Tiny Tales
Short Short Short Stories
ever rest
frozen dead mark the
grave path to highest peak
souls for Everest
Zombies can't climb trees, so I'm stuck in the upper branches watching rotten corpses claw at the bark. I look to the west, at the mountain's snowy peak, and realize I'm never gonna make it to the safety zone. It's the end for me.
Glory Ann Fletcher always walked the same way to school. But on Friday, she impulsively took a shortcut through the alleyway ... and unknowingly thwarted the kidnapper who'd followed her for weeks. But he wouldn't give up so easily. Monday would arrive soon enough.
I never expected to survive the apocalypse. I hated exercise. Loved junk food. I had cats instead of friends. But guess what? I was hella good at beating the crap outta zombies. My house was full of twitching corpses. And, damn it, I was out of Twinkies.
I watch his smile evaporate.
"What did you say?" He balls his fist and raises it. I know he expects me to flinch.
I don't.
"You will never hit me again," I repeat.
"Dumb bitch." He pulls his arm back, his eyes alight with malicious glee.
I lift the gun.
And fire.
My mother named me Renegade, mostly because it pleased my father, a criminal and killer. When I was 8, Dad went to jail. Mom died of a drug overdose. And I spent the next decade living up to the name bestowed upon me. Sometimes, our futures are written by a single word.
"It's called Glorious Agony," said my drug dealer. "Pure fucking nirvana."
"No actual agony, right?"
"A little. But worth it, dude." He extended his palm and offered me the pink pill. "First taste is free."
I took it. I wish I hadn't.
Because now, I kill for it.
"What did you spill?"
My roommate looks up from scrubbing the living room carpet. "Chad. He turned zombie while I was in the kitchen getting the wine."
"They really should have an 'Not Bitten' checkbox on Tinder," I said.
"Right?" She sighed. "Corpse stains are stubborn.”
Don’t Say a Prayer
The bathroom offered piddling protection against the apocalypse. But as fire filled the sky and emergency sirens wailed we hunkered in the tub underneath a flimsy twin mattress. My four-year-daughter Hailey and our Chihuahua Cooper curled together next to me, their tiny bodies cold with fear. I belted out my favorite songs from the 1980s, but even Duran Duran lyrics proved poor distractions from booming explosions and screaming victims. Then the ceiling collapsed, and the mattress became our coffin lid. Later, I awoke as soldiers pulled me from the wreckage. Cooper barked. He made it. But Hailey … my sweet baby … did not.