What went up quickly, now stays down mostly.
In years past every weekend
Was wearing the latest trend.
Now it’s reading through the daily
To see who’s who in the obituary.
Shopping used to be for the frivolous,
Fun, fabulous, and more,
Now it’s become problematic,
To even find a ride to the store.
Eenie, meenie, minie, moe,
Catch the devil on my toe,
Should we stay, or should we go?
Where I point will be our destiny,
A place for us to spend eternity.
Let me serve you a deliciously deadly meal,
So we can rest together for real.
I’ll put on a red flannel teddy,
After supper, we’ll go to beddie,
And go with the flow and just be ready . . .
She inhales, deeply. Then coughs. A lot. Her eyes almost pop out. Slowly, she feels the effects. She inhales again, knowing another bout of coughing is inevitable. But the sweet pain shooting through her lungs is worth it for she’s sensing herself relaxing. She relishes the moment; she doesn’t have much time left. Her insides start to rebel, while from the outside her body becomes more still. What a sensation. So, this is death by smog.
Image by blogetta
Will rises early, eager to please his mother, whose birthday is today of all days. He shuffles to the kitchen to make her a special breakfast. He looks in the refrigerator but finds it bare. He checks the pantry and sees cobwebs in it. Remembering another refrigerator in the house, he goes downstairs to the basement.
What a senile moment, he chuckles to himself. Of course, he stocks the downstairs fridge so no one can see the exotic food he keeps. He takes out a plastic container and brings it upstairs.
After fussing around the kitchen and making all the fixings, Will carries a tray of food down a short hallway. He stops in front of a closed door and knocks.
“Mama?” He calls out softly and gently opens the door. He sets down the tray on a dusty dresser and walks to the bed where a desiccated looking body is laying under a blanket.
“Rise and shine, birthday gal.” Will sits the figure up. “I made your favorite, scrambled brain, Mama.” He gets the tray and places it on the bed between the remains and himself. Sitting across from her, he talks about the things they’ll do to celebrate her birthday. Every year he finds it easier to face his mother because his vision is growing weaker. He doesn’t like seeing how his mother ages.
Since working at the morgue, Elmer has learned to appreciate the dead. He looks at the clock and sighs. A few more hours until he can call it dawn.
“Okay, your move,” he says to the poker-faced corpse propped on a seat across from him, with a chessboard between them.
[NOTE: This short story was expanded by Matthew Tonks and posted in SlasherMonster Magazine.]
A manipulated act
Brainwashed by cowards.
Nothing more but waste
A blight to humanity
They’re the true zombies.
Vessels for Satan’s bidding
Nothing more, nothing.
Another terrorist shoot down
Receiving undeserved renown
For yet one more action of hate
Sealing innocent people’s fate.
One after another
Alone or with others,
They come and go as they please,
Festering like an incurable disease.
From San Bernardino
Now to Orlando,
Random, yet not random
Acts of doom.
Of any kind of security
Though such is the reality,
The more reason to seek solidarity.
Honor the fallen
Rest in peace, dear brave soldiers
Your memory lives.