He looked around nervously as she opened the door and led him into the dark house. If he was caught with an underage girl again, he’d be locked up for good.

“So uh, where are your parents? You sure we will be okay to do this here?"

She smiled mischievously and said, “Oh, we will be perfectly safe here. My parents are out on the town and they’ll be gone for hours.”

“Well… okay."

She guided him by the hand through the dark hallway and into a bedroom. Even in the dark, he could faintly see posters with boy bands on them and stuffed animals scattered about.

He began to get excited when she led him to the bed and shoved him onto it.

“I’m going to devour you, baby!” She said seductively.

“Oh and I look forward to it sugar!” He said with anticipation in his voice.

She started to shake, and her face and body looked like an animalistic beast. Her teeth extended into fangs and her hands turned into large claws.

He began to scream, but was quickly quieted when she bit out his throat. Within minutes, she had devoured him and left behind nothing but a pile of bones.

After she transferred back to her human form, she began to clean up the mess. Her parents would ground her for a week if she wasn’t neat with her kill.

Suddenly a sickening feeling washed over her and she rushed to the bathroom.

She knelt over the toilet and forced her finger down her throat, purging herself of what she had just eaten.

“That was close, I’d never fit into my Prom dress if I would have kept that down!”

"Figure Ate"
Copyright: © 2009 Stephanie Barnett

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“Go on – we’re waiting.”

Another lit match tossed into his lap. Remy attempted to bat it away without flinching too much. He looked at the other four through unfocused eyes, trying to determine which one had spoken. Not that it mattered. If he wanted to join their group, he’d have to do it – run across the highway stark naked.

“That’s the initiation, man. We all had to do it.” Steve tilted the bottle up, missed his mouth. Jack Daniels soaked his shirt. “Look what you made me do. Get going or get out of here.”

Cruel laughter sliced Remy open as he undressed, his skinny body underscoring the reason why the jocks didn’t want him as a friend. The buzz left, leaving him more determined to show them his worth. Bullies, every last one of them, but also the most popular kids in school. Remy figured that if he passed their test, they wouldn’t harass him so much.

Watching for a break in traffic amidst the howls of his companions, Remy darted out during a clear section. Two lanes crossed and he made the dirt divider in the center. Two more to go and he was home free. A single car loomed, then a break before more headlights. He would run between them.

The driver spotted him as she passed, slamming her brakes hard in reactive fear. Remy broke free of his paralysis and ran as the car spun to a stop in the middle of the lane. He turned to pump his arm in victory to his new friends, just in time to see the gas tanker slide sideways in an attempt to avoid the stalled car.

The jack-knifed behemoth crossed over the lanes into oncoming traffic. Flames shot through the air as the tank exploded, the light illuminating the other boys. Drunken stupor riveted them to the ground, unmoving as bits of fire rained on their position.

Remy watched Steve’s soaked shirt become the catalyst for a human torch. Within moments, all four filled the night with shrieks and the stench of burning flesh. They would never again taunt and torment those less endowed. The jumbled fireball of legs and arms struck a blow for nerds everywhere, Remy decided. A slow smile touched his lips. He wondered why he’d ever wanted their approval in the first place.

"On a Dare"
Copyright: © 2009 Laura Eno
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Laura Eno (http://lauraeno.blogspot.com) has written two YA fantasy novels and a paranormal romance. Her flash fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Twisted Dreams, The Monsters Next Door, Flashes in the Dark, 10Flash, House of Horror, The New Flesh, Everyday Weirdness and MicroHorror.

Donny had openly lied to them. They deserved it, and probably more. There wasn't a sign pointing to their farm for a simple reason. They didn't want any visitors. The last visitors had been none too friendly when they'd turned up in their big cars and their helicopters throwing crying gas and coughing gas and putting a fist-sized hole in Daddy's forehead before taking away Daddy's collection of town-kids.

