WE HAVE A WINNER!

Congratulations to Lily Childs for winning the 'Eye in a Pickle Jar' contest!  Lily has won paperback copies of the TOE TAGS 2: BLOOD & BIZARRO anthology, DOOM MAGNETIC! by William Pauley III, and STATE OF THE DARK by Brian Barnett!

To all of the other participants: we had a hell of a lot of great stories for this contest!  Thank you all so much for you submissions!  And Brian and I would also like to thank all of the readers/voters - you all are awesome!  :)

Until next time...

Keep it weird.

III

Vote for your favorite 'Eye in a Pickle Jar' story!

You've read them all... now vote for your favorite!

Polls close at 11:59 PM Friday November 19th.  Winner will be announced on Saturday morning (the 20th)!  Good luck to all of the contenders!

I don’t remember how Eula and I ended up lab partners in freshman Zoology. She was a ‘special status’ student -- no, I don’t mean like the cripples back from ‘Nam -- something conferred on her by the Jesuit higher-ups at Creighton. Her farm-bred build, long hair, attractively filled out white blouse and knee-length skirt, was marred by an unsettling crooked eye. A pretty girl otherwise, she clearly wasn’t one of those vacuous blondes in college to find a husband -- besides she was a brunette. Sitting down at the lab bench, a thick stapled document slipped from her binder.

Picking it up, I read, “Changing Interpretations of the Werewolf. A comparison of S. Baring-Gould’s ‘The Book of Werewolves,’ M. Summers’ ‘The Werewolf,’ and L. Illis’ ‘On Porphyria and the Ætiology of Werewolves’ -- by Eula Grayson,”

“Here -- Sweet Pea,” I said, handing her back the paper. “Werewolves, ooooh...scary...Grrr! I’m Lon Chaney!” I said mockingly

“Jim, when you don’t know squat, just make like a clam, an’ we’ll get along just peachy.”

“Just in to the KMTV news desk...Missing A-dorm girls victims of Omaha werewolf!”

Her thumb and fingers closing together she replied: “The clam? I don’t see the clam...Like that creepy Marsh guy, spoutin’ off ’bout the ‘transcendent but unspeakable wisdom of the Elder Ones’ -- reckon he coulda done it -- ’nother boy what don’t know when to make like a bivalve. That’s a joke there, Jim.” Taking on the expression of a doting mother and pinching my cheek she added, “you can laugh -- yesss you can.”

I glared at her, but grudgingly respected her for meeting my sarcasm with disdain rather than tears.

*   *   *

Meeting a couple of days later to complete a lab report, she mentioned that Marsh had been expelled.

“Met him outside his residence... said he was headed home -- some coastal town in Massachusetts -- wantin’ me to come along. Told him weren’t no earthly chance of that. Flipped me his dorm-room key, he did, and said, ‘take anything you want, see you soon.’”

“Choice guy, kinda like Jim Morrison’s evil twin -- smelled like a lizard-king, too...leastways the lizard part.”

“Sure did. He’d corner me in the dining hall and ramble on about some far-out cosmic traveller trapped on the sea-bottom -- flattering me how I was healthier and smarter than other girls; them only fit as ‘psychic fodder,’ me to be the ‘vessel of its offspring.’ Like, no way man! Besides, I reckon that creature wasn’t no farther than his pants.”

“Yeah, sounds that way. So, did you check it out?”

“You know I can’t just wander into the men’s residence.”

“Well, Sweet Pea, I can get you in...”

*   *   *

I was climbing the stairs behind Eula, frankly entranced by the view, when some ditzy blonde chick I’d seen in English Lit came spastically careening down, blood oozing from her glassy bugged-out eyes, mumbling, ‘I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea...’”

“Wow man, some seriously bad trip! We’ll call the campus police,” I reassured Eula, who’d turned white as a ghost.

The call made, we reached Marsh’s door, to find it ajar. Scattered on the floor, what at first glance looked like a bunch of starfish, turned out to be star-shaped stones. Others remained stacked in a semi-circular interlocking enclosure from which the ground-glass specimen jar now laying on the floor had obviously been hastily withdrawn. What liquid remained bathed what appeared to be five or six eyeballs, each including a length of optic nerve. Cringing, I read a crumbling “United States Naval War College Collection, Newport, R.I.” label: “Spores with emerging germ tubes, identification tentative, recovery following detonation of depth charges, Innsmouth (MA) harbour. May 12, 1923.”

Somewhat recovered, Eula had been reading over my shoulder. Suddenly, forcing back a gag reflex, she pointed first to the jar and then to the stripped down bed and floor beside it, each bearing a greyish-white sphere on a shredded stalk. “These aren’t, but those...those are her eyes.” She staggered over and wrapped them up in a handkerchief.

“Sweet Pea, you shouldn’t stay here,” I said.

“Mercy mild, but it’s hot,” she said, utterly ignoring me and unbuttoning her blouse. “Unngh,” she grunted in a lascivious manner, “listen up Jim...I start doin’ anything stupid -- anything, get this,” she said, plucking one of the items from the jar, “get this the hell away from me, back in the jar, and surround it with the... with the stones. Mercy, but it’s hot.”

