John flipped the switch and the carousel slowly
hummed to life. Painted horses sprang forward on
a rotating platform of freshly stained oak. Organ
music filled the air, bringing a rush of memories
along for the ride.  Molly clapped her hands.
"It's finally finished."  She couldn't contain
her excitement any longer. "It looks exactly as
I remember it. I wish my father were alive to see
this, it's just so beautiful." Molly threw her
arms around her husband, John.  "Thank you for
helping me." She kissed him on the cheek.

Memories of youth, and lazy days spent with her dad at Williams Park riding the carousel on sunny afternoons prompted Molly to buy the retired old relic. Along with her husband, they'd refurbished the antique, keeping most of its original components intact. Many of the wooden horses were rotted beyond repair, but the couple got lucky, and located a supplier with a dozen or so replacements sitting in an otherwise empty warehouse. They'd been there for so long he was willing to accept a reasonable fee just to get rid of them. Although they were old, they were in good shape and fit in perfectly with the others.

Finally the day had arrived to open it to the public. Vendors selling popcorn, candy apples and hot cider, lined the small road that lead to the carousel. Early autumn brought forth a chill, but the day was clear, and dappled sunlight danced among gold and crimson leaves.

Molly grabbed John's sleeve. "Come on let's take a ride." They jumped on the platform while it revolved in time with the music. Mosaic tiles, wrapped around large mirrors, afforded the carousel an enchanted air, all set against the backdrop of a perfect day.

Rides were being offered at half-price today in honor of the grand opening. Eager patrons, clutching blue tickets, hurried up the ramp as the carousel came to a stop. John and Molly remained seated, like two kids anxious to take another spin.

Children accompanied by parents, grandparents and friends sat high atop shiny ponies. A little girl with blonde pigtails rode a black stallion, and laughed as her father sat beside her on a much smaller horse. When the ride came around to where it had begun the girl waved to her mother who stood on the sidelines taking pictures.

"Grab the golden ring," her dad called to her. He stood up tall in the stirrups. She glared back at him with watery eyes.

"Daddy the horse just bit me." She held her leg, tears streamed down her face. Her father couldn’t hear her cries over the loud music. "DADDY," she screamed. "The horse bit me on the leg. It hurts. I want to get off right now.” She was becoming hysterical.

"Don't be scared. The horses aren’t real." He jumped down to comfort her.

An elderly woman sitting sidesaddle on a white horse in front of them, slumped over and slid onto the floor. She writhed in pain, curled up in the fetal position.

“What happened? You’re bleeding.” Molly and John raced towards her.

“I think something bit me,” she replied, in a barely audible voice. She pointed a trembling finger toward the horse.

A black mamba snake dashed out from inside the horse’s mouth. It slithered across the floor, and coiled itself around Molly’s ankle. “Get it off me.” She stood perfectly still. The serpeant rose up and reared its head. Jet black eyes set against dark brown scales searched Molly's face. She watched its forked tongue dart in and out of its mouth. The snake opened its jaws wide revealing an inky black interior, and with a quick snap, buried its fangs deep into Molly's calf muscle.

Hundreds of baby snakes ascended from cavities deep within the horse’s bellies; they poured out of orifices, pieces of shells still clung to their skin as they hatched, and dropped down on to the floor. The rancid smell of rotting eggs followed them as they bared their fangs and hunted the crowd.

“Stop the carousel,” John called to the attendant. But the ride never stopped. Snakes had lodged themselves inside the control panel, and disabled the switch. The snakes slithered inside the wooden box. The attendant's arm began to swell as venom coursed through his veins.

Snakes slid underfoot as hysterical patrons jumped from the carousel. Their screams resonated into the fall air.

John held Molly's head up, her breathing was labored. "You're gonna be fine." He wiped the sweat from her forehead.

The snake boldly curled its way between Molly and John. "I hope you enjoyed the ride." It slithered away as Molly's heart stopped beating.

