by Unknown
Above me, the timbers that made my walls snapped, windows broke, and the kitchen tipped to one side.
Everything slid around and slammed into each other. My cases of hot peppers crashed to the floor and shattered, sauce and salt dumped from wall to wall as if I’d fell inside a washing machine.
When it stopped shaking briefly, I staggered toward the front door with a flashlight.
In the beam of light, a gigantic eye on the end of a gray pole appeared.
I collapsed in the living room. Big as the broken picture window, the huge eye stared at me.
My house lifted off the ground. Light bulbs exploded. Goo slimed through the windows.
Everything was tumbling. In the putrid darkness, the couch slammed me against the ceiling and then a table flattened me against the picture wall. With a horrendous roar, the monster spit out my house—
Or at least, that’s what the police and medics pieced together after they revived me. Minus one monster.
The slug had shriveled into a pile of dried leather. Dead.
Who knew my salted hot chili peppers could save planet Earth?
Zoltan Varga keeps busy by writing sci-fi and mystery novels for adults and kids. A research grant to document the Leonardo Da Vinci exhibition followed an MFA in art history. She has received many awards for art, poetry and short stories. Mountain climbing brought close encounters with rare orchids, saprophytes, butterflies, voles, and (giant) slugs.
HOUSE CALL
JENNIFER WORD
Lydia Grange first saw it when she wheeled out in her chair to watch Tilda leave. The red Taurus disappeared around the bend, and there it was, stepping out from behind the trees; a dark, shadow-figure, all in black. Even its head was covered, reminding Lydia of an executioner’s hood. What did they call that? A Junco? She shivered in her chair as the figure raised its hand, palm up. Gasping, she turned and wheeled herself back into her home.
The next day, she told Tilda, who gasped as well. “At your age? You know what my family would tell you? Death must be coming for you.”
“I may be old, but if it’s Death calling, I’ll be damned.”
Later, while watching Tilda leave, again, the thing stepped out from behind a tree on the furthest corner of the lawn.
Closer.
She’d been confined to the wheelchair three years, her congestive heart failure keeping stores of oxygen tanks in every room. She was 72, but determined to see a birthday that began with an ‘8’. Mr. Grange had been a very fine banker and left a hefty sum behind; enough to keep the secluded lake house and Tilda: Lydia’s private nurse.
It was an isolated life for Lydia Grange. Tilda was her sole means of social interaction, and she called every afternoon. Lydia’s daughter, Samantha, had ‘come out’ to her mother after her father’s death, and they’d had a falling out. Sam was named in the will, however. Mr. Grange would roll over in his grave if Lydia had cut out their only child. If she lived long enough, however, she might deplete the tidy sum Sam was to inherit.
“I’ll leave nothing for the deviant, disgusting dyke,” Lydia thought with smug satisfaction. In her head, she saw her daughter rollicking naked with another woman, both lathered in sweat. She saw her daughter’s head disappear between the woman’s thighs and felt revulsion.
***
At dusk she found herself investigating the screech of an owl. Peering out the living room window, middle of the drive, in fading light, she saw it; the dark figure.
Closer.
After dinner, Lydia couldn’t help herself. Again, she looked out her window and gasped. The dark figure stood in her front yard. Her heart pounded and she wheeled to her tank, sipping sweet, canned air.
Before bed, she dared look out the window one more time. Her heart froze. The figure stood directly at her window. They were only inches apart.
Death!
Fear paralyzed her. She choked in struggling breaths.
Death reached its hand out and hit the window, palm flat.
Thud.
She convulsed; went into cardiac arrest and slumped in her chair—dead.
***
The figure entered the house and stood over Lydia. Caressing Lydia’s cheek, it removed the black hood and smiled.
“Thanks for everything, Mom. I’m glad you met my fiancée, Tilda, before you went.”
Jennifer Word resides in Southern California. She has written six novels, dozens of short stories, two screenplays and numerous poems. She holds a B.A. in Psychology from Pepperdine University. When Jennifer was nine, she picked up the novel IT, by Stephen King and began reading. She hasn't stopped since. She loves horror, science fiction and fantasy.
