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:iconthwan-condu: More from Thwan-Condu


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September 19, 2004
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Zombie Boy
The rattling was irritating.  A foot stepped to a door, and a hand, quite related to the foot, forced that very same door back.  The body of these appendages stayed well grounded.  The driver of this train didn’t notice the lad in the doorway for a few moments, but he felt a presence.  And then he heard this: “You’re fifteen minutes late.”  To his astonishment a boy stood behind him in quite a temper.  
“Hullo?” he said, intersecting a spiteful grumble he’d recite to himself in his solitude. “Can I help you?”
“You’re fifteen minutes late,” stated the boy.
The following mumbles from the driver were quite of a different sort, as just seconds later the boy snapped his neck.   The stranger stood for a moment looking into the dead face.  The wrinkles grew pale, the scent of the living starting to diminish.  He relieved a sigh, and then opened a window to his right.  It was stiff and mucky.  He then placed a tattered, brown shoe across the open frame and pushed himself out into the evening, which passed by in blurs of light.  The wind caught him for a moment, and he was thrown against the side of the bulleting train.  But quickly he picked himself up from the physics about him and spun up through the air above.  
The street and building lights illuminated the space between the gaping black emptiness in the sky and the ground below.  He followed the train track a while, but took a turn close to his station.  He realized that the vehicle would probably crash soon and decided it would be best to distract himself until he could justify an excuse of walking home having missed the train.  
His boot set down upon a roof, where he sat for a while in thought.  He should be at work still or at least just on his way home.  He was angry his boss had sacked him.  She had taken a necessity from him she could hardly comprehend.   His mutilated veins pumped ever so slightly faster than a moment before beneath his yellow skin, and he stood.  ‘Alas!’ he cried, ‘Fucking woe is me!” and he pushed off the rooftop into the night again.  
He landed a minute later far enough away for safety’s sake.  The area was dark here under the trees on the broken path which he decided to follow home.  His thoughts were calming and regret was weaving its web.  His anger had overwhelmed him earlier, and he’d killed again.  He knew what a price was death; where was written his right to judge of it?  The boy put his nails into his cheek but paused before he ripped further.  If he was to hurt himself it shouldn’t be his face anymore; he should continue to maul his stomach.  He shouldn’t worry his mother with more scars.  What should he tell her of his work?  He had no income now of any sort.  
He would not tell her.  
Of a sudden he became aware that he wasn’t even walking, but hovering above the pavement.  He decided to sense the weight for once, and settled gravity upon his weary shoulders, though this tired him to no end.

His key clicked messily as he turned it.  The house was in darkness, as usual, except for a light from the sitting room.  The television blared obnoxiously and his sister sat opposite hypnotised.   She shot him a quick greeting, which apparently broke her transfixion, as when she turned back to the screen she seemed quite horrified.  She yawned profoundly and slowly made her way to the door, then to the stairs drunkenly.  ‘’Night,’ she said.
He followed her up the narrow steps a few minutes later.   The moon illuminated the hallway of the upstairs landing.  He traced the light that streaked across the wall with his finger until he came to a door.  He reached for his keys and unlocked it.  Here the moonlight gave a similar affect of silver and white within the dark chaos. He moved to the bed.  He stroked his mother’s pale skin gently, picking up the scent of her unclean sheets.  She breathed sporadically and lightly.  Her skin was a great contrast to his.  White invaded her by reflection, but there still remained a hint of the fresh peach she’d bore as a healthy young mother.  His hand was a pale yellow, green and blue veins pulsating, and bruised patches made the gnarled thing purplish in places.
He sat beside her bed bringing her sleeping hand to his face.  Contact achieved, his mother tried weakly to pull her hand away from the stone cold.  His tears welled.  He rose and exited, entering an opposing room, shutting the door, and seating himself upon his bed.   When he began to weep he flopped to the floor, his rasping cries low.  His fingers dug into his sides and he tore at it.  It came apart like butter in his strong grip and scattered about the place.  His pussy excuse for blood leaked into the stained carpet.
The windows chilled, and the trees danced mournfully, their cries almost audible.  Above the stars and their chief moon observed omnipotently.
Little story I composed.

update: for further zombie antics, check out my nuevo story, Dead File Romeo and Juliet!
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