“Quit hogging the Cheetos, you stupid fuck.”

Bill rolls his eyes at Lester's lame excuse for a dirty look. More of this shit? Bill sighs. He doesn't even like Lester.

“Is that your way of saying you want some Cheetos,” Bill asks, “because I'm more than happy to share.”

Lester glares at Bill, clearly not appreciating the sarcasm. Bill glares back. He opens his eyes as wide as possible, and flares his nostrils, causing Lester to look away.

“So gimme the Cheetos already,” Lester says. He tries to glare again, but Bill is still making the ridiculous angry-Anime face. Lester folds his arms, sighs disgustedly, and fixes his gaze back on the television. Bill laughs, and tosses the bag of Cheetos at Lester. Several of them spill out on Lester's lap, causing him to recoil. He lets out a shriek, and Bill rolls his eyes again.

“Jeez... you believe this guy?” Bill says to the bonobo seated beside him.

“Frankly, no. He's crass, whiny, keeps a messy flat, and it's no secret that he doesn't bathe very often,” Jimmy, the bonobo, replies. Jimmy knows the question was rhetorical, but he doesn't care. He's in that sort of mood. "I'd go so far as to say he bloody well stinks."

“Why are you guys even here?” Lester is leaning over his chair, picking Cheetos from around the cushion. He huffs and glares again, this time at Jimmy.

“Bill is here because you invited him over to watch croquet,” Jimmy says, “and I'm here because Bill told me, and I didn't believe anyone would actually watch croquet on television. I thought he was putting one over on me, and made a friendly wager of twenty dollars that croquet was not even broadcast--”

“Ahem, speaking of which?” Bill says, hooking his thumb toward the television.

“Ah, yes. Very well, then.” Jimmy opens his messenger bag, removes his wallet, and places a twenty in Bill's outstretched hand.

“Yeah, well feel free to leave at anytime,” Lester says, still plucking Cheetos from the chair, “especially you, you... you pretentious ape. Why do you even talk like that? You're from Connecticut. You've never even been to England.”

Jimmy turns to Bill, and is obviously displeased with Lester's comment. Bill looks to Lester, shaking his head slightly. “Aw, c'mon man, don't be like that.”

“You two come to my house, say rude things to me, eat my Cheetos...”
“Lester, calm down. Why don't we all relax and just watch some croquet. Remember, you've been looking forward to it for weeks.” Bill smiles at Lester.

“Uh, um, OK. Just quit being jerks.”

“Sure. Whatever you say. Now, didn't you say you had some beer,” Bill says, “because these Cheetos are making me thirsty.”

“A Guinness for me, thanks,” Jimmy says, “and perhaps some popcorn, but not microwave popcorn. I eat stove top popcorn popped with coconut oil.”

Lester stares at Jimmy in seeming disbelief. Jimmy stares back.

“Shall I take that as to mean you only have the microwave variety?”
Lester's face turns red, and it becomes quite obvious he has had enough.

“GETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUTT!”

All three of their heads turn toward the hall as they hear the sound of the toilet flushing. Lopez, the alpaca, enters the living room, and places last month's issue of Rolling Stone on the coffee table.

“So, fellas... what'd I miss?”

"Cheeto Monkey"
Copyright: © 2010 Chris Bowsman
--------------------------------

Chris Bowsman lives in Springfield, Ohio with his wife, three sons, and a lot of books. He recently turned 30, and has gotten over most of the associated issues.

“Pay up, Benjamin Bluetooth!” Reez Newman said, tossing the pool stick on the green felt.

Benjamin’s eyes constricted. He shook his spiked-blond head as he gave Reez a stunned, hateful look. Benjamin’s mind raced… Had he really just seen the eight-ball disappear into the side pocket? Had he, the greatest pool player of Fairvale High School, really lost his first game of eight-ball to the baby-faced Reez Newman who wasn’t much taller than a leprechaun? Yes. Yes he had. And he couldn’t believe it.

“Yea, bro!” Bethany Bluetooth said, taking a seat on the basement steps. She tugged at her pink whirly skirt, then crossed her slender, tanned legs. “Pay up!” She took her finger and started twirling at her blond hair while thinking, Reez is hot! I wonder since he’s small if maybe he didn’t get blessed in the midsection area?!

Benjamin’s gaze turned to Bethany. Her eyes never left Reez who was smiling from ear-to-ear. Benjamin crinkled his brow and hissed, “Shut up, Bet! This is between me and Reez!”

She paid no attention to him at all. Her unblinking, lust-struck eyes watched Reez’s every move. He noticed her looking, so he gave her a cocky, full-of-himself, smile.

Benjamin rolled his eyes at the two. “Damn! You two want me to go leave so you can fuck?!”

Reez got red in the face.

“No,” Bethany expressed. “Well, not with the ATM’s upstairs!”

“You better not let mom hear you call her that,” Benjamin said. “You know how she hates your slang talk.” Benjamin turned to Reez and said, “Look, Tiny-Tim. I’m not going to be able to pay up.”

“Don’t call me that!” Reez barked, raising his chest. “You know I hate being called that!”

“Apologies,” Benjamin said smiling. “I didn’t mean to call you that. What I meant to say was… Look, you wanna-be Tiny-Tim fuck! I’m not paying up!”

Reez charged at Benjamin and landed a nice right hook to Benjamin’s jaw. Benjamin returned the punch with a right of his own, then the two of them fell to the floor in a down-and-out braw.

Bethany gasped. She took off running up the staircase yelling, “Mom! Dad! The dumbass and the leprechaun are fighting!”

Reez and Benjamin exchanged several blows. Benjamin laughed once and said, “You hit like a girl!”

Reez retorted, “Yeah, well later on, I’m gonna have your sister put the stink on me!”

Benjamin’s dad, Buford, came rushing down the stairs with Bethany following closely behind him. Buford wasted no time, he grabbed Benjamin with a muscular arm and stood him up. “Stop this nonsense right now,” he said with a gruff voice. “And tell me what the hell is going on!”

“It’s nothing, dad,” Benjamin answered, rubbing his sore jaw.

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Buford exclaimed, turning his attention to Reez and saying, “Young man, would you please tell me what’s going on?”

Reez seemed hesitant, but his words came out quickly. “Look, man. Benjamin and I were playing a game of pool when I suggested that we make a small wager. He agreed. But when he lost he didn’t wanna pay up!”

Buford looked at his son. “Is this right, Benjamin?”

“Yea, dad. But Reez is an asshole! He even made a crude comment ‘bout Bethany!”

“Now, son. I’m not worried about what he said…”

“But DAD!” Benjamin broke-in. “He said that he wanted Bethany to put the stink on him!”

Buford’s confused face turned to Bethany. “Okay, Bet. What does that mean?”

Bethany was smiling like a kid with a new toy. “It means that he wants to have sex with me!”

Buford shook his head. “Okay. Now how about you go on upstairs. I need to have a word with these boys.”

“But…” Bethany tried to say.

“Now!” Buford ordered, pointing upstairs. “I’ve got some parenting to do!” Buford turned to Reez and said, “You know, young man, you shouldn’t say such things about women. One of these days you might have a daughter of your own and you wouldn’t want somebody talking about her in that type of manner. Now would you?”

Reez lowered his head. “Nah. I don’t guess so.”

“And you,” Buford’s voice rose, his eyes gawking at Benjamin. “How many times have I told you not to gamble! Especially if you can’t pay off your debts!”

“But dad.”

“Don’t but dad, me,” Buford rebuked. “Pay up, son! Stop being such a sore loser!”

“I’m not a sore loser, dad. I just can’t pay off Reez.”

“Why not?” Buford said, looking pissed-off.

“Because I bet your ‘66 Corvette.”

“Oh,” Buford said, the pissed-off look leaving his face. He looked at Reez, who’s smile grew wide. Buford let out a deep groan. “Well, that’s not going to happen. Son,” Buford said, placing a hand on Benjamin’s shoulder. “You do remember what I’ve told you to do when you can’t pay off a debt. Don’t you?”

