Farmer Landon plunged the knife deep into the flesh and sawed a clumsy circle. He pulled the make-shift lid off and twisted his face a bit when the pungent odor reached his nose. He never could get used to the smell of the sweet ripeness.

He reached inside and felt the cold mess squish between his fingers. He pulled at the tendrils and shaved away the membranes until the inside walls were smooth and clean.

Then he wiped his grimy hands on his jeans and began to carve a face – triangle eyes, a jagged smile – perfect for the season. He loved to decorate his pumpkins for Halloween.

***

“I can’t watch this any longer!” Gordy said as he threw up a mess of seeds.

“Pull yourself together! You’ll watch and you’ll see why we have to act NOW!” demanded Jack. “The stories that were handed down from generation to generation are true, as you can see. The madman will stop at nothing to grow us for his own twisted amusement. Once he finds us to be suitable, he carves us into disgusting, twisted caricatures. No more, I say!”

Jack, the commander of the pumpkin patch, had led his pumpkin brethren to the back porch step to bear witness the meticulous slaughter of a former friend. What they witnessed, in their view, was the grotesque sense of humor by a megalomaniac farmer.

“Tonight!” shouted Jack. “Tonight, we begin Phase One!”

“Tonight!” the thousand or so other pumpkins cheered in unison.

***

“Here’s a house!”

Soft thudding footfalls came across the grass as a half-dozen children ran to the front door.

They made is as far as the porch before the first child screamed. On the porch was Farmer Landon’s head, hollowed and alight by a single candle. The children screamed and ran back to the driveway.

The children giggled as they got back into their family van. Though they got no candy, the thrill of such a realistic gag was plenty good enough for them.

***

“They have found the lantern!” Gordy murmured. “Yours is far more frightening than any that Farmer Landon could ever create in a thousand growing seasons!”

“Quiet! Let the children scurry and tell the other humans of our existence.” Jack smiled smugly. “Yes. Children are easily frightened by scary lanterns. They are like putty in my vines.”

“So now what do we do?”

“Phase One has set in motion a chain of complex events. Phase Two is coming soon. You just wait.”

Gordy sat silent for a moment, not sure if he should question his leader. But he felt it to be his duty to the other pumpkins to speak up. “What do you mean by ‘you just wait’?”

“That’s, that’s what I mean. You just wait. I said it very plain.”

“Do you know what Phase Two entails?”

“Well, of course I do! Do you think I’m a fool? Don’t you think I have a full understanding of the nature of our enemies? Did I not rally a thousand of our kind to defeat the evil Farmer Landon? Do you think I did that just so that we would not have a Phase Two? Jeez, I know Phase Two like the back of my stem.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Do you have an idea as to when Phase Two will be set into motion?”

“...you, you just wait. Seriously, I mean it. It’ll be glorious, man.”

And so they did wait. They waited and waited and waited. It wasn’t until another few weeks later that a local grocer, angry over lack of promised deliveries from Farmer Landon, visited the Landon residence.

It was then that he found a shriveled, rotting lantern made from Landon’s head. Torrents of maggots dribbled from Landon’s raison lips. The grocer went inside to call the police and found thousands of rotten pumpkins in the Landon home. It appeared as if one had been nailed to a wall before it rotted enough to fall to the ground again.

***

Next year’s brood of pumpkins offered conflicting stories to their children. The relatives of Jack argued that a glorious revolution was thwarted by a treasonous Gordy.

Gordy’s camp argued that Jack was a complete imbecile who hadn’t enough foresight to prepare for a real uprising and invasion. They praised Gordy for the mutiny that served as a symbol for the higher order of pumpkinkind.

Arguments went on for nearly the whole growing season. Now the fields are quiet. There seems to be an uneasy calm. Perhaps a pumpkin civil war is imminent.

"Phase Two"

Copyright: © 2010 Brian Barnett

----------------------------------  

Brian Barnett lives with his wife, Stephanie, and son, Michael, in Frankfort, Kentucky.

He has appeared in over twenty-five publications, online and in print, including several anthologies.

He was co-editor of the anthologies “Toe Tags: 21 Spine-Tingling Tales from the Best New Authors of Horror” and “Long Live The New Flesh: Year One” with William Pauley III and has published a collection of horror stories titled “State of the Dark”.

For up-to-date news on all things Brian:

http://merrilyhauntingfrankfort.blogspot.com/

ANNOUNCEMENT...

Hello New Flesh Followers,

Suzie here. It was a difficult decision but I'm afraid I will be leaving The New Flesh as an editor, but certainly not as a fan. I
had to get a real job...boooooo. I know. I know. But it's one I've been after for a while things aren't so bad. Most of you probably know how much I adore III (Billy/Will/William) and his family... he is truly one of the good guys and an absolute treasure to work with. And a good friend. The man's rocking some serious talent. So we will always stay in touch. Goodbye to all you fleshy New Fleshers... I wish you all bizarre and haunted nightmares! Long live The New Flesh!!