The stalked sphere having rested in her hand a moment, she began to slide her free hand over herself in a way I knew was wrong, but just the thought of -- I hesitated. Writhing she spoke in a husky tone, “The sea, the sea of stars, the sea of foam, it envelops me...oh, mercy, mercy, it’s froth washes over me, into me, his froth...his seed, promised I am, promised, oh! could I but see him...” It was enough, with one hand I wrestled it from her and threw it in the jar; with the other I slapped her hard, back and forth, snapping her out of her glazed expression. She fell to her knees and began to hiccough-cry. I followed her instructions. Between sobs she whispered, “Merciful Jesus, preserve me in my hour of temptation and have mercy on those who were weak,” and then began to chant “Pater noster, qui es in caelis...”

Some time later we cleared out, packing the jar in its stone jacket in an old ammunition box Marsh had left in the closet, the books and a couple of extra stones being relegated to a shopping bag. That night we -- wrung out as she was, the little trooper insisted on seeing it done -- went over on Dodge Street, and buried the box under where they were preparing to pour the foundation for the new First National Bank Center.

"Offerings to the Sea"

Copyright: © 2010 Georges Dodds

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

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 an18th century cemetery -- so far tilling the garden hasn't revealed its past.

What’s that ya say, Mr. Case? Ya wanna know how I lost my left eye? Well, plop ya ass in that seat and I’ll tell ya!

It seemed like it was just yesterday, Mr. Case, I remember it well. It happened four, maybe five years ago. No. Wait. It was eight years ago. I remember it now because that’s the year I lost my Jezebel.

Oh, don’t be sorry, Mr. Case. Jezebel was just my ol’ smell hound. And the bitch would still be alive today if she’d listened to me. I told her not to get into my neighbor’s stash of weed. That he’d do sumthing ‘bout it and he did. But that’s another story for another day, Mr. Case. You wanted to know what happened to my left eye.

I was staggering through the meadow over there, Mr. Case, when I heard a sharp whistling noise. The kinda noise that a jet makes when it’s cutting through the sky. I looked up quickly and seen a silver, circular object that looked like a saucer plate.

That’s right, Mr. Case. A UFO. A U fucking F O! I couldn’t believe it. I damn near dropped my bottle of Turkey. Wild Turkey whiskey that is, Mr. Case. I want ya to be clear on that. I don’t want your readers thinking I was out there that day with a bottle shoved up a Turkey’s ass! Hell, they’d think I was one crazy son-of-a-smell-hound.

Anyfuckingway, this damn UFO landed right in front of me, crushing all of my apple trees and tearing the shit out of my field. It seemed like forever, Mr. Case, but the thing finally opened up and out walked these two gray figures. Ugliest mothers, I’d ever seen! They approached me slowly and my asshole tightened!

Don’t laugh, Mr. Case, I never understood why aliens traveled zillions of miles just to stick sumthing up our asses! But that’s not what they wanted anyfuckingway. One of ‘em introduced himself as CJ452. Bastard even shook my hand, and I’ll tell ya this, Mr. Case: it was like shaking hands with spaghetti. I offered him a drink and he took a little swig, but I don’t think he cared for it. Then CJ452 told me that he, and his cohort, were from the planet Orjay and was in search of human eyeballs … brown human eyeballs. CJ452 said that they were a delicacy on their home planet. Kinda like fish eggs here on Earth.

Caviar! Yea, that’s what they’re called, Mr. Case. Ever eat any? Eh, me neither.

Anyfuckingway, old CJ452, and his silent friend, leered at me, and I almost pissed myself. I stood there frozen as CJ452’s finger twisted like a corkscrew and then that… that… that damn, fucking alien jammed it in my left eye and yanked it out. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, Mr. Case. It hurt more than I could’ve ever imagined!

What’s that ya say, Mr. Case? My right eye is blue. Yea, I know that, been looking at it in the mirror for sum seventy-five years now. Oh, you don’t believe my story, do you? But what if I told ya I had that disease that makes one eye a different color from the other. Heterochromia, I think it’s called. Oh, ya still have doubts, Mr. Case. Well, why don’t ya turn those brown eyes of yours around? Because CJ452 and his silent friend are right behind ya and they look like they’re hungry.

"Damn, Fucking Aliens"

Copyright: © 2010 Chad Case

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

Chad Case lives in Lawrenceburg, Kentucky, with his wife, Melissa. He enjoys writing short horror fiction in his spare time. To date his works has been published, or are forthcoming, on MicroHorror.com, The New Flesh Blogzine, Flashes In The Dark, Flashshot, and in the anthologies: Toe Tags, Long Live The New Flesh: Year One and Daily Flash 2011 and Daily Bites of Flesh: 365 Days of Flash Fiction. You can also find out more about him at http://spookyfiction.wikia.com/wiki/Chad_Case

A dozen goblins riding vampire cats pursued Newt, the monster hunter, as he stumbled through the mist covered graveyard.

The goblins yelled, "Give us your delicious, luscious pickled eyeball! Give it to us!"

Newt looked over his shoulder to see how close they were and tripped over a grave marker. Springing to his feet, he found himself in front of the mausoleum his netherworld guide book had described.

He took out the pickle jar he was carrying which contained his eyeball. A hungry ghoul had gouged it out. He realized that monsters found hunters' eyeballs irresistible and that a pickled eyeball is a rare treat.

Seconds later, three goblins rode up and surrounded him.

"Give us your pickled eyeball or we'll kill you," said one of the goblins.

"Come and get it you creepy crawlies," he replied.

The goblins let out blood-curdling yells and tried to snatch the jar from his hand. He slugged two of the goblins and they fell off their cats unconscious.

