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

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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

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When the first octopus fell from the clouds, Daniel Berck, a local evolutionist who witnessed the event, was sorely disappointed. He had always envisioned the mass exodus of invertebrates to undoubtedly originate from the sea, not drop into a cornfield. The creature, who when stretched out horizontally was the length of an average man, had yet to learn vocalization. Somehow it managed to burrow its name in the black soil with a fluid, almost cursive penmanship: Staam.

The scientific community was baffled. Through some harried diplomatic intervention, Staam was granted immediate political asylum. The philanthropic interest of a particularly keen lobbyist afforded the creature access to the remote beach of Jekyll Island off the south-eastern coast of Georgia. Over the next several weeks, Staam constructed what appeared to be a craggy garden composed of broken seashells and other miscellaneous ocean crustaceans.

Tourists snapped pictures of the beautifully-sculpted plot, and with downcast eyes, expressed only terrible pity for the obviously lonesome artist.

The following Sunday, the second octopus dropped from the sky into the center of Central Park in New York City. A third sighting purported a twenty-foot octopus squirming across a busy intersection in downtown Los Angeles.

During the press conference on Jekyll Island the following day, one reporter remarked that Staam’s so-called garden bore a striking resemblance to a medieval fortress.

Moments later, Staam wriggled through the knotted gate and rose vertically on two unusually long appendages. The crowd of paparazzi and government officials were stunned to silence. Staam continued to stretch four of his spotted tentacles up and above his muscular head. He closed his immense eyes and began to hum as he swayed side to side.

From behind his swollen mass came the clamor of clattering machinery, churning the agitated cogs and barnacled levers painstakingly crafted from mollusks and sand dollars. The illustrious device of his unique garden construct had sprung to life.

"What does it do?” One brave reporter queried over the sound. “What is it for?”

“Progress,” was the first and only word Staam ever spoke.

Then the great machine, adrift in deep, resonant vibrations, proceeded to toss men through the sky.

"Evolution"

Copyright: © 2009 Angel Zapata

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Angel Zapata often wishes he could commute to work via dropping down a well. That way, he could come crawling out of any TV like that darling, little girl from The Ring. Recent fiction has been published or is forthcoming in the Toe Tags Anthology, House of Horror's Best of 2009 Anthology, Mausoleum Memoirs, Flashes in the Dark, The New Flesh, Twisted Tongue, Morpheus Tales, and Flashshot. Visit his blog: http://arageofangel.blogspot.com

I’ve decided to stop using a knife to end an argument.

First of all, it’s in poor taste, and I’m a changed woman. I believe it was King Solomon himself who suggested cutting a baby in half when confronted by two women suing for custody of the child. Ultimately the real mother was willing to give up maternal rights in order for her baby to live. I admit I wanted to experience the feeling of so great a sacrifice; to cut loose of my own ungrateful children.

But that damn dog! He had me running all over town. He pretended to be dead, and then he mocked me with his squealing, heathen laughter. Everyone thinks I went to the cupboard to fix him a sandwich or something, but it’s simply where I kept the old coffee can with about seventy-five dollars in cash. I spent it all on a coffin too. Well, all of it except for the quarters I used at the alehouse. All that shopping made me terribly thirsty.

And my kids; there’s no mention of them. I am a mother after all, and by the way, thirty-nine isn’t very old. Try telling that to your husband’s nineteen year-old secretary. She’s the real bitch in this tale.

My therapist has advised me to avoid flourishing my stories with absurd fanfare, but I bet he’s never seen a goat riding on the back of a Golden Retriever.

Honestly, after the alehouse, I spent maybe another ten dollars on wine, not including the tip. I was feeling pretty good when I stepped out of the dark tavern. The idea to murder my husband and his lover was an act of madness perpetuated by random happenstance and years of emotional abuse.

I only stopped in on the barber shop to purchase a wig when my eyes paused upon the straight razor resting on the worn leather chair. That’s when I thought, it’s such a perfect way to end a rather stressful afternoon.

Premeditation is too harsh a word. Suffice to say, that stupid dog ate his meat rare that day.

I offer no defense as for the current whereabouts of the children. Let the record show that they are not of my own biological birthing, although I did experience an uncharacteristic love for them. I am unfortunately barren, and they were my husband’s children from a previous marriage. Over the years my husband felt it necessary to present me with pets as substitute babies. I would advise you not to go digging around for answers in the moors behind our home.

As for the question presented, the dog was barking rather loudly for hours. The neighbors reported the noise violation to the local authorities, which subsequently, led to my ill-fated arrest. I did eventually get that filthy cur to cease his incessant whining.

And yes, I do find it most peculiar that no one has ever thought to ask me where I got the bone that shut him up once and for all.

"Old Mother Hubbard Goes

Before the Parole Board"

Copyright: © 2009 Angel Zapata
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Angel Zapata was born in NYC, but currently resides just outside of Augusta, Georgia. His flash fiction and poetry has appeared or is forthcoming on Morpheus Tales, Flashes in the Dark, The New Flesh, Twisted Tongue, The Absent Willow Review, House of Horror, and Flashshot. He is husband to his blond goddess and father of four boys obsessed with all things ninja. Visit his blog: http://arageofangel.blogspot.com

Brian’s mother likes to cut herself with sharpened slivers of coconut shell. I climb the fire escape and watch her through the dirty window most early afternoons. Sometimes she uses a thin paring knife and whittles her flesh with new, wonderful holes.

Lately, she’s been collecting insects in paper cups packed with wet soil. After she bleeds the wounds, she takes a pair of tweezers, removes an ant or beetle, and squeezes them inside her mutilations. Then carefully analyzing their movements, she transcribes observations in a black and white notebook entitled, Recipes.

By the time her two children disembark the school bus, she’s wearing clothes again and fresh-baked cookies are cooling on the rack.

Her youngest, Emily says the chocolate chips look like bugs.

I smile when she eats them.

Brian hugs his mother. He doesn’t notice what comes crawling out from beneath her sleeves.

"Grub"
Copyright: © 2009 Angel Zapata

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Angel Zapata was born in NYC, but currently resides just outside of Augusta, Georgia. His flash fiction and poetry has appeared or is forthcoming on Powder Burn Flash, Every Day Poets, Flashes in the Dark, Thrillers, Killers & Chillers, The Absent Willow Review, House of Horror, and Flashshot. He is husband to his blond goddess and father of four boys obsessed with all things ninja. Visit his blog: http:///