Jar of Eyeballs

By Alec Thompson

Jack slammed the door and stomped to the street. In a childhood fit, feeling out of control and unnoticed, he flung his jar of eyeballs into the sky. It hung suspended for a long moment—then plunged.

Glass shattered, sending plastic eyes scattering across the black-tarred road. They rolled to lazy stops, gravity working its intractable will. The tar began to boil and writhe, sucking the orbs below and tumbling Jack to the sidewalk.

A huge, bulbous shape erupted, eyeballs clinging to its surface. The monster turned on the boy, snarling. A hundred eyes gazed down at Jack, awaiting his command.