Benjamin looked puzzled. “I dunno.”

“Boy do you ever listen to me?”

Benjamin’s puzzled look grew deeper.

Buford snorted, “Boy, I’ve always told you that if you can’t pay off your debt… then kill the debt collector!”

“Oh, yea!” Benjamin exclaimed, pierced lip curling into an evil grin. He leered at Reez who was trembling in fear.

“Just remember, son,” Buford said, heading up the stairs. “To make it quick, and keep it quiet. We don’t want the neighbors thinking we’re a bunch of crazy psychopaths.”

"Pay Up"
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 have been published on MicroHorror.com, The New Flesh Blogzine, Flashes In The Dark, Flashshot, and in the anthology: Toe Tags.

“Death is hard to come to terms with,” I say. “I know that first hand, but when I think about the prospect of dealing with death and financial ruin at the same time, that to me is terrifying.”

I am trying to sell a married couple a lucrative life-insurance policy. They smile and nod every so often. I have not had much luck lately selling much of anything.

The man stops nodding and raises his finger and points towards me. “Your eye is falling out of your head, sir.”

Being a member of the living-undead tends to distract people from the finer points of your talking points. I put my extended hand out and nod. I touch my eyeball, which feels like a wet stress ball in the form of a large marble, and pop it back into its socket. “You get used to it after a few months I guess.” I say, I’m slightly embarrassed.

The wife looks down and tries to smile.

“See I’m a prime example,” I smile. “If I had gotten life insurance I wouldn’t need to provide for my wife and kid right now and I could go and do things I enjoy.”

“What sort of things do you people enjoy?” the man asks.

“I like the beach a bit. If it wasn’t for the gaping hole of scar tissue in the center of my chest that shows my graying and moth-eaten organs that makes me feel like an old coat in an attic, I might go out and catch a tan. You’d be amazed what a tan does for the self-esteem.”

They nod.

“Mostly though, I like eating garbage from outside of Wal-Mart and reading Eastern European literature.”

“Is it hard?” asked the man.

“Well the Russians were always a little dense…”

“No, I mean the zombie thing?” he half-whispers the word zombie.

I do my best not to cringe at the word. “As a living-impaired member of society, I have found that life is different. My wife won’t kiss my cheek ever since the time she got a piece of worm on her lip. My daughter has nightmares if I read her a bed time story, but I still can think and I feel a good portion of what goes on around me.” I do not want to lose the sale. “If you’ll consider these brochures” I say and quickly toss the literature in their direction.

The woman looks at me for the first time in the meeting. “What happened?”

I try to focus on the wall behind her. “I was walking home and I got bit by a large dog. It got infected. I didn’t last long…maybe a week. I should have gone to a doctor. I remember the last day I was conscious my daughter was watching Spongebob Squarepants and I kept waking up to the sound of his laughter. I kept thinking that I was in some sort of purgatory or hell.”

The family kept looking at me. “How did this happen?”

I smiled. That’s what people called it, “this”. “Not sure.” I say. I readjust my foot and I notice that my leg has popped out of place. I quickly reach down to pop it back in. It makes a noise that sounds like twigs cracking in a bucket of jello. “It works out, you know, my wife Chris needs to take care of Jessica, so I can still work.”

“Have you always been in health insurance?” the woman asks.

“The past five years.” I fight the urge to start drooling and moaning.

“And you never thought to get life insurance yourself?” asks the man. His wife slaps his wrist and mouths a silent warning to stop talking.

I smile at both of them. “I never thought it was important. Now I think differently. I mean, if I had life insurance, my family would be set. Sure, they would still have me drooling around the house and they would still need to find new places to hide the cat more often so I didn’t eat it, but they would know where the next meal was coming from.”

There is an uncomfortable silence. I can see my wall clock ticking. It has no numbers and it says, “It’s a great time to be alive” in their place. I suppose I keep it up as a joke for the rest of the office folks. They are good sports about this whole thing. I guess when you get down to it, I’m sort of a good sport too. I mean I’m practically a billboard for life insurance. Don’t end up like this undead son of a bitch who has to pay taxes and satisfy his craving for brains after work! I can see the commercials, me walking around yelling brains and then shaking hands with a satisfied customer, brains still inside his head.

