It was a day when the light seemed to shimmer at the edge of buildings and the wild spirit of nature beckoned you from the undergrowth.

I was driving to meet some friends deep in the countryside and feeling hungry I decided to stop for lunch. I found myself meandering through a stretch of road that was banked on both sides by hills and suddenly came upon the inn.

The glow in the windows welcomed me and I parked the car and went inside.

I stood below the dark beams and inhaled a smell I will never forget. Someone had been boiling oranges and sugar.

That was when I saw her.

She appeared at the doorway wearing a long gown and ushered me into the dining room which was decked with silver and a fine array of foods. The entire room was lit by candles.

‘Please make yourself comfortable’, she said, ‘I will bring some wine.’

She had a radiance about her and her skin seemed pale blue and her eyes were of some unnatural colour I could not define.

‘May I see the menu?’, I said.

‘The food is set and ready to eat, you won’t be disappointed.’

Her voice came from far away, as if something other than her throat was producing it, and I waited for her to return.

When she did she bent and poured some ruby red wine into my crystal glass and I sipped it and watched as she sat next to me.

I ate the meat which was rich and tender and watched her slow carnivalesque movements, as she dipped her head slowly to raise the food to her mouth. It seemed the product of some rehearsal, as if she was unfamiliar with the act of eating.

‘We have been here for many years’, she said, ‘and passing travellers such as yourself often stop. They never forget the delicacies we serve.’

‘Do you always eat with your guests?’, I said.

She looked at me with curiosity.

‘Of course.’

‘You have an excellent chef.’

‘He has always been here, we have our own lambs which we butcher with pride, their tiny screams are like a morning song.’

‘I wasn’t aware there were lambs in these parts.’

‘Their flesh is sweet and easily rent.’

As I put fork to pink meat I caught a movement at her shoulder.

Some black shape seemed to wriggle there and vanish as I turned my eyes in her direction.

I became lulled by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway, a soporific sound that brought with it an attendant unease, as if some soothing metronome were working a narcotic into my brain.

I struggled with sleepiness as she left the room and returned a few minutes later.

My hostess leant forward and loosened the top of her gown, revealing a portion of soft white flesh before placing on the table an array of small plump ducks and pigeons which she began to prod and poke with her fork, a drop of spittle on her lip.

I’m sure I heard one of them issue a shriek before it happened.

I looked at her and again saw a movement at her shoulder.

Something was moving inside her ear, a black leg was poking out of it and it was curling like a tendril in search of light.

I watched her as she continued cutting the meat with an obsessive glare in her face.

And the leg reached out and touched her cheek. It was followed by another and then the plump body of a large black spider wrestled itself from inside her head.

It crawled down her face and dropped into the food, scuttling away across the tablecloth.

And still she continued cutting.

Now another spider left her head followed by a swarm of moths that flew into the room and bombed the candles.

I stood and began to leave when she laid a hand on my arm and I felt ice.

I looked into her eyes and saw beneath their translucent surface the moving shapes of a thousand insects. And she seemed as empty as a shell, her skull no more than powder.

The table was full of rotting meat and worms and maggots were wriggling across the tablecloth and through its holes. It was moving with their coiled and creeping bodies.

I tried to pull away but she was strong. Despair made me cruel.

Picking up a candle holder I pressed it against her face and watched as her hair ignited and she exploded into a fireball, running shrieking from the room, her dress and body in flames.

I left.

As I was passing through the doorway into the open air she grabbed my legs and I dragged her out of there, across the gravel path and watched her dress ride up and her legs begin to cut and tear to nothing and issue no blood. Her skin seemed to tear like a pus-filled wound, small bits of gravel lodged in there and oozing fluid.

She was holding on tight.

Over by the well in the yard was a rusty spade and I picked this up and hit her across the head. It came away with the first blow.

The sight was nauseating and her body began to decay before my eyes.

I ran from there and the stench and got in my car.

I started the engine and drove back into the deep countryside.

In my rear view mirror I caught a final glimpse of a burnt out building with no roof.

"The Inn"

Copyright: © 2010 Richard Godwin

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Richard Godwin writes dark crime fiction, and he lets it slip the net like wash into horror.

His work has appeared in many publications, places like A Twist Of Noir and Pulp Metal Magazine, as well as in two anthologies. His story 'Pike N Flytrap' is in this Fall's issue of Needle Magazine, his story 'Face Off' is in the latest Crime Factory, issue #5. His play ‘The Cure-All’ has been produced on the London stage. All his stories and poetry can be found at his blog here http://www.richardgodwin.net/

His first crime novel ‘Apostle Rising’ is about to be published and will be released for sale onto the market on March 10th 2011. Use the link to watch a video ad of it.

