Zombie @ MindSay 
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horror
Ramblings (Beware: Lengthy Passage Ahead!)
For the past three nights, I've had dreams and woke up remembering them. Last night to help stimulate my mind before I went to bed, I cracked open this book called 'Death Scenes' which contain detailed photographs of people who were murdered or killed themselves. Sure enough, when I went to bed I had a dream where my dog attacked me and I ended up trying to convince my dad to kill her. That's pretty close to a nightmare.
Using the right dosages of Cystospaz (Hyoscyamine), Urised and Lomotil (Atropine), a Scopolamine Patch, and the finger bone of a living person, you can bring a person back to life. And they won't even be a zombie; they'll just be their same old selves again. If you can't find a Scopolamine Patch, you can use the plant Datura, but it's illegal in some countries and states. All you have to do is crush and mix it all up together and pour it down the dead person's throat and ta da! It's a good way to bring back Grandma, don't you think? Haha!
I found this song by Modest Mouse called Dramamine. It's fucking beautiful. Brings back those memories of when I overdosed. You know, aside from the extreme nausea and the eventual death, it felt pretty damn good. It wouldn't have been so horrible if I hadn't been on anti-depressants and No-Doz. Oh well - at least I have a story to tell, an experience, an almost near-death experience at that. Lucky me!
I wish sometimes that I didn't have a home, that I lived on $10 a day, crawling through life one hotel and shit-job at a time, barely able to survive, pale skin, and bones making tents of flesh... seems like fun to me. Dunno why, just does. I am thankful though that I do have a home, clothes, food, etc. Living just the opposite is also appealing.
I realized today just how paranoid I really am. I was walking my dog around the block around 7 PM. Normally, no one else is out walking, but today I spotted some guy taking a stroll. I looked behind me and saw him go down the road that I just came out of. A couple feet later, I looked back and he was behind me again. I felt that today was my last day on earth. I knew he was going silently run up behind me and bash my dog in the skull and then slit my throat and run off. I quickened my pace. I looked back when I got the stop sign to find that he was still behind me. Only when I got to the next stop light did I turn around and see that he had disappeared. I guess I always assume the worst. Oh sure, I tried to reason with my imagination and tell myself that he, too, was just out for a brisk walk. I always feel like everyone is literally out to get me. I walk anywhere and feel like hundreds of hungry eyes are watching me. Fuck - I'm so damn paranoid. Next time I go for a walk, I'm carrying my fucking knife with me. If some asshole is going to try and slit my throat, I'm spilling his blood too.
Spilling blood reminds me of this passage that I read in a book. This guy had AIDS and said that if anyone tried to fuck with him, he'd slit his wrist and throw blood into the attackers eyes. Haha! That's one way to look at AIDS - as a potentially concealed weapon. Too bad the character never had the chance to use his infectious weapon.
I've been reading a lot lately and it seems like EVERYONE has a nickname. I want one too! Some of the characters nicknames were things like Ghost, Twig, Nothing, Spooky, etc. Fuck that's awesome. I want a cool nickname, not one that assholes at school gave me (Ellis Island).
DRAMAMINE
Travelling swallowing dramamine
Feeling spaced breathing out listerine
Id said what Id said that I'd tell ya
And that youd killed the better part of me
If you could just milk it for everything
I've said what I'd said and you know what I mean
But I still can't focus on anything
We kiss on the mouth but still cough down our sleeves
Travelling swallowing dramamine
Look at your face like you're killed in a dream
And you think youv'e figured out everything
I think I know my geometry pretty damn well
You say what you need so you'll get more
If you could just milk it for everything
I've said what I said and you know what I mean
But I can't still focus on anything
Using the right dosages of Cystospaz (Hyoscyamine), Urised and Lomotil (Atropine), a Scopolamine Patch, and the finger bone of a living person, you can bring a person back to life. And they won't even be a zombie; they'll just be their same old selves again. If you can't find a Scopolamine Patch, you can use the plant Datura, but it's illegal in some countries and states. All you have to do is crush and mix it all up together and pour it down the dead person's throat and ta da! It's a good way to bring back Grandma, don't you think? Haha!
I found this song by Modest Mouse called Dramamine. It's fucking beautiful. Brings back those memories of when I overdosed. You know, aside from the extreme nausea and the eventual death, it felt pretty damn good. It wouldn't have been so horrible if I hadn't been on anti-depressants and No-Doz. Oh well - at least I have a story to tell, an experience, an almost near-death experience at that. Lucky me!
I wish sometimes that I didn't have a home, that I lived on $10 a day, crawling through life one hotel and shit-job at a time, barely able to survive, pale skin, and bones making tents of flesh... seems like fun to me. Dunno why, just does. I am thankful though that I do have a home, clothes, food, etc. Living just the opposite is also appealing.
I realized today just how paranoid I really am. I was walking my dog around the block around 7 PM. Normally, no one else is out walking, but today I spotted some guy taking a stroll. I looked behind me and saw him go down the road that I just came out of. A couple feet later, I looked back and he was behind me again. I felt that today was my last day on earth. I knew he was going silently run up behind me and bash my dog in the skull and then slit my throat and run off. I quickened my pace. I looked back when I got the stop sign to find that he was still behind me. Only when I got to the next stop light did I turn around and see that he had disappeared. I guess I always assume the worst. Oh sure, I tried to reason with my imagination and tell myself that he, too, was just out for a brisk walk. I always feel like everyone is literally out to get me. I walk anywhere and feel like hundreds of hungry eyes are watching me. Fuck - I'm so damn paranoid. Next time I go for a walk, I'm carrying my fucking knife with me. If some asshole is going to try and slit my throat, I'm spilling his blood too.