Donny watched the dainty arms and the way that they spilled from her sleeves. The little sprinkle of silvery bracelet caught the sunlight and it tickled his eyes. He watched the way her hands ran over her swollen belly. She looked plum-full to bursting. Donny didn't smile; he could imagine what they were thinking, what they were calling him in their minds. Hillbilly Hick-Boy, Mother-Kisser, Granny-Poker, Brother-Blowing Bumpkin, and a whole load more names which, although true, were none too nice to be saying.

"Well? Can we use your phone?" the man asked. He wore jeans as if dungarees were too good for him.

"You gonna leave money beside it when you done?" Donny asked, although his eyes were on the young woman and he wondered if she could sing. There'd been no singing in the house since they'd killed Daddy and taken away the singers.

The woman giggled. "Is he talking about the table by the phone or the table by his momma's bed?"

The man made his lips slant slightly with mirth. "I have money."

Donny was staring at the woman. He was trying to decide if she was serious. If she was then they could go on up and have a go on momma as long as they did leave some money.

"The phone's in the parlour." Donny stepped back and held open the torn screen-door. He smelt the woman as she past and he nearly went dizzy. Donny looked about and then quickly closed the door.

There was a thumping coming from upstairs.

"What's that?" the man asked warily.

"That's Momma's elbow-stump trying to get my attention. Her legs don't work since the tractor accident so she's stuck in bed."

They heard another two thumps.

Donny smiled. "It's okay, just the two thuds means she's lonely. Three thumps for hungry, three for thirsty, four for the potty and twelfty-seven in a row real fast if she's got to go bad!" Donny hooted.

His guests looked at him.

"The phone?" the man reminded him.

"Just through there." Donny pointed vaguely through the junk-cluttered room towards a doorway.

The man looked to his girl. "Wait here, I won't be a minute."

The girl looked around. She'd seen tidier dumpsters, ones that had smelled better too.

Donny decided it was time to make his move. He smiled and tried to look as though mischief wasn't on his mind as he sidled over to the uneven dresser. A newspaper on its surface sheltered Little Chop-Chop.

Singing erupted upstairs.

"Momma's singing again!" shouted Donny, forgetting all about the hand-axe.

The girl looked at him as though he was cuckoo. "That's screaming, you dumb-fuck."

"No that's singing! Ain't been no singing in this house since they killed my daddy and took away his singers!"

The singing stopped. Donny looked sad.

"She's stopped singing now."

The woman chuckled and shook her head.

The man came back into the room, he had removed his shirt. His body was covered in scars and tattoos. Donnie saw the knife, saw the blood on it too.

"Momma?"

"Dead," The man said, and then looked to his girl, "he lied about the phone. But this is the place, baby. I remember it, although I spent most of the time down in the cellar singing."

The girl grinned and looked all giddy.

The man turned back to Donny who was heading for Little Chop-Chop again.

"Don't bother. We're here to carry on with your father's work. He was closer than he thought to communicating with the Beast. I'm sure I saw Him once listening in the corner whilst we all sang. We're going to fill this house with song again, and I think I'd like to hear you sing first."

"The Devil's Choir"
Copyright: © 2009 Lee Hughes

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Lee Hughes's short fiction has or is due to appear on, Thrillers,Killers 'n' Chillers, A Twist of Noir, Flashshots, The DailyTourniquet, MicroHorror, Blink-Ink, Powder Burn Flash. And in print inthe anthology, Cern Zoo: Nemonynous 9. Find out more at www.LeeHughes.net

“This is a little kinky,” Violet said, forcing a feeble smile. Her flared brown eyes glared at her client. Emory, a tall, silver-haired man tying her spread-eagle to a raised platform bed that resembled a hospital gurney. She cocked an eyebrow and added weakly, “I like kinky.”

Emory paid no attention to her. He never paid any attention to hookers. He just used them and got rid of them when he was done.

Violet glanced around the room. It was big, dark and had a faint odor of stale clothing. “I… I’m… not okay with this,” she stated, nibbling at her full lips.

“Shut up,” Emory ordered, tying the last knot around her slender ankle. “I’m paying you good money for your services, and I don’t want to hear your whining.”