"One Last Ride"

Copyright: © 2009 Kathleen Gilbert

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Kathleen Gilbert lives with her husband and two children in Rhode Island. She has been published at MicroHorror, Six Sentences and Postcard Shorts.

“You broke it too many times, Dan!”

“No, you just won’t leave well enough alone, Shane!”

The two men pushed and prodded one another. At their feet was an obliterated object. It was broken into so many pieces that it could never be repaired.

“That’s Dan and Shane.” The man in the white coat said to Nurse Bingham. His name badge read Dr. Octavian, “They’re our resident breaker and fixer.”

“Excuse me?”

“Dan likes to break things. He’s compelled to. That’s why he’s here.” Dr. Octavian pointed through the two-way mirror. “The other is Shane. He likes to fix things. We pair them together so that we can observe their behavior from time to time. As you can see, when something has been broken and fixed too many times, it becomes completely irreparable. Then they become agitated.”

Nurse Bingham watched them uneasily. She felt compelled to say something against the seemingly barbaric treatment they received. “Why aren’t they kept separate. Would that not be better for their treatment? I’m not sure what can be accomplished by this.”

She could see that she struck a nerve. Dr. Octavian’s jaw seemed to clamp tighter. His jaw muscles were rippling.

“No, as you will see, most of the patients here are allowed many of the amenities and freedoms that they are not allowed elsewhere. They are human, after all.”

She felt her face redden, “I didn’t mean to offend you or your staff. I’ve just never seen any treatment facility like this one.”

His face seemed to soften, “I understand. This place is the best kept secret among all the mental treatment facilities. Would you like to meet Dan and Shane? They are quite harmless, I assure you.”

She smiled and nodded, “I would love to.”

Nurse Bingham and Dr. Octavian strode the pristinely clean hallway towards the observation room. Someone called from behind a cell door, “New nurse, new nurse!”

Soon afterward there was a chorus of voices, “New nurse, new nurse!” The voices grew louder and louder.

Intimidation washed over her and she gave a sideways glance toward Dr. Octavian. Almost as if he read her thoughts, he assured her, “They are always happy to meet new nurses.”

She felt slight relief. Dr. Octavian had a calm demeanor and a reassuring quality about him that made her feel at peace with her decision to transfer to his hospital.

He opened the door to the observation room, “After you,” he said with a smile.

“Thank you,” She returned the kind smile.

She stepped into the room and the door slammed behind her. The sound startled her. She swung around and saw Dr. Octavian’s laughing face through the glass porthole. He laughed and clapped and jumped and cheered. She could hear his muffled voice on the other side of the door, “New nurse, new nurse!”

She turned around again to see Dan approaching with a large hammer. Shane was behind him with a leaky bottle of glue. Both seemed elated over their new toy.

"New Nurse, New Nurse"

Copyright: © 2009 Brian Barnett

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Brian Barnett lives with his wife, Stephanie, and son, Michael, in Frankfort, Kentucky.To date, he has published over forty-five stories since he began publishing in November 2008.

He has been published by MicroHorror.com, Flashes in the Dark, Static Movement, The New Flesh Blogzine, Midnight Screaming Magazine, The Monsters Next Door, Sonar4 Ezine, Blood Moon Rising, Flashshot, Black Lantern Blogzine, Dark Fire Fiction, Burst Fiction, The Daily Tourniquet, Yellow Mama, The Lesser Flamingo, and The Short Humour Site.

He was co-editor the anthology “Toe Tags: 21 Spine-Tingling Tales from the Best New Authors of Horror” with William Pauley III.

"New Nurse, New Nurse" originally appeared on Static Movement on 6.1.09

Professor Salik
Scientific Ethics Class
3rd Grade, 5th Period

Salik ambles to his desk, tapping the holographic display.

“Alright class settle down, settle down."

He taps on his desk again and the display changes to show the galaxy. "As you’ve learned in your previous class space is relatively flat."