Always a fan, 

Suzie Bradshaw


* * *

 
Hey everyone,

It's me III (William Pauley III). I just wanted to take a second to say that I was very sad to hear that Suzie is leaving TNF. When I first started this site a year ago, I honestly didn't know what the hell I was doing. All I knew was that I wanted to have a site that was a lot like the other great flash fiction sites (Flashes in the Dark, MicroHorror, etc),but I wanted to specialize in bizarre or weird fiction.  Getting the site started was much more difficult than I had anticipated, but somehow I managed to get this place set up on a sturdy base.

After a few months, however, 'real life' began to get in the way of my new projects, so I thought it was time to find a second editor. Suzie Bradshaw was my first choice. I always have enjoyed her weird little tales and on top of that she was always reading fiction and leaving feedback for the authors on several websites. I would read her feedback and found that I always agreed with her comments. I immediately knew that Suzie would make a great partner-in-crime for The New Flesh.

In the seven months that Suzie has been with TNF, she has brought in an incredible amount of talent and her story selections have helped us grow to have nearly 200 followers.  
 
And now, Suzie's 'real life' is asking for her back. As sad as it is to see her go, I completely understand her decision and wish her the best of luck with her new job. Suzie is a wonderful person and we are great friends. She knows that she always has a home here at TNF.  I cannot tell you how much she will be missed.

Goodbye, my friend, and good luck. :)

So what's going to happen now? Well, as I mentioned earlier, running this site by myself has proven to be overwhelming for me in the past, so TNF will have a new co-editor starting today. Most of you won't be surprised by who I asked to take that position, because of our partnership in other projects over the last couple of years. The awesomely-talented Brian Barnett will be the new co-editor here at The New Flesh!

Brian is a great friend, a pleasure to work with, and a reader favorite here at TNF, so it really was a no-brainer to ask him if he wanted the job. I am very excited to have Brian onboard this crazy cruise of weirdos we call The New Flesh!

Writers: please do your best to freak 'the new guy' out! ;)

We have a great story that will be posted tomorrow - just you know, we will continue posting stories as usual. I do want to mention though that submissions are low at the moment, so if you got 'em, send 'em!

And remember...

KEEP IT WEIRD.

III

Harry Grubbs will never again eat another peanut. He doesn’t care how perfectly formed the one you offer may be, how refreshing the scent, how perfectly roasted - honey or otherwise - he will not go near them anymore. Not after that day.

One day, in the summer time, Harry watched a game on his TV. His Reds were battling it out with the Braves. He was reclined comfortably, flanked by his two-liter of coke and his half-emptied bag of roasted peanuts.

He was perfectly positioned so that he could watch his game between his elevated feet and over his ample midsection. The growing mound of hulls on his partially exposed belly made no difference to him, so long as they didn’t interfere with the game.

During a commercial, he reached down and twiddled his fingers around until he dragged a comfortable handful of shells from the peanut bag. As usual, he cracked the shells, dropped them onto his chest, and ate the peanuts in one fluid motion.

Over and over, one at a time until his hand was empty, he ate them. He took a heavy swig of coke, which burned his throat and caused him to burp. The taste of partially regurgitated coke and peanuts only caused him to eat some more. He had to cover that nasty taste in his mouth, after all.

Again, he shelled the peanuts one by one until most of them were gone. As it turned out, that was the fateful handful that contained the things that he bit down on that was slightly bitter and entirely evil.

It didn’t crumble under the pressure of his teeth. Instead it merely squashed down, excreting a pungent bitter fluid.

Harry gagged and flung the recliner back to its upright position, sending wave of emptied shells skittering across the floor. The salty shell dust tickled his nose, but the gagging sensation supplanted his need to sneeze.

He spat out the offensive wad of goo. It slapped onto the hardwood floor and stuck. Harry drank quickly from the two liter, which only intensified the disgusting flavor in his mouth.

On the brink of vomiting, he watched as the black mass on the floor seemed to pulsate. Almost as if it were breathing, it puffed up and down slowly, ominously.

Harry was horrified. He slapped his crumb-encrusted hand to his mouth. What was it that he ate? A bug? Some sort of disgusting, heaving bug? He felt the coke and peanuts creep up and bubble his esophagus.

He blinked repeatedly, trying to clear his eyes which he was sure were deceiving him. The black mass had nearly doubled in size!

With his head swimming, Harry fell backwards into his chair. His heart pounded against the inside of his rib cage. The announcers on the TV yelled, "Wow! I don’t believe my eyes!" Perhaps Harry had missed a play where he ordinarily would have lumbered out of his chair in celebration. But for now, it was the least of his concerns for the mass had grown to the size of a small child.

The doorbell rang.

Harry hesitated. He wanted to go to the door. He wanted to leave the apartment and go to safety despite the fact that he was wearing stained briefs and a tank top that barely fit.

The doorbell rang again.

Harry edged past the mass which almost seemed to watch him as he did.