“Well, you’ve given us a lot to think about. We appreciate your time.” The man says, rising. “We’ll be in touch.”

I get up and shake both of their hands. They recoil from my clammy handshake. I know I will not see them again.

I sit down in my chair, defeated. I really need a sale as I am paid largely out of my commission pool. I fight the urge to say, “This business is killing me!” loud enough for everyone to hear. I think that joke is getting old. I slam my head on my desk; I see the picture of me standing next to a tree, my wife and child standing slightly apart from me with confused looks on their faces. This picture was taken last week. Most people would be upset, but my tear ducts don’t work any longer, and I’m not really sad either. I pick up the phone, think positive thoughts, and hope that this call leads to something new.

"What Comes Next"

Copyright: 2010 Andrew Kaspereen

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

Andrew Kaspereen is a young, moderately attractive writer/educator from Northern New Jersey. Andrew is a regular contributor to the Broad Set Writing Collective (www.thebroadset.com), and founder/editor of Revistion Magazine (revistion.blogspot.com). His work has been featured in Avanlanche Tinder 1 and 3, Lo-Fidelity magazine, Foreveryyear, 50-to-1, and Six Sentences. He likes rap, books, and being ironic. You can learn more at his blog, The Sloth of Righteousness (theslothstillknows.blogspot.com)

The crowd parted for the great Lucchesi. Men in uniforms met his eyes with reverence then averted them in fear. The women, they buckled and moistened, for Lucchesi had come to save the day.

“What have we got, Muldono?” Lucchesi shook a cigarillo from a pack and situated it between his pursed lips. The torch from his Nibo flared in his pupils before disappearing behind a cloud of smoke from the black roll of tobacco.

“Ah, jeezus, Lucchesi, thank God you have come.” Muldono looked up at Lucchesi with sparkling eyes. Lucchesi snarled at the short man, with his thin hair and his sunken sockets and his paunch. This man who is already dead and might as well have his toe tag made out ahead of time.

The same could be said for Lucchesi. The crowds who came to see him work, the people who hovered near their short wave radios and police bands waiting for that one name to crackle through the air, they came for the spectacle. They knew that Lucchesi would one day explode.

Muldono shook a crooked finger at the building. “It is on the first floor, Lucchesi. It is a nasty one. Dirty and crude, but very solid.”

Lucchesi dragged on his cigarillo long and hard. He watched Muldono from the corner of his eye as the man, little more than a middle manager of thugs and back hills corruption, held his breath waiting for a response from the great Lucchesi.

Muldono licked his lips and wiped sweat from his balding head with a stained rag which he stuffed into the front pocket of his uniform.

“You have what you need, yes Lucchesi?”

Lucchesi looked at the front entrance of the building and nodded and waved Muldono away. He resettled his jacket on his broad shoulders and clutched his bag in his left hand. With his right hand, he reached into his coat and produced a pair of D & G Gold Edition sunglasses and slid them on. He heard the tittering from the women in the crowd behind him. They surged against the police barricades, packed together and glistening beneath the hot sun, as though drawn out on this sweltering day by a magnetic force. The men did this, too.

The crowd muttered as he strode for the front door. A man said, “Lucchesi does not sweat. He does not get nervous. That is how he can do what he does.”

A woman said, “My cousin Ophelia says Lucchesi took her to bed and had her from the time the sun rose until it set again. Never once did he tire and when she was near to fainting from the dehydration, Lucchesi was called out to Venice to disarm a gondola bomb, a fortuitous turn which saved her life.”

Lucchesi heard these things and smiled, for they were true. He paused at the entrance of the building and turned so the crowd could see his face once more. His eyes were hidden behind the mirrored glare of his D & Gs, which reflected the setting sun out over the doting people. Then he entered.

