…is no good. Let’s make another.
“Neither here nor there, Yelen crosses a fine line.”
I saw them coming up the street, the shambling grey mass. I’d seen the news, until the broadcasts stopped. I still didn’t know exactly what I thought of it all. I opened my front door and peered out. I’d never seen a zombie close enough to make out its expression before. Their heads lolled, but the faces weren’t slack. They twitched, shifted, briefly smiled, frowned, gasped. Their eyes rolled and some blinked rapidly and unevenly in a way that reminded me eerily of Morse code. One rolled its head jerkily to look right at me and gave me a slow, lazy wink.
Then the truck pulled up, a beat-up F-150 with aluminum siding bolted to the hood to form a crude ram. Men poured out, in camo, in hunter’s orange, in wife-beaters and torn jeans. Most of them had at least two guns, and they formed a line and shot at the mass of zombies. I saw the head that had winked at me pop like a giant zit, and the bile rose in my throat.
“C’mon!” shouted a man in an orange vest, gesturing me towards the truck with a pump shotgun. “They’re still coming, hurry!” Continue reading
At last, the shapeshifter drops it’s guise and is revealed in what you instinctively know is its true from: a sinuous mass of glistening tentacles writhing in an obscene parody of human proportion. Its almost human mouth splits into a coy smirk, but your eyes are drawn further up, to the iridescently gleaming, slowly pulsing yoni in its forehead.
Your heart pounds and your throat is parched. