Zombie Me

Zombies. I love them. But, I’m only just beginning to ask myself: why? They are, more often than not, portrayed as mindless, lumbering reanimated corpses, desperate cannibals with an overpowering yearning for brains. They’re definitely not pretty or glamorous, witty or particularly interesting. So, why do I love them so much? Why do I seek them out for entertainment in the form of a film or a book? Why do I dream about them at night? Why do I imagine what it would be like to be a zombie, or to be a human attempting to survive in an apocalyptic world? And, why do I like to write about them?

Zombies are so different to the other horror creatures. Even in some of the goriest and harrowing brain-munching movies I’ve seen, I generally retain a sense of pity for them. They are us, you and I, just gone bad with some rarely properly explained infection of some kind. They had lives and relatives and homes and hobbies, and then all they have left is an urge to devour any poor and unfortunate human to cross their path.

The first zombie film I ever watched was George A Romero’s 1978 horror film, ‘Dawn of the Dead’. I was enthralled by the whole concept. It frightened me how quickly disarray and terror took over, but then they went to the mall. I won’t lie, my girly side got excited. Ooooh, if I had control of the mall and could take anything from any shop …. Oooooh the dresses, ooooh the handbags, oooooooooh the shoes! I feel fairly certain that I ever did become a zombie, that I would still find myself distracted by a pair of cute stilettos. The thing that interested me the most was that the zombies came out of habit, that a small memory or tiniest slither of knowledge, had them congregating in drones, flocking to familiar territories. There must be something vaguely human in there, somewhere.

I have watched countless zombie films over the years and I do get excited by a fresh angle. I enjoyed Marc Price’s 2008 English zombie film ‘Colin’, for that very reason. The film is shot entirely from the perspective of Colin, who becomes a zombie at the beginning of the film, and the audience follows him around London. We find out what happened, who he was and what his life was like. There are several poignant moments, none more so than when his sister, Linda, has turned and they are left alone together. Neither of them can remember the other. But, there are scenes and moments where Colin does remember something. And I like that.

Also, in 2008, came the Day of the Dead remake, which saw an altogether different type of zombie, seemingly ones with super powers who could run (and I mean RUN), leap and even crawl across the ceiling. Dance of the Dead was also released, a zany and fun zombie comedy, taking place during a high school prom. If it has zombies in it, I will watch it. If I can laugh, all the better.

I have written three zombie stories now, all of which have done well, none of them a classic tale. My first attempt was for a flash fiction competition. It amuses me now, looking back, that I could have written anything, a touching story of change, loss and horror. But, no, I decided to scribble about a fussy eater, a pompous sister who, after being turned, discovered that she did not care for plain old brains. It won, which amazed me, first place for the rambling words from my odd imagination.

My second story has just been accepted for an eye-opening anthology due to be released in the autumn of 2014, Mitzi Szereto’s erotic collection: Love, Lust and Zombies. Now, THAT will be different ….

Today, the 1st of August, is a very special launch day. The fabulously hilarious book: ‘Strangely Funny’ has just been released by the clever folk over at Mystery and Horror LLC. It is a collection of paranormal comedy short stories, by many different authors. I am most fortunate to have a story included within its fine pages. Guess what I went with? Yep, you guessed it. My story is called ‘Happy Anniversary’ and follows the plight of a married couple on, what should be, their special day. But, seeing as the chef husband comes home rather zombie-like, the night does not go as planned. It is full of silly humour and it was a joy to write. I hope that you all snap up a copy and enjoy all of the amusing gems of stories inside.

Laura Huntley.

Love-struck.

She waits, her pale legs dangle and her feet ripple the water. The sun is setting, gold meets orange meets pink. She can’t wait much longer.

Her reflection does not lie, she sweeps her red curls away from her face, and she sees the palpable sadness in her dark eyes,

She wants to love him, to take him away from his hushed and stale life. She adores him and wishes him to leave his tiresome wife.

The sun barely lingers, it begins to disappear behind the black silhouette hill. Her heart breaks and her legs fade. She slides into the water and thrashes her scaled tail. She hesitates and takes one last look towards the sandy path. Nothing. She submerges her naked body and swims down to the murky depths. Tears salt the sea.

