I probably deserved it when the pyramid of sweaty cheerleaders toppled upon me, crushing my rib-cage in a flurry of bone and scrunchies and tartan up-skirts--so many plastic pompoms pummeling my face and crushing my throat from the weight--a mass of perky prettiness screaming in that way that is sort of still cheering. -- From award-winning horror junkies to up-and-coming bizarro masterminds, experimental gurus to old school Weird fictioneers, this anthology series continues to bring the best that flash fiction has to offer. The fog is red like an exit light. It tastes like dry ice and rotting things. The winds blow it toward you. It howls into your body, knocks you down, carries blackened detritus into the yawning sky. Stoplights tip from concrete cradles, clamor to the ground. It could be beautiful, but it just fucking isn't.