The other goblin wrestled Newt to the ground, kicking and punching him, but he held tightly onto the jar. He screamed as the goblin sunk its serrated teeth into his hand. He dropped the jar and the goblin grabbed it.

"At last, I have the tasty pickled eyeball!" said the goblin and swallowed.

"Oh no you don't," yelled Newt as he lunged for it.

The goblin began to turn purple and grabbed its throat. Newt kicked the goblin in the gut and the eyeball flew out of its mouth.

As Newt caught it and put it back into the jar, he heard the goblin reinforcements coming. He took out his guide book and chanted an incantation from it. The doors shook violently then opened, revealing a black portal that made a giant sucking noise. Newt watched as the dozen screaming goblins and vampire cats were pulled into the portal. After they had all been sucked in, the noise ceased and the doors slammed shut.

Newt had rid the town of goblins, sending them back to the netherworld from which they had come. He collected his reward money from the town's mayor and headed to the other side of the planet with his eyeball safely in the pickle jar. He had heard that a bed and breakfast inn had a zombie problem.

"All n a Day's Work"

Copyright: © 2010 Linda Garnett

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

Linda Garnett is currently editing her first novel, a science fiction adventure. Her work has appeared in StoriesThatLift.com, Flashes In The Dark, The New Flesh, Static Movement and other publications. When she’s not writing, Linda profiles up and coming musicians on her blog http://musicofnote-lindag.blogspot.com/.

Hector the Cyclops took the giant’s door into Harley Street Fine Gentlemen’s Accoutrements. The owner, Dabney, looked up and called out, "Good morning! How may I help you, sir?"

“I want a formal suit for Saturday night, the works,” the Cyclops said, towering over Dabney.

“Yes indeed, let me get your measurements, sir.” Dabney motioned Hector toward the ladder, which Dabney scurried up. In a few minutes the measurements were taken and colors for the tie, vest and cummerbund were selected.

“Anything else, sir?” Dabney asked. “If you have the means for it, might I recommend an eye?” as he pointed to the jars behind the double-locked grate on the back wall. A sign overhead read “Security Deposit Required.”

“An eye? I fancy that violet one,” Hector said. His mechanical eye had many superior features to a natural eye, including helping immensely in forecasting the future for his Masters. But for a formal family occasion like his brother’s wedding, only the real thing would do.

“Ah, the Elizabeth Taylor model. Excellent choice,” Dabney said. “You do realize these are extremely expensive sir, taking months to grow from cells derived from the original person. I would need a substantial security deposit. Non-refundable for late return.”

“Damn, I only have enough for the outfit,” the Cyclops said. He kept looking at the eye.

"Well, perhaps your mechanical eye? I hate to ask it, but it is more than enough to cover the cost of the Liz Taylor. We will take excellent care of your own. You will have it back Monday morning when you return.” Dabney gave his best close-the-deal smile.

“Alright. Fetch me the eye.”

Dabney pulled a gold key from around his neck and unlocked the grate. Pickle jars full of eyes filled the case, the perfect salinity of the brine maintaining them in prime condition. He scooped out the eye with the violet iris into a cup.

“Here you are sir,” pressing the cup into the Cyclops' outstretched hand. Hector arranged the eye into position for insertion with eye pliers.

With the other hand, Hector popped out the mechanical eye, whose socket made a sucking noise as it emerged. Dabney wiped the eye on a towel and locked it in the safe.

Hector spread his eyelids and jammed in the purple eye. He blinked to settle it, and smiled for the first time.

“Perhaps a monocle for the final touch?” Dabney suggested, offering him a fine gold and enamel one.

“Excellent! My family will be thrilled!“ Hector said.

“Pleased to be of service, sir. Now if we can complete the financial transaction? Will that be cash, check, or credit card?” Dabney asked.

*   *  *

The lavish wedding was matched with an equally lavish reception with champagne fountains in every corner. Hector was the hit of the soiree with his astonishing purple eye. Some of Ms. Taylor’s sex appeal seemed to have rubbed off on him. He almost had to beat the women off with his cane, including the bride, much to his brother’s jealous dismay.

The festivities extended through the weekend until the revelers finally collapsed. The deadline slipped past Hector in his drunken daze as Monday came and went.

Dabney rejoiced that the hugely valuable mechanical eye was his. The clothing, eye and other items must be repossessed however. He looked up the address and got out the mini-cart, then caught the locomoter across town to the Cyclop Quarters. He found Hector’s home and rang the bell. After a long wait, slow and heavy footsteps approached.

“What do you want?” Hector said in a very grumpy voice.

“I’m here to collect the clothes and the eye, sir. You are a day late. Normally there is a penalty of losing a digit per day, but I decided not to enforce that clause, too messy,” Dabney said.

“Bloody hell, can’t you leave me in peace? My head is splitting!

“I’m sorry for that sir. But I’m afraid I must trouble you for the items, if you could be so kind.”

“Well wait then, dammit, I’ll get them,” Hector said, closing the door.

Dabney scanned the area for places to hide in case the Cyclops turned nasty. Clients sometimes did that, throwing items or hitting him on the head with their shoes.

Hector threw open the door. Clothing pelted Dabney and shoes bounced around him. The monocle followed and lastly the cane. Dabney bundled them into the cart.

“Now sir, the last item, the eye if you please.”