I see 'em out there. Lots of 'em. I love 'em.

Faces. Innumerable, beautiful faces. Yellow faces, chocolate faces, red faces. Beautiful faces of milky-white European descent...

See, this is my workplace, the Trapsdale City's Corner's Office is where I look at all these beautiful faces, and fall in love with 'em. Each and everyone one I want.

Little Bob pops up out of my right shirtpocket today, Wednesday. Little Bob is the only other living thing here. A mouse. My friend.

"Who should I date tonight, lil' bob?" I ask 'em, pointing at our two newest prospects/arrivals: Mrs. Williams, 34, killed by a hit-an-run driver while she was out walking her chow. Or, or!" I point to a much older lady lying on the slab: "Mrs. Karen Brunswick?"

We decide on Mrs. Karen Brunswick.

I run towards the front door and put up my "Sorry, I have gone out to lunch. Be back in forty-minutes [Smiley face]" sign.

Forty minutes, I think. Plenty a time for Mrs. Karen Brunswick and me to get properly and intimately acquainted.

"Yessir," I think a-loud, in my Southern drawl, "plenty a time. But actually, I only got thirty minutes. Thirty ta wine and dine with Mrs. Brunswick and then ten at least to haul her ass back up stairs from the basement and then back on to the slab."

"Well, sir," I discuss the matter with lil' Bob. "We got ten minutes ta get the lovely Mrs. Karen Brunswick," God rest her pretty lil' soul," I say, takin' off my Stetson cowboy hat, "back on her slab. "The police is gonna come with her daughter to indentify her in forty."

"What happened to Mrs. Karen Brunswick?" Bob asks me.

"Don't'cha remember?"

"No." (little Bob, sonofabitch he is, comes from a very elitist family an' brags about it, what with his formal words an' whatnot.)

"Mugged an' raped on Delaware Street. The most rotten, indesirable sonofabitchin' side of town. Filled with Godless junkies, pimps an' whores. But, but as you can see, facially, at least, Mrs. Karen Brunswick's still quite visually stunnin'."

"I see," my rodent-friend retorts.

"Well, what're ya waiting fer? Gimme a hand."

We, that is, Lil' Bob and me, gentlemens (despite of our differing levels a education) to the last tote Mrs. Karen Brunswick up off the cold slab and on to a fancy-lookin chair you'd see in on of 'em first class, five-star Italian restaurants.

"Lay come stai, Senoria Brunswick," I ask 'er.

But she don't say nothin'.

"Here you are, Mrs Brunswick, I hope you like ripple, 'cause that's all we have," I snicker, snicker. I pour in her glass, then into mine. A quarter-glass full, each.

Tense, I ain't used to being around such prudish women, I try to break the silence, by saying "Yer necklace looks purty. Good thing 'em thugs didn't steal it from ya. You're very lucky."

No response. She just sits there ignorantly, with 'er mouth gaped widely open.

She might just be very self-concious. An' shy," I encourage myself. I'll try my best to remember not'ta comment on that giant exit-wound hole in the back a 'er head...

She finally starts talkin'. About things. God. An' Grocery store shoppin. And finally Vietnam. Her son'd died in the war. I tell her how I'm against the military draft. Unfortunately, she disagrees. She tells me, "I believe firmly in the draft. If you're young, ablebodied and eighteen. Why shouldn't you? I say you owe it to you country!"

I sag.

Now Mrs. Brunswick's loses all 'er beauty. And her entire face is beginnin' to look like one gigantic, ugly exit wound. It's because a people like hers mentality that I was sent off to that Goddamn war. Against my own will.

I begin to lose my appetite--along with any former desire I might'a had to lick Mrs. Brunswick's face.

The police arrive with Mrs. Brunswick's daughter an hour later. Pretty young thing. Brown eyes. Yellow hair. She reacts just like all of 'em--friends an' family members a murder victims, that is. First the sheet's slowly removed, family-member/loved one screams then nods head gravely.

That's what happens today. That's the way it always happens.

As the police an' the bereaved daughter leaves, Lil' Bob, always knowin' how to cheer me up, pops out a my pocket again an' tells me 'xactly what it is I need'ta hear.

"Why so glum? There's still Mrs. Williams."

"Yes, indeed." I says.

"Faces"

Copyright: © 2010 Jack Bristow

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Jack Bristow graduated Long Ridge Writer's Group in 2009. He lives in New Mexico. His next short story, "Our Bus Driver, Fred" can be read in the upcoming issue Thirteen of Cantaraville: An International PDF Literary Quarterly.

A THANKSGIVING RECOMMENDATION...

