Mark, the cleaning person, was going through his usual routine. He did a large library with a lot of bathrooms. First he would empty all the trash, and then take it out to a dumpster located inside a wooden enclosure in back of the building. One day, he was emptying several bags of trash. He opened the wooden door, and then lifted the plastic cover, preparing to throw the bags in. He heard a rustling inside. 'Oh well, must be a rat or something,' he thought, and tossed the bags in. Instead of a squeak, he heard a most peculiar growl. It made him pause, but he closed the wooden door, and re-entered the building to continue his work. A few hours later, he finished up. Setting the building alarm, he closed the back door, and headed for his car. He heard the growl again, only this time it ran up and down in volume and intensity. His hair stood on end. 'Whatever it is, I'm out of here,’ he thought to himself.

The following week, a news item appeared in the local paper, in the Metro section. It caught Mark's eye: "Dogs disappearing in the vicinity of City Library/City Hall drive." Reading into the article, Mark noticed that it was not only dogs, but cats and other small animals. Could it be? Naw.

Next Sunday rolled around: Mark's work shift cleaning the library. He waited until the clerks had all left for the day, and then entered the building. He glanced at the Dumpster, but it was silent. He shook his head, and entered the building. He clocked in, and then began his routine, doing the trash run. He finished that, and then approached the dumpster once again. He lifted the wooden bar, and opened the door. There sat the dumpster. He listened, and still did not hear anything. So he lifted the plastic cover, and threw in a bag of trash. Nothing. Another. Rustling. The last bag, here it goes! He threw it in, and heard the keening growl again. "Fuck you stupid animal!", Mark yelled. An even louder roaring noise, and the dumpster shook. "What in hell are you?" Mark was getting really concerned. More rustling and vibrations. He quickly closed the doors, and replaced the bar.

Later, Mark and his co-worker were taking a quick break. "I think there is something in the dumpster," said Mark, sipping his soda. Rick, his co-worker, stroked his chin. "Might be a Raccoon? Or squirrel? I don't know, maybe a rat.”

"No, this is bigger. This thing made a real loud growling or something. Say, since you are leaving soon anyway, go listen by the dumpster and see what you think it is."

"OK, whatever you say," Rick said in a voice that hinted, 'you scaredy-cat.'

Awhile later, Mark was finishing up his vacuuming. Rick had left, after doing his share of the downstairs. He remembered about Rick listening by the dumpster. As soon as he finished the vacuuming, he went to the back, opened the door. Rick's truck was still there. Odd - he wasn't in the building. So Mark looked over at the wooden cage containing the dumpster. The door was half-open. And he heard noises. Going cold, hardly believing what was happening, he crept over to the dumpster cage. Red liquid was pooling on the ground. He circled to face the doors. Rick's body was half-in the dumpster, still quivering, and spurting out blood. There was a thing, large, brown, biting and grinding his upper torso with several sets of teeth. For a moment, it ignored Mark, intent on its meal.

But only for a moment. Four, reddish-orange eyes flicked open, and focused on Mark, just as soon as he let out his involuntary scream. All Mark could do was whimper, "But why?"

Then the creature tossed Rick's body aside, and leapt out of the dumpster at Mark. It was about nine feet long, and burly. And very, very fast. Mark did not last long, but it was not due to any mercy, rather to the voracious appetite of something very ancient, and very irritable. Something freed by recent excavations in a building site at the edge of a fast-growing town. It had slept a thousand years before being aroused by the vibrations of earthmovers. Fearful at first, it had sought out a hiding place. Now it needed to eat - a lot, to make up for the long hibernation. The library began losing more patrons than books shortly thereafter.

"Dumpster Dangers"
Copyright: © 2009 Mike Wilson

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Mike Wilson is a member of the Iowa Poetry Association, and also writes short stories in various genres including science fiction and horror. He lives and writes in Des Moines, Iowa.

