When I woke, he stood by our bed, his suit muddy, eyes clouded, skin sickly pale.
“I’m home,” he croaked around his decomposing tongue.
“You shouldn’t be. You’re death walking again, honey.”
“Can I stay?”
Taking his icy hand, I led him from the house, towards the cemetery.
GB is a writer from Tasmania. She prefers grey areas to the clarity of light and dark.
He wondered, first, why it hadn’t died.
Grey fur, scarce, in patches. Full of fleas, and two tender red eyes. Worms. Some bones broken, limbs bent.
Loaded the gun. Shot it. “Rest, now.”
But when it raised its head again, he realized:
Perhaps it was never alive to begin with.
Uzair Shahed Islam is an economics and mathematics student at the Lahore University of Management Sciences who writes fiction and non-fiction in his spare time.
“Honey, there’s a zombie on the lawn.”
“Already? Well, get the candy.”
“No, I think it’s a real one.”
“Dear, it’s Halloween. But boy does that makeup look convincing. I’m going to ask how he did it…”
Diary Entry, October 31, 2013: The humans have finally lowered their guard. It begins today.
It is my opinion that Halloween was designed by monsters to gradually lure humanity into a trap. And when it starts, how will we know who’s really a monster and who’s just wearing a costume? Beware!
Happy Halloween, everyone. Have fun and stay safe.
Two boys inspected their giftwrapped present.
“I think it’s a puppy. I can hear it scratching.”
“It’s a zombie,” his brother said.
“How do you know?”
“No air holes.”
They were both wrong. A considerate Santa’s helper had put batteries in a mechanical toy and forgot to switch it off.
John H. Dromey has had flash fiction published in a number of anthologies (print and electronic), as well as online at The Fast-Forward Festival, Liquid Imagination, three minute plastic, and elsewhere.
President Papi Kinsley rocked his wife, whispering, “You’re safe now.”
When she was asleep, Papi went downstairs. Zombie bodies were everywhere. He called Lord Zombino.
“I guess you didn’t know I’m a member of EZKIL, otherwise known as the Elite Zombie Killing International League,” Papi said. “Better luck next time.”
Nancy A. Cavanaugh is a freelance writer living in Keene, NH. You can read her flash and micro fiction at myflashywords.blogspot.com.
Our Hero stood resolute in the middle of the rain-soaked, corpse-littered asphalt.
They inched closer, exuding sinister inevitability, crushed, broken, bloated, wasting away, and hungry.
Our Hero calmly set a bowl of oatmeal on the ground, flavouring it with his own blood.
That should keep them. For now.
I asked, on Twitter, what I should write a fifty-word story about today. @dotsam wrote, “Saving the universe with a bowl of oatmeal.” @RacoonResidue wrote, “Zombie earth worms.”
“What do you think would happen if a yodeler got turned into a zombie? Would it cry for our brains with yodels?”
“Ok, stupid question, fair enough. Oh man, you know what would be really freaky, though? Zombified birds. Because they could fly.”
Sometimes I really hate my friends.
@DashP responded to a request for two nouns and a verb with the words “zombie”, “yodels”, and “fly”.
“Aaaaah! A zombie!”
The room full of business executives burst into chaos as the fatcats scrambled for the exits.
“Wait!” called the zombie. “I’m not like those horror-movie zombies! I don’t want to hurt you!”
Everyone froze in astonishment. Then:
“Aaaaah! A talking zombie!”
The zombie sighed. “Theodore was right…”
Cliven dove head first into a bush.
He heard snuffling nearby, the sound of a predator searching out its prey.
“Dear Lord,” Cliven prayed, “I know my pet dragon started this whole thing, but… Could you stop the zombies from eating my brain? Please?”
The snuffling stopped.
The zombocalypse didn’t.
Cliven followed the zombie dragon and the pudgy princess until they finally alighted on a rooftop.
“Nogard!” cried Cliven. “Come down! Please don’t hurt her!”
Nogard shook his head playfully, turned, and very gently nipped Emeldatine on the shoulder.
The princess started to cry.
Then she turned very, very pale.