Day 289 Writing Short Stories

Teem

He positioned his rifle against the windowsill, watching the horde of zombies teeming in the middle of the town square. One by one, he could take them out, but the shots, the kills, would only stir the twisted peace.

He lowered the rifle and leaned against the wall next to the window. He was tired of moving, tired of the lonely conversations he had with himself. He barely knew what conversation was. He barely remembered what life used to look like. Life had become a series of events that haunted his dreams, if there was even time to dream.

Places like the old hardware store he was now in were the last oasis for peace, where he could take his brief rest before the zombies got too overpowering and he had to move. It was as if the zombies could sense him taking a rest, growing the horde bigger and bigger with every hour spent still. Sometimes he woke after a night’s rest to find that the streets were crowded, that he had to pull a miracle to get out of the city alive.

Now the horde outside was manageable. He had hope.

He again lifted his rifle to the windowsill and began surveying the grounds through his scope. The town was like any other town: full of rubbish, dead bodies, blown-out and burned houses, void of life. But in his heart, he knew he couldn’t be the only one who had survived. There had to be others.

He made the scope follow the broken windows of the apartment buildings. So many dreams were dead now. So many stories he would never hear. He had seen enough broken windows to know that it did no good to dwell on what was and could have been. It was what it was now: corpses rotten on couches, blood smeared walls, apartments full of TVs, but no shows to air.

He stopped and made the scope go back. He stared at a little girl. She had her binoculars aimed at him. His heart began to race. He was sure it was ready to give out. There were tears on his cheeks. He hadn’t cried in years and was confused about what was happening.

The little girl wasn’t startled. She ducked out of view and then returned with a written sign. “Don’t come. We are trapped. She will die soon, and when she does, you know.”

Fuck hell if he wasn’t going to come. He counted the distance between them and the number of zombies. He made the rifle sing its sweet song.

The Same Sentence

The Devil’s boat came through the mist, piercing the waters. The deal burned in his pocket. He had done what must be done in the country of sinners and murderers. He had done what anyone in his shoes would have done to save his family and his country. He had made a deal with the Devil. The blood had stopped. The wicked men had gotten their punishment. They were burning in hell as he would.

The Devil’s boat came through the mist, piercing the waters. His soul was to be measured now. And if there had to be a payment for good, he was ready to pay it.

Standing

She adored her. She had always adored her. When they were together, it felt right. It felt like they belonged together, but then she had gotten sick. Her friend had been diagnosed with an aggressive cancer that could kill her.

She still could remember those first days, when she had gotten the news, when she had told she might die. There had been tears. A lot of them. She had sworn to stand by her, help her get better. She had done that. She had been there for the good and bad, like a friend should. She had encouraged her to fight for her life, to get the best treatments there were. But then life had made it a crude joke. She had thrown her help against her face, demanding to put her life at risk for her needs.

Her friend had wanted to live her last moments as fast as she could, doing things that might kill her and others around her. She had said no. She had said that she couldn’t follow her self-destructive path, and there had been accusations, crude ones, and all the help she had given were wiped away like they never happened, like the friendship was never there.

And now, years after that, she still didn’t know what had happened. Why had she been attacked the way she had been attacked? There was only guilt, pain inside her that made her feel like a bad person, made her feel like all those stories about friends who refused to help those in need. All that she had done was wiped away, and there was only the guilt and sadness, and the shame in the eyes of others. Shame that consumed her. Made her question her worth. Made her question her nature.

Sometimes she wondered if there should be a different story told. If there should be kindness even to those who had failed.

The prompts are from the book A Year of Creative Writing Prompts.

I love writing stories about zombies. I haven’t had my zombie dream in months now, but I think it is high time I had one. They always make me feel rested and good. I don’t know why, but they do. Zombies are like this cozy fantasy, where the evil is simple and straightforward, unlike in our modern world and lives. The distance between the bad and us that is affecting our lives is so vast, untouchable, that it is easier to be passive, to live one’s life like a dream that passes by. With zombies, life feels straightforward: kill a zombie and survive. Okay, I don’t actually want a zombie apocalypse. Death is inevitable. But a simpler, more straightforward life would be nice, without having to run in circles to achieve the impossible and make every second count like a checklist to be checked off. Modern life has become a task of perfection, of being valuable in a monetary way. That’s not life. It is this second that counts. Not some idea of a second.

Thank you for reading ❤ Have a zombified day!