It was the third week we ran out of food. We went two more days before we was actually hungry enough to try rolling out into the streets to find some. What a fuckin’ disaster. The zombies got to eat, that’s for sure. Six out of ten of us got back to the hole, and as for food we didn’t get shit. We tried again two days after that, five of us, and only I got back safe. Now it’s just me and Regina. She’s wondering how we’re going to go out a third time. I’m thinking about eating Regina.
SF Drabble #313 "The Good Fight"
They still have their ship, but the officers say it’s dead in space, out of fuel, abandoned and useless. I hope they’re right.
Fantasy Drabble #240 “Widower”
Where are you?
The text was from a number I didn’t remember. I sent back, Who is this?
It’s me, silly, where are you? You’re late again.
Late for what? Who is this?
I’ve been sitting in Vermeer’s for a half an hour now. Are you coming?
Vermeer’s is where my wife and I used to meet for dinner when we were young. I was always late and she was always so patient.
This isn’t funny. Whoever you are, this isn’t funny.
Well, get here when you can. I’ll order you a rum and coke.
I turned off my phone.
Zombie Drabble #327 “I Love You, Beth Cooper”
We all made it over the fence but Ritchie; he slipped and fell and got torn to pieces. We didn’t stop.
The school was deserted, but the zombies would find their way around eventually: the fence didn’t completely surround the campus. Mary Silvio was head cheerleader, and had a key. We stood nervously while her shaking hands tried to work it into the lock.
We made our way onto the roof, and we could see the world ending for miles all around us, and all I could think about was that I finally maybe had a shot with Mary Silvio.
SF Drabble #312 "Behind The Music"
They wanted heroes, squeaky-clean role-model types, and we weren’t that at all. Old man Miura — who they took at least twenty years off of in all the pictures — had been a hard-drinking ladies man in his day, and was now an even harder-drinking dirty old man who groped the female crew and then later, after sobering up, cried while apologizing.
Matt Cole didn’t die in any accident, he went off his rocker and took a walk out an airlock without a suit. That got covered right up.
But we walked on Mars, dammit.
SF Drabble #311 “Armistice”
Woolies look exactly like you would expect. I’d seen them on video, but that’s nothing like seeing them in person. I’d seen them dead, lying strewn across the battlefield, but that’s nothing like seeing them alive. It just seems wrong that something that looks like that walks upright and has intelligent things to say.
I’m going to have to get over that.
We’re into the third day of negotiations, and it’s going as well as can be expected. Most of the military officials are paranoid, but we’re in the minority; the frocks will decide the terms. Peace is inevitable now.
Fantasy Drabble #239 “Penthouse Apartment”
There were dozens of people at the party already; all of them would be dead before morning. A few even realized it, or at least suspected, but those particularly perceptive guests were either resigned to their fate or were planning to bargain or plead their way free.
Either approach would be in vain. Though, the little blonde — the one in the short silvery dress, the one with the eyes, the laugh — once she began to beg and plead and cry she might stir him just enough to let her continue her existence.
Though, technically, it wouldn’t be as a human.