Spilling blood reminds me of this passage that I read in a book. This guy had AIDS and said that if anyone tried to fuck with him, he'd slit his wrist and throw blood into the attackers eyes. Haha! That's one way to look at AIDS - as a potentially concealed weapon. Too bad the character never had the chance to use his infectious weapon.
I've been reading a lot lately and it seems like EVERYONE has a nickname. I want one too! Some of the characters nicknames were things like Ghost, Twig, Nothing, Spooky, etc. Fuck that's awesome. I want a cool nickname, not one that assholes at school gave me (Ellis Island).
DRAMAMINE
Travelling swallowing dramamine
Feeling spaced breathing out listerine
Id said what Id said that I'd tell ya
And that youd killed the better part of me
If you could just milk it for everything
I've said what I'd said and you know what I mean
But I still can't focus on anything
We kiss on the mouth but still cough down our sleeves
Travelling swallowing dramamine
Look at your face like you're killed in a dream
And you think youv'e figured out everything
I think I know my geometry pretty damn well
You say what you need so you'll get more
If you could just milk it for everything
I've said what I said and you know what I mean
But I can't still focus on anything
Zombie Life
ZOmbie Life
(note: I did not write this. I found it on the page whose link is given below. I posted it here because I like the story very much. It's the type of humor that I simply adore - the dark one. The story is funny and a little (hehe) twisted and also somewhat, i hate to say the word, adorable.)
There are a few hundred of us living in a wide plain of dust outside some large city. We don't need shelter or warmth, obviously. We stand around in the dust, and time passes. I think we've been here for a long time. Despite my dragging entrails, I am in decay's early stages, but there are a few elderly ones here who are little more than skeletons with clinging bits of muscle. Somehow, it still extends and contracts, and they keep moving. I have never seen any of us "die" of old age. Maybe we live forever, I don't know. I don't think much about the future anymore. That's something that's very different from before. When I was alive, the future was all I thought about. Obsessed about. Death has relaxed me. But it makes me sad that we've forgotten our names. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. I don't miss my own, but I mourn for everyone else's, because I want to love them, but I don't know who they are.
Today a group of us are going into town to find some food. How this expedition begins is one of us gets hungry and starts shuffling toward town, and a few others follow him. Focused thought is a rare occurrence with us, and we follow it when we see it. Otherwise we would just be standing around groaning. We do a lot of standing around groaning, and it's frustrating sometimes. Years pass this way. The flesh withers on our bones, and we stand around, waiting for it. I am curious how old I might be. The city where the people live is not that far. We arrive around noon and start looking for living flesh. The new kind of hunger is a strange feeling. You don't feel it in your stomach - of course not, since some of us don't even have stomachs. You feel it just...everywhere. You start to feel "more dead". I've watched some of my friends go back to being full-dead, when food is scarce. They just slow down, and stop, and become corpses again. I don't really understand it.
I guess the world has mostly ended, because the cities we wander through are decaying as fast as we are. Buildings are collapsed. Dead, rusted cars fill the streets. All glass everywhere is shattered. I don't know if there was a war, or a plague, or if it was just us. Maybe it was all three. I don't know. I don't think about things like that anymore. In a cluster of broken down apartment buildings we find some people, and we eat them. Some of them have weapons, and as usual we lose some of our number, but we don't care. Why would we care? What's death, now? Eating is not a pleasant business. I chew off a man's arm, and I hate this, it's disgusting. I hate his screams, because I don't like pain, I don't like to hurt things, but this is the world now, this is what we do.
Of course, if I don't eat all of him, if I leave enough, he'll rise up and follow me back to our dusty field outside the city, and that might make me feel better. I'll introduce him to everyone, and maybe we'll stand around and groan for a while. It's hard to say what "friends" are anymore, but maybe that's close. If I don't eat all of him, if I leave enough... But of course I don't leave enough. I eat his brain, because that's the good part. That's the part that, when I swallow it, makes my head light up with feelings. Clear memories. For about three to ten seconds, depending on the person, I get to feel alive. I get traces of delicious meals, beautiful music, perfume, orgasms, sunsets, life. Then it fades, and I get up and stumble out of the city, still dead, but feeling a little less so.
Feeling ok. I don't know why we have to eat people. I don't understand what chewing off a man's neck accomplishes. We certainly don't digest the meat and absorb the nutrients. My stomach is a rotted bag of dried bile, useless. We don't digest, we just eat until the weight forces it out our ass holes, and then we eat more.
It feels so useless, and yet it keeps us walking. I don't know why. None of us really understand why we are the way we are. We don't know if we're the result of some strange global infection, or some ancient curse, or something even more senseless. We don't talk about it much. Existential debate is not a major part of zombie life. We are here, and we do things. We are simple. It's nice sometimes. Outside the city again, back with the others in the dust field, I start walking in a circle for no reason. I plant one foot in the dirt and pivot on it, around and around, kicking up clouds of dust. Before, when I was alive, I could never have done this. I remember stress. I remember bills and deadlines, Asset Retention Reports. I remember being so occupied, so always everywhere all the time occupied. Now I'm just standing in a wide-open field of dust, walking in a circle.
