The Incorrigible Youth Conservation Camp warden read a memo from the Board of Prisons and frowned.

“This is ridiculous” Warden Steele grumbled. “Why the hell would the board waste money building a theme park catering to prisoners? They approved a one day outing for our career criminals to visit the Campus Farms.

I don’t know warden,” his secretary replied, handing him the eligible prisoners’ files. “You’d think they would spend money seeking a resolution to prison overcrowding.”

Steele thumbed through a file and then threw it on the desk.

“What really tightens my jaws is that Iggie Kallus, our senior inmate, who’s been a menace to society his entire life, gets to go. Why the hell reward guys like that?

The following morning, Dr. Steele called the prison board chairman. After a lengthy phone conversation, he attended the inmates’ morning group therapy session.

“Men, the Prison Board has decided to send a number of you to the Campus Farms theme park tomorrow.”

The inmates cheered and high-five’d.

Iggie however, grumbled, “Campus Farms? Big deal! That’s for schmucks. What if we don’t wanna to go?”

“Frankly, what you want or don’t want is irrelevant, Iggie,” Dr. Steele replied. “You do what you are told; unless you want spend the next six months in the hole. You don’t want that, do you?”

“No, I guess not.” Iggie said quietly, staring at the floor.

The warden continued, “You’ll be free to roam the park, though you will be under constant surveillance and the armed guards are authorized to shoot to kill if you attempt to escape. And, if you cause any disturbances inside the park, guard dogs have been trained to rip you to shreds.”

The following day, the prisoners’ excitement built as the bus rumbled toward the park. After entering, the heavy iron gates slammed shut behind the bus, reminding the men they were still prisoners. Guards lined the inmates up outside the bus and replaced their shackles with electronic leg bracelets.

“Have fun, men,” the warden said, “and I will see you at lunch.

The inmates spent the morning riding rides and gorging themselves on cotton candy, popcorn, and sodas. They belly-laughed in the funhouse, spun out of control on the Tilt-a-whirl, and screamed and lifted their arms on the roller coaster, winding and flipping around the track.

Warden Steele stood before the inmates as they ate a picnic style lunch of grilled hamburgers, hot dogs and watermelon.

“Men, the park’s newest attraction, The Sausage Chute, will be unveiled after lunch. I’ve been told its one hell of a ride with twists, curly-q’s, and breath-taking drops. You’ve been selected to take the inaugural run.”

After lunch, guards marched the men to the far side of the park where the Sausage Chute building towered above them. The attached links of sausage-shaped cars held one person each.

A schematic drawing of the route at the entrance boasted, “This state-of-the-art ride is not for the faint of heart. Your spine will tingle and your bladder will empty.”

Iggie pushed his way to the front of the line. “Since I’m the senior inmate, I get the first pick of seats!”

Warden Steele stepped next to Iggie as the other inmates grumbled, and expressed their displeasure.

“All right, listen up! As the senior inmate, Iggie has the right to be first.”

Iggie jumped into the lead car, and the others followed. The funny-looking sausage cars jerked and slowly pulled away from the entrance. They passed through a double door into a dark cool tunnel, picked up speed and then wound along the track spinning and turning topsy-turvy.

Iggie dropped his cool persona, and laughed and screamed like a kid. The sausages rushed through the open mouth of a giant, a growling gargoyle, and then past growling, iridescent-colored monsters that jumped out at them from corners and crevasses.

Several minutes into the ride, the cars abruptly separated. Strobe lights flashed and sirens wailed as the cars suddenly dropped in the darkness. Inmates screamed, revealing their fear of the unknown. However, the sausages landed on a moving conveyor and continued on.

Iggie rode toward the tunnel exit laughing like a kid. Just before reaching the exit, the conveyor veered right into a tunnel.

Suddenly the conveyor rolled underneath the tread guard, and the sausage restraints released. Iggie was dumped over the edge of the conveyor and into a large funnel with a closed bottom.

His screams turned to laughter as other inmates fell into the funnel from all sides, joining him. They scrambled around in the funnel until a large rubber cone descended into it. The inmates piled on top of each other and were pushed through the funnel bottom.

A whining turbine engine drowned out Iggie’s horrific screams. He peed in his pants as he and the other inmates were stuffed into a gigantic meat-grinder.

After heat sterilization, the ground meat was stuffed into sausage casings and boxed for nationwide distribution to theme parks and state fairs as a healthier alternative to the less regulated processed sandwich meats.

Warden Steele and prison officials watched the tracking monitor, pleased that they had found the most expedient way to reduce the prison population.

"Theme Park Links"

Copyright: © 2010 Hal Kempka

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Harold ‘Hal’ Kempka is a former Marine, and Vietnam Veteran. His poetry has appeared in Leatherneck Magazine, and short stories published in Many Midnights, Black Petals, Dark and Dreary, Microhorror, Long Story Short, The Shine Journal, and the Fiction Flyer, among others. He is a member of the FlashXer flash fiction workshop, and lives in Southern California with his wife, Celeste, and son Derek.

