Zombie Drabble #427 "On The Street Where You Live"

There's a wood-panel station wagon with the front end up on the grass in Mr. Carey's yard, with one broken window where they'd finally forced their way through to get to eat some lady who'd spent seven hours in terror. There's papers — school papers, loose-leaf — blowing around in little tempests impatient for the rain to weld them to the concrete. There's blue and red glass in shards, down by the stop sign, from a police cruiser that didn't stay long. There's most of a body on the sidewalk over by the mailboxes.

There's an umbrella, ruined yesterday by unexceptional wind.

I Am Whatever You Say I Am

"Where's he got to now," she panted before again calling out, "Harry!"

"What about over there?"

"Where?"

"The clown-face thing. What is that, a casino? I mean, look at it, maybe he thought it was an arcade or—"

"What are you talking about, John?"

"Right there, are you blind? The big clown face with the lights. If I was six, I'd totally see that and want to go in."

She glared at him like he was out of his mind. "There's no clown face, John, no lights. It's a warehouse. It's boarded up. I can't believe you're making jokes right now." She hurried off, looking around as she went. "Harry!"

He closed his eyes, opened them. The face remained an enticing beacon in the hazy boardwalk night. "He's in there. I'll bet anything he's in there. I'd bet anything." He checked for his wallet before walking towards the open mouth.

Creation

Life's easy. You just need the right ingredients in the right proportions under the right conditions.

It's what you do after the primordial soup is brewed that's difficult. Because it's got a mind of its own, that slime, or it soon will, and maybe it doesn't appreciate you like you think it should. Maybe it decides your rules don't make sense, or that they're cruel, or that you don't exist at all. And then do you play the vengeful god, or do you let it go, move on, start over with some other lightning in some other bottle?

I never let it last long enough for that to be an issue: I'm the chef, not the restaurateur. Culture is somebody else's problem.

I like that first moment, that crossing of that line between something and someone. I can't get enough. And good thing, because it's gonna be a long universe.

It's The Thought That Counts

She didn't talk. The only sound was the the rain pelting the street and the parked cars and the canvas awnings. He waited as long as he could before speaking. "I could make a run for it, bring the car around and—"

"Nooo…" He interpreted her tone: I'm still exasperated at you, but you don't have to do that.

He'd left the umbrellas in the car, and the restaurant was her old favorite as opposed to her new favorite, and he hadn't remembered the song that was playing when they met. "Okay."

Eventually she reached out and held his hand.

With Eyes Wide Open

She explained the risks and rewards. She warned of the pain. She was completely up-front, completely above-board. I still went for it. There was something about her eyes that distracted, something assuaging and alluring, something full of promises about protection and sex.

I know I should have said 'no', that I shouldn't be here, that I should have gone home and gone to bed and thanked my lucky stars and maybe said as much of a prayer as I could remember from when I was a boy. But she's so beautiful.

She's so beautiful, but her hands are so cold…