The world has been distilled. Being dead is easy. After a few days of this, I stop walking, and I stand still, swaying back and forth and groaning a little. I don't know why I groan. I'm not in pain, and I'm not sad. I think it's just air being squeezed in and out of my lungs. When my lungs decompose, it will probably stop. And now, while swaying and groaning, I notice a dead woman standing a few feet away from me, facing the distant mountains. She doesn't sway or groan, her head just lolls from side to side. I like that about her, that she doesn't sway or groan. I walk over and stand beside her. I wheeze some kind of greeting, and she responds with a lurch of her shoulder. I like her. I reach out and touch her hair. She has not been dead very long.
Her skin is grey and her eyes slightly sunken, but she has no exposed bones or organs. Her death outfit is a black skirt and a snug white button-up. I suspect she used to be a waitress. Pinned to her chest is a silver nametag. I can read her name. She has a name. Her name is Emily. I point to her chest. Slowly, with great effort, I say, "Em..ily." The word rolls off what's left of my tongue like honey. What a good name. I feel warm saying it. Emily's cloudy eyes widen at the sound, and she smiles. I also smile, and then maybe I'm a little nervous, because my tibia snaps, and I fall backwards into the dust. Emily just laughs, and it's a choked, raw, lovely sound.
She reaches down and helps me to my feet. Emily and I have fallen in love. I'm not sure how this happens. I remember what love was like before, and this is different. This is simpler. Before, there were complex emotional and biological factors at work. We had long checklists and elaborate tests to be passed. We looked at hairstyles and careers and breast sizes. And sex was there, in everything, confusing everyone, like hunger. It created longing, it created ambition, competition, it drove people to leave their houses and invent automobiles, space craft, and atom bombs when they could instead just sit on the couch until they died. Animal cravings. Subconscious urges.
Sex made the world go ‘round. This is all gone now. Sex, once a force as universal as gravity, is now irrelevant. Ambition and longing have left the equation. My penis fell off two weeks ago. So the equation is deleted, the blackboard erased, and things are different now. Our actions have no ulterior motives. We shuffle around in the dust and occasionally have lumbering, grunted exchanges with our peers. No one argues. There are no fights, ever. And Emily is not a complicated process. I just see her, and walk over to her, and for no reason, really, I decide I want to be with her for a long time. So now we shuffle around in the dust together instead of alone. For whatever reason, we enjoy each other's company. When we have to go into town to eat people, we do it at separate times, because it's unpleasant, and we don't want to share that. But we share everything else, and it's nice. We decide to walk to the mountains. It takes us three days, but now we are standing on a cliff looking up at a fat white moon. At our backs, the night sky is red from distant cities burning, but we don't care about that. I clumsily grab Emily's hand, and we stare at the moon. There's no real reason for any of this, but like I said, the world has been distilled. Love has been distilled. Everything is easy now. Yesterday my leg broke off, and I don't even mind.
http://www.barbelith.com/topic/28350 retrieved July 2008
(note: I did not write this. I found it on the page whose link is given below. I posted it here because I like the story very much. It's the type of humor that I simply adore - the dark one. The story is funny and a little (hehe) twisted and also somewhat, i hate to say the word, adorable.)
There are a few hundred of us living in a wide plain of dust outside some large city. We don't need shelter or warmth, obviously. We stand around in the dust, and time passes. I think we've been here for a long time. Despite my dragging entrails, I am in decay's early stages, but there are a few elderly ones here who are little more than skeletons with clinging bits of muscle. Somehow, it still extends and contracts, and they keep moving. I have never seen any of us "die" of old age. Maybe we live forever, I don't know. I don't think much about the future anymore. That's something that's very different from before. When I was alive, the future was all I thought about. Obsessed about. Death has relaxed me. But it makes me sad that we've forgotten our names. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. I don't miss my own, but I mourn for everyone else's, because I want to love them, but I don't know who they are.
Today a group of us are going into town to find some food. How this expedition begins is one of us gets hungry and starts shuffling toward town, and a few others follow him. Focused thought is a rare occurrence with us, and we follow it when we see it. Otherwise we would just be standing around groaning. We do a lot of standing around groaning, and it's frustrating sometimes. Years pass this way. The flesh withers on our bones, and we stand around, waiting for it. I am curious how old I might be. The city where the people live is not that far. We arrive around noon and start looking for living flesh. The new kind of hunger is a strange feeling. You don't feel it in your stomach - of course not, since some of us don't even have stomachs. You feel it just...everywhere. You start to feel "more dead". I've watched some of my friends go back to being full-dead, when food is scarce. They just slow down, and stop, and become corpses again. I don't really understand it.