Sweat running down his face, Tim wiped his eyes and replaced his smudged glasses. It was Sunday Brunch, and the dishes were coming fast and furious. The guy next to him was scraping the plates and stacking them in green racks. Tim was spraying down the racks, feeding them into the machine, and pulling out finished racks, all steaming crockery. The dude was keeping up a steady patter of chatter, and Tim really didn't care about any of it, he was just trying to keep up with the godawful stream of dirty dishes. His frustration mounted with each scalding rack he pulled from the machine.

Tim had taken this job out of desperation recently. Although he was getting used to the work, Sunday rush was not his favorite time. Lonnie the head cook was nice enough, but the other workers seemed to razz him constantly. Like right now, for instance.

"C'mon, Tim can't you pick it up a little?"

"Maybe he can't handle a job like this..."

"Little wiene college boy"

"Where do they hire these guys..."

Whether they were joking or not, it infuriated Tim. Wasn't this job tough enough without all this shit?

He finally got through the worst of it, and things slowed down. Soon, he was able to clean his machine, clock out and escape the kitchen-dungeon for another day. He noted that they had several caustic chemicals, including Bleach and Lime-away, stored under the deep sinks used for cleaning pans.

That night, he went on the Internet and did some reading about chemistry, and what would happen if different solutions were mixed together. It was very enlighening. No wonder they had told everyone not to mix the bleach and lime-away!

On succeeding days, his hatred of them increased with each insult he received, and plans began to firm up in his mind. He noted the location of several items in the kitchen, as well as the exits and how to lock them. Finally his chosen day arrived, and he launched the plan into action.

Sunday morning. The cooks were there, frying up bacon and sausage, but the waitresses had yet to arrive. Tim went around to the back of one set of doors, and locked them. He darted around the other side to the opposite kitchen entry, and quickly walked over to the deep sinks. He plugged the drain on one sink, and then grabbed a bottle of Bleach and a bottle of limeaway. He emptied both into the sink as rapidly as he could. The resulting gas began to spread rapidly.

He dashed over past a rack of knives, grabbing two of them. Then he rushed to the one remaining unlocked exit. He positioned himself right outside the doors. The cooks began to yell, and ran for the opposite entry.

"Where is Tim? What the hell is going on? Hey, this door is locked. Goddamn it stinks, lets get the hell out of here..."

They began to run towards Tim's exit. He awaited them calmly, two large, very sharp chopping knives in hand. One by one, he slashed and cut them as they exited the doors and tried to get past. By the time the gas got to Tim, he was the only one left unscathed. He tried to stumble away from the door, but finally collapsed, succumbing to the gas himself. Makeshift though it was, the nerve gas did not distinguish between the amateur killer and his victims.

Sandra the head waitress arrived fifteen minutes later, and noticed the smell immediately. The front doors to the kitchen were locked, and the windows were fogged. She thought, 'what the...' and went around to the back. She opened the door and stumbled back from the fumes. She would dream for many nights thereafter of the carnage they found when they finally got the place ventilated. It helped give rise to her own little recipe for revenge she unleashed a few years later against her customers, this time with poison.

"The Dishwasher"

Copyright: © 2009 Mike Wilson
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Mike Wilson has been writing fiction and poetry for several years. He has been published in various periodicals, including Aphelion online journal and Tales of the Talisman, and is a member of the Iowa Poetry Association. He lives in Des Moines, Iowa with his possessed cat, snickers.

Phillip went about his duties with a fastidiousness appreciated by Carl, his boss. He changed oil, checked tires, lubed up chasses, added fluids and a host of other duties quickly and efficiently. When asked, Carl would happily say that Phil was one of his “best guys” and could always be relied upon to be at work, and to do his job.