A hard, impatient knock startled Harry. He jumped, which made the black mass flinch.

He’d had enough. He lunged to the door and flung it open, startling the pizza man.

What happened next is a subject of local legend. Some say that the pizza man who had stood so impatiently on the doorstep ran away and became completely insane from what he saw that day. Others say that he became what is known around here as "The Peanut Demon" or "The Creature from the Black Legume".

However most accounts are as follows: Just before Harry had the chance to dart past that poor pizza man, the black mass propelled itself past Harry and latched onto the pizza box. From there it wrapped itself around the pizza man and took over his body, like a tar-like parasitic exoskeleton.

Now whenever great misfortunes happen around here, they are blamed on that disgusting black plug that came from Harry Grubbs’ bag of peanuts. Broken windows, flat tires, house fires, exploding hot water tanks - household disasters seemed to escalate after that day. Many needed someone, or something, to blame.

Legend tells it that if someone near here buys a bag of peanuts and one of them (or all of them, depending on who you ask) has spoiled, "The Peanut Demon" will be visiting soon.

Of course, many don’t believe in such things. I, for one, am a little skeptical. However, if you ask Harry Grubbs what he thinks, he’ll just absently bring his invisible two-liter to his permanently salt-dried lips for a drink, and his massive folds of flesh will tremble fearfully. So friends, just to be safe - be wary of bags of peanuts, especially those that appear to have spoilage.

"The Peanut Demon or The Creature from the Black Legume"
Copyright: © 2010 Brian Barnett
---------------------------------

Brian Barnett lives with his wife, Stephanie, and son, Michael, in Frankfort, Kentucky.

To date, he has published over fifty stories since he began publishing in November 2008. He has been accepted by over twenty-five publications, online and in print, including four anthologies.

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

For up-to-date news on Brian: http://merrilyhauntingfrankfort.blogspot.com/

A couple weeks ago, THE NEW FLESH sat down with Brian Barnett, author of the new book 'State of the Dark', to discuss an interesting way to eliminate ignorance, brains-on-a-stick, and a fear of Corey Haim's 80's hair. This is what we found out...

- - - - - BEGIN TRANSMISSION - - - - -

TNF: You are trapped in a room made entirely of brick with no windows or doors. All you have in the room with you is a book of matches, a broken television set, a pair of toenail clippers, and a fistful of feathers. How do you plan to get out?

BB: Well, thanks to my vast knowledge of improvised weapons thanks to watching MacGyver and Barney reruns, I would simply build a makeshift hydraulic drill and just burrow through the wall.
If, of course, the matches were wet (see, you didn’t think that I planned for that, did you?), then I would merely build a crude version of a teleportation device that would remove the bricks one by one and then rearrange them until the bricks formed a narrow pathway. Then I would disrespect whoever trapped me in the room by trampling all over his former feeble obstruction. Really? Are all the questions going to be this simple?

TNF: BOOM! Zombie Apocalypse is here! What three items do you toss in your pack?

BB: Okay, since I’ve been planning this for a long time, I thought it would be rather simple. But since you’ve given me the option to carry two additional things aside from what I was planning to carry originally – the zombies will not have a chance against me.
1: I’ll pack my cell phone, which would be loaded with phone numbers of all my crash-dummy friends. Together we would band together and mow a wide path through the shambling hoards that get in our way. Because, you see, crash dummies can live without food or water, and thanks to their fleshless bodies, they would draw little attention from the zombies.
2: I’ll pack a brain on a stick. Yes, almost any brain should do. Once the car runs out of fuel due to the lack of operational gas stations, I will need a mode of transportation. I think if I am able to string a group of semi-able-bodied zombies together, I can use them as a team of sled dogs, of sorts. I’ll merely strap them to the front of my car and dangle the brain stick ahead of them. Of course since all zombies travel at a relatively slow pace, I don’t have to worry about any attacks from the rear or sides. Even if they get close, my loyal crash-dummies will fend them off with their hard plastic limbs. Of course even if we do wreck, my crash-dummy friends will be just fine. Assuming I get injured, they will be able to lend me any false limbs that I may need.
3: Jimbo. Jimbo will be the name of my sawed-off shotgun. It will be engraved on the barrel so that it will be the last thing those grimy zombie fingers will grasp onto. You cannot go through and survive a zombie apocalypse without some awesome shotgun to zombie head action. Seriously, that’s what it’s all about folks. Otherwise you’re just kidding yourself. If you don’t explode a few decaying heads, other survivors will just laugh at you. Nobody wants to be laughed at in a zombie apocalypse.

TNF: Of the stories in your upcoming book, 'State of the Dark', which is your favorite and why?

BB: That’s tough. But I guess Dia de Los Muertos. That story just sort of flowed out of me. It’s very short and I wrote it as I listened to the song that inspired it – “Mucho Reverbo” by the Wet-Tones. It’s a great song and I saw the imagery of the story perfectly because of it.
TNF: Draw a picture of the coolest weapon not yet invented and explain its functions.