I guess the world has mostly ended, because the cities we wander through are decaying as fast as we are. Buildings are collapsed. Dead, rusted cars fill the streets. All glass everywhere is shattered. I don't know if there was a war, or a plague, or if it was just us. Maybe it was all three. I don't know. I don't think about things like that anymore. In a cluster of broken down apartment buildings we find some people, and we eat them. Some of them have weapons, and as usual we lose some of our number, but we don't care. Why would we care? What's death, now? Eating is not a pleasant business. I chew off a man's arm, and I hate this, it's disgusting. I hate his screams, because I don't like pain, I don't like to hurt things, but this is the world now, this is what we do.
Of course, if I don't eat all of him, if I leave enough, he'll rise up and follow me back to our dusty field outside the city, and that might make me feel better. I'll introduce him to everyone, and maybe we'll stand around and groan for a while. It's hard to say what "friends" are anymore, but maybe that's close. If I don't eat all of him, if I leave enough... But of course I don't leave enough. I eat his brain, because that's the good part. That's the part that, when I swallow it, makes my head light up with feelings. Clear memories. For about three to ten seconds, depending on the person, I get to feel alive. I get traces of delicious meals, beautiful music, perfume, orgasms, sunsets, life. Then it fades, and I get up and stumble out of the city, still dead, but feeling a little less so.
Feeling ok. I don't know why we have to eat people. I don't understand what chewing off a man's neck accomplishes. We certainly don't digest the meat and absorb the nutrients. My stomach is a rotted bag of dried bile, useless. We don't digest, we just eat until the weight forces it out our ass holes, and then we eat more.
It feels so useless, and yet it keeps us walking. I don't know why. None of us really understand why we are the way we are. We don't know if we're the result of some strange global infection, or some ancient curse, or something even more senseless. We don't talk about it much. Existential debate is not a major part of zombie life. We are here, and we do things. We are simple. It's nice sometimes. Outside the city again, back with the others in the dust field, I start walking in a circle for no reason. I plant one foot in the dirt and pivot on it, around and around, kicking up clouds of dust. Before, when I was alive, I could never have done this. I remember stress. I remember bills and deadlines, Asset Retention Reports. I remember being so occupied, so always everywhere all the time occupied. Now I'm just standing in a wide-open field of dust, walking in a circle.
The world has been distilled. Being dead is easy. After a few days of this, I stop walking, and I stand still, swaying back and forth and groaning a little. I don't know why I groan. I'm not in pain, and I'm not sad. I think it's just air being squeezed in and out of my lungs. When my lungs decompose, it will probably stop. And now, while swaying and groaning, I notice a dead woman standing a few feet away from me, facing the distant mountains. She doesn't sway or groan, her head just lolls from side to side. I like that about her, that she doesn't sway or groan. I walk over and stand beside her. I wheeze some kind of greeting, and she responds with a lurch of her shoulder. I like her. I reach out and touch her hair. She has not been dead very long.
Her skin is grey and her eyes slightly sunken, but she has no exposed bones or organs. Her death outfit is a black skirt and a snug white button-up. I suspect she used to be a waitress. Pinned to her chest is a silver nametag. I can read her name. She has a name. Her name is Emily. I point to her chest. Slowly, with great effort, I say, "Em..ily." The word rolls off what's left of my tongue like honey. What a good name. I feel warm saying it. Emily's cloudy eyes widen at the sound, and she smiles. I also smile, and then maybe I'm a little nervous, because my tibia snaps, and I fall backwards into the dust. Emily just laughs, and it's a choked, raw, lovely sound.
She reaches down and helps me to my feet. Emily and I have fallen in love. I'm not sure how this happens. I remember what love was like before, and this is different. This is simpler. Before, there were complex emotional and biological factors at work. We had long checklists and elaborate tests to be passed. We looked at hairstyles and careers and breast sizes. And sex was there, in everything, confusing everyone, like hunger. It created longing, it created ambition, competition, it drove people to leave their houses and invent automobiles, space craft, and atom bombs when they could instead just sit on the couch until they died. Animal cravings. Subconscious urges.
Sex made the world go ‘round. This is all gone now. Sex, once a force as universal as gravity, is now irrelevant. Ambition and longing have left the equation. My penis fell off two weeks ago. So the equation is deleted, the blackboard erased, and things are different now. Our actions have no ulterior motives. We shuffle around in the dust and occasionally have lumbering, grunted exchanges with our peers. No one argues. There are no fights, ever. And Emily is not a complicated process. I just see her, and walk over to her, and for no reason, really, I decide I want to be with her for a long time. So now we shuffle around in the dust together instead of alone. For whatever reason, we enjoy each other's company. When we have to go into town to eat people, we do it at separate times, because it's unpleasant, and we don't want to share that. But we share everything else, and it's nice. We decide to walk to the mountains. It takes us three days, but now we are standing on a cliff looking up at a fat white moon. At our backs, the night sky is red from distant cities burning, but we don't care about that. I clumsily grab Emily's hand, and we stare at the moon. There's no real reason for any of this, but like I said, the world has been distilled. Love has been distilled. Everything is easy now. Yesterday my leg broke off, and I don't even mind.
http://www.barbelith.com/topic/28350 retrieved July 2008
Zombie Life
ZOmbie Life
(note: I did not write this. I found it on the page whose link is given below. I posted it here because I like the story very much. It's the type of humor that I simply adore - the dark one. The story is funny and a little (hehe) twisted and also somewhat, i hate to say the word, adorable.)