From his bag, Lucchesi produced a folded, lead-lined blanket, which he opened and strung across the doorway. Once inside, away from the eyes of the hopeful, fearful crowd, he relaxed and exhaled deeply.

The bomb sat in the middle of the room, wrapped in brown paper covered with postage stampings. The paper was pulled away to reveal the workings of the device. Lucchesi lowered to his knees before it and pulled up his shirt to reveal the tumor. Balled in the hollow of his stomach, the tumor unfolded from its compartment.

This was Lucchesi.

Arms and legs, short and wiry, extended out from the round ball – from Lucchesi. The man from whom he emerged slumped on his knees as though sleeping while Lucchesi flexed the joints of his fingers and hands and knees and opened his eyes. He yawned and reached down his throat to detach the esophagus that ran from him to his vessel. He gently placed the tube back into the stomach cavity, his home.
Lucchesi wobbled forth to his bag and rooted around for his tools. This would be an easy job. Crude and stubborn was this type of device, but simple for one of Lucchesi’s expertise to dismantle.

The man mumbled and bobbed his head forward.

“Quiet now,” Lucchesi told his vessel. “Leave me to my work. We will be done quickly and then we will feast. Did you see the crowd out there? We will enjoy ourselves this night, I think.”

Lucchesi grinned, revealing a toothless mouth that stretched around the sides of his orb-like body. He turned back to the bomb and hummed an aria.

“No… more,” the vessel-man whispered.

Lucchesi did not turn away from his work this time. “No more of what? I told you to be still.”

“Let me be.” The vessel-man flopped forward on his hands, wobbly and weak. His head hung between his shoulders and saliva dripped from his lips. His esophagus dropped from the cavity of his stomach to drag along the dusty floor.

Lucchesi turned with a set of snips in one hand and pliers in the other. “What is this about, then?”

Before he could react, the vessel lurched onto his face and struck out with his left hand. It landed on the jumble of wires protruding from the bomb. The green wire slid free.

The crowd reacted to Lucchesi’s cry; hands covered mouths when his “NO!” shattered the still air. The explosion knocked them to their backsides and stole the breath from their lungs. The blast brought down the entire building in a cloud and the sad people trudged home dusted with terra cotta.

Their hero was gone, and they searched for solace in each other. The streets were quiet that night, the air thick and moist. Babies were born months later, many of whom would bear the name Lucchesi.

"BOOM! Goes Lucchesi"
Copyright: © 2010 Steve Lowe
--------------------------------

Steve Lowe writes dark stuff, except when he doesn’t. His first book, Muscle Memory, will be released in October 2010 as part of the New Bizarro Author Series from Eraserhead Press. His second book, Wolves Dressed as Men, will be released in November 2010 by Eternal Press. His short fiction is forthcoming or has appeared in Drabblecast, Three Crow Press and Allegory, among other places. In his spare time, he asks fellow authors and creative types odd, mostly random questions for something called The 2-Minute Drill.

Gunner Davis pulled at the bottle of Taaka Vodka. Dry air met his tongue. He scowled. A flick of his finger brought the window down. A toss of his hand sent the bottle flying into the cool October night. He bent low, his face brushing the steering wheel, and searched the floorboard with desperate fingers. The new bottle must have slipped under the seat. "Damn it!"

Gunner straightened and stared ahead. Suddenly, his eyes grew wide and a yelp escaped his throat.

A little girl sat in the center of the roadway. She stared down at a piece of paper in her hands. Gunner smashed the horn, but the girl didn’t look up. His frantic foot smashed the brake pedal and he jerked the steering wheel to the right. The tires hit the loose, rocky shoulder at eighty miles per hour. The F-250 shot forward and careened out of control. It struck a culvert with tremendous force. There was a moment of suspended silence as it went airborne.

When gravity jerked the truck back to the ground, Gunner’s head lurched forward with such force that his neck snapped like a twig. A numbing shock reverberated down his spine. The truck flipped end over end and came to rest in a soft patch of marsh grass. Uncertain earth gave in to the tons of steel that forced its way to the bottom of the soupy mud. Brackish water seeped in through smashed windows.

