racists - it’s inborn.”

“Are you sure you don’t mean racers?”

"No, racists. Conjugate the verb ‘to race’. Race, racer, racist.”

“Should be racest then.”

“Yes. Racist."

*   *   *

They were serious. I tested them.

Soon the crowd for the 4:00 began to arrive.

“C’mon guys,” I said, “you’ve got to love Mrs. Jackson’s hat, just dig those natty feathers. And those shoes.”

“Stupid fat-assed nigger bitch.”

Stupid? She’s medical director of a hospital.”

“So? Damn ho must have got her med degree on her back.”

“Okay, how about Carlos Alberto? Check out that suit and Rolex he’s wearing, and his wife’s dress, just lovely.”

“Spic drug-runner . . .”

“He’s an investment banker!”

“. . . . yeah sure. His greasy ass came over the border hidden in a fruit-cart. I know so for sure - my cousin Dinky pulled it; and that wife of his - good lord, don’t Mexican women ever stop eating?”

A distinguished old Jewish couple were crossing the lawn towards the stands. The 4:30 race would begin in fifteen minutes. I pointed them out. “And the Goldsteins?”

“I thought you had some class, boss, please don’t foul the air of this place by mentioning kikes.”

*   *   *

They went on and on and on and on.

Greeks and Canadians were degenerate sodomists. Italians were all Dago Mafiosos. Australians all had kangaroo mothers. Blacks were uneducated lazy pimps and wife beaters. The French were frogs, snail eaters, and Godzilla-making nuclear degenerates.

The British? I’ll have MI6 after me if I repeat what they said about the Queen and Prince Charles, the late Princess Diana, and David Beckham.

For some reason horses really hate David Beckham.

It got worse. Poor Salman Rushdie’s ordeal prevents me from repeating what they said about the Shah of Iran, and Arabs in general. To the horses, terrorism was the least of the Arab’s crimes. And I think it wise not to even consider offending the Russian Mafia, the Chinese Triads, Japanese Yakuza, Africans in general - the list was almost endless.

I assure you I heard more political incorrectness in that stable than I’ve ever heard anywhere else in my life.

*   *   *

Finally they convinced me. I stared at the horses in horror. “You really are racists.”

“Yeah, that’s what we do, we race.”

But you’ve mixed things up. There’s racing and then there’s . . .”

“Race, racer, racist, boss.”

A black stallion nodded agreement. “Word, boss.”

My mind slowly wrapped itself around the concept. “Okay so why aren’t you insulting me? I’m Irish.”

“Health insurance policy boss. No one here wants to wind up as cans of dog food. We’ll wait till you leave.”

That was honest at least.

The 4:30 was over, I could see the board from the stables, Abe Goldstein’s ‘Golda Mare’ had won.

I finally thought I saw where this was headed. “So, if you don’t like Jews, or Blacks, or Spaniards, or Asians, or Greeks, or the British, or the Russians, or Native Americans or South Americans, or just everyday un-prefixed Americans, who do you like? The Germans? I mean Hitler must be your hero, right? You wanna set up the Pureblood Aryan Horse Reich?”

My horse looked at me in disgust. “Screw that damn Kraut punk and his entire country.” It groaned at me, surprised at my hardheaded lack of comprehension of this most simple of equine principles. “We’re just racists - we don’t discriminate. Unlike you humans, we dislike everyone equally. You’re all to blame for the state of the world.

"Worse still,” the pretty mare in the next stall added, “You all ride on our backs.”

*   *   *

Chastened, I left the stables and walked slowly back to my Rolls.

I haven’t had any stomach for the racists . . . sorry I mean races, since then.

I sold my horse. It had already served its purpose. Miss Carol Chang now comes over to the house to visit me instead.



"A Day at the Racists"

Copyright: © 2011 Wol-vriey

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Wol-vriey is Nigerian, and quite tall. He believes that there actually are things that go bump in the night.