There are a few hundred of us living in a wide plain of dust outside some large city. We don't need shelter or warmth, obviously. We stand around in the dust, and time passes. I think we've been here for a long time. Despite my dragging entrails, I am in decay's early stages, but there are a few elderly ones here who are little more than skeletons with clinging bits of muscle. Somehow, it still extends and contracts, and they keep moving. I have never seen any of us "die" of old age. Maybe we live forever, I don't know. I don't think much about the future anymore. That's something that's very different from before. When I was alive, the future was all I thought about. Obsessed about. Death has relaxed me. But it makes me sad that we've forgotten our names. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. I don't miss my own, but I mourn for everyone else's, because I want to love them, but I don't know who they are.
Today a group of us are going into town to find some food. How this expedition begins is one of us gets hungry and starts shuffling toward town, and a few others follow him. Focused thought is a rare occurrence with us, and we follow it when we see it. Otherwise we would just be standing around groaning. We do a lot of standing around groaning, and it's frustrating sometimes. Years pass this way. The flesh withers on our bones, and we stand around, waiting for it. I am curious how old I might be. The city where the people live is not that far. We arrive around noon and start looking for living flesh. The new kind of hunger is a strange feeling. You don't feel it in your stomach - of course not, since some of us don't even have stomachs. You feel it just...everywhere. You start to feel "more dead". I've watched some of my friends go back to being full-dead, when food is scarce. They just slow down, and stop, and become corpses again. I don't really understand it.
I guess the world has mostly ended, because the cities we wander through are decaying as fast as we are. Buildings are collapsed. Dead, rusted cars fill the streets. All glass everywhere is shattered. I don't know if there was a war, or a plague, or if it was just us. Maybe it was all three. I don't know. I don't think about things like that anymore. In a cluster of broken down apartment buildings we find some people, and we eat them. Some of them have weapons, and as usual we lose some of our number, but we don't care. Why would we care? What's death, now? Eating is not a pleasant business. I chew off a man's arm, and I hate this, it's disgusting. I hate his screams, because I don't like pain, I don't like to hurt things, but this is the world now, this is what we do.
Of course, if I don't eat all of him, if I leave enough, he'll rise up and follow me back to our dusty field outside the city, and that might make me feel better. I'll introduce him to everyone, and maybe we'll stand around and groan for a while. It's hard to say what "friends" are anymore, but maybe that's close. If I don't eat all of him, if I leave enough... But of course I don't leave enough. I eat his brain, because that's the good part. That's the part that, when I swallow it, makes my head light up with feelings. Clear memories. For about three to ten seconds, depending on the person, I get to feel alive. I get traces of delicious meals, beautiful music, perfume, orgasms, sunsets, life. Then it fades, and I get up and stumble out of the city, still dead, but feeling a little less so.
Feeling ok. I don't know why we have to eat people. I don't understand what chewing off a man's neck accomplishes. We certainly don't digest the meat and absorb the nutrients. My stomach is a rotted bag of dried bile, useless. We don't digest, we just eat until the weight forces it out our ass holes, and then we eat more.
It feels so useless, and yet it keeps us walking. I don't know why. None of us really understand why we are the way we are. We don't know if we're the result of some strange global infection, or some ancient curse, or something even more senseless. We don't talk about it much. Existential debate is not a major part of zombie life. We are here, and we do things. We are simple. It's nice sometimes. Outside the city again, back with the others in the dust field, I start walking in a circle for no reason. I plant one foot in the dirt and pivot on it, around and around, kicking up clouds of dust. Before, when I was alive, I could never have done this. I remember stress. I remember bills and deadlines, Asset Retention Reports. I remember being so occupied, so always everywhere all the time occupied. Now I'm just standing in a wide-open field of dust, walking in a circle.
The world has been distilled. Being dead is easy. After a few days of this, I stop walking, and I stand still, swaying back and forth and groaning a little. I don't know why I groan. I'm not in pain, and I'm not sad. I think it's just air being squeezed in and out of my lungs. When my lungs decompose, it will probably stop. And now, while swaying and groaning, I notice a dead woman standing a few feet away from me, facing the distant mountains. She doesn't sway or groan, her head just lolls from side to side. I like that about her, that she doesn't sway or groan. I walk over and stand beside her. I wheeze some kind of greeting, and she responds with a lurch of her shoulder. I like her. I reach out and touch her hair. She has not been dead very long.
Her skin is grey and her eyes slightly sunken, but she has no exposed bones or organs. Her death outfit is a black skirt and a snug white button-up. I suspect she used to be a waitress. Pinned to her chest is a silver nametag. I can read her name. She has a name. Her name is Emily. I point to her chest. Slowly, with great effort, I say, "Em..ily." The word rolls off what's left of my tongue like honey. What a good name. I feel warm saying it. Emily's cloudy eyes widen at the sound, and she smiles. I also smile, and then maybe I'm a little nervous, because my tibia snaps, and I fall backwards into the dust. Emily just laughs, and it's a choked, raw, lovely sound.
She reaches down and helps me to my feet. Emily and I have fallen in love. I'm not sure how this happens. I remember what love was like before, and this is different. This is simpler. Before, there were complex emotional and biological factors at work. We had long checklists and elaborate tests to be passed. We looked at hairstyles and careers and breast sizes. And sex was there, in everything, confusing everyone, like hunger. It created longing, it created ambition, competition, it drove people to leave their houses and invent automobiles, space craft, and atom bombs when they could instead just sit on the couch until they died. Animal cravings. Subconscious urges.