SPEED DIAL
JOHN SCHROEDER
You have five new messages. She sighed, pushed ‘play.’
Friday, 6:13 p.m.
“Susan, I’m so, so sorry. Please pick up.”
Friday, 6:15 p.m.
“Susan?” Pause. “Please, I love you.”
Friday, 7:05 p.m.
“Susan! I can’t live without you. I know you’re there. Please pick up!”
Friday, 10:35 p.m.
“Rachel was just a cheap slut,” the voice slurred, sick with pleading. “If you don’t pick up I’ll . . . I’ll . . . Susan! Susan!”
Saturday, 12:25 a.m.
“Susan!” Screaming now A muffled explosion, then silence.
A slow smile spread across Rachel’s face as she hit the “delete” button.
John Schroeder is a Derringer finalist who spends his free time on a commuter train writing stories. On occasion, he has speed dialed the wrong number.
THE OTHER SIDE
JEREMIAH DUTCH
Jethro was seated in the chair, straps securing his chest, lap and legs. The superintendent asked if he had any last words.
“Yeah,” said Jethro. “Kiss my ass.” He winced. Bravo, so original . . . Exactly what John Wayne Gacy said before they stuck the poison in him. Somehow it just slipped out. He’d wanted to say something that would make the newspapers, that’d be on the lips of everyone in the country by tomorrow morning; not some piddling, pissant cliché!
This was it.
A leather mask descended over his face, ostensibly to prevent his eyeballs from popping out, but also, he suspected, so that they wouldn’t have to see his suffering firsthand.
“Jethro White, electricity shall now pass through your body until you are dead.”
The executioner threw the switch.
Every muscle in Jethro’s body spasmed and contracted. Blood trickled down his throat, out of his nose, mixing with the foam seeping between his clenched teeth. He hoped they saw, that it trickled down below his mask to stain his shirt. Choke on it! Choke on it!
And then it was over. Something cold padded against his chest. He imagined the medical examiner shaking his head, silently declaring him still alive.
The switch was thrown again, the cold feeling replaced by intense heat. He smelled his own flesh burning, and something else . . . sulfur?
Finally the spasms ceased, but the terrible burning sensation continued. He opened his eyes. Had his mask fallen off somehow? Or had it burned away as his flesh caught fire? Ha, he hoped so, hoped they saw every last blister blossom . . . wait a minute, what happened? Where were they? The stern, judgmental faces, all hate and righteous satisfaction, were gone. Now he was surrounded by familiar smiles: Albert Fish, Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy . . . even Aileen Wuornos!
Welcome to the party! The voice echoed as he realized they were not smiling at all, but grimacing in pain as the flames of Hell licked their bodies, as they would his own for the rest of eternity.
Jeremiah Dutch lives in Yokohama, Japan with his wife and daughter.
THIRTEEN SECONDS
GEORGE MORROW
Statistics tormented Manget’s brain on the morning of his execution: fourteen feet, height of the guillotine; seventieth of a second, time for eighty-eight pound blade to fall; two one-hundredths of a second, ti
me it takes the blade to decapitate Manget; thirteen seconds—. The warden folded down Manget’s collar and tied his hands behind his back.
Executions take place at first light, so that Parisian photographers can take pictures. “Madame Guillotine” stands waiting for Manget, her wooden frame stained with the blood of her previous victims. In the custom of condemned men, Manget kisses the guillotine.
“My lawyer says he will get me a reprieve,” says Manget, to Monsieur de Paris. “He is on his way, now. We will have a glass of champagne, and laugh about this.” Monsieur de Paris, the executioner, is a small man with sad eyes. He says nothing as he and two assistants strap Manget to the bascule board and tilt him forward on his stomach. Manget’s heart pounds in terror as they slip his head into the yoke-shaped lunette, rendering him helpless. A zinc bucket below the guillotine stands ready to catch his severed head.