Two weeks after buying the dilapidated Victorian, Levon moved in. His grandparents had built it at the turn of the century, but lost it during the great Depression. The state converted it into a home for unwed mothers, but shut it down after a series of questionable adoptions and the mysterious disappearance of several young mothers.

Since then, it had been repeatedly occupied and abandoned. When the state finally put it up for auction, Levon saw an opportunity to bring it back into the family and refurbish it to its original splendor. After submitting the winning bid, he decided to convert it into a bed and breakfast.

Now, here he was lugging box after box of belongings and furniture into the long-abandoned house. The musty odor of old, heavily waxed Oak floors and moldings lent a hypnotic ambiance he hoped his future guests would appreciate and remember.

That afternoon, while taking a break, Levon decided to look through an old desk covered by a sheet in the parlor. He inadvertently pulled a drawer out too far and found a key that apparently had fallen behind the drawer. He tried several doors, but the key didn’t fit.

Then, he tried the attic. While the old rusting key unlocked the door, the wood had swelled from years of moisture. Levon slam his shoulder against it until it flew open. A rush of chilling and sickly, foul-smelling air escaped.

He shined his flashlight into the room, and then made his way to the transom, which he opened to allow fresh air to circulate.

The bright white shaft of dusty sunlight sprayed the room. Large faded splotches that appeared to be furniture stain splattered the dirty floor and walls. Levon explored the attic, and found several broken chairs he thought could be refurnished as well as several old mattresses and bed frames.

As he shined the flashlight around the room Levon spotted a few dusty, cobwebbed boxes stacked in a dark corner. Inside one box, he found a couple of teddy bears, baby clothes and booties, and a wrinkled, faded photo of a young woman holding a tiny baby.

Although she smiled into the camera, her fear-filled eyes suggested anything but happiness. Then, in the bottom of the box, Levon spotted a newspaper article describing her strange disappearance, and an unsuccessful county-wide search that had culminated in the state shutting down the home.

The sunlight through the opening began to fade. Levon figured he ought to get a little more unpacking done and then call it a day. Once he got settled in, he would come back and draw up a rough plan on how to install a large window for light and turn the room into a honeymoon suite.

Shortly after midnight, the sound of someone rummaging through the kitchen cupboards awakened him. Levon slipped out of bed, and grabbed his four iron from the golf bag leaning against the wall.

He tiptoed to the landing, and peeked through the banister slats. A full moon shining through the Victorian’s window cast the living room in a silvery patina.

He caught a glimpse of a shadow moving in the light. Levon pressed his back against the wall and cautiously sidestepped down the oak stairs.

He reached the first floor and tip-toed across the room, slowly making his way through a virtual maze of haphazardly placed furniture and boxes. Levon edged up to the kitchen door and peeked around the corner.

A woman with long, stringy hair hanging limp over her shoulders, rummaged through the cupboards. The kitchen light shined through her ragged, soiled nightgown and the nearly diaphanous material outlined her bone-thin body.


“I’ll fix you all for stealing my baby you bastards,” she rasped, removing a bottle from the cleaning cupboard.

After removing the cap, she let out a hoarse cackle and gulped it down. Levon could smell the Drano burning her throat and see the smoke curling out of her mouth toward the ceiling.


The same foul stench that had escaped the room, wafted across the room. Levon gagged, and the woman swung around, hissing and snarling.

Dark shadows surrounded her wild, milky eyes. Chunks of pasty flesh hung from her decaying, once youthful face. Blackened spots of rot pitted jagged teeth, and bugs crawled in and out of her nostrils, mouth, and ears.

“Wh-who are you and what do you want?” Levon asked, poising his golf club as though about to tee off.

Without a word, the waiflike woman leapt and knocked him to the floor. She seemed to have the strength of three men as she straddled Levon, and pinned his arms against his chest. Her tongue snaked from her mouth and lapped at his face and lips.

“All that matters is, you are a man,” she said, in a foul-breathed, gravelly voice. “Your kind done it to me and the others who lived here, but you took ‘em from us. Now you can do it to me, and let me keep it.”

“Do what?” Levon cried, twisting and turning like a madman, trying to free himself from her grip. “I don’t know what you are talking about!”

“Love me and give me my baby!” she demanded.

She feverishly kissed and licked his ears and throat, leaving a trail of putrid slobber. Then, she raked her pointed, dirty fingernails deep across his chest, and sucked the blood off them, one by one.

Her raspy voice cracked as she growled, “Love me, love me!”

Then, a drop of what felt like a sticky tear slid off her cheek, and she whispered, “they took it from me but never loved me.”

Levon fixed his terror-filled eyes on the ceiling and fought the urge to respond. She had her way with him however, and after several few minutes, emitted a shrill scream. Blood gushed in spurts as she sunk her teeth into his neck, and ripped away the flesh.

“This is MY house now,” she squealed, hovering over Levon’s jerking, twitching corpse, “where you will always love me and our baby shall live forever.”