Sex made the world go ‘round. This is all gone now. Sex, once a force as universal as gravity, is now irrelevant. Ambition and longing have left the equation. My penis fell off two weeks ago. So the equation is deleted, the blackboard erased, and things are different now. Our actions have no ulterior motives. We shuffle around in the dust and occasionally have lumbering, grunted exchanges with our peers. No one argues. There are no fights, ever. And Emily is not a complicated process. I just see her, and walk over to her, and for no reason, really, I decide I want to be with her for a long time. So now we shuffle around in the dust together instead of alone. For whatever reason, we enjoy each other's company. When we have to go into town to eat people, we do it at separate times, because it's unpleasant, and we don't want to share that. But we share everything else, and it's nice. We decide to walk to the mountains. It takes us three days, but now we are standing on a cliff looking up at a fat white moon. At our backs, the night sky is red from distant cities burning, but we don't care about that. I clumsily grab Emily's hand, and we stare at the moon. There's no real reason for any of this, but like I said, the world has been distilled. Love has been distilled. Everything is easy now. Yesterday my leg broke off, and I don't even mind.
http://www.barbelith.com/topic/28350 retrieved July 2008
(note: I did not write this. I found it on the page whose link is given below. I posted it here because I like the story very much. It's the type of humor that I simply adore - the dark one. The story is funny and a little (hehe) twisted and also somewhat, i hate to say the word, adorable.)
There are a few hundred of us living in a wide plain of dust outside some large city. We don't need shelter or warmth, obviously. We stand around in the dust, and time passes. I think we've been here for a long time. Despite my dragging entrails, I am in decay's early stages, but there are a few elderly ones here who are little more than skeletons with clinging bits of muscle. Somehow, it still extends and contracts, and they keep moving. I have never seen any of us "die" of old age. Maybe we live forever, I don't know. I don't think much about the future anymore. That's something that's very different from before. When I was alive, the future was all I thought about. Obsessed about. Death has relaxed me. But it makes me sad that we've forgotten our names. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. I don't miss my own, but I mourn for everyone else's, because I want to love them, but I don't know who they are.
Today a group of us are going into town to find some food. How this expedition begins is one of us gets hungry and starts shuffling toward town, and a few others follow him. Focused thought is a rare occurrence with us, and we follow it when we see it. Otherwise we would just be standing around groaning. We do a lot of standing around groaning, and it's frustrating sometimes. Years pass this way. The flesh withers on our bones, and we stand around, waiting for it. I am curious how old I might be. The city where the people live is not that far. We arrive around noon and start looking for living flesh. The new kind of hunger is a strange feeling. You don't feel it in your stomach - of course not, since some of us don't even have stomachs. You feel it just...everywhere. You start to feel "more dead". I've watched some of my friends go back to being full-dead, when food is scarce. They just slow down, and stop, and become corpses again. I don't really understand it.
I guess the world has mostly ended, because the cities we wander through are decaying as fast as we are. Buildings are collapsed. Dead, rusted cars fill the streets. All glass everywhere is shattered. I don't know if there was a war, or a plague, or if it was just us. Maybe it was all three. I don't know. I don't think about things like that anymore. In a cluster of broken down apartment buildings we find some people, and we eat them. Some of them have weapons, and as usual we lose some of our number, but we don't care. Why would we care? What's death, now? Eating is not a pleasant business. I chew off a man's arm, and I hate this, it's disgusting. I hate his screams, because I don't like pain, I don't like to hurt things, but this is the world now, this is what we do.
Of course, if I don't eat all of him, if I leave enough, he'll rise up and follow me back to our dusty field outside the city, and that might make me feel better. I'll introduce him to everyone, and maybe we'll stand around and groan for a while. It's hard to say what "friends" are anymore, but maybe that's close. If I don't eat all of him, if I leave enough... But of course I don't leave enough. I eat his brain, because that's the good part. That's the part that, when I swallow it, makes my head light up with feelings. Clear memories. For about three to ten seconds, depending on the person, I get to feel alive. I get traces of delicious meals, beautiful music, perfume, orgasms, sunsets, life. Then it fades, and I get up and stumble out of the city, still dead, but feeling a little less so.
Feeling ok. I don't know why we have to eat people. I don't understand what chewing off a man's neck accomplishes. We certainly don't digest the meat and absorb the nutrients. My stomach is a rotted bag of dried bile, useless. We don't digest, we just eat until the weight forces it out our ass holes, and then we eat more.
It feels so useless, and yet it keeps us walking. I don't know why. None of us really understand why we are the way we are. We don't know if we're the result of some strange global infection, or some ancient curse, or something even more senseless. We don't talk about it much. Existential debate is not a major part of zombie life. We are here, and we do things. We are simple. It's nice sometimes. Outside the city again, back with the others in the dust field, I start walking in a circle for no reason. I plant one foot in the dirt and pivot on it, around and around, kicking up clouds of dust. Before, when I was alive, I could never have done this. I remember stress. I remember bills and deadlines, Asset Retention Reports. I remember being so occupied, so always everywhere all the time occupied. Now I'm just standing in a wide-open field of dust, walking in a circle.