BB: This is an idea that I’ve been kicking around for a while:

The whole idea behind it is that it would end ignorance. Someone who is truly ignorant to the core pushes it and they simply disappear. Ignorance leads to hatred and most of the world’s ills. Perhaps a fool-proof plan to bring an end to ignorant people is the way to go? That’s my idea anyway. Only a truly ignorant person would want to push an ominous red button that beckons him or her to push it, right?

TNF: were you traumatized by any horror stories/movies as a child? Let's discuss...

BB: Yes! I remember being absolutely terrified of the movie adaptation of Dean Koontz’s Watchers. I have vivid memories of two different scenes that still come very easily to me. One scene is where a female police officer is lying dead with her eyes hanging out of her head. And the other a scene where a kid’s bloody pair of glasses are on a trail in the woods after he is killed off-screen. Now, I can’t remember exactly how old I was when I saw it, I just remember that I was really young. I kept telling my dad that I wasn’t afraid of the movie even though I was thoroughly terrified. Plus Cory Haim had a terrible case of 80s hair in that movie. That never helps anything. Now whenever I watch it, it doesn’t scare me. However I still have that foreboding hint of fear that creeps up, reminding me of how much it did scare me when I was little.

As far as stories are concerned, I’d have to say Chickamauga by Ambrose Bierce. That was the first real gut-wrenching story that I ever read. It is a story set in the Civil War about a young boy who is playing soldier. He falls asleep in the woods, not noticing that enemy soldiers have passed through the woods near his house. I won’t spoil the ending for anyone who hasn’t read it, but I warn you that the ending will tear you apart inside.

TNF: What five words best describe your new book, 'State of the Dark'?

BB:

1: Shenanigans
2: Catharsis
3: Antelope
4: Rutabaga
5: Yawp

Bio:

Brian Barnett lives with his wife, Stephanie, and son, Michael, in Frankfort, Kentucky.
To date, he has published over fifty stories since he began publishing in November 2008. He has been accepted by over twenty-five publications, online and in print, including several anthologies.

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

For up-to-date news on Brian: http://merrilyhauntingfrankfort.blogspot.com/

Upcoming projects:

Assuming if all goes according to plan, State of the Dark should be available for purchase in early March, perhaps the first week. I’m currently rewriting a middle-school aged novella titled “Graveyard Scavenger Hunt”. I hope to shop it around to some agents as soon as I feel that it is ready. I have a few stories coming out in various anthologies in the next few months. I am writing a brand new novella revolving around a prohibition era detective who suddenly finds that the world is not as “normal” as he once thought it was.

For any updates on any of my projects, you may visit my blog. I update it whenever I have any new news: http://merrilyhauntingfrankfort.blogspot.com/

- - - - - END OF TRANSMISSION - - - - -

Cynthia sat on the cool concrete porch that was nestled between two shrubs that lined the front of her house. She leaned so that her elbows sat on her knees and then she rested her chin on her hands with a huff. She was bored.

Her eyes wandered over to her faded hopscotch squares that she had crudely etched onto the cracked driveway with blue and pink chalk two days ago. Just next to it, laid her jump-rope with its frayed ends that stuck out beyond its faded splintered plastic handles. She had hopped, skipped, and jumped to exhaustion over the past two days and she was sick of it.

She sighed and scanned the yard. Her pink bicycle with its tiny white training wheels lay on its side. Its shimmering tassels hung from the ends of its handlebars, blowing like fine hair in the gentle mid-summer breeze.

A tire swing hung listlessly in the old oak tree on the edge of the property. She had already tried to swing in it earlier, but it was filled with old rainwater and dead bugs. Cynthia hated bugs, even old dead ones.

She sat up straight and sighed again. Maybe there are some cartoons on, she hoped, maybe even Scooby! She pushed herself off the porch when heard a noisy engine from down the street that caught her interest.

Her daddy had told her sometime before that it was “that idiotic McKenzie boy trying to impress the Wiggins girl,” whatever that meant. His car was really loud and he liked to screech the tires when he went through the stop signs.

The roaring engine grew closer and louder. The noise hurt Cynthia’s ears. She saw his car as it came into view. It was a bright green color with orange stripes and small black tires that had silver spokes in their centers. It was ugly, she thought. Actually her daddy was the one who said that it was ugly, and that was good enough for her.

Cynthia held her ears as the car drew nearer. It was going very fast, much faster than the normal cars that drove past. She narrowed her eyes and angrily hoped that a tire would blow out. That might show “that idiot McKenzie boy,” as her daddy would call him.

Just then there was a loud explosion.

The car lunged forward. The remaining tires screeched loudly. The back end of the car slid sideways and then the car rolled. It rolled over and over until it hit the old oak tree. An explosion of glass showered into the yard. Finally the car lay still, and so did its driver.

The car had hit so hard that some of the water was shaken from the tire swing. Afterward it twisted rocked back and forth slowly like and oscillating pendulum. Cynthia wondered how many dead bugs might have been thrown from it. It might be fit for swinging now.