Hector popped it out and held it towards Dabney. “Give me my own eye.”

“One moment sir, let me put this one away first.”

Dabney put the violet eye in a small pickle jar and tucked it in his pocket.

“I’m afraid I don’t have your eye with me, sir. You forfeited it when you were a day late returning your items, sir.”

The Cyclops roared, “What do you mean forfeited! You little weasel! Give me back that eye then, you slimy worm, before I squash you like a bug! Then I’ll come tear down your shop and get my work eye back!”

“I’m afraid you have no legal grounds to do that sir. I would hate to have to sic my dragons on you,” Dabney yelled as he hauled the cart around the corner as fast as he could go. He kept looking over his shoulder at the blind Cyclops screaming and cursing behind him, stumbling over the curbs. Dabney put on a real burst of speed when he saw the Cyclops pull up a lamppost and sail it like a javelin in his direction.

Dabney reached the locomoter link and boarded. He called out, “You see, sir, the Contract reads ‘Consequences for late return will result in the forfeiture of all collateral, loss of one digit a day, and an eye for an eye’. So may I wish you a good day, sir. ”

As the locomoter started up he shouted, “Next time, sir, do read the fine print!”

"An Eye for an Eye"

Copyright: © 2010 Lin Neiswender

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Lin Neiswender is a retired computer programmer turned flash fictionista who lives in Central Florida. She dabbles in collage, tarot, Sheltland Sheepdogs, and poetry. Her stories have appeared online and in several anthologies.

In the basement
Down the hall
I keep a door, a secret wall
At the stroke of midnight,
When the rats come out to play
Its where I like to steal away

In a pot
Thick as steel
I keep a healthy
Delectable meal

Tongue of hunchback
Finger of girl
Lock of hair
Pig’s tail whirl

All are magic
All are fun
I like them all
Every one

The most magic of all
You may want to know
Is not of earlobe nor of toe

It is my eye
Kept in a jar
Pickled no less
I have no scar

If you’re ever in town
Late at night
Swing your old limbs in
I won’t bite

We’ll drink some tea
We’ll play a game of sneak
You shall hide and I will seek

Hide behind that secret hall,
Down in the basement
Behind the wall.

Now shush…
This won’t hurt much
No not at all.

"Play With Me"

Copyright: © 2010 Jodi MacArthur

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

Jodi MacArthur has resorted to digging in the make believe cellar under her house. She thinks this is a good place to stow her eyeball collection. To learn where X marks the spot visit www.jodimacarthur.blogspot.com

When Jeremy cracked open the egg a human eyeball stared back at him. He dropped the egg back into the shipping container.

"What the hell!" Jeremy searched for the directions. "I should've ordered the x-ray glasses."

Congratulations you just purchased the ALL SEEING EYE. To use: Crack open the egg. Place in open area. Fall asleep and the connection will be made. It's like having eyeballs in the back of your head! Warning: Use at your own risk. BLAMCO! and its affiliates are not liable for any invasion of privacy laws that may be broken.

Jeremy left for school early stuffing the eyeball in his backpack. Before anyone arrived, he hid the eyeball in the girl’s locker room. He had to fall asleep quickly, so instead of walking back home, he broke into the janitor's utility closet. From his backpack he pulled out a pillow, his mom's sleeping pills and a flask of vodka he stole from his dad's liquor cabinet. It didn't take long to get wasted. Happily he drifted off to sleep.

As the eye focused, the girls entered the locker room laughing. Jeremy recognized Missy and Stacie as crushes from freshman year. His heart pounded in his pants. The girls opened their lockers and undressed.

Stacie stood right in front of the eye, which hid on top of the lockers. Jeremy breathed faster trying to catch his breath. Stacie removed her blouse and bounced into her gym shirt. Then she slammed the locker. The eyeball rolled backward, lodging upside down between the locker and the wall. Jeremy screamed in his sleep. Somehow he had to wake quickly and reposition the eyeball before the girls returned for a shower.

Jeremy tossed in his sleep, unaware of the Janitor standing over him.

When the ambulance arrived, the Paramedics determined Jeremy overdosed. He was alive but in a coma, and still dreaming of the locker room ceiling.

While Jeremy slept in the hospital, Stacie discovered images of him on the internet. Naked, passed out in the school's utility closet.

"From the Back of a Comic Book"

Copyright: © 2010 Jimmy Calabrese

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

Jimmy Calabrese is a singer, songwriter and bass player for the horror rock band CALABRESE. His stories have appeared on Microhorror; Flashes in the Dark, Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Everday Weirdness, The Short Humour Site, Death Head Grin, The New Flesh, and in the Toe Tags Horror Anthology.  Visit the band's website at www.CalabreseRock.com

It’s been raining eyes for six months now. Human eyes. They’re everywhere, black eyes, blue eyes, red eyes, yellow eyes, pink, brown, green and purple eyes; albino eyes even. Sort of like hail but softer.

At first it was a major inconvenience, having to avoid them - if stomped they become this gooey pulp which is harder to get off shoes than schoolgirl-chewed gum.

Then a new company, ‘Demonpharm’ (am I the only one who finds their name less than confidence inspiring?), made a twofold discovery: first, a painless eye-transplant procedure, and second, that it worked on the falling eyes.

What happened next? Yeah you guessed right. With eyes raining all over the world (except over Beijing for some reason), everyone rushed for the new procedure, ditching their original eyes for new. It’s ongoing too - most people I know change eyes at least once a week.