Violet took several deep, uneasy breaths. “But I’m not okay with this,” she yelped, pulling at the restraints. “I… I’m new at this, and… and this is only my second job,” she paused, blinking wildly. “Really!”

Emory shook his head. “Then I guess that means this will be your last job.”

“Please don’t hurt me!” Violet cried, jerking at the ropes. “I’m just a small town girl from Burlington, Iowa.”

“Iowa?” Emory repeated, raising his hairy eyebrows. “That’s corn country. Isn’t it?” Violet shook her head swiftly.

“Yea… Yes, sir.”

“Did you eat a lot of corn?” Emory questioned.

Violet nodded her head. “Yea… Yes, sir, I did. Why?”

Emory moaned, “Because that means you’ll taste good.”

Violet’s eyes widened. “Help me!” she screamed. “Somebody help me!”

“Screaming will do you no good,” Emory said, placing a piece of silver duct tape over Violet’s mouth. Then he pushed her purple halter top up. Exposing her tanned, flat stomach. He licked his eager lips, bent down and took a bite.

Violet tried to scream. She jerked her body back and forth trying desperately to free herself. But… to no avail.

“Mmm,” Emory mumbled with delight, tiny bits of flesh spitting out from between his lips, “cornfed.”

"Cornfed"

Copyright: © 2009 Chad Case
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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 and The New Flesh.

“You’re a liar!” Cynthia shouted. “I catch you cheating on me, and you deny it while a strange woman’s right here in our bed.”

“This ain’t a woman,” Harry said, pointing to the form hidden under blankets. “It’s an illusion.”

“Illusion? I’m gonna blow your freakin’ head off.” She grabbed a pistol from the nightstand and pointed at him.

“Wait! Don’t shoot! Let me explain!

“Better talk fast. You only have a few seconds.”

“When I left Clancy’s Bar, a giant praying mantis grabbed me and pulled me into an alley.”

“I’m about to kill your ass, and you’re actually lying. You’re nuts.” She aimed at his head.

“If you shoot, it’ll be first degree murder. Better hear me out, unless you wanna die by lethal injection. Now drop the gun and let me finish.”

“The gun stays in my hand. Go ahead, you sonovabitch. Give me your damn explanation. I could use a good laugh.”

“It pulled me into the alley and said, ‘Don’t be afraid. I won’t harm you. I just need some help. I’m on an important mission, but I’m tired, and need rest. Can you take me home with you?’ Well, I was totally amazed. And considering how ugly and scary it looked, I agreed. But I told it I wasn’t sure we’d be able to make it back to the house, considering somebody might see how horrible it looked, and create a disturbance. That might bring the cops. And the second they saw a giant praying mantis, they'd start shooting.”

“Oh brother. You’re liar of the century.”

“I ain’t lying. Just hear me out. So, it asked me what it should look like, that it was able to change its appearance. And I thought of you, my beautiful wife, and said if it could somehow change itself to look like you, then everything would probably be OK. And it did. But it was naked. I mean where would a giant praying mantis get women’s clothes all of a sudden---especially at night when all the stores are closed?”

“I think I’ll just shoot you and get this over with.” Cynthia said.

“When it asked what you looked like, I showed it your picture. It mumbled weird words, and poof! You were sitting next to me in the car. I couldn’t believe it. The only difference was that its voice isn’t the same as yours. You should hear how beautiful it sounds when it talks.”

“Mom was right. You’re a damn jerk. I shoulda married Frank.”

“When we came in the house, it saw your picture on the mantle—when you were a cheerleader in high school. Next thing I knew, it changed itself into a replica of you as a teen cheerleader. Wow! You were hot! Wish I’d known you back then. I remembered you kept your old cheerleading outfit in the trunk in the attic. So, I got it and the thing put it on.”

“I decided not to kill you,” Cynthia said. “Why waste bullets on a lunatic? I shoulda listened to my father, the neighbors, the pastor, and the guy at the Safeway checkout counter. They all knew about you.”

“They were right. I’m no good. But I can change. Let me finish telling you what happened.”

“Might as well hear the rest. By the way, your friend’s awfully quiet. What’s your name, you filthy whore?”