Cynthia’s mommy came running from out of the house. She screamed, “Oh my God!” and snatched Cynthia from the porch. She brought Cynthia back inside the house and distracted her with cartoons, Scooby in fact!

Sirens in the distance prompted several neighborhood dogs to howl. Cynthia always found that to be funny. Why did they howl? she wondered. Do they want to be ambulances too? Silly doggies.

Cynthia’s mommy dialed a number and ducked into the kitchen where Cynthia could not hear her.

“Howard,” she said with a shaky voice, “Cynthia’s done it again.”

“What? Who was it this time?” he asked incredulously.

“It was Derrick McKenzie. I didn’t see him, but I don’t think he’s in very good shape. It was a pretty bad mess.” She covered her mouth as if to hold back the rising sensation of nausea.

After a pause, Howard answered, “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

Howard hung up the phone and smiled warmly at the glass-framed picture of his little girl that sat prominently on his desk.

Who knew that she would be bestowed with such amazing telekinetic powers? With her youthful ignorance, he only has to load and point the gun and she inadvertently pulls the trigger. She does so every single time without fail. And now that the McKenzie boy has been taken care of, there might be a decent night’s sleep ahead.

Howard grabbed the keys out of his desk drawer and cheerfully thought of her future potential.

"Daddy's Girl"
Copyright: © 2010 Brian Barnett
---------------------------------

Brian Barnett lives with his wife, Stephanie, and son, Michael, in Frankfort, Kentucky.

To date, he has published over fifty stories since he began publishing in November 2008. He has been accepted by over twenty-five publications, online and in print, including four anthologies.

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

For up-to-date news on Brian:

http://merrilyhauntingfrankfort.blogspot.com/

“Have a seat, please.”

Remy Jenkins sat in the cushioned chair facing a large two-way mirror. He fixed his hair and winked at his reflection.

On the other side of the mirror, the family of the grocery store owner who was brutally murdered for less than five dollars watched Remy’s arms get strapped to the chair. They wanted to see justice, the death of a murderer.

The chair was a work of genius. It was said to be the most humane way to put prisoners to death for their crimes. He was the latest to receive his punishment.

The grocery store owner’s family hated that he was going to die so easily. Killing a man with a crowbar should not be taken so lightly, they argued. He should suffer! Yet, the law is the law, and he had his rights. He was to die by the chair.

He was allowed to choose from several environments to die in. He could be an astronaut, president, cowboy or nearly anything else any man or woman wanted to be during childhood. The intent was to sooth the prisoner before he or she died. The prisoner would simply watch a movie of sorts and within seconds, he or she would be painlessly put to death.

Remy chose the cowboy option. He was always fascinated with the old western movies as a child. His favorite was John Wayne. He was always so gruff.

Round leads were glued to Remy’s temples after he was completely secured in the chair. A sleek helmet folded down and over Remy’s head. The machine powered on with a subtle electric hum.
At first he saw nothing but blackness. Then a faint smell of whiskey and chewing tobacco began to permeate. Slowly a picture of a crude wooden table slowly came into view. There were several men sitting at the table. Some were wearing Stetsons. Nearly all were weathered and looked tired.

Remy was entranced by the realism of what he was seeing. He felt as if he was actually part of the environment and not just a spectator. The dealer shuffled and looked to Remy, “You in?”

Remy quickly tossed in a coin. His arm had moved involuntarily. Evidently I’m reenacting a scene, he surmised, I must not have any control of what’s going on. The thought of having no control unsettled him. The coin rattled and rolled in a small circle before settling on the table.

The dealer distributed the cards. The first Remy got was an Eight of Spades. Remy’s hand automatically picked it up and held it close.

The second card slid to him. It was an Ace of Clubs. Good card, Remy thought.

The third slid to a stop in front of Remy. He picked it up and it was another Ace. An Ace of Spades. Remy tried to remain stoic. No need to tip off the other gamblers, he thought then again it wouldn’t matter much. He remembered that none of the people could see his cards, so he smiled. The fourth card slid to Remy and he picked it up. It was another eight. An Eight of Clubs.

He analyzed the cards for a moment before realizing their significance. Dead man’s hand. The hand Wild Bill Hickok had when he was murdered. Someone had snuck up behind him and shot him in the back of the head.

Remy tried to jump from his seat, but to no avail. He could not move. A last card slid his way. His hand involuntarily reached for it. But before he could pick it up off the table, a loud blast rang behind his head. The picture faded to black again.

The chair succeeded as always. The bolt slid quickly through the base of Remy’s skull and into his brain, effectively killing him. One of the grocery owner’s family members fainted. Seeing a man struggle against the restraints just before dying was too much for her to endure.

"Dead Man's Hand"
Copyright: © 2009 Brian Barnett
---------------------------------

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.

Dead Man's Hand - Originally published by Flashes in the Dark - 6/15/09

The smell that he knew so well woke him. The smell of sulfur, the devil’s breath. He groaned and rolled out of bed.