The world has been distilled. Being dead is easy. After a few days of this, I stop walking, and I stand still, swaying back and forth and groaning a little. I don't know why I groan. I'm not in pain, and I'm not sad. I think it's just air being squeezed in and out of my lungs. When my lungs decompose, it will probably stop. And now, while swaying and groaning, I notice a dead woman standing a few feet away from me, facing the distant mountains. She doesn't sway or groan, her head just lolls from side to side. I like that about her, that she doesn't sway or groan. I walk over and stand beside her. I wheeze some kind of greeting, and she responds with a lurch of her shoulder. I like her. I reach out and touch her hair. She has not been dead very long.
Her skin is grey and her eyes slightly sunken, but she has no exposed bones or organs. Her death outfit is a black skirt and a snug white button-up. I suspect she used to be a waitress. Pinned to her chest is a silver nametag. I can read her name. She has a name. Her name is Emily. I point to her chest. Slowly, with great effort, I say, "Em..ily." The word rolls off what's left of my tongue like honey. What a good name. I feel warm saying it. Emily's cloudy eyes widen at the sound, and she smiles. I also smile, and then maybe I'm a little nervous, because my tibia snaps, and I fall backwards into the dust. Emily just laughs, and it's a choked, raw, lovely sound.
She reaches down and helps me to my feet. Emily and I have fallen in love. I'm not sure how this happens. I remember what love was like before, and this is different. This is simpler. Before, there were complex emotional and biological factors at work. We had long checklists and elaborate tests to be passed. We looked at hairstyles and careers and breast sizes. And sex was there, in everything, confusing everyone, like hunger. It created longing, it created ambition, competition, it drove people to leave their houses and invent automobiles, space craft, and atom bombs when they could instead just sit on the couch until they died. Animal cravings. Subconscious urges.
Sex made the world go ‘round. This is all gone now. Sex, once a force as universal as gravity, is now irrelevant. Ambition and longing have left the equation. My penis fell off two weeks ago. So the equation is deleted, the blackboard erased, and things are different now. Our actions have no ulterior motives. We shuffle around in the dust and occasionally have lumbering, grunted exchanges with our peers. No one argues. There are no fights, ever. And Emily is not a complicated process. I just see her, and walk over to her, and for no reason, really, I decide I want to be with her for a long time. So now we shuffle around in the dust together instead of alone. For whatever reason, we enjoy each other's company. When we have to go into town to eat people, we do it at separate times, because it's unpleasant, and we don't want to share that. But we share everything else, and it's nice. We decide to walk to the mountains. It takes us three days, but now we are standing on a cliff looking up at a fat white moon. At our backs, the night sky is red from distant cities burning, but we don't care about that. I clumsily grab Emily's hand, and we stare at the moon. There's no real reason for any of this, but like I said, the world has been distilled. Love has been distilled. Everything is easy now. Yesterday my leg broke off, and I don't even mind.
http://www.barbelith.com/topic/28350 retrieved July 2008
We're the young who stand up...
We must never be silenced
We've gotta speak up now
For all our sakes
And lift our voices higher
Let's sing our song...
Funny it is that I feel as if I have found my groove again though it may be entirely possible that I never actually lost it, but rather it was just in a dormant state just awaiting for the moment that it strike fear in the souls of mortals. Ew, that sounds creepy in sort of a cool way...
Anyhoo, I discovered that deep within my soul I can overcome things that I thought would drive me mad - I just blank them all out of my mind and let the waters of their existence wash over me for the may get me wet, but they will eventually dry and be forgotten. But there are drops of these waters that soak into my soul and I can never forget them though I try for they become parts of the puzzle that makes up my soul...
For instance last night at my job, the Zombie who is older than I walk over to where I was stationed to check up on me because the Head Zombie and the Second-in-Command Zombie were both absent when the machine I was assigned for the night started to make some noise. So I said to him, "I can hear the death rattles of a dying bar..."
To which the Zombie-in-Charge replied, "You should've been a poet..."
And a smile crossed my face, a big ole creepy smile that caused the Zombie to look at me strangely and it caused me to say, "Yep, then I wouldn't here at this moment..."
And it brought joy to a rather boring evening of watching parts being made from a long bar of a black plastic material that once made needed checked and washed and dried and packaged and moved to their next stop on their journey. At least I had some brief periods when I could walk over to the open garage doors and gaze off into the distance and wish that I was a million miles from where I was at the moment that I was gazing upon the heavens so very far away...
But at least spring has arrived so that I can gaze outside while I am at work...
This is the Word of the AntiCrust...
Praise be ye who Read the Word for ye are Blessed amongst humans...
We've gotta speak up now
For all our sakes
And lift our voices higher
Let's sing our song...
Funny it is that I feel as if I have found my groove again though it may be entirely possible that I never actually lost it, but rather it was just in a dormant state just awaiting for the moment that it strike fear in the souls of mortals. Ew, that sounds creepy in sort of a cool way...
Anyhoo, I discovered that deep within my soul I can overcome things that I thought would drive me mad - I just blank them all out of my mind and let the waters of their existence wash over me for the may get me wet, but they will eventually dry and be forgotten. But there are drops of these waters that soak into my soul and I can never forget them though I try for they become parts of the puzzle that makes up my soul...