The crowd shouts at him. “Die with courage!” screams a young woman. Manget wonders if she knows him. He remembers his life as a boulevardier. His handsome face captivated women. He dressed in a black dinner jacket, white tie and lapel gardenia. He treated them to the finest food and wines, and graced countless boudoirs with his presence; but only once left a bitter memory.
It was the rich, fat Madame Fromoli who held his personal note. When police found her dead, they arrested him, and a court convicted him on circumstantial evidence. Several attempts at a reprieve failed, but Pomplau, his lawyer, was not discouraged. He had scheduled another hearing for this morning. He should be here soon. He should be here within seconds.
Thirteen seconds. That statistic terrifies him more than death. Guillotine audiences told of decapitated heads blinking their eyes and casting indignant looks thirteen seconds after the blade struck. The warden had assured Manget that any movement of the head came from automatic reflex action; Manget would not be conscious. Still, Manget feared it.
Manget’s senses numb. A feeling of complete hopelessness overwhelms him, and all sights and sounds become blurred. An eternity passes. “Damn this! Do it!” he shouts. Suddenly, he hears Pomplau’s voice. “Reprieve! I’ve won a reprieve! Release him!”
For an instant, silence reigns; then, Manget opens his eyes and sees the crowd dispersing. Why, he wonders? His lawyer is crying. Did he hear correctly? Did he obtain a reprieve? Why the sadness? Manget looks at the guillotine and sees a headless body in it. Whose body?
My god! The legend proved true! Thirteen seconds pass, and Manget still lives! The executioner had already released the blade. The warden holds Manget’s severed head in his hands. Manget smiles and says, “I’ll have that glass of champagne, and tell the ladies I’ll see them soon.”
George Morrow is a short story writer living in Salem, Oregon. He has had stories published in Fictitious Magazine, Aphelion Shorts, Dark Gothic Resurrected, Brain Soup Magazine, Danse Macabre, Pill Hill Press, Chatterbrew, Thrillers Killers n Chillers, Conceit Magazine, Macabre Cadaver, Necrology Shorts, Enigma Magazine and Oregon Writers Colony Bulletin.
LIVING THINGS
STEPHEN D. ROGERS
How many living things have you killed?
How many people? How many animals? How many plants?
How many mosquitoes have you swatted, spiders have you crushed, ants have you tread?
Imagine all the death you’ve accumulated.
Did you think there wouldn’t be a price?
Did you imagine you could get away with your murderous behavior forever?
You’re sitting pretty at the moment–high and mighty, free and proud.
How many living things have you killed?
You are a collector of death.
And Death is coming to collect.
Stephen D. Rogers is the author of A Dictionary of Made-Up Languages, co-author of A Miscellany of Murder, and the award-winning writer of more than 700 shorter pieces. His website, www.StephenDRogers.com, includes a list of new and upcoming titles as well as other timely information.
LAST MEAL
RACHEL GREEN
The body, as far as Detective Chief-inspector White could tell from three weeks of decomposition and considerable insect activity, was that of Charles McGoughlin, aged thirty-eight, according to his driving licence, and an organ donor. His abdomen was punctured with multiple holes, each looking like the exit wound a bullet might make and sections of his skin had been peeled away in strips three inches long by a quarter-inch wide, as if someone had used a vegetable peeler on him.
He squatted next to the Chief Pathologist. “What do you reckon, Eric?”
“Death from internal bleeding and septicaemia. Murder, definitely.” Eric handed him the man’s wallet. “Have a look in there.”
White opened it. “Three hundred cash. Gold credit card. Not a robbery then.” He looked up. “What am I supposed to see?”
“There’s a receipt tucked behind the credit card.”
White pulled it out. “The Furaha Mla Restaurant? That’s the Taste of Africa place on Millside, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and one of their specialities is nyuki. Killer bee grubs in a honey glaze.”
“Ew. What’s that got to do with his death?”
Eric pointed at one of the holes with his scalpel. “The grubs are supposed to be cooked, not ready to hatch and chew their way out of a stomach.”
White took several deep breaths. “Poor sod. What are these lines in his flesh then?”