Ronnie Kirtley had written hundreds of stories over the years. He was one of the most prolific writers in history. He outsold every contemporary writer and remained as a best-seller for more than thirty years. Thirty-two best selling novels and two dozen short story collections made him millions of dollars over the years. He wished that he was the genius behind them all, but he was a fraud.

He shuffled down the hallway towards the coffee maker. He stopped at the dining room table and opened his laptop to allow it to warm up.

He flicked on the coffee maker, but nothing happened. The power was out. Great, he thought. His eyes rolled to the kitchen window.

He could see their dancing impish shadows through the mini blinds. Countless creatures entered his house to provide him his muse over the years.

Ronnie slapped the mug onto the counter and grumbled back to his laptop. He pulled up the word processor, stretched his fingers and cracked his knuckles.

The battery only had a few remaining minutes before it died. They were going to have to be quick if they intended to get a story out.

As if on cue, the whispers began. The room flooded with prickly shadows and the smell of brimstone. The air conditioner kicked on from the heat they generated. Hushed whispers caressed his ears and Ronnie’s fingers began writing feverishly, as always.
The stories Ronnie wrote were purely fiction as far as anyone knew. But in reality, what he wrote was more of a script of things to come. He wrote of terrible creatures tearing innocent people limb from limb, and it would come to fruition.
He would write tales about natural disasters, mining accidents, ancient malevolent spirits - anything and everything destructive or evil. And they always came true.

Always.

He was nothing more than a wand for the demons that surrounded him, just a conduit for their destructive energy. He knew that one day it would be over and they would move on to another poor sap, but for now, he was their man.

Ronnie tried not to reflect on the stories he had written for them, but often his mind would wander and remember. There were so many innocents that were blindsided by their despicable tales. One that always bothered him was that poor nameless lady in the wheelchair that was eaten alive by a swarm of harpies. He could practically see her face masked in terror. He shuttered.

Finally a blank page was formatted and their whispers intensified. He lamented over what evil he was about to spread into the world.

His fingers flicked the keyboard furiously. The End of Ronnie Kirtley, he wrote. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead. He feared what he was about to write.

He spaced down to the second page. His fingers blazed across the keys again. The writer for the ages began to sweat as he felt the heat of his demons creep up behind him. The end would be swift, yet painful. Spontaneous combustion always is, after all.

Ronnie leapt from his chair, but it was too late. They were finished with him. He had served his purpose. It was time to discard him and start fresh elsewhere. He heard their hollow laughter. The walls flickered to life with their shadows.He felt the intense heat building in his chest. It spread throughout his body. Before he could mutter a sound, he burst into flames.

The newspapers and magazines were flooded by rumors of what happened to Ronnie Kirtley that night. Only remnants of his scorched flesh were left behind.

News stations attempted intense investigations. Everyone wanted to crack the case first. Church congregations grew. People burned his books. Nobody wanted to take any chances. Something was odd about the circumstances.

Scientists argued that the explanation was purely scientific. “Spontaneous combustion is such a bizarre phenomenon,” they’d say, “There have been numerous documented cases.”

The argument raged on, yet nobody had a solid answer, save for one person. Only he knows what happened for certain. His name is Landon Ray, an up and coming painter. He is about to unveil his first masterpiece. He titled it The Death of a Legend and it depicts the late Ronnie Kirtley bursting into flames amid his final story.

"We All Have Our Demons"
Copyright: © 2009 Brian Barnett
---------------------------------

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.

"We All Have Our Demons" - Originally published by Flashes in the Dark - 4/28/09

Valerie learned how to deal with angry penguins the hard way. One day, she had gone to the store for a few groceries as her husband, Doug, stayed at home.

He told her that he would take a shower and that upon her return, he would fix supper. She loved the idea. She was in the mood for his famous chicken casserole.

She had happily unloaded the plastic grocery bags from the store. She had merrily unlocked and opened the front door. But when she entered the house – she froze in utter horror.

There had been a terrible struggle. She heard the shower as it was still going. Steam steadily trickled from the hallway.

Valerie dropped the grocery store bags and called for her husband of two years. “Doug! Doug, are you okay?”

There was no answer. Her stomach sank. She feared the worst. She opened the bi-fold closet door and took out the most formidable weapon that she could find – an umbrella.

She shrugged it off and assumed that it was a squeaky floorboard. There were more pressing matters ahead.

She edged to the bathroom. The door was partially open. A thin stream of steam bellowed from the room and spread across the hallway ceiling.

She took a deep breath and summoned her courage. Then, without a second thought, she kicked the door open. From the bedroom, multiple squawks answered to the sound of the banging door. The squawks almost sounded...startled?

The shower stall was empty. Valerie feared the worst. She noticed something strange about the shower curtain. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about it had changed somehow.

She gripped the umbrella tighter and continued to the bedroom. Again, the door was partially ajar. Again, she took a deep breath and summoned every shred of her nerves.