"For years we puzzled over the problem of mass. There just isn’t enough to account for the structure". The holographic image changes to reveal the dark gaps in space between matter.

Salik points at the dark regions. A paper airplane soars through display just missing his finger. He turns and gives a stern look over the class. “We only have three more ticks and class is over, so please behave.” Several children straighten up.

Salik looks into space for a moment, "where was I?” Finding his concentration he begins again with renewed energy, “oh yes, back when we were a little less informed we believed in some mystical dark matter that effected the structure of space."

A couple students snicker.

He smiles "yes, yes it is pretty funny." Salik sits down. "Who can tell me what happened to all that missing matter?" Hands tentatively start to go up. Salik points out a student in the back. "Yes Marok".

Marok stands "it was destroyed."

Salik smiles. "Yes, to a degree it was destroyed, but how can we describe the process better?" Salik points out another student.

This student stands. "It was devoured?"

"By what class?"

In unison, the class answers "a vacuum energy explosion."

Salik sits down on the edge of his desk, "yes, every one of the dark regions represents,” he pauses “an accident." He shifts to face the projection, "Some unfortunate cultures discovered and made the mistake of trying to tap this energy source and in the process destroyed themselves and millions of light years of space consuming an untold number of other cultures."

Sule raises her hand.

"Yes, Sule" Salik says.

"Why did so many try it, didn't anybody warn them?"

Some of the other students laugh. Salik gives them a warning glance and looks to the clock on the wall. He turns and smiles. Putting Sule at ease, "that is a very good question." Salik makes a gesture with his hand and the display zooms in on a dark region. "The distance and time it would take to send an artificial message makes it impossible to send a warning."

"Now we, being a race particularly sensitive to psychic waves, can communicate over great distances with races who have this talent." Salik says, "This communication is still sketchy at best." He looks comforting at Sule and then to the rest of the class, "rest assured any race that we can speak with gets a warning." Sule and several other students look a little more relieved.

Sule raises her hand again. "Yes, Sule".

"How did we get a warning?" Sule asks innocently.

He sinks behind his desk, looking past the class, as if just lost in thought. He changes the projection to a different dark region. "We call this the Awakening Expanse."

A more surely student raises his hand, "Professor,"

Salik is relieved to have been distracted "yes."

The student continues egged on by his friends "Why is there a ban on this experimentation? Surely, as advanced as we are scientifically we can handle it?" His friends chuckle.

Salik shakes his head and looks disappointed at the student. "We must never be so arrogant to think that!" Salik stops and looks apologetic, "I'm sorry class." He stands and looks around the room, "you are very young and have become numb to it, but we, the older generation haven’t."

Salik looks at the display, “In the center of the Awaking Expanse was a small planet called Earth. The race that occupied this planet, even if they didn’t know it, was particularly talented at broadcasting their psychic waves.” Salik looks down and takes a deep breath, “you see class, we will never experiment with vacuum energy, because we can still hear their screaming in our dreams!"

The bell rings.

"Dark Matter"
Copyright: © 2009 Chris Keaton

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Chris Keaton is an aspiring screenwriter that occasionally dips his toes in flash fiction pool. You can see his film work and other musings at www.chris-keaton.com

Another day without her. Another day without the intoxicating scent of honeysuckle and patchouli lingering on the breeze, filling up my senses.

The sun begins its loathsome descent behind the western peak as I settle in to sleep. But I cannot sleep. The last day I saw her permeates my every thought.

The light has almost faded from the sky now and I feel that I cannot bear another night agonizing over this. I must put it out of my mind!

Finally, my thoughts take me back to the day I first saw her.

I was tending to a small patch of green hubbard squash when she appeared through a clearing in the mighty Douglas firs. Like a child, she was. Eyes wide with wonder. Stopping at every specimen the forest holds to inspect it. Sights that my tired eyes have gazed upon for nearly a century and a half. What was she doing? My curiosity matched hers. That and her tender beauty got the best of me, I’m afraid, and compelled me to do something I hadn’t done in many moons.

