I’ve been threatening you all with Zombie Apocalypse, using it at the same time as my example for what the trend wants, and the one topic I simply can’t bring myself to write about.
Franklee the Zombie leaned back in his high-back armchair, cradling his hiball glass of formaline. A lone eyeball bobbed around in it, ogling him every few seconds. He watched how the ex-teenagers lurched and wobbled to the loud rap music that blared out of the patched-together sound centre.
Ah, children! He smiled indulgently but carefully, so as not to pull any of the stitches his faithful wife Gerundia (who was two millennia older than him and needed the expensive high-mileage type embalming balm instead of formaline) had stitched where his cheek had ripped the last time he’d split his sides laughing. She had properly bawled him out for it too; splitting your sides was a really messy business.
Gerundia knew what she was doing. He should perhaps invest into that expensive balm too; some of it was based on beeswax but he didn’t know the whole formula.
“Dad!” His young daughter Alexia (well, relatively young, she had died with him and the rest of the family three decades back in that car crash) lurched towards him. “The guys want to go on a human raid!”
Franklee glared at her from his single eye. “It’s nearly curfew. Don’t you think it’s a bit late to go out scaring the pre-dead?”
“Dad, you’re glaring again!”
He reached up and adjusted his remaining eyeball, and picked the other one out of his drink and popped it back into place. It felt better. “Thanks.”
“We’ll be fast,” she promised. “We won’t go far. And we’ll take Homer.”
“Oh, alright. Don’t be caught. I like the way you look at the moment, I don’t want to have to collect all sorts of spare parts again.”
“Promise, Daddy.” And she staggered off happily to spread the news.
A short while later a group of sixteen teenage zombies plus one well-preserved pet mammoth teetered and wobbled up the road in search of pre-dead (the PC term for alive humans) to scare witless.
Franklee sighed and gathered himself up out of his comfort chair, tottered over to the music station and switched it over to a sentimental waltz. He performed an asymmetrical bow to the elegant lady clad in a swirling red dress who had emerged from the shadows.
“Care to dance, my darling Gerundia?”
If Google can, P’kaboo can:
Mercury Silver – Short stories by 8 P’kaboo authors
Excerpt (“A Tale of Heroes”, D Pearce)
These heroes go way back. Back along the mists of time. Before bog-cleaners, pink shirts, and boxes of chocolates. Back before the Days of Yore, Our day, My day and Them Were The Days. In fact, back before Days of Our Lives. Yes, this tale is that old. So, dear reader, envisage the scene I am about to unfold.
In a clearing in a forest a short distance from what appears to be a rocky outcrop, lies a huge boulder. Pale morning sunlight has just begun to penetrate the canopy. Birds are a-twitter; small noses are poking out of burrows or from behind thickets. Flowers are flowering, buds are budding and leaves are… staying where they are. – See more at: http://pkaboo.net/mercsilver.html