A beautiful voice said, “Gribble.”

“I see what you mean about her voice. A real Siren, she is. How much does she get for a quickie?”

Ignoring the question, Harry said, “So there it was, wearing your cheerleader outfit, looking like a duplicate of you at seventeen. It's beauty got to me. I couldn’t help myself. I picked it up and carried it to the bedroom. I thought I was gonna…well…then reality struck. ‘This is a giant praying mantis,’ I said to myself. ‘What you wanna do is unnatural. What if you end up fathering a giant praying mantis? The whole world will scream for your blood.’ So, I just put it in bed, because it said it was tired, and that’s why it’s in our bed. Then I went to the kitchen and made a salami sandwich. After that, I went outside to catch some flies for it, because that’s what praying mantises eat. So, right before you came into the bedroom, I had just sat down on the bed to give it the flies. Have you noticed that I’m fully dressed?”

“That’s the most bizarre thing I ever heard. Actually, I ain’t mad anymore. That doesn’t mean I ain’t gonna file for divorce. Hey, Floozie, get outta my bed. Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna shoot you.”

The bed covers flew off, revealing the bed’s occupant.

“Good lord! I can’t believe my eyes. I forgot how beautiful I was when I was a teen. This is amazing. Hold on a minute. Let me get my camera.”

Cynthia took dozens of photos, asking her duplicate to pose differently each time. Then she said, “Listen, Honey. Let me show you how we used to cheer for the team. Can you kick your left leg up high? Good. Can you say, rah-rah-shish- boom-bah?”

The duplicate imitated Cynthia perfectly.

“This is amazing,” Cynthia said. “Can you duplicate anybody?”

The thing nodded.

“Permanently?” Cynthia asked.

The thing nodded again.

Cynthia shot Harry in the head. She and the duplicate buried him in the back yard.

When both jumped into bed, Cynthia sighed deeply and said, “I always wanted to sleep with Tom Cruise.”

"Illusion"
Copyright: © 2009 Michael A. Kechula

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Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in eight contests and placed in seven others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards four times. His stories have been published by 114 magazines and 30 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperback available at www.amazon.com.

Jebidiah Clancy trudged along the sodden road. Large raindrops fell from the swirling grey sky above. The soles of his boots flopped with a slap after every weary step. Each footfall pulled the soles a little further backwards. Coarse leather stitching stretched taut and broke from the strain. His boots no longer offered protection from the rocky roads he treaded upon. His toes poked from his woolen socks through holes opened by his thick, untrimmed toenails. His once blue uniform was sun-baked and faded to Confederate grey. As if the colors, or anything else, mattered to him anymore.

He used his rifle mostly as a walking stick. That was just about all it was good for. The un-oiled mechanisms had broken down long ago and ammunition was too hard to come by. He maintained the bayonet's razor-sharp edge, and that was all he needed. The blade stained black by the blood of an uncounted legion of lives. He enjoyed releasing souls from this hell.

Underneath the tight grey locks of his shabby chest-length beard, a necklace rattled. Strung along a leather cord like beads were a number of small sun-bleached bones. The bones struck against each other as he walked. They rang out a sound as empty as his heart.

He thought of the eyes of the dying. How they gloss over after that final breath. A hint of a smile colors their faces as their facial muscles relax. Once the body lets the soul free, it can rest, no longer burdened by the battles of this world or the unceasing internal struggles of humanity.

His own struggle had ended long ago. He had made a deal with Old Scratch. When that old devil had come calling, Jebidiah hadn’t given it a second thought. Not after what the old goat had offered him.

One more night...

One more night and even after all he'd experienced since, he felt it was worth it. He had been widowed young and lost all feeling without her anyways. Just one more night with his sweet Betty and one chance to make amends, for leaving her to go off to fight in the infernal war, leaving her to die alone in childbirth alongside the son he'd never see. He had talked about duty and honor when he signed his papers to fight. Caught up in the patriotic swell, focused on what he thought were the bigger, grander things he lost sight of what mattered most to him. The one thing worth fighting for: love.