The full moon flickered through the tall conifers, partially illuminating an old unnamed trail, casting unearthly shadows on the forest floor. This was a thick ancient forest stretching several miles in all directions. A person could easily become lost or fall off a cliff if they weren’t careful. There had been several vicious assaults and murders in recent years so most travelers avoided the area.

A man named Roman, a bear of a man, crashed through the bramble trying to stay on the trail in the intermittent light. At six foot four and strong as an ox, he wasn’t afraid of very much. And because he didn’t enjoy the company of others he often chose to wander the forest at night believing he could avoid people. He relished his time alone in this forest, taking in the beauty of the night while others would panic at the slightest sound.

As he strode forward something caught his eye: a hare, grazing about forty feet in front of him. He silently reached for his bow and pulled an arrow from the quiver. He crept towards the hare, trying to find a clear shot. The hare seemed oblivious but Roman knew this wouldn’t be easy. In a moment of carelessness, Roman’s stepped on a dead branch, cracking it in two. He looked up and the hare was gone. He cursed under his breath. He was hungry and still had several miles left to get back to his home. He took the last sip of water from his flask. Nothing left.

He continued on, stopping periodically to listen to the forest and its creatures. He could hear bullfrogs in the swamp to the West and several wolves howling a few miles away to the East. The wolves didn’t concern him; if anything, their ruckus might drive some deer into his intended path. He had once ambushed and tackled a deer when he was half his age. His father, also a big man, was very proud of his son that day.

Passing a babbling brook, Roman bent down and cupped some water in both hands. He smelled it first but decided against taking a drink. The water was thought to be poisoned in this area. Roman didn’t always believe these tales but he figured he could handle his thirst till he got back home.

As he neared a large Oak tree, he could make out the shape of an owl sitting on a dead branch. Suddenly, a man jumped out from behind the tree, flashing a knife in Roman’s face.

“Ye’ll wish you hadn’t done that laddy” roared Roman. The man swung the knife menacingly as Roman ducked and veered out of his assailant’s way. Roman picked up a rock, threatening the man with it.

“Yeeve got a knife but I’ve taken down worse people than you!” Undeterred, the man continued swinging the knife but Roman was too quick for him. He backed up against the oak hoping the assailant would make a mistake. Just then, the blade got stuck on the tree trunk. Not wasting a moment, Roman pulled the knife from the tree, wheeled around and plunged it into the man’s back, puncturing his left lung. The man dropped to the ground. Roman finished him off, smashing his head with the rock. It was over in an instant. The man would later bleed to death, alone by the oak, becoming the subject of yet another dark tale from the cursed forest.

Several minutes later, Roman came out of the forest, and entered a clearing. As he walked along the path a man approached him. “Roman is that you?”

“Aye it is, Thomas. What ye been up to on this dark moonlit evening, hmmn?”

“Natasha and I were listening to the wolves. We could hear them clearly tonight. It’s such a timeless experience. Don’t you think?

“Timeless indeed.”

“Hey, if you are interested, she made a roast this afternoon so come on over. We got plenty.”

“Thanks friend Thomas but I think I’ll order me a pizza. And I don’t want to miss any of the hockey game. It’s almost 7 and Montreal is still in the playoffs. Have a good evening.”

“Ok. Take care, Roman. Maybe next time.”

"Roman"

Copyright: © 2010 David Darragh Binks

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David Darragh Binks lives in Ottawa, Canada with his wife, Anna and big grey cat, Calpurnia. He presently (and grudgingly) works for the federal government but only to pay the mortgage on his little bungalow in leafy Riverview Park. He hopes to live long enough to retire one day, move to a creepy old house in the country and write horror full time.

I discovered I was gay on my 13th Birthday. The strippers my father kindly hired did very little for me. It was the short, sweaty balding man (employed to protect the strippers) that set my loins aflame. The instant I experienced those feelings of same-sex desire, my socks constricted around my feet. My toenails shattered and my bones grew compromised. My confused mother had to cut them off with an arrowhead.

The weeks that followed were spent in bed, lost in fantasy, while my feet healed. The intoxicating visage of the short balding man danced in my dreams, arousing me in myriad new ways. Experiments with masturbation to this point had only skirted around the edges of possibility. Now, with an erection the size of Oprah, I was ready to dive into the deep end of masturbation. I was familiar with the concept of semen and, not wanting to sully my porcelain chest, sought a receptacle. Lifelessly by my bed laid a limp sports sock. I slid it over my member like a furry condom and conjured the sweaty balding man in all his erotic grandeur. Upon first plaintive tug, the sock constricted around me, choking my penis harder than any masturbatory hand ever could. I squealed in abject pain, trying my best to remove the sock. The sensation of a thousand fire ants bit into my shaft and refused to let go. The screams summoned my panicked mother into the bedroom. My screams were soon matched my hers as we both watched the sock soak with penile blood. With my mind occupied solely by pain, the sweaty balding man eventually left my thoughts. At that moment, the sock released its grip, leaving my skinned member bloody and weeping in its wake.