"Help! Help me!" Gunner's breath came in gasps. The cold swamp water began to wrap its deadly arms around his broken body. He lay helpless amidst the smashed wreckage. The water rose slowly, threatened to envelope his entire frame. Weak eyes slid shut and, for the first time in his life, he prayed.

Gunner didn't know how long he lay there, but he felt a sudden glimmer of hope when he heard the sound of footsteps splashing in the water. "Here! I'm in here! I need help!"

The footsteps stopped just outside the wreckage. Gunner tried to turn, but couldn't.

"Are you dead yet?" asked a soft voice.

Gunner strained his neck and was able to see a pale face leaning over. His pulse quickened. It was the little girl who had been sitting in the road! She dropped to her hands and knees in the water, and crawled to where Gunner lay twisted in the cab. She was still holding the piece of paper.

"You? How can it be?"

The girl frowned. A large, open wound on her temple spilled blood onto her plastic costume.

Gunner started to speak, to apologize, but the girl put a hand over his mouth. With her other hand, she held the paper for Gunner to see. It was a newspaper clipping that bore her picture. The accompanying story was one that Gunner knew well. With moist eyes, he read it for the thousandth time:

Because of an unfortunate loop hole in the DWI statute, Gunner Davis was able to walk out of court a free man today, after spending only eight months in jail for the vehicular homicide of Rae Lynn Madison, a six year old who was killed while trick-or-treating last Halloween. When asked if he believes he got away with murder, Davis smiled and said, "Justice was served."

Rae Lynn Madison dropped the paper and placed her other hand over Gunner's nose. He shook his head, fought for air. His struggles were futile against the uncommon strength of this tiny child. Panic-stricken, Gunner stared wildly into the lifeless eyes of the girl he had killed just a year ago.

Gunner’s eyes bulged, rolled back in his head. His muscles relaxed. He lay still. Rae Lynn Madison released her grip on his face and muddy water replaced her small hands in blocking Gunner’s airway. As the newspaper clipping floated away on the water, she floated away on the breeze. Etched into Gunner’s face were three simple words: “Justice was served.”

"Tiny Hands of Justice"
Copyright: © 2010 BJ Bourg
--------------------------------

BJ Bourg lives in southeast Louisiana with his beautiful wife and two wonderful children. To learn more about the author, visit his website at www.bjbourg.com.

“You’re going to regret that, young lady,” said Billy Thompkins, who kept an eye on the register while Mildred Conrad took a quick bathroom break. Most people in Bolton were trust-worthy, but the rich folks had to be watched carefully.

Calista Jordan, the pretty teen daughter of a local banker, a girl who was a regular in the general store, probably out of boredom and the fact the closest mall was fifty miles away, gave Billy the stink-eye and smeared lip gloss on her mouth and put it back on the shelf where she found it.

She sampled the cosmetics in the clearance bins--breaking the seals on everything.

Mildred returned. “Thanks, Billy.” She waved him away from the register and resumed her position.

“Keep your eye on that’n,” he whispered in Mildred’s ear as he made his way around to the other side of the counter.

“Shoplifter?”

“No, putting her germs all over your makeup.” He turned and scowled at Calista.

“Calista, you can only test the stuff marked ‘tester’. If you need help, let me know.” Mildred smiled.

With a defiant smirk, Calista took the lip gloss back off the shelf, opened it, coated her lips with another layer, and promptly screwed the lid on and sat the gloss on the edge of the shelf. Wiping her hands on her jeans, she kept rubbing her lips together as she sauntered down the aisle—periodically glancing up at Mildred.

“The nerve of that girl…” Mildred mumbled under her breath to Billy.

He kept his back turned to Calista—refusing to give the brat his attention. He’d seen her many times before—spoiled, beautiful, and disrespectful. “I done told you, young lady, you’re gonna regret that. You best be getting on outa here before things get ugly.”

Mildred frowned and shook her head at Billy. “Don’t threaten.”

“I wasn’t. I’m just stating fact.” He looked in the surveillance monitor and watched Calista’s reaction. She got fidgety, like they always do, tough stuff ‘til somebody stands up to them and he hadn’t even tried to scare her, yet.