[This last is encouraged by the government. The worst thing the government’s done so far in my opinion is introduce the weekly ‘eyepop’ events; you know where people dispose of their ‘old’ eyes into huge mobile bonfire furnaces. The ‘eyepop’ monicker came about because it sounds like they’re making ‘eye popcorn’ when they burst.

The government says eyepopping was introduced to stimulate the ‘eyeconomy’ i.e. huge eye turnover equals huge eye taxes on Demonpharm.

The government’s dumb as a carrot, But what can you expect from a Rabbit parliament? The president’s a Bug, the prime minister a Bunny. I know that sounds like a scene from a children’s cartoon but it’s not even half as funny.]

There’ve been three eye-trends so far. First, it was having eyes of different colors, then it was ‘eyeball’ eyes (you know the kind the undead slasher has in scary movies - all white without iris or pupils), and now, its eye-shades, where the left and right eyes are the same color, only one is a lighter shade than the other, so you get a disoriented ‘traveling’ feeling of motion when you look at whoever’s face.

Now I’m not an eyelier-than-thou religious hypocrite; I’m not immune to fads myself.

While I avoided the first two, eye-shades has sort of won me over. They look cool, if you avoid the more girly colors and get with the ‘gangster’ look. I’m currently on my sixth set of ‘shades’ now - my left one is black, the right a water-transparent middle tone of grey. Gives me great vibe when I’ve to deal with recalcitrant customers.

Yesterday Demonpharm announced eye-shadow, a new eye-drop which alters the color of the eyes you’ve already got, without you taking them out first. They say it’s their response to customer requests for saving measures, though with eyes as plentiful as sand everywhere, and replacement costs as low as underground fares, who’re they fooling?

More relevant and interesting (if you’ve a high pain threshold) they recently patented the eyejection, an eyeball hypodermic which enables you color your eye’s orb different from its iris . . . and from each other.

My girlfriend Briss is really into this, with her freaky Asian dominatrix thing. Her right eye is currently blue and yellow and her left one red and black. (Yes, she is a sight for sore eyes . . . ha ha . . . sorry couldn’t resist the urge.)

[Her name’s actually Bliss, but . . . well let’s say I never put much stock into Chinese ‘r’ and ‘l’ vocal switchover stereotyping until we started dating]

And still eyes keep raining. Everywhere in the world that isn’t Beijing rain clouds fill the sky like they’re going to pour water on people and pour out eyes instead.

* * *

So on Earth now we’ve eyes to spare. Which should be good, shouldn’t it?

But I’ve got a sneaky feeling about all this; A BAD feeling. I’m certain we’re all going to wake up one morning and find that these new eyes cause cancer or they’ll turn into water in our faces, and . . . and . . . something much, much worse . . .

[And if you think them turning into water sounds far-fetched, remember I just said they fall out of rain clouds?]

*   *   *

Just after the Demonpharm eye-rush began, I asked Briss: “Briss honey, why eyes never fall over Beijing?” (She’d just come over, her English wasn’t too good.)

“Chinese see flar ahead,” she replied while buckling on her thigh-length orange leather boots, and over them her dried-cobra belt. “Rong civirization, rong histoly of lead and pran future. We not need flesh eyes.”

“But you’re using them.”

“Because I lesident in decadent capitarist countly,” she retorted, putting in her cockroach-strung nose rings. She waited till she’d hung on her (life-sized but hollow) tuna earrings before adding angrily - “You know I cultular-exchange student; if I exchange eye as wer I leplesenting Chinese intlests.”

I saw she was angry with me, tried to kiss her. She pushed me off, glared freshly transplanted red orbs at me. “Keep decadent capitarist mouth away flom rovery sociarist body.”

And to make her point she draped her live-toad cloak over the ‘rovery sociarist body’ in question. She glared some more at me, her cloak-toads rolled their eyes and wagged disapproving tongues at me.

Watching her/them walk off, I realized I love her because she makes me look much less mundane and boring.

But her comments stuck with me. And lomance . . . sorry I mean romance, aside, she sounds more and more like a spy everyday.

So unlike everyone else I know, I was smart enough not to get taken in by all the ‘eye popcorn’ nonsense.

Unknown even to my darling Briss, I’ve kept my original eyes in a pickle jar in the fridge so I’ll know exactly where they are when the rain stops, our new eyes all dissolve, running liquid from their sockets, and the Chinese invasion begins.

"Can't See for the Rain"

Copyright: © 2010 Wol-vriey

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

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

"She's coming," said Keith, training the binoculars on a spray of foam in the distance.

"She'd better be," came a voice from just above the water. "I'm not putting this outfit on again."

"Shut up, Mike," said Keith. "We're only going to get one shot at this." He glanced at his partner in the water, draped with over twenty pounds of seaweed. They'd had to fill airbags and shove them in Mike's wetsuit to keep him afloat. The ruse was perfect though. There was no sign that anyone else was nearby. Keith looked to be perfectly cast adrift, though the heavy weight attached to the underside was keeping his movement to a minimum.

He sharpened the focus on his binoculars, and studied the mermaid coming toward them through the surf. Everything was happening the way the old man at the bar said it would.

*   *   *

"Can't resist a fellow in distress,” the old sailor had said, “It's true!" He cackled and swigged deep from the third drink Keith had purchased for him.