For instance last night at my job, the Zombie who is older than I walk over to where I was stationed to check up on me because the Head Zombie and the Second-in-Command Zombie were both absent when the machine I was assigned for the night started to make some noise. So I said to him, "I can hear the death rattles of a dying bar..."
To which the Zombie-in-Charge replied, "You should've been a poet..."
And a smile crossed my face, a big ole creepy smile that caused the Zombie to look at me strangely and it caused me to say, "Yep, then I wouldn't here at this moment..."
And it brought joy to a rather boring evening of watching parts being made from a long bar of a black plastic material that once made needed checked and washed and dried and packaged and moved to their next stop on their journey. At least I had some brief periods when I could walk over to the open garage doors and gaze off into the distance and wish that I was a million miles from where I was at the moment that I was gazing upon the heavens so very far away...
But at least spring has arrived so that I can gaze outside while I am at work...
This is the Word of the AntiCrust...
Praise be ye who Read the Word for ye are Blessed amongst humans...
Holy Father, what's the matter...
Where have all your children gone?
Sitting in the dark
Living all by themselves
You don't have to hide any more...
And now the long silence is over and I shall again write upon all the things that I find within my cranium even if those things may be of nothing at all. As some know for you have asked, I shall tell now my tale of woe for it is a tragic tale in the tradition of the Greeks. Well, not really, but it did have me in quite an emotionless state that is not very inspiring for my creative juices. Since I had been unemployed for sometime and was in need of funds to support my various habits, I decided to once again enter the workforce in this great nation. So I applied and I applied and I applied to many positions that both meet my educational standards and my interest. Unfortunately the only companies that were interested in my resume only wanted me for my body and had no interest in my mind. I feel so much like a slab of beef. So I reached the end of my patience and my money and went back to work as a machinist - a noble profession, but one I would rather leave behind. So I work now...
Then after nearly two weeks being tied to the machines of industry, I again found that spark to begin anew the writings that a few will read and enjoy, but most will overlook. And as usual in this life, it is the strangest of things that flipped the switch back on. As I sat in the break room eating lunch with the other zombies of the graveyard shift, the youngest zombie (though not much younger that myself) blurted out, "Mr. B_____, you talk far too much..."
I replied with all the sarcasm I could muster at 3:30 a.m., "Yep, I do..."
Zombie number two who is approximately my age said to Zombie number three who is slightly older than me, "You know he scares me" as he nods in my general direction...
To which Zombie number three replies, "Yeah, just wait until the dead bodies start turning up in lockers..."
And so I giggled and all three stared at me for a while...
And with the giggle that I had done aloud, the key was placed into my soul, turned, and the world was again open to me and the joy that I had in writing again returned and there was much rejoicing...
And now I can again tell the tales that must be told even if the tales are tales of nothing for this is the way it is and the way it should be though I do believe that I will skip the bit about putting dead bodies in people's lockers for this is not within my nature even if the Zombies believe it to be true...
This is the Word of the AntiCrust...
Praise be ye who Read the Word for ye are Blessed amongst humans...
Sitting in the dark
Living all by themselves
You don't have to hide any more...
And now the long silence is over and I shall again write upon all the things that I find within my cranium even if those things may be of nothing at all. As some know for you have asked, I shall tell now my tale of woe for it is a tragic tale in the tradition of the Greeks. Well, not really, but it did have me in quite an emotionless state that is not very inspiring for my creative juices. Since I had been unemployed for sometime and was in need of funds to support my various habits, I decided to once again enter the workforce in this great nation. So I applied and I applied and I applied to many positions that both meet my educational standards and my interest. Unfortunately the only companies that were interested in my resume only wanted me for my body and had no interest in my mind. I feel so much like a slab of beef. So I reached the end of my patience and my money and went back to work as a machinist - a noble profession, but one I would rather leave behind. So I work now...
Then after nearly two weeks being tied to the machines of industry, I again found that spark to begin anew the writings that a few will read and enjoy, but most will overlook. And as usual in this life, it is the strangest of things that flipped the switch back on. As I sat in the break room eating lunch with the other zombies of the graveyard shift, the youngest zombie (though not much younger that myself) blurted out, "Mr. B_____, you talk far too much..."
I replied with all the sarcasm I could muster at 3:30 a.m., "Yep, I do..."
Zombie number two who is approximately my age said to Zombie number three who is slightly older than me, "You know he scares me" as he nods in my general direction...
To which Zombie number three replies, "Yeah, just wait until the dead bodies start turning up in lockers..."
And so I giggled and all three stared at me for a while...
And with the giggle that I had done aloud, the key was placed into my soul, turned, and the world was again open to me and the joy that I had in writing again returned and there was much rejoicing...
And now I can again tell the tales that must be told even if the tales are tales of nothing for this is the way it is and the way it should be though I do believe that I will skip the bit about putting dead bodies in people's lockers for this is not within my nature even if the Zombies believe it to be true...
This is the Word of the AntiCrust...
Praise be ye who Read the Word for ye are Blessed amongst humans...
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Re: Show Me Jesus - nods, u will have to delete, its your blog :)
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