"Housewarming"
Copyright: © 2010 Hal Kempka
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Harold ‘Hal’ Kempka is a former Marine, and Vietnam Veteran. His poetry has appeared in Leatherneck Magazine, and short stories published in Many Midnights, Black Petals, Dark and Dreary, Microhorror, Long Story Short, The Shine Journal, and the Fiction Flyer, among others. He is a member of the FlashXer flash fiction workshop, and lives in Southern California with his wife, Celeste, and son Derek.

Henry sat in the lobby awaiting his appointment with Bell, Booker, and Kandel. A young-looking attorney suddenly scurried out the door, his pale face etched in absolute terror.

“What happened to him?” Henry asked the receptionist.

She shrugged. “They fired him.”

“Why?”

“Because we, I mean the firm, will ALWAYS win in the end. They won’t tolerate anyone losing a case.”

The prestigious criminal law firm had a reputation for seldom losing a case. Henry ignored the admonitions of other firms that they had done so only because they’d made a pact with the devil. But, Bell, Booker, and Kandel were winners, and Henry was determined to work for winners.

She led Henry to an ornate conference room, where several partners sat around a massive conference table, awaiting him. They grilled him for hours, covering subjects from his childhood fears to his sex life. No need to discuss his legal expertise, they said. They knew all about him.

Three days later, Henry was hired and a welcoming reception was held in his honor. As he headed toward the bar that evening, Henry felt a slap on the shoulder.

“You must be Henry.”

“Yes, sir.” Henry replied, turning toward the voice with his hand extended. “And, you are?”

The man ignored Henry’s hand. “Gordon Alchemy, senior partner. Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you , sir.”

“I wasn’t at your interview, though I know all about you. Listen, I’d like a word with you, in private.”

“Absolutely sir.”

Henry followed Gordon to the firm’s legal library.

“Do I frighten you?” He asked, curling his lips in a sinister smile. “I’ve found most new hires are terrified of me.”

“Should I be?” Henry said, not wanting to sound as intimidated as he felt.

“It depends on how committed you are to winning.”

Henry’s intestines twisted tightly, and his smile disappeared.

“I’m very committed, sir.”

The library floor seemed to suddenly descend, but Gordon ignored it. “That’s an interview 101 answer. Let me ask again, how committed are you to winning?

“I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to win, sir.”

“Yes, whatever it takes. I trust you did your homework about the firm?”

“Most certainly; the firm’s success rate is nearly flawless.”

“Correct. We almost always win! Like a good shepherd, we keep a close eye on our flock. If an attorney loses his edge, we take immediate steps to rectify the situation.”

“I understand that, sir.”

“Don’t interrupt me,” he continued, “We’re highly specialized, and judges like us for our expediency in helping rid the city of crime.”

“But, how is consistently getting accused criminals off the hook stopping crime?”

“Because we ensure they never commit another one.”

The library floor jerked to a stop, and they stepped out the door into a dark, icy room that smelled of decay. Meat hooks wound their way along the ceiling on a conveyer chain leading to a steel freezer against the wall.

“What’s all this?” Henry asked.

Gordon slid open the freezer door. Frozen, gutted corpses hung on hooks. Henry, fought the urge to vomit, and wondered what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

“This is where we put the scum of the city on ice until they can be disposed of properly.”

After returning to the library, Gordon put his hand on Henry’s shoulder, and looked him in the eye. Henry winced as his fingernails dug through his suitcoat into the skin.

“Should you ever betray the firm or lose a case, let’s just say you’ll be put on ice as well.”

“I’ll do my best sir,” he said, trembling.

In the following months however, Henry developed a reputation as a hardnosed defender. Then, one day, a client accused of several grisly murders was found guilty of lesser charges, and sentenced to three years. With good behavior, the scum would be out on the streets within eighteen months.

Gordon sat in the rear of the courtroom, glaring at Henry contemptuously. As soon as court adjourned, he ran like hell to his car, and sped home. During the drive however, Henry heard the constant shriek of a banshee, and constant scratching on the car’s roof.

Once home, He locked the doors and windows, and crouched in a darkened corner with a loaded shotgun. The Banshee circled the house looking for an entrance. Then, Henry inhaled the stench of death, and realized he’d left the fireplace flue open.

He turned and the firm’s receptionist, who’d transformed into a banshee, pressed her rotting, snarling face up close to Henry’s. Her diaphanous, silk gown flowed behind her as she hovered before him. As she ripped into his flesh with her jagged teeth, and disemboweled him, Henry’s final thought was that she’d been right; the firm always won.

"The Winner"
Copyright: © 2009 Hal Kempka

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Harold ‘Hal’ Kempka is a former Marine, and Vietnam Veteran. His poetry has appeared in Leatherneck Magazine, and short stories published in Many Midnights, Black Petals, Dark and Dreary, Microhorror, Long Story Short, The Shine Journal, and the Fiction Flyer, among others. He is a member of the FlashXer flash fiction workshop, and lives in Southern California with his wife, Celeste, and son Derek.