I moved closer. The weight of my body snapped a twig underfoot and she whirled around in my direction but I was able to hide behind a large slab of limestone and shale which blended perfectly with the gray tone of my skin. She didn’t see me. But I wanted her to. I had spent too many lonely years amongst the trees and I longed for companionship. Not since the Assiniboine fled these lands during the Tall War of the Atsinas, have I known a friend.

She called out, “Who’s there?” I remained still. “Hello?” After moments of silence, she began to flee so I spoke, though I remained hidden. “Please… d-don’t be afraid.”

She stopped. “Who are you?” she said. “Come out so I can see you!” Although she was clearly frightened, she resolved to appear brave. I slowly stepped out from my place of concealment.

“I am Mere.” I persisted to reassure her that I meant her no harm. She was taken aback at my appearance, I could tell, but I approached her nonetheless. My people are larger in stature but our structure is like that of any man with the exception of our faces, which have a slightly elongated muzzle. Our skin is gray like the slate rock and although man is accustomed to the hair of their old becoming white, ours is like the purest snow from the womb.

It was terror that paralyzed her and forced her not to run at the first, but by and by she began to feel safe and stayed by choice. Her curiosity of me, no doubt, drove her to do so.

Renata. She told me her name was Renata.

Over the following weeks she visited me three and four times a week. We talked endlessly about my people, the Loamites, who migrated here from the far North and how I was the last of my kind. She was especially interested in my ability to grow anything from any part of organic material. The Assiniboine called us 'Those with the God Hand'. She told me of her studies of the environment, as she called it, and her passion of nature. She so wanted me to show her our ways just as my people had shown the people that dwelled here long ago and I was delighted to do so. Alas, I wasn’t alone anymore.

I couldn’t imagine that Renata would put an end to our time together but that fateful day did come. Her eyes were full of sadness and helplessness. As she explained why she could never return, I couldn’t comprehend the words as they left her mouth. My vision blurred. The only sound that pervaded my ears was that of my pounding heart. As I attempted to gather my senses, I managed to hear that the reason she couldn’t come to me ever again was because the man she was betrothed to did not approve of the time she spent unaccounted for. I knew she hadn’t dared to speak of me to him.

Thoughts raced through my brain like lightning. How could she do this? Didn’t she know how much she meant to me? Where was she going?

She turned to go. I panicked!

Don’t go!

Stop!

Just like that, her heart was in my hand. The very source of her life, hence the very source of mine, was now in my grasp. As her body went limp, I struggled to pull out my arm, still clutching her warm heart. With a final tug, I pulled my arm through her splintered rib cage and out through her back. Her lifeless body collapsed face down in the earth. My sweet Renata!

It’s been almost three weeks now. Being without Renata is torture. How could I have done such a thing? It is strictly forbidden among my people. But, I am the last of my kind. The soil is fertile and the growing season is imminent. Her heart is strong and has already began producing nicely along with the pole beans. In nearly forty days, we will be together again.

"The God Hand"
Copyright: © 2009 Daveigh Waits

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My love is like a sunlit flower
That grows more pretty by the hour.
If she should...

There's that meowing again. I stand up and walk over to the open window that looks out on the alley behind my house. The meowing has stopped, and I don't see a cat. I close the window and return to my desk. Let's see, where was I? Ah, yes...

If she should fade or whither I
Would be her water from the sky.

My love is fragrant and...

What the hell? The cat is back, and meowing loud enough that I can hear it through the closed window. I walk over, throw the window open and stick my head out. I see a shadow dart behind a garbage can. I consider going downstairs and chasing the cat away, but instead decide to return to my poem. I close the window, walk back to my desk and pick up my pencil.

My love is fragrant and petite
She has the cutest little feet.
I love it when she smiles at...

Damn it! More meowing!

I'm gonna kill that FUCKING CAT!