He parks the car and he scans the shore. He runs to the edge, cursing the heated domestic argument which has made him so late. Nothing. Just the sea. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be.

Friday Night.

Red
Is the carnal
Stirrings
Of Friday night.

Red
Is the dark wine
Which I sip
And savour.

Red
Is the lipstick print
Staining
My glass.

Red
Is lust,
The fleeting eye contact,
The flirtatious game.


Red
Is the quick glimpse
Of a stocking top
Meeting flesh.

Red
Is my heart
Beating
That little bit faster.

Red
Is kissing lips,
Exploring hands
And breathy sighs.

Red
Is the way
My clothes
Fall to the floor.

Red
Is a passionate flashback,
Hot blushing cheeks
And a Saturday morning smile.

Little Boy Blue.

There must have been the white of the soft cellular blanket. There must have been the crimson red of my blood. But I only remember the blue.

We knew that we were having a little boy. We painted all the nursery walls in a Dulux colour called ‘Blue Babe’, it was perfect. We filled up drawers in giddy anticipation, buying vests, sleepsuits, tiny striped socks and woolly hats.

He was blue when he was born, the cord had wrapped around his neck, and his lips were dark and bruised. Silence.

Giant waves crashed around my head and I felt seasick as I covered my ears to block out the piercing scream. It was me. It was my scream.

We buried him under a calm blue sky, we said goodbye and gave him a blue teddy bear.

Its winter now but the blues remain, though sometimes they are grey and darker still.

Blue; when a torrent of tears strips away the outer layer of numb.

Being a kid in the 1980’s.

I hate orange, it tries to force you to be upbeat and happy, it’s even more annoying than yellow.

Orange is the carrots scattered around my plate, as a child, the ones I loathed even more than cabbage and sprouts.

I had to eat all of those mushy orange circles before I could leave the table. If I didn’t finish them, there would be no Sara Lee Double Chocolate Gateau for me. Excruciating madness.

Orange carrots were spiteful and they made me crazy. I once chopped them up into the tiniest little bits and spread them around the empty family plates, trying to pass them off as peculiar leftovers. Naturally, I was rumbled. I was sent to bed and wasn’t even allowed to watch Neighbours.

I tried to put carrots in my pockets to flush down the toilet. My legs were slapped for that. Carrots made me desperate back then.

I quite like them now, after all that.

Hello, Sailor.

Blonde curls.

Black heart.

Blue eyes.

Dead inside.

Coral skin.

Cruel intent.

Angelic aria.

Toxic tones.

Cockleshell crown.

Liar lips.

Arousing words.

Poisonous charm.

Green jewels.

Stolen treasures.

Beckoning fingertips.

Bated breath.

Welcoming arms.

Shocking strength.

Bare breasts.

Inviting temptation.

Soft curves.

Sealing fate.

Gripping hands.

Drowning day.

Fifty Shades of Fucking Grey.

‘So, what do you say?’
She hears him say.

‘To a roll in the hay?’
She hears him say.

He’s after some sex.
She peers over her specs.

‘I’m trying to read.’

‘But I have needs.’

She rolls her eyes
At his sulky sighs.

‘So, what do you say?’
She hears him say.

‘I’m reading Fifty Shades of Grey.’

‘But isn’t that book very rude?
Shouldn’t it get you in the mood?’

‘Alas, rather sadly,
It’s written quite badly.’

He takes out his copy of Readers Wives.
Her natural instinct is to chastise.

But she continues to read her book,
Of faux erotic mindless muck.

The quilt moves direction
With his giddy erection.

He’s a visual man,
Her husband, Stan.

When had she last touched the old fella?
Before beginning this best-seller.

She’s had enough of Mr. Grey,
He’s not that sexy anyway.

She throws the book off the bed,
Now unloved and half unread.

At least her Stan is real.
Perhaps they can cut a deal?

She’ll admit she’s in the wrong,
If he’ll do that thing with his tongue.

She remembers when she had a voice
To use for loud orgasmic noise.

She would like to remove her frown
And scream the bloody house right down.

‘So, what do you say?’
He hears her say.

‘To a roll in the hay?’
He hears her say.

‘Bloody hell, it’s about time too,
I think my balls are turning blue.’

She pulls out his best gimp mask.
‘Marjorie, I thought you’d never ask.’