A few minutes later, Calista came to the register with a soda in her hand. She placed it on the counter and dug money out of her designer purse.

“Guess you ain’t noticed our new security camera.” Billy inched himself closer to Calista to get a good view. He could almost smell her nervousness.

Her eyes grew wide; she took a tiny gasp and stopped scrounging around in her purse for a second. She stiffened her back. “Whatever, old man.” With a dramatic head toss, she turned toward him.

He grinned and savored the anxiety in her eyes. “Daddy might like a private viewing of his little princess and her escapades about town.”

“It’s not against the law to sample.” She squared her shoulders with Billy and hid her fear like a girl accustomed to lying and manipulating. Typical.

“No need to make a big deal out of this,” Mildred said—winking at Billy behind Calista’s back. “Calista’s been coming in here since she was a little thing. She knows we don’t have a security camera.”

A wide grin spread across Calista's lips as she stuck her hand on her hip.

Her triumphant glow amused Billy. He pulled the digital camera sized monitor from his pocket and held it in front of her face and pushed rewind and play.

She leaned in and stared.

“Where’d you get that?” Mildred asked while trying to stifle her laugher as her voice quivered.

Calista was too busy studying the images on the monitor to notice the giggles hiding in Mildred’s question.

Staggering backward, Calista raised a hand to her face and felt about. She opened her mouth as if to scream, but only a whimper came out.

Then, she summoned her voice and wailed, “What the fuck happened to my face?”

“I told you to stop before things got ugly.” Billy snarled and played the video again. This time, Calista watched with tears in her eyes--fingertips tracing her porcelain skin and classic features.
Mildred regained her composure and said, “It ain’t so bad, Calista. Some folks just have nasty reactions to that brand of makeup.”

Calista turned and asked, “Is it permanent?”

“Usually, “ said Mildred.

Purse held over her face, Calista ran out of the store and sped off in her little sports car--wheels squealing out of the parking lot and cellphone pressed to her ear.

“She’s calling Daddy now, I bet.” Billy walked over to the window and watched her disappear over the hill.

“That was the best one yet.” Mildred held her sides--laughing. “Oh no, now I gotta pee again.” She ran to the restroom and Billy took her place behind the register.

He pulled out the Illusions Security Monitor instruction manual from his pocket and read the next section: Stop an armed robber in his tracks by showing his face, name, phone number, address, and driver’s license info beneath the video footage. Aim the scanner at his head and all the information will be retrieved and flashed up on the screen. For an extra kick, his worse fear will be accessed and shown to be nearby. If he is afraid of snakes, he’ll think there are snakes behind the register and they are headed his way. Warning: some robbers have been known to soil themselves while fleeing the premises. Don’t use this feature unless you have a mop handy.
Billy laughed out loud, “Damn, too bad we never get any of those around here.”

An old lady walked in and headed over to the coffee area. He set the camera to record. She stuffed a handful of single creamers, sugars, and napkins in her purse then grabbed a newspaper and shuffled toward the register. Slapping fifty-cents on the counter, her diamond rings glittered in the late afternoon light.

Billy grinned, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Jordan. You just missed your granddaughter. Calista was in her less than five minutes ago. She favors you more and more every day.”

"Security Monitor"
Copyright: © 2010 Paula Ray
-------------------------------------

Paula Ray is a musician from North Carolina who repairs musical instruments and writes fiction and poetry in the margin of her life. Her work has appeared in New Flesh Magazine, Flashes in the Dark, SNM Horror, Everyday Weirdness, and others. For more information about Paula, visit her blog: http//:musicalpencil.blogspot.com/

Edinburgh, Scotland, 1995.

This is my first time abroad. I’m here to talk to an Englishwoman.

I’ve met plenty of English people. I’ve worked with about ten Brits over the past six years. I never knew them very well, of course. One doesn’t develop many friendships working in a secret multi-national scientific research lab. It’s designed that way.

We don’t fraternize outside of work, though we all live on base while we’re on the job. It’s in the rules.