Keith had the sense he was hearing secrets men would have died for not too long ago. Funny though, how age, addiction, and loneliness would drive a man's price down.

Mike and Keith had heard the stories of mermaids rescuing lost sailors before. They'd devoted months to collecting any and all stories about the creatures. What they were after with old Captain Rummleton was a piece of lore that they'd never heard before.

"Tell us, Captain," Mike had said, "about the eyes."

The old man got very quiet then – realizing he'd said too much. One drink later, he gave up, and said, "If a man loves a mermaid, and a mermaid loves a man, her magic will protect him under the sea, and he can swim as if he'd been born a fish."

"And the eyes, Captain?" Mike insisted.

The old man sighed, and Keith felt his first pang of guilt.

"The power's in their eyes, lad," said the old sailor. "Take and hold the eyes, and the result's the same." He was staring at the table now, and wouldn't look up. "Do me a favour, leave me be now. Please."

*   *   *

Keith stowed the binoculars. It ... she, was almost here, and he had to look as helpless as possible. He lay back on the raft.

Waiting was intolerable. If Keith had had more patience, he and Mike wouldn't be on this insane path to quick wealth. What might have been thirty seconds, or thirty minutes later, he heard a disturbance in the water close to his thighs.

"You poor thing." said the mermaid. Her voice was soft and melodious, like the soft lapping of waves on a beach at sundown. The effect this had on Keith was immediate and alarming. His water-soaked pants felt too tight, and he sat up to confront his would-be rescuer. He took one look at the mermaid, and found he was unable to speak. They had expected she'd be beautiful -that had been a constant in the stories - but this was simply unfair.

The mermaid was feminine perfection. She had the body of a sex goddess, with soft womanly curves and high, firm breasts that were just the right size for someone who lived in the water. She pulled herself up on the raft, and sat there, looking at him, completely unselfconsciously. Keith could see the legends had gotten a very important fact wrong – the tail started much lower down. She was woman enough to make his every dream come true.

Her face was the distillation of every innocent girl-next-door that Keith had ever pined for. She wore concern in the shape of her lips and the arch of her eyebrows. Her eyes though, were something entirely different. Where the whites should have been, her eyes were seawater green. The colour shifted and changed in the light, and made her black irises seem to float like tiny islands in a magical tempest. She pulled a long, lustrous lock of wet auburn hair behind her ear and smiled at him.

Keith reached out to her, and she clasped his hand in her own. Her skin was warm.

She opened her mouth to speak. Instead, she screamed. It was a broken, anguished cry, and blood began to run freely from the corner of her mouth. A moment later, the stainless steel point of Mike's harpoon emerged between the mermaid's breasts. It grew and grew, like a whale breaching the waves, dragging freshets of blood behind it. The mermaid tried to draw a breath, found she could not, and collapsed between the two men.

"We got her!" shouted Mike. "I don't believe it, we got her!"

Keith couldn't reply; he'd buried his face in his hands.

Mike hauled himself onto the raft, unsheathed a knife, and claimed their prize.

*   *   *

"So ... did it work?" asked the young sailor.

"Yeah, it worked," said Keith, scratching again at his white-stubbled cheek. He was so tired these days. "The good old Captain left something out of his story, though."

He turned the container on the table around and said, "We went to the bottom of the ocean; found a fortune there too - stuff worth millions. But, when we got back to the surface, everyone on our boat was dead - killed in a freak storm."

Keith turned the jar to look at the contents, and the contents looked back. "We tried a half-dozen times, and it happened each and every time – riches ... storm ... death."

"So why keep it?" asked the younger man.

"A reminder," replied Keith. He wanted a drink. He wanted to go to bed. "I keep the eye in this jar to remind me that I saw a real miracle once ..." he trailed off then, and didn't speak again until the young man had left him in an awkward silence.

Keith looked at the eye, "... saw a miracle," he said again, "and I killed it."

"Treasures of the Deep"

Copyright: © 2010 Chris Allinotte

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Swivel.

Awkward, I turn to pick at the flesh adorning my wardrobes, and sigh. The dance has left me ragged; exhausted from the relentless flamenco. Elegant feet I had chosen especially, bleed in stinging shreds. I have worn them to calluses. Yeast stinks between the slender toes.

A fine week’s work.

Ruining beautiful things is part of the pleasure.

Yesterday’s body was squat and dark, an aged gypsy. I slough off the old man’s skin, marvelling at the bruises incurred from seven solid days of stamping and click, click, clicking of heels. Yellowed stains litter the shins and I poke them hard, revelling in the pain before grasping the blackened feet that I pull off like old shoes; the toes broken and seeping with infection.

Spin.

Today I am a ballerina, wanting the fairy tale. In a drawer there are pink-ribboned slippers, full of meat. I stole the pretty shoes from a libidinous girl I found larding on chocolate at the back of a theatre in a bulimic frenzy. Before she could plunge two fingers down her throat to vomit up the sugared treat, I declared myself. She thought me a film star, the pirate of her dreams. I let her fantasize whilst I ravaged her. My hand was already over her mouth when I revealed myself. Oh, the joy! I ate her face, tearing out sinew and muscle as I gorged. I left the playhouse staff to pick up the girl’s dregs but not before pocketing the eyeballs and stringing the shoes around my neck.

I finger my ragged stumps. The nerve-endings are raw. I twist and spasm with exquisite agony and begin the work of building myself a new pair of legs.