Then, just as she was about to kick it off its hinges, it opened. It opened rather slowly, which only added to her shock and utter bewilderment of what she was witnessing.

Doug had been tied to the bedpost. He had a corner of a washrag hanging from his stuffed mouth. Half a dozen penguins stood in a semi-circle around him. They all awkwardly held make-shift weapons between their flippers.

One held a toothbrush. Another held a disposable razor. The absurdity of it all nearly caused her to laugh when she saw the one holding a hair dryer. Its cord was tangled around the penguin’s feet.

“What’s going on here?” she demanded. She still wielded her umbrella in case they decided to attack.

One particularly large penguin, an emperor penguin, waddled closer to her. He squawked and then shook his head. Then he spoke nearly perfect English. “Sorry about that.” His voice was deep and profound. He cleared his tiny throat, “We are revolting! Meaning that we are striking against you and your husband!”

“What?” She was simultaneously amazed that the creature could speak and horrified that they penguins had the ingenuity and the gall to attack them in such a way.

“We are tired of all the hot showers every single day. We are penguins! How would you expect us to feel?”

“But you’re just artwork on a shower curtain!” she suddenly remembered the shower curtain. It had looked strange because it was nothing more than a picture of icebergs. All of the penguins were gone from it.

The penguins squawked angrily at her comment.

“Silence!” demanded the emperor. The penguins suddenly silenced.

“We demand restitution and an agreement that you will take no more hot showers.”

“But, how will we get clean?”

One tiny penguin had already had his fill with small talk. He jabbed the end of a comb into Doug’s forearm. He screamed a muffled scream. “Mmmph!”

“Why you little...” Valerie charged the little penguin. He turned around and saw the umbrella coming for him. His tiny eyes widened and a stream of liquid feces sprayed the carpet as she struck him on the side of his tiny head.

He fell to the side and squawked in pain. If his eyes had been affixed to the front of his head instead of the sides, they would’ve been crossed...

“Was that really necessary?” sighed the emperor.

“He stabbed my husband!”

“Yes, but it’s only a tiny little wound. It barely broke the skin. You nearly broke his neck!”

“This is ridiculous! What is it that you want?”

“Okay. First off, we demand that all the boiling hot showers cease immediately. Second, we would like an occasional fish fry. You owe it to us.. Third, please spray our curtain from time to time. Seriously, I could build a fort with all the soap scum.”
Valerie’s face reddened slightly. She was embarrassed about the soap scum remark. She lowered the umbrella. “You know, Doug. That is really not too much to ask.”

Doug’s eyes widened and he struggled against his restraints. He tried desperately to talk, but the washrag that was jammed into his mouth prevented him from doing so.

Valerie shook the penguin’s flipper to seal the deal and dropped the umbrella. The smaller penguins dropped their weapons and waddled back into the bathroom. Two of them collected their unconscious friend and carried him awkwardly with their flippers.

As Valerie untied Doug from the bedpost, she couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before the roosters on the dishtowels struck their own revolution. Perhaps the chicken casserole would have to wait for another time.

"The Penguins Revolt"
Copyright: © 2009 Brian Barnett
---------------------------------

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.

She slowly made her way down the hallway toward the bathroom. Her heart leapt when she thought she heard a strange sound. Was it a squawk? What in the world would squawk?

She instinctively awoke in the cramped, moist darkness. The smell was intoxicating. Such a bountiful food source to go to waste, she lamented. Alas, it was her time to go.

She shed her cocoon and wriggled to a place with a softer potential exit. Her sisters followed close behind. Her host was finally aware of their presence. She could hear his muffled, panicked whimpers. He was on the move. Time was short.

She unfolded her mandibles and commenced burrowing. Her host’s cries grew more frantic. She could feel his fist pounding just outside the fleshy prison wall. He was trying to thwart her efforts. They all do, she was told by her instinct. Finally he stopped running, no doubt doubled over in pain.

She continued her efforts until finally, her mandibles met no resistance. Cool air rushed in and enveloped her and her sisters. Her host had grown silent. He lay lifelessly in a secluded alley. Perfect, she reveled. Seclusion was exactly what she needed.

She carefully removed all sets of her legs from the crude hole that she created. When she was out of him, her sisters followed suit. They spread their wings and took flight in separate directions. Freedom at last!

She scanned the cities’ streets. There were so many potential hosts bustling in the sidewalks. Then, finally, in the back lot of a restaurant! A perfect host was removing garbage from his business.

She swooped down and released her noxious gas, temporarily incapacitating him. She worried for her children’s children. They will have a tougher time finding hosts. There are fewer and fewer to go around with every hatching.

When she took flight, he woke, none the wiser. Just a dizzy spell, he assumed. He took a pill for his diabetes and brushed himself off. He does not realize that he is the host to her children. In mere weeks, the cycle will begin anew.

"Fluttering Parasites"
Copyright: © 2009 Brian Barnett
----------------------------------

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.

