Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror (5 page)

His liver-spotted hands clenched and he strained mightily against the sheer black stockings that bound his wrists and feet to each corner of his four-poster bed, but she’d done her job well while he was in his usual evening drunken stupor. There was no escape. Madeleine worked the first thorn into his penis, and smiled as blood began to flow. He was rigid with pain, body shaking, sweat popping from his skin.

As she forced the second of the seven thorns inside, Madeleine slowly twisted the stem.

“Here’s a flower to repay you for the one you took from me so long ago, Daddy, when I was seven.”

John Irvine
was born in Lower Hutt, New Zealand in 1940, but travelled widely in Australia and Papua New Guinea thereafter for 29 years. John lives with his writer/poet wife on New Zealand’s picturesque Coromandel Peninsula. His website can be seen at: www.cooldragon.co.nz where you may find links to his various publications.

THE BURLY MEN OF MAINE

ERIC DIMBLEY

The burly men of Maine meander the congested aisles of the pharmacy. The impenetrable boredom is even louder than the overhead Muzak. The men are not decked in garland and holly, but rather flannel shirts and bright orange caps. They are staring at fancy scented soaps (like the
city girls
use) and camouflage Snuggies. Their collective minds ramble beneath the surface of their tedium.

Christmas is tomorrow, Ol’ Hoss. Better get the old lady somethin’ special.

Chuck and Tommy mumble, grumble, and bumble their way through twisted gaps in logic, refreshing their assurances of previous marital failings. “She hasn’t touched my tooter in four years, anyhow. She don’t deserve a new clock radio if you’re askin’ me. Doesn’t even deserve that fancy coconut shampoo she’s always yammerin’ about,” groans Chuck.

Tommy nods in agreement. Since his second heart attack, he has come to view all human interactions through that cynical eye of the
I’ll Be Dead Soon, Anyway
keyhole. “Same here, old friend. My winkie don’t even work no more,” says Tommy.

“You don’t use it, ya’ lose it. Best to give her a shotgun shell to the mouth. Or cut her tongue out with an X-Acto knife. We can mount her bouffant and head right next to that doe I pegged last winter,” says Chuck, and Tommy realizes that he’s not kidding. And that’s a good thing. The chasm between them is closing.

“How about we trade up?” asks Tommy, shocked at the words that come from his mouth. Tommy puts down the chamomile soap, glaring at his friend, gauging his reaction. The men around them shuffle and mumble and clear their throats. If only they were so bold, to put down the mascara and tampons. To take their lives back.

Chuck notes, “Like that movie with Danny DeVito and the Jew?”

“
Throw Momma From The Train.
Yeah that’s the one, ol’ Hoss.”

Neither has ever heard of
Strangers On A Train
, as directed by Alfred Hitchcock, but they both adore Danny DeVito’s every-man characters.

A man next to them, Harry Johnson, overhears their conversation. He smirks, nods, and goes back to his observance of the new set of nail clippers intended for his wife Dorothy.
Good for them
, he thinks.

“You bring her over for whiskey and eggnog, tomorrow night. I’ll do my business on her,” Tommy says.

“A’yep. And how about yours?” Chuck wonders aloud.

“We’re goin’ huntin’ in the morning, along Buxton Pond. Maybe you can hide out in my tree stand, surprise the shit out of her.”

“A’yep. Shake on it?”

They shake hands. Tommy places the camouflage Snuggie back on the shelf. She won’t be needing it anymore. Chuck sniffs the scented bar of soap. It doesn’t smell so bad, but that doesn’t make it less silly. He puts it back on the shelf. Tommy and Chuck exit the pharmacy, leaving in their wake a series of jealous burly men of Maine.

Eric Dimbleby
lives in Maine with his wife and three children. His debut novel
Please Don’t Go
was released by Pill Hill Press in 2011. For more information, visit www.ericdimbleby.com.

MOTHERHOOD

CINDY LITTLE

The kitchen smelled of the pine-scented cleaner I’d just mopped the floor with, and downstairs I could hear my daughter rattling the safety gate and shouting, “Momma!” Hell called to me from the back of my refrigerator. Reaching in I grabbed the apple juice and put it on the counter.

I suppose I had originally harbored sit-com visions of motherhood. I imagined waking up each morning to a clean,
quiet
little cherub. I dreamed I’d reach into her crib, hold her, change her, feed her and take her for a walk. All the other mothers would faun over my perfect little girl.

And I loved being pregnant. I remember sitting cross-legged on the floor of the nursery, leaning over my big belly and painstakingly putting together the solid maple changing table. The room, when finished, was perfect. The pad for the crib had bunnies on it with a matching blanket I casually draped across the rocking chair, where I imagined I would nurse my perfect baby.

When reality hit, it came like a sledgehammer to the jaw. Fourteen hours of excruciatingly painful labor produced a wailing bundle of flailing limbs. I thought, “That’s it? I spent over half of a day feeling like my insides were being ripped out for this squalling mass?”

My baby was temperamental from the start.

If the cat rubbed against her leg, she’d whine and loud noises would send her little starfish hands flying to her ears. She was also dull. I’d fantasized that she would be inquisitive and curious. I envisioned us taking walks and discovering shiny rocks, small toads, and brightly colored autumn leaves. She was interested in none of these things.

Worst of all she was messy. Before she was born, my home was perfectly kept. A speck of dust couldn’t be found on anything—even the window shutters. All of that changed once she started walking. Other mothers would tell me how excited they were when their toddlers started pulling up on the furniture. All I thought about were her sticky fingerprints all over my mahogany coffee table.

