Zombie Drabble #164 “Last Exit”

There were just too many of them. Frank’s arms were exhausted from swinging the bat; he wasn’t doing any damage anymore. The zombies just kept coming. Frank and Jean found themselves cornered, trapped a stranger’s bedroom, dresser against the door, windows barred.

Eventually, when the pounding and moaning outside became to much, she said; “Frank.”


“Don’t. You tried.”


“I don’t want to get eaten alive, Frank. I really don’t.”

“What do you want me to do?”

She paused for a long moment, deciding whether she really wanted to say it. “Maybe there’s pills. In the bathroom. Check?”


Zombie Drabble #163 “Discretion”

Someone had spray painted signs on the buidings. “This way” said one. “Avoid Cross Street” said another. A third sign — it was true —advised, “liquor store empty.”  He began to wonder: who was his anonymous benefactor?  How long ago had he painted the warnings, and was he still alive?

Eventually he found a sign with the words “safe house”, and an arrow. It led to another, which led to another, which pointed to a brick building… looked like an old light industrial building.

He kept moving; anyone inside was as likely to rob and kill him as anything else.

SF Drabble #157 “Had A Little Work Done”

The stylish thing with the kids now apparently? Plastic surgery to make themselves look like the Weedee. At first it was just the eyes. They’ve been doing it in Japan for years: giving girls those big manga eyes… only now the eyes are grown oversized from gene-resequenced cloned tissue. One guy who had it done told me it was a vast improvement, gave him wicked peripheral vision.

It’s the tendrils that bother me. You just aren’t meant to have ribbons of meat hanging off your cheeks, your chin. And they don’t even look real; Weedee tentrils move around, they’re animated.

SF Drabble #156 “Human Resources”

We landed on Shoro after two months in the void. We had to put Rawlins off. He had looked great on paper but ended up showing too many antisocial tendencies for my liking: too much time alone in his bunk, too few meals in the commons, too little courtesy.

You may think it’s silly to ground a qualified engineer’s mate for something like that, but I know better. We had to lock our cook in a storage closet for a week once when he tried to kill us all with a carving knife. Ask Teddy; he’ll show you the scar.