Fluttering Parasites - Originally published by MicroHorror - 6/19/09

The anticipation was nearly unbearable. Dr. Raymond Shelton’s arms fought against the restraints against his will. His hands balled into angry fists and his fingernails dug into his palms.

He gritted his teeth and ignored the pain. Soon, he hoped, it would be all over and the threat would be at an end.

His mind-control experiment had been successful. The worms that he had created slithered up into his patients’ noses and then burrowed straight into their brains. But before he had the chance to take control of them, the worms had taken over.

Soon after, he was overpowered by several of the patients. They forced him onto a table and placed, what turned out to be the alpha worm, into his nose. It burrowed through soft tissue and his skull before finally finding its mark. Dr. Shelton’s associates stormed in and destroyed the patients and then strapped him into a chair. They had hoped to figure out how to destroy the worm without causing any harm to its respective host.

Dr. Shelton’s assistants worked around the clock experimenting on animals with different serums and chemicals. Inevitably all of the hosts were killed in the experiments.

Meanwhile, Dr. Shelton’s brain screamed. White hot pain coursed through his body. The worm wanted control, but Dr. Shelton fought it with all the strength he could muster. But he gradually became weaker and his concentration slowly began to fade.

Dr. Camilla Jefferson shined a light into Dr. Shelton’s exhausted eyes. She looked concerned. Dr. Shelton felt a mild flutter of panic in his ragged body. He watched her whisper to the other doctors. They glanced at him disconcertingly. It would be over soon, he realized. Death was the only way out.

The worm must have sensed it too. Dr. Shelton’s body began to convulse involuntarily. Again it strained against the arm and leg cuffs that held Dr. Shelton’s body in place.

Large lumps of contracted muscle rose on his forearms, just above his wrists. Long cords of veins swelled as his arms shook furiously against the restraints.

Dr. Shelton cried out as both arms cracked loudly. He watched as the bones in both forearms pierced his flesh. They continued to rise as his hands remained clamped down. He howled in pain as the flesh split off like a banana peel.

The jagged ends of his bones raked against his neck, crudely paring the skin. His entire body was alight with pain. It was as if every nerve had been severed.

The doctors watched in horror across the room. The lab’s patriarch was flaying himself right before their very eyes. The sheer spectacle of it all kept them from interfering.

Finally blue and red strands snaked out from the gaping gash around the doctor’s neck. They slid out further and then pushed against the body like a maintenance worker pulling himself from a manhole.

Dr. Shelton’s head separated from his body. His veins and arteries were acting like a confused network of rudimentary legs. They flailed about, trying to get their grip. Dr. Shelton’s head dangled from the body for a moment and then finally dropped to the cool tile floor.

Dr. Jefferson was the first to snap out of her horrified stupor. She snatched a scalpel from a surgical tray and charged at the head.

An artery whipped at her and then wrapped around her throat. It barely needed to flex before her windpipe crushed. Her face was a disgusting shade of blue when she crumpled to the floor.

The head lifted itself with new-found self control. The vein and artery legs carried it closer to the other two doctors - Dr. Banks and the young Dr. Hinson. Dr. Banks flung open a stainless steel cabinet door. He grabbed several glass jars.

He threw them, one at a time, at the head. Most had no effect. Then one, marked: Hydrochloric Acid, seemed to slow it. The jar shattered at the head’s “feet.”

It stumbled a bit before wrapping an artery around the doctor’s throat. It required more effort than before, but it was able to successfully crush his windpipe.

The last doctor, Dr. Hinson, backed himself into the corner of the lab. He whimpered like a sad puppy. He crawled up onto the counter.

The worm sensed that the tissue was dying in the head. The lack of oxygen in the blood and the effects of the hydrochloric acid had nearly done Dr. Shelton’s head in. The time had come to take over a new host.

The worm sent a web of veins to Dr. Hinson. It pulled the head closer to him. Finally the head was nose to nose with Dr. Hinson, who was merely a quivering mess of emotions.

That would soon end.

The worm climbed out of the decapitated head of Dr. Shelton, and soon after, it burrowed into Dr. Hinson’s brain.

The head fell to the floor. The worm was pleased with its new host. Dr. Hinson was far lesser of a fighter than Dr. Shelton was. He commanded his new host to retrieve the other worms. There is much work to be done.

"Worms"

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.

"Worms" originally appeared on Flashes In the Dark on 8.3.09

“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

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

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

Lance hated to hold hands in public. Yet, for some reason he was compelled to. His various girlfriends’ hands were always so dainty, so beautiful - that it was a crime not to hold them.

Invariably, he would be fine with holding their hands until he made it to Lakeview Park. He always felt so awkward there. There were so many gawking faces, so many people judging him.

One day he will build enough courage to tell them what for. But not today. Today, like all other days in the past, he’ll drop the hands into the nearest trashcan and run.

"The Man Who Held Hands"

Copyright: © 2009 Brian Barnett
----------------------------------

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.