“That’s where worker bees have harvested skin for a hive.” Eric looked up. “I’d check the loft very carefully, if I were you.” He packed away his tools. “Join me for lunch?”
White nodded. “I fancy African.”
Rachel Green is a forty-something writer from Derbyshire, England. She lives with her two partners and three dogs. She has written a succession of novels in the mythic town of Laverstone.www.leatherdyke.co.uk is a portal site to her books and blogs. She can also be found on Facebook (Rachel Green) and Twitter (@leatherdykeuk).
SUCH A SHINY PRETTY BLADE
BLANE ROGERS
The scalpel slipped last night, skimming across the flesh of the middle finger on my left hand. Blood oozed from the scratch, although the wound was slight. I tasted its saltiness, but not before a drop fell—as if suspended in time—onto the corpse I was slicing into. I watched as it landed and mingled with the blood still damp on her flesh. The soft warmth of her body lingered on, and her blood still flowed like rivulets of rainwater.
It was hard to bring her here. She was hesitant to come, at least while alive. They all were, but I was able to change their minds.
I remember this one from grade school.
Jenny was so pretty . . . until that day she laughed at me like all the rest. “I bet you didn’t think I’d remember, did you Jenny? You’re not so pretty now, are you?”
“JOHNNY!”
God, how I hate that shrill voice of hers.
“JOHNNY! What are you doing down there in the basement?”
“NOTHING, MA, stop yelling at me!” I wish I could close my eyes and make her disappear.
“Were you up again all night, Johnny?”
“NO MA—please leave me alone.” I think someday I’m really going to lose it.
“JOHNNY! I’m cooking breakfast. Get washed up and get your butt up here.”
“SHUT UP, MA!” The scalpel I’m holding is so pretty and shiny. I could run my fingers along its smoothness all day. It should have been her here instead of you, Jenny. Should have been her instead of all the others.
It’s not too late, Johnny, there’s still time.
“You always had such a sweet, soft voice, Jenny. I’m sorry I slashed you up so. The blood is everywhere.”
Johnny, never mind that. It doesn’t matter any longer. You needto do this. Take your scalpel and go upstairs. It will only take a moment, and then it will all be over. Then you’ll finally be at peace with yourself.
“JOHNNY! Get up here or I’m tossing your breakfast to the dogs.”
“I’d like to toss s
omething to the dogs.”
What are you waiting for, Johnny—she’s right upstairs. Take your lovely scalpel and put an end to her misery and yours. It’s such a fine blade, Johnny. Don’t you like the feel of its sharpness?
Yes, it’s so delicate and fragile. I love the way it cuts and makes them bleed. “Will you wait here for me, Jenny?”
I’m not going anywhere, Johnny.
“JOHNNY! Get up here right now!”
“I’ll be right back, Jenny. YES, MA—I’m coming! I have something for you.”
Blane Rogers lives in the foothills of the North Cascades in Washington State with his three cats and Harley, the dog. When not working, he spends his time with a few colonies of bees and writing the odd piece of weird fiction.
ROAD DIARY OF A U.S. ARMY GRUNT
JOSEPH RUBAS
July 10–We’ve been on the road three days or so, trucking right down Highway 10 like an armored column from one of those old WWII newsreels. It’s pretty wild. We’ve got two personnel carriers, three jeeps, three Humvees, a tank, a chopper, a Dade County wrecker, a few army pick-ups, and three or four RVs. I don’t know how much gas we’re using, but it’s probably a lot. The power cut out a few days ago, so the gas stations aren’t pumping anymore. When we run out, we’re fucked.
We’ve stopped for the night now.
I’ve been trying to write down some of my experiences since the beginning of the outbreak, but I’m also scared, you know? We have a fence around us, and armed guards all along the perimeter, but I’ve seen what those ghouls can do . . .
July 11–We moved out at dawn and made pretty good time before noon. It was already ninety degrees by sunrise, and by lunchtime the sky was black. Thunder crashed in the distance over the Gulf—scared us good. We stopped for about two hours until it blew over. I bet a tornado touched down somewhere.