Besides, if the rest of the team is like me, they take their work home with them. There’s no time (ha!) for relaxation on this project. No time for the wife, especially no time for the kid and his inane crap.

Anyway, the English people I’ve dealt with are absolutely brilliant—isn’t that a British expression? They’re the top of the crop. I can’t say that I’ve been exposed to a fair sampling of their countrymen. Certainly, none of my colleagues were obnoxious, obscene, or downright ridiculous. Not like this other English person with whom I’ve become intimately acquainted—through no fault or desire of my own. The one I’m here to meet.

Dreadful woman.

It is because of her that working at home became nearly impossible. It’s her fault about Thomas.

My son is a genius. He’s destined for great things.

His mind should be directed toward higher math, astrophysics, membranes, strings, and the ways around relativity! But Thomas doesn’t spend hours building representative models of DNA and its radio-frequencies. He doesn’t stare at the reaches of the universe through that telescope I bought him.

No, it seems there are more important things for an eleven-year-old to study. It seems that memorizing the table of elements is not nearly as important as memorizing dreadful dialogue, a vast collection of difficultly named characters and how they’re all intricately related, and a huge array of senseless words that one must shout around the house at all hours of the day, while waving a pointed stick, jumping off the furniture, and talking to the damned cat like it’s a person!

No matter what I’ve done to curb Thomas’ behavior and set him on the right track, he still dashes about in a purple-lined cape and those stupid John Lennon glasses, screaming things like, “A-Gloria!” and “I’ve got a cadaver!” or whatever the hell it is.

I fully expected Thomas to develop some hero-worship, his dad being such an important part of such an amazing project—though he’s not quite certain what it is I do, he knows it’s important. There are texts lying around the house from the greatest minds of history! I go on and on about Planck, and Einstein, Marconi, Edison, even Tesla—their discoveries, practices, and how their amazing minds led us to the most exciting time ever.

I did not expect his hero to be a fledgling wizard from the wasted mind of a… a writer!

Fantasy! It’s just what it says it is. Poppycock.

Science fiction is about as close as a fiction writer can come to truth. Otherwise, they’re wasting space and time for all of us. Maybe there’s something I can do about that now. After this, of course.

I’ve spent six years working on the most important invention of all time. I did it for the future—for my son. For science and the scientists it will breed. What will happen if those future men of greatness become namby-pamby wanna-be wizards instead? Wasting their best learning years talking about pseudo-mythical monsters and drawing schematics for magic schools and imaginary worlds! What if just one future great mind decides to write fantasy stories instead of deciphering the cosmic code? What if it’s Thomas?

So that’s why I’m here.

I’m waiting on this particular street for a particular young woman to come out of her home. She’s just finished writing the first installment of her utterly ruinous series of nonsensical novels.

I watched her last night, from the roof across the street. I watched her read and re-read the last of her first story for over an hour. She trolled about the house, window to lighted window, reading her fistful of pages. Twit.

When she comes out, I’m going to talk to her first. I’ll try and convince her to give it up. I haven’t thought much about what to tell her, other than she’s turned my son into a dribbling fruit with all her cabbitch games, flying cars, and pointing of sticks. I’ll tell her that if she never makes her silly stories available to the public, Thomas won’t waste his time and mind drowning in her made-up world.

Perhaps I’ll grab her, and take her to her delirious future of movies, action figures, and lightning-shaped plastic scars. Let her read the biographies, blog entries, and news articles about her special hand-written books. Maybe I should show her how easy it was to learn that she’d be coming out that door in about half an hour. No, that would only encourage her.

Who am I kidding?

I’ll probably just kill her. That’s why I brought the gun.

"Hunting J.K."
Copyright: © 2010 Kevin Shamel
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Kevin Shamel writes weird stories and he does it on purpose. You can find his first book, Rotten Little Animals, at Amazon. People seem to like it. Magazines have printed his stories. More and more of his weirdness is showing up online and in print. Check out his website, ShamelessCreations, to find out where. And please accept his third-person thanks for reading!