My pencil lead breaks and I run to the window, throw it open, stick my head out and holler at the top of my lungs. “GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!” The cat runs down the alley and out of sight. Finally! I stomp back to my desk and erase the last line I had written.

I love it when she smiles at
Me and gives me a loving pat.

My love is gentle and she's kind
She always calms my troubled mind.

There's nothing better on this earth...

“MEEEEEOOOOOW!”

I reach into the desk drawer, pull out my .357 Magnum, run to the window, aim and pull the trigger. The cat explodes, sending bloody smoking bits in all directions. Fifteen minutes and a trip downstairs and back later, I'm ready to get back to my poem.

There's nothing better on this earth
Than CAT GUTS COOKING ON THE HEARTH!

"Poet Interrupted"
Copyright: © 2009 Robert C. Eccles

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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.

Amanda didn't know why she left at that moment, just before Scream Time. She'd looked forward all week to being allowed to scream her lungs out in the library. So why had she chosen this moment head down the deserted stairwell?

Scream Time had been a big tradition through the 60s and 70s at Orange County University. For two predetermined minutes during finals week, everyone on campus dropped everything and screamed. It was a great way to release pent-up energy and boost campus morale during the stressful testing period.

Amanda didn't know why it stopped in the mid-70s. Since this year's reintroduction, stories flew fast and furious. She'd heard everything from apathy to murder. The true answer lay somewhere in the middle, she guessed. Likely closer to the mundane. A string of murders would still be in the lore of OCU.

At the second floor landing, she checked her watch. Less than a minute to go. If she opened the door, she'd be among fellow students. But something wouldn't let her leave. A nagging in her mind that guided her down the stairs.

Halfway to the ground floor, she hit a pocket of freezing cold air. She paused and looked up, but instead of finding any air-conditioning vents, everything went blurry. She sat down to avoid tumbling to the bottom. In seconds, her vision cleared up, and she discovered she wasn't alone.

A young girl, probably no more than 18, skipped down the steps. She had on tight bellbottom jeans, a plaid polyester shirt, and an avocado headband. Amanda started to say something, but she couldn't get the words out. Amanda could see right through her.

As the girl glided past like a wisp of smoke, Amanda could smell her perfume. The semi-transparent girl paid her no mind.

Amanda stood up and prepared to bolt when she saw a man down in the shadows. She couldn't see much detail, but he threw off a menacing vibe. "Hey, watch out!" she yelled, but the 70s girl paid no attention. The guy lunged like a striking cobra.

The girl screamed. Amanda screamed. The entire school screamed.

Amanda started down the stairs, realized that was stupid, and turned to rush back up to the second floor. She screamed, again unheard because of Scream Time. Another man, this one solid, stood above her on the second floor landing. He wore baggy clothes and a ski mask. The door at the bottom of the stairwell banged open and another man, dressed like the one above, stepped in. The two ghosts--they had to be ghosts, she reasoned--struggled on, paying no attention to the three around them.

The man on the second floor landing came at her, taking the steps two or three at a time. She couldn't bring herself to move, and the guy kicked her in the chest. She fell backwards down the stairs, bouncing awkwardly. Her bones shattered as she tumbled past the girl, who now lay sprawled across the bottom few steps with white, ghostly blood dripping down her face.

Before she blacked out--died, she was going to die--she heard two things. The first was from one of the real men. "The sex is best right after they die." The second came from the girl ghost. "I'm glad I led you hear. We can be best friends forever."

Amanda's head happened to be pointed at the girl, and she was looking right back at Amanda, a big smile on her lips. Amanda closed her eyes and knew no more.

All across campus, the screams continued.

"Scream Time"
Copyright: © 2009 Eric J. Krause

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Eric J. Krause pens stories from Orange County, California, just minutes away from Disneyland. He has a number of stories published online. When he is not hard at work writing, he substitute teaches in elementary and middle schools. He lives with his wife, Amber, and their dog, Spike. You can visit his blog on writing at http://ejkwritingspot.blogspot.com.