Monday, April 29, 2013

The Time Of The Month

 By Grant Wamack

Oh god, she thought with mounting dread, don’t tell me it’s that time of the month. 
    Janet Wallace wanted to close her eyes and drift across the waves of sleep. Yet, she knew that would never happen. Not with the sensation that rattled her mouth. She could put it off, it could wait. No. No this cannot wait she told herself.
    She got out of bed, picked up a pinstriped pillow off the floor and put it back on the bed. Once again she wondered why this was happening. And why exactly did it only happen to women. It was too much to deal with. I did not ask for this she thought.
    She walked into the bathroom and stared at her toes. I hate my feet she thought. I hate them almost as much as I hate this time of the month. Know what? I have had it up to here with complaining, its time to take some action.
    So she jogged back into her room, jumped on her chair and pulled up the internet. After a minute of searching around a variety of search engines she found what she was looking for. A site that found caring homes for your unwanted feet.
    Janet scrambled under her bed, feeling around in the darkness for the appropriate tool. First, her hands felt the old witch’s corpse which was decomposing into the carpet. It brought back fond memories of her youth, snapping broomsticks and murdering witches with her bare hands. She couldn’t remember the last time she choked a witch to death. I hate witches she thought.
    Finally, her hands closed around what she was searching for: her chainsaw.
    She pulled the cord and after a few tugs the chainsaw came to life. She raised it high and brought it down across her ankles. It ripped through the skin easily but she had to use considerable force to cut through the bone and muscle. Blood splattered the walls and furniture a vivid red. She relished the pain, savoring each sharp saber that shot up from her legs and spread to the rest of her body.
    After a while, she collapsed to the ground for she had no feet to support the rest of her body just bloody nubs. She shifted her weight to the chainsaw using it for support as she forced her body to become accustomed to being footless.
    Janet took her bloody feet and shoved them into an old shoebox. Then she pulled out an even bigger box and put the smaller box inside. She felt a tinge of remorse as she realized that she would never see her feet again. A lone tear fell down her cheek.
    With her head held down low, she headed towards the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror. Reluctantly, she opened her mouth wide. Dark shapes clanged to her teeth. Little sounds began to come from her mouth. It wasn’t her voice it was theirs.
    A black oily shape spoke in its oddly deep voice, “I speak for all of us. Please let my people go. We intend no harm great one but if you keep us here any longer we will be forced to take action.”
    Janet sighed, “What kind of action?”
    The dark shape shifted, “Legal action.”
    “You can afford lawyers? I didn’t know that, how exactly do you make cash, living inside my mouth?” she asked curiously.
    “We steal teeth from other mouths and under children’s pillows. Then we sell them to the tooth fairy. I personally hate the prick.” He said.
    “You steal from children? That’s horrible.”
    “We are sorry great one but our environment is a harsh one. We are forced to get by however we can even if that means stealing from children.”
    “I know all of you are sorry but your environment doesn’t give you an excuse to steal from children.”
    “So we should only steal from adults?”
    “No you shouldn’t steal at all you should get jobs. All of you.”
    The dark shapes in her mouth groaned in unison.
    “Don’t give me that. You just can’t sit inside my mouth for the rest of your lives.”
    “But great one you keep us here. We are slaves forever in your debt.”
    “You are not slaves. I don’t keep you here against your will. As a matter of fact I wish all of you would just leave. You have my permission.”
    “But all of us can’t leave. You need someone to worship you at all times so you won’t become forgotten. Gods aren’t meant to be forgotten.”
    “Well maybe I want to be forgotten.”
    The dark shapes took a sharp intake of breath. They were beyond shock. They were shell shocked.
    The dark shape took a second to form his words. “Why would you want to be forgotten? Even a lowly peasant like myself wishes to be remembered among my peers.”
    “Well let’s just say that’s a secret.”
    “So…you want us to leave.”
    “Yes. Leave. Please. I already have enough problems as it is.”
    The dark shapes made a sad face considering that dark shapes have sort of faces. Then one by one, the shapes slipped out of Janet’s mouth slung their bags over their shoulders and left in sorrow.
    “Good Riddance.”

BIO: Grant Wamack writes weird fiction at night and works for the Navy during the day. He has been published at Flashes in the Dark, Everyday Fiction, and 365 Tomorrows among other places. If you would like your mind blown please visit him at

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Bert Turns Into A Potato

 by Rick Claypool

Bert broke his tooth on a noodle. He was eating instant ramen when it happened. He spit in the kitchen sink and blood and little tooth bits came out. He put an ice cube in his mouth and curled up on the couch and put a bag of frozen corn on his face and passed out watching cartoons.

Rose found him like that. She poked his face with the remote control. She replaced the frozen corn with frozen peas and stuffed a wad of paper napkins in his mouth to stop the bleeding.

Weeks later, Bert was putting on his work shirt when his right arm broke off.

He’d thought the shirt had felt too tight and he yanked it hard over his head, and then snap. The arm twitched on the floor, then stopped moving. It looked like something for sale in a Halloween store. There was blood but not as much blood as you would think.

Rose put the arm in a cooler with some cold pop cans and drove Bert to the hospital. In the waiting room she helped him hold a magazine. They read it together, drinking pop.

The doctor failed to save the arm. In the recovery room, she told Bert and Rose the diagnosis. “Root vegetable,” the doctor said. “Maybe yam. Maybe potato. Too early to tell.”

For almost a year before losing his arm, Bert sold lotto tickets and cigarettes behind the counter at a gas station. After losing the arm he didn’t show up at work for weeks.

The day before he was supposed to start work again, a truck hit Bert.

He lost both legs and the other arm. There wasn’t any blood at all. His wounds were starchy and white. He swelled up and the swelling never went away.

Rose provided water and soil for Bert. Some mornings she trimmed the roots that sprouted from his eyes.


There’s this other guy Ned who was Rose’s manager at the grocery store.

Ned was secretly in love with Rose. She knew. He wasn’t weird or creepy about it, so she didn’t mind.

One night Rose met Ned at a bar. They drank beer and complained about working at the grocery store.

Ned invited Rose to come with him to the beach for a few days. He was leaving the next day.

Rose told Ned she needed help digging a hole.

Rose and Ned left the bar and dug a person-sized hole in the courtyard of the apartment complex where Rose and Bert lived.


In the morning, Ned and Rose drove to the beach. They arrived in the afternoon.

They sat under oversized umbrellas and played in the sand. They walked barefoot in the hot sand, then cooled their feet in the ocean.

In the evening, they decided to stay forever.

They found jobs selling brightly colored frozen treats out of wheeled carts they pushed along the boardwalk.


After one bright long day in the sun, Ned’s face was scorched.

That night it was pink like a flower. The next day, it was red like raw beef. After a week, it was purple.

Rose took Ned to the hospital.

In the hospital waiting room, Ned’s face sloughed off. The surface underneath was smooth and purple.

The doctor examined Ned. “Eggplant,” he said.


Bert meanwhile had reached a little green sprout up and out of the soil in the apartment complex courtyard.

The sun was shining on that hot summer day and he could feel it.

BIO: Rick Claypool is a writer and digital rabble rouser living in Pittsburgh. He has a super hero / dystopian novel in the works. For more about Rick, follow @weirdstrug and visit