It was now apparent that socks disliked me, and I knew why. For whatever reason, socks weren’t made to accept homosexuality. I discussed the problem with my parents, both of whom were very supportive. My mother helped me find some support groups, which resulted in some of the best friends a person could ask for. Buoyed by a mutual desire to eradicate sock homophobia, we took to the streets, with the eventual aim of targeting the sock manufacturers themselves.

The swell of support we received was heartening. We carried grisly placards wherever we went that showed the grim reality of pulped feet and stripped genitals. We used shock as strategy without shame. This was a reality we were forced to endure and the world needed to know. Everyone is entitled to their beliefs, no matter how morally suspect they are. This freedom of belief shouldn’t extend to life’s inanimate necessities.

After many years of campaigning, several leading members of our group, myself included, were eventually granted audience with a man called The Sock Wizard. The Sock Wizard was the man ultimately responsible for every sock in existence. He was responsible for the homophobia. He was responsible for the pain wrought.

The Sock Wizard was clearly riddled with anxiety as he sat to face us. We were expecting a tyrant only to be presented with a scared, snivelling, admittedly arousing, man. Our group exhaled with collective relief before commencing our discussion. Within minutes, The Sock Wizard was in apologetic tears. Over a warm cup of cocoa, we comforted him, allowing him to unload his obvious burden.

Yes, it was true… Socks were made with an innate homophobia, he eventually admitted. It turns out this homophobia was the result of an error. The Sock Wizard had filled out a vital piece of paperwork incorrectly, resulting in the mess we were in now. When asked if the error could be fixed, he muttered something about his pride before showing us his naked, damaged feet.

 

"Homophobic Socks"

 

Copyright: © 2010 Matthew Revert

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Matthew Revert is an Australian author of weird fiction.  He is the author of the book A MILLION VERSIONS OF RIGHT, available here.

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

A reinforced steel case containing test tubes, a machined spinning device and a tiny silver burner arrived on my overloaded desk.

“For murder,” the instructions read. “Just add water.”

I’d agreed to meet a man in an upmarket bistro in the smartest part of town, the sort of place that makes a morgue look like Grand Central Station. When I entered Le Bar Du Marche holding the steel case Quigley was sitting with his head in his hands.

“Is it illegal?” he asked. “To drink in your own home? To smoke in your own back garden? To play with your own son?”

I told him that none of those activities were illegal. I placed my name card on the bar.

“Marlowe,” I said. “I reunite people no matter what.”

Quigley smiled, “You’re the man!”

I ordered him a glass of Krug Grande Cuvée Champagne.

“Vintage blanc de blancs,” said Quigley holding up the slender glass. “My favourite.”

An hour later I was asking plenty of barmen if they’d seen a broad called Mandy Quilligoti. They’d all seen Mandy and when I tracked her down to the Blue Banana she was sitting cross-legged and blowing on her nails.

“Quigley?” she said. “This ain’t good.”

“Who said anything about good?”

I told her about Quigley’s Bugatti Veyron, the Enzo Ferrari, the Rolls-Royce Phantom Drophead Coupé, the encyclopaedic knowledge of foreign taxation, the hot coals, the mock electric chair, the Endangered Species Eating Club, his lunchtime routine in his favourite watering hole.

“So Quigley did alright,” she said lighting up.

“He wants the boy.”

“Guess you know about the boy.”

I opened the reinforced steel case and assembled the spinner and the silver burner on the bar.

“For murder,” I said. “I just add water.”

The barman delivered a full glass. Mandy Quilligoti stubbed out her cigarette and turned up her wrists.

Much later outside Le Bar Du Marche my mind was wrung out like a gravedigger’s rag. The place hadn’t changed since I last dropped by. Quigley was conducting operations centre stage and two goons clutching laptops at the bar laughed like coyotes. I sat down beside them and nudged the reddest one.

“He tells this one every day.”

“And who the hell are you?”

“Every single day,” I said slamming the reinforced steel case on the bar. “Now beat it.”

I opened the case and the two goons stared. The result of my spadework crawled out onto Le Bar Du Marche’s sterile bar, the embryo, the bruised fruit, and Quigley liked what he saw. He liked it very much.

"For Murder, Just Add Water"

Copyright: © 2010 Ian D Smith

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