Be Happy With Who You Are

If you think about it, being a zombie is in some ways is a lonely life. If you don't then you probably have a life and do not live in my fantasy world. Can they be lonely? Even though they run in packs. Because you know when one smells fresh meat, the others come limping. Maybe they do find a friend and hang out? Hmmm

Which brings me to the fact how do they have senses if they are the undead. Like smelling. Why is it they still have brain functions and heightened smelling and can eat if their bodies are decaying? Not sure, but in my stories they live the undead life. Pain is a normal part of there story...

Zombies Can’t Love

Light streams in from high-rise neon signs off side streets. Flashing on and off through window blinds. Red illuminating and mingles with the yellow blanket and dingy stripped walls. I can see a glimmer of the sign’s reflection off the bathroom mirror as I come in and out of consciousness. Dried blood mixed with my fresh wounds are on my hands and arm. Burning and pain come from my groin area. Where is she? I remember her lifting me from the floor, like a dream, and somehow we made our way to this place. You could hear noise coming from the streets, so the living must still dominate waking hours.

I lift myself up from the bed and stagger into the bathroom. The urge to throw up is strong, as my stomach begins to churn. Reaching to turn on the light my eyes cannot take the outside bright and burning illumination, so I change my mind. I can see as my clearly face as it rises up to the mirror. A change is taking place. My skin is beginning to turn pale. Gray skin matter mixed with streaks of blood, but yet I am still as human as I was waking up this morning. Was I hurt enough to seek help outside these walls? What had she done to me?

Stumbling back into the main room I began to think of things, taking my mind off of this pain. Funny how cheap hotel rooms can have a horror film feel about them. The wallpaper looks like werewolves have clawed their way out of cereal boxes and into a bowl of clotting milk. Paintings that look like Vegas boardwalk prizes after you shot over four or five moving targets. Targets. Yeah, I was a target and the star of a freak show alright. Targeted by a creature who walked right into my life and I couldn’t even lift my weapon. Was it so hard to take out a few others along the way, so I could go on with my life. No. I had to fall hard for the bad ass bitch of them all.

(photo- Zombies Can't Love, NYC Zombie Crawl 2011, I felt it made for a great micro-fiction. The sequel to 'Crush')