He had one more night of tenderness with Betty. One night to tell her he was sorry, and then the morning broke through the mist. He found himself alone with nowhere to go except forward.

So he walked forward into an eternal daylight, never to know the solace of night again. Rain pelted him eternally, globules of concentrated goosebumps splashing down in a chilling torrent. He walked through his life down a road with no beginning or end -- an unchanging nowhere.

The sun set and rose, but night remained elusive, just out of his weakened grasp. He had his one night and understood he'd spend eternity paying off the tab.
Like any worker, even in the most menial of task, he was able to find some pleasure. He found it in that final moment, watching the soul float away like a red leaf in November pulled free from a tree to be caught up in a dust devil dancing across a dying field while the promise of winter blew a soft whisper warning of the chill to come.

Yes, Jebidiah found some pleasure in his labor, but it wasn't that he liked the killing. It was quite the contrary. However, he did enjoy helping others find that something he was damned never to experience himself: release.

He walked past battlefields, beyond cannon-blasts, felt the searing heat of musket balls and bullets whistling past -- and sometimes directly through -- him. Bayonets clashed. The war raged on: a wall of sound, a cacophony of chaos to all of mankind, but music to the unseen demons dancing through the carnage.

The dying wounded saw the spiritual battle transposed over the physical. They saw the angels singing for mercy while the demons prodded those fighting with prongs, encouraging the bloodshed.

Jebidiah worked here, between worlds with one foot in the grave. He collected the souls of the dying in a knapsack, paying an unshrinking debt, parcel by parcel.

"Soulless"
Copyright: © 2009 T.J. McIntyre

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T.J. McIntyre has seen his short fiction and poetry published in numerous publications including recent appearances in Everyday Weirdness, Ruthless Peoples Magazine, and Scifaikuest. He is a member of various writing organizations, including the Science Fiction Poetry Association (SFPA), and serves as a moderator for the Lobo Luna writing community on LiveJournal. Until earlier this year, he published Southern Fried Weirdness, an anthology and web zine celebrating speculative fiction and poetry with a Southern perspective. He lives in a busy household in the muggy heart of rural Alabama with his wife, two young sons, an aging Doberman mix, five tiger barbs, and three salt-and-pepper catfish. The anthology, Toe Tags, includes his short story, "Grief."

“It was his fault,” Kevin said to his dad.

“You shot the BB gun. There’s a good chance he’ll lose the eye.”

“Not my problem. He was stupid. He jumped in front of me,” said Kevin.

Kevin sat on the front porch. His head hung low. His forehead dripped sweat onto the old wooden steps. He would not be made to feel bad for that idiot getting his head in the way of target practice. That night, his father gave him a tanning that left his backside streaked shades of pink. Kevin’s face was a red storm of anger, but he would not be broken. He didn’t cry and refused to apologize to Jake.

Jake had four separate surgeries. The doctors tried everything to save the eye.

Kevin would not say a word to Jake, but when no one was looking he’d steal a peek. His eye drooped and oozed clear thick snot; it made Kevin sick. He wanted to tell Jake to at least wear a patch or bandage on the vile thing.

The following summer, Kevin saw a moving van across the street at Jake’s house. He felt grateful he no longer had to look at that disgusting dripping eye.

Before the van pulled away, Jake knocked on Kevin’s door. Kevin sat silent in the living room.

“I may be half-blind, but I know you’re in there,” Jake screamed.

“One day...”

Kevin sat frozen in the ratty armchair.

* * *

Fifteen years later, Kevin’s son was born.

* * *

Kevin gasped; his face blanched when he saw the empty socket.

"The Eye"

Copyright: © 2009 Amy Corbin
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Amy Corbin has been published in filling Station, The Cynic, Ascent Aspirations, Shine, Every Day Poets, Every Day Fiction, Haruah: A Breath of Heaven, Ignavia Press, Flask and Pen,The Battered Suitcase, Flashes in the Dark, Short Story Library, Smokebox, Writers' Stories, Wanderings, and Boston Literary Magazine. She likes to drink strong coffee and sing in her car.