But Carl could not see the dark fantasies unfolding in Phillip’s mind. Nor did he realize the inspiration driving Phil to greater perfection at work was provided by fantasies of harming his customers in the most gruesome manner. One day Phil would think about how neat it would be to leave out a couple of bolts on a large SUV. He would visualize the big thing losing an axle while going down the freeway. He would see the looks of horror on the passengers faces, hear the screeching of metal and tires, hear the booming crash as the careening vehicle crossed the median and smashed head-on into an oncoming 18-wheeler. A smile would creep onto his pale features, and he would brush his greasy hair out of his eyes and say to a nearby customer, "There you go, Sir. Have a wonderful day."

The customers would be delighted with his work, of course, and give him compliments. Once in awhile, a tip was offered, and politely refused. “Just doing my job. Thank you anyways.”

At the end of the day Carl would go home to his small apartment, and relax, get a bite of dinner. Then, he would engage in one of his favorite hobbies. Reading horror novels. Drawing pictures of people being cut up, tortured or murdered an every conceivable way. Sometimes he would masturbate while fantasizing how he would torture a lover, and murder them afterwards. Phillip lived a simple, if unconventional, life.

One week in particular was rather difficult on poor Phil. At the Shop, they had seemed to be more busy than usual. Every customer wanted their vehicle “ASAP.” Weird, niggling problems. Bad valves in newer cars, things they had to explain to irate customers they just were not equipped to repair at the simple Tire & Lube shop they worked at. And he had to listen to repeated “This place is a piece of crap! I might just report you to the BBB.” and the like. Towards the end of the long week, when Phil had completed a five-hour stretch without a break, one customer sent him over the edge, pushing him over that fine line between sanity and chaos.

“Hey you! Yeah, you moron, I’m talking to you. Walk your slow ass over here, willya?” The customer said, and then proceeded to chew Phil out. Phil couldn’t even get a word in, and finally just let the guy finish. His boss finally came over, barking “What’s going on here!” Phil just walked away. His mind had been set in a new direction, however. Carl, Phil and another employee talked over the situation later, at closing time. Phil played along like all was well. But inside, he plotted.

The next day was Friday. Morning, and the cars began coming in. A couple were left over from yesterday. Phil started on those. Loosen a bolt here. A tranny plug there. Just enough that they would get a distance away before disaster struck. Phil worked like a man possessed. Carl, not realizing what was going on, shrugged it off as him wanting to make amends for yesterday. Thinking, ‘It was not even the poor bastards fault, and look at him. Oh well, we will get more people through today, I guess.’

Around 4PM, the phone rang. Tom, the front desk service guy, picked it up. Phil heard a “Your tire came off? But sir, now wait. WE do guarantee… excuse me, sir…” That would be the car he worked on first thing in the morning. It was time for Phillip to leave. He picked up a large wrench from the toolbox in the back. Walked up to Carl, who was working on a vehicle, and brought down the wrench on his head with all his strength. Carl crumpled down, unconscious. A co-worker looked over, yelled “Hey? What are you doing?”

Phil walked swiftly over, and with the strength of an ox, hit the co-worker before he had a chance to react. His hands came up, deflecting the blow some. Phil hit him two more times on the forehead. He would not be a problem any more. Tom was still in the opposite room, behind some heavy glass, talking on the phone, writing notes. Unaware of what had just taken place. The calls were coming in heavy now. A drained transmission, drained oil, steering fluid. Phil slowly walked out the back door, and threw the wrench in the bushes. He calmly walked over to where his car was parked, and drove out of the parking lot. The first police car arrived soon afterwards.

Phil hummed to himself. That was fun. But he wanted to kill some people a different way this evening. The world spread out before him gloriously as he drove back to his apartment. He was a happy man.

"Quotidian Furies"
Copyright: © 2009 Mike Wilson
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Mike Wilson has been writing poetry and short fiction for several years now, and has been published in various small-press publications. He has a short story coming out in this winters edition of Tales of the Talisman periodical. He is also a member of the Iowa Poetry Association. He lives and writes in Des Moines, Iowa, USA.