I had no idea during my pregnancy that I was volunteering myself for a life sentence of misery and filth. Reaching into the cupboard above the stove, I pulled out a clean bottle, nipple, and twist cap. When I turned to grab the apple juice and fill her bottle I noticed that I’d also left the pine cleaner on the counter. The golden clear colors of the two liquids were nearly identical.

Her pleas from downstairs were getting peevish.

“Coming!” I shouted as I filled her bottle and screwed on the cap with a genuine smile two years in the making.

Cindy Little
is an aspiring horror writer, a research consultant with a Ph.D. in educational psychology, a wife, a mother, a ghost hunter, and a lover of good coffee, gelato, camping, dogs, reading well-written stories in any genre, and anything or anyone that can make her stop and truly marvel.

GREASE MONKEY

JOSEPH ROBERT DESYLVA

Damn car . . . come on baby, come on!
Just a little farther to the off ramp . . . The car sputtered off the expressway, the sign at the bottom of the ramp reading:
Ace’s Auto Repair
. Both sides of the road leading to “Ace’s Place” were littered with the carcasses of decrepit automobiles.

A man sat sipping a beer in a chair outside the doorway when Glenn pulled up, choking and spluttering to a stop. Ace watched the gentleman get out of his car, approaching with an antagonistic swagger.

“Are you a mechanic?” Glenn asked.

“Nah, I’m a bird watcher. What can I do for you, man? Your car doesn’t sound so good.”

“Can you fix it? I’m in a hurry.”

“Depends on how much you got. I only take cash.” Ace spat chewing tobacco at his feet.

“How much we talking? I’ve got credit cards too–”

“Don’t take no credit cards. Only cash. I’ll have to look under the hood before I can make an estimate.”

Glenn looked around. “Is there a coffee shop or something around here?”

“Yep, if you feel like trampin’ about five miles up the expressway. Start her up, let me listen.”

Glenn started the car, which immediately began to smoke and sputter. Ace told him to shut it off.

“Can you fix it?”

“Yup, just a small adjustment to the distributor should do the trick . . . okay, start it up.”

The car purred like a kitten.
Thank Christ!
Now he could get back on the road and out of this shit-splat piece of nowhere.

“How much do I owe you?” Glenn asked.

“I figure about $250 should do the trick.”.

“I don’t have that much on me. How about $200?”

Always the hustler. He could’ve paid at least double that with a little under the dashboard scavenging.

Ace ducked back under the hood, loosening the brake line which began to dribble like a pricked artery.

“Give me the money.” Ace held out his hand. Glenn smiled broadly, slipping him two crumpled hundred-dollar bills before shifting the car into gear.

Joseph Robert deSylva
is attending college at the age of 57 and considers himself a broke English major. He lives in Santa Rosa, California and likes to write Rod Serling-type shorts.

A MODERN PROBLEM

ROB SMALES

Liam stumbled backwards as the knife ripped through the air directly in front of him, his hands raised in what he hoped was a calming manner.

“Please—stay back!”

Undeterred, the hulking figure advanced, red-rimmed eyes and weaving blade reflecting the faint glow from the streetlamp at the end of the alley. Knowing that he had to take control of the situation, Liam drew himself up to his full 5’3” height and tried to sound authoritative, the way cops do on TV.

“Dude, I’m with the neighborhood watch, and I—”

He jerked his head back, and the keen edge missed his eyes by mere inches.

“The only watch
I
need is that watch on your wrist, motherf—”

Liam backpedaled furiously to avoid another thrust.

Omigod, I’m gonna die,
he thought frantically as his buttocks slammed against the alley wall behind him.

Nowhere to run.

“You’ve got to listen to me,” Liam begged, hands held up in submission, “Junkies are
dying
, someone is
killing
you guys! There’s a modern-day Jack the Ripper, and I’m just trying to help–”

Pain, hot and white, burned across his palm as the knife cut flesh. Liam cried out and hugged his hand to his stomach, blood splashing to the ground as he dropped to his knees.

Jesus, my hand
—

“The only help I want is your watch and wallet, man,” growled the assailant as he towered over Liam, menacingly wielding the bloody knife. “I need a fix, and you’re gonna . . . ”

The huge junkie’s voice seemed to fade, obscured by a sound. Liam thought it was the rushing in his ears, but it somehow changed. It was the sound of an exhalation, long and drawn-out, as if someone had been holding an impossibly large breath. Then he saw the lights.

Behind and slightly above the junkie, two red discs illuminated, as if someone was blowing on coals. Seeing the discs, Liam froze; his mind going blank. There was fear, but it seemed so far away . . .

“Are you
listening
to me?” the junkie snarled.

He lunged forward, only to be yanked backwards into shadow, like a small dog at the end of his leash. One booted foot thrust into view even as the rest of the man was pulled into the gloom. The junkie’s foot kicked, twitching spasmodically in time to a crunching sound. Then a slurping sound. Then a sucking--

Suddenly the discs he had seen were right in front of him. Eyes!
They're eyes!
he thought. Sharp talons of ice gripped his throat, pressing him to the wall, while his wounded hand was raised.

“Yesss . . . ”
Rancid breath washed over his face with the sepulchral voice, and a tongue
(so cold!)
lapped against his slashed palm. The grip tensed.

“What!? This blood is clean . . . useless!”

Liam was flung across the alley where he lay like a thing broken, eyes open but unseeing. Mind still thinking . . .

Eyes! They’re eyes . . .

They’re eyes . . .

Eyes . . .

Rob Smales
graduated with a BA in English from Salem State College. Two decades later , after years of people saying he tells a good story, he is trying his hand at writing some of them down. “Playmate Wanted”, which appeared in issue #5 of Dark Moon Digest, was his first time in a print.