I want to be a woman. I want to leap across a stage with flat breasts, wearing a tutu of my own design. I force curves in at this female waist of mine and reach up, stretching tall, taller until I am long and lithe. I hear the bones creak as I bend to screw the fat girl’s feet to my ankles, flooding them with blood until they are sealed in place. You can’t see the join, however hard you search.

I am perfection.

I preen, twirling this way and that. It is a glorious creation and I am right to be proud. I run tapered fingers over pale epidermis, probing new holes. I must clothe this corpse. It will hurt. I can’t wait.

Pinches raise the first blemish. I punch and punch until colors burst to the surface. Flailing, I throw myself at walls, storm clouds surface on my torso with every beating. With painted fingernails I slice upward Vs into my chest, defining the outline of my corset tattoo.

Coiled intestines loop from a coat rack. I pull at a thin piece some ten feet long and turn to a sewing basket replete with tools of my unique trade, prising a pair of knitting needles from their resting place.

My shoulders click as they dislocate. My head turns, inch by slow inch until I am staring down at my spine. Despite the stricture I am able to force the needles in, piercing at regular intervals. I thread and weave the pale green strips of offal until the bodice is laced, and I can face the front again.

I am so beautiful.

I love the woman I have become.

Quickly I grab the swollen organs that decorate my dressing table. I claw them until they hang in shreds. With a handful of drawing pins I stud the pieces into my hips and groin. The tutu flutters, clinging to the soft pink of my thighs.

Divine.

I sit before the looking-glass. This old demon’s face will not do. I dig under the scales to lift out each one, sequins of iridescence peel away leaving tiny, bleeding red roses upon the bare canvas.

Squeezing and straining I pound my skull. Thick hair bursts through my scalp. It pours down my head and frames my visage in ebony waves. I flip it into a Fonteyn knot, tied up with fine strings of gut.

Forming and stuffing it with gristle I kneed the facial tissue. I want to be sophisticated – aristocratic in countenance. I sculpt it into a near-point, massaging either side of the nose to raise the sharpest of cheekbones.

Here’s a dilemma. If I take my eye out and put it in a pickle jar whilst I mould a pair of sockets I’ll only be able to see what I’m doing at an angle. Deliberation rankles; I have no choice. I pop it out and drop it into the container, relishing the nausea it provokes as it rolls about the convex base. I have to shake the jar to truly see me at my best.

A glob of marrow plugs the gap. I force knuckles in deep making two pits that beg to be filled. My eyeball collection is in a goldfish bowl - I plunge my hand in, feeling the soft marbles slip and slide between my fingers. I want blue. It takes a moment to find a matching pair. I slot them in and adjust my vision.

So close now, so close.

I have the most carnal of mouths, ripe and red, forever tasting and kissing, sucking the life out of lovers. I make it smile, licking the rows of teeth with my black tongue. It needs no changes.

I am done.

Standing alone in the dressing room, the fabric of living costumes and masks hang around me. I drop to the ground and worship the God that made me. He grants my wish for the usual price of a dozen fresh souls – I can keep their flesh, he tells me.

The curtains rise. The audience applauds my beauty as I scour the enraptured faces for this week’s victims. Applause fades to silence, turning to screams as they realise what I am.

The doors are locked.
They can’t get out.
The dance begins.

"Dressing-Up Box"

Copyright: © 2010 Lily Childs

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Lily Childs is a writer of dark fiction, horror and chilling mysteries. Published in anthologies such as Static Movement’s Caught By Darkness, many more of her short gothic horrors, ghost stories and nerve-janglers are currently touring the blogosphere. Lily is the author of forthcoming urban series ‘Magenta Shaman’ and has a novel or three on the way - all set in the south of England where she lives, a stone’s throw from the sea. She blogs at http://lilychildsfeardom.blogspot.com where you can read some of her work, reviews and interviews.

“Alien eyeballs. Get your ice-cold alien eyeballs. Only five cents each,” yelled a pushcart vendor.


“Gimme one,” a kid said.


“On a roll or stick?”


“Roll. With lotsa mustard and onions.”


The vendor removed something that looked like a mottled green golf ball from a large pickle jar filled with murky yellow fluid. Plopping it onto a roll, he smeared it with mustard and onions.


“Yum,” the kid said. “I love alien eyeball sandwiches.”


“How about you?” the vendor asked Jim.


“I’ll pass,” Jim said. “Are those green things really alien eyeballs?”


“Yep. Direct from Mars. This batch was ripped out of their eye sockets and flash frozen just yesterday.”


“Do they come from dead aliens?”


“Nope. Eyeballs from dead aliens taste lousy. These come from live aliens.”


“They must be nuts to let somebody rip their eyeballs out.”


“Look at it this way: they get paid for every one that’s extracted. Plus, they get a gold star pasted in their eyeball amputation books. When the book’s full, they get a free trip to Disneyland. I’ve run into them in the Magic Kingdom. They’re smelly, obnoxious bastards.”


“I wonder how they get along without eyeballs?” Jim asked.


“No problem. They got fifteen on each head. And their eyeballs grow back in hours. Sure you don’t wanna try one? If you don’t like it, I’ll refund your money.”


“Okay, gimme one on a stick.”


The vendor removed an eyeball from the jar and put it on a cutting board. When he jammed a sharpened lollypop stick into one end, the eyeball twitched violently.


“Good grief!” Jim said. “Looks like it’s in pain.”


“Nah. These are so fresh the severed nerves ain’t settled down yet.”


The eyeball was still twitching when Jim took a bite. “Mmm. Delicious. It’s so crunchy.”


Before long, he gobbled six.


That night, Jim had a lucid dream in which his eyeballs turned green. An alien appeared, rammed a corkscrew into the left one, ripped it out of Jim’s head, and ate it. Searing pain threw Jim out of bed. He screamed when he saw blood gushing from his empty eye socket.


Emergency room surgeons wanted to reattach Jim’s eye, but nobody could find it.


“What happened to your eyeball?” they asked.


“An alien ate it.”


Figuring he was a self-mutilating, cannibalistic loon, they summoned a psychiatrist.


“Aliens don’t exist,” the psychiatrist said. “If they did, why would an alien rip your eyeball out and eat it?”


“Maybe to get revenge for all the alien eyeballs I ate yesterday,” Jim said.


“You ate alien eyeballs?”


“Yeah. Six. You hafta try them, Doctor. They’re fabulous. Wish I had one right now.”


The shrink transferred Jim to a padded cell.


Next day he woke up he found a new, green eyeball on his face. An army of astonished doctors examined the greenish mass.


“You’ve made medical history,” a doctor said. “Hundreds of journalists are clamoring for photos and interviews. Schools want to arrange field trips so kids can see your green eyeball. It’s one of the wonders of the world.”


Enjoying his sudden fame, Jim welcomed visitors, especially when the hospital installed a coin-operated turnstile in the room’s doorway. Jim and the hospital agreed on a 50-50 split. The entire population of Chicago paid a buck a head to view the weird-looking, green eyeball in a pickle jar.


Now affluent, Jim ignored job offers that poured in from every circus and freak show in the world.


Soon, Jim found himself craving alien eyeballs. He asked friends to locate the vendor, and buy a dozen. Their search was unsuccessful.


Jim’s cravings grew so acute he ripped out his green eyeball and nibbled it. Finding it tastier than alien eyeballs, he ate the whole thing.


Miraculously, Jim’s eyeball grew back in an hour. But, his hunger pains returned just as quickly. Consequently, Jim gobbled his new eyeball as fast as he could chew. The faster he ate his eyeball, the faster it grew back, and the more his appetite increased.


After three hours of continuous eyeball eating, Jim’s stomach exploded. Though he died, his green eyeball grew back fresh as ever.


The coroner, who performed Jim’s autopsy, tasted the eyeball out of morbid curiosity. Finding it exquisitely delicious, he became immediately addicted. Barricading himself and Jim’s corpse inside the morgue’s freezer room, he ate Jim’s regenerating eyeballs until his stomach exploded.


Doctors collected bits of Jim’s eyeball, cloned it, and mass-produced green eyeballs. They packing them in pickle jars in offshore secret laboratories. They announced a new, exciting snack food in spectacular ads during the Super Bowl.


The world was electrified, especially when learning the new snackie was low-cal, low sodium, fat free, loaded with vitamins, and eliminated erectile dysfunction permanently. Before long, American green eyeballs became the snack choice of billions.


The sudden drop in demand for authentic, freshly cut alien eyeballs created severe economic problems on Mars. Matters got worse when aliens realized they could no longer fill their eyeball amputation books with gold stars and win free Disneyland trips. They threatened interplanetary war.


Meanwhile, three billion Earthlings’ stomachs exploded when snackers ignored the Surgeon General’s warnings about excessive ingestion of cloned, green eyeballs, especially those packed in pickle jars.


Unable to raise an army because of massive depopulation, Earth sued for peace.


The Martians demanded two concessions: the destruction of every American cloned green eyeball, and the right to free trips to Disneyland, even if their eyeball amputation books contained only a single star.


Earth acquiesced.


Soon afterward, red noses from another galaxy began showing up on Earth. They were so tasty, Earthlings quickly forgot all about alien eyeballs.


Intense intergalactic war still rages between Martians who supply green eyeballs and outer-galactic aliens who provide red noses. Since blockades by the combatants have made both commodities unavailable, Earthlings have switched to potato chips.


So far, no Earthlings’ stomachs have exploded from gorging on potato chips.


And for now, Disneyland is free of smelly, obnoxious aliens with green eyeballs.

"A Wonderful Snack"

Copyright: © 2010 Michael A. Kechula

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Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His stories have been published by 128 magazines and 36 anthologies. He’s won first place in 10 contests and placed in 8 others. He’s authored three books of flash fiction, micro-fiction, and short stories: The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales; A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales; I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at http://www.booksforabuck.com/ and http://www.fictionwise.com/ Paperbacks available at http://www.amazon.com/.

The Inaugural TNF Flash Fiction War

Yes, that's right!

Do you think you've got what it takes? Can you beat out the other TNF writers in a grueling battle of deranged wits? Can you concoct a 1,000-word-or-less story that will tower above all others and shatter their hopes and dreams of ever competing against you in the future?

Well bring it on, we say!

You can write about anything you want, as long as it pertains to the contest theme.

The theme is: ...and that's why I keep my eye in a pickle jar.

The deadline is September 30th. At that time, the TNF editors will judge each story and determine a winner. There are prizes at stake, so please submit only your best. I think it goes without saying that the winner will be a lock for a slot in Long Live The New Flesh: Year Two.

So what are you waiting for? Tell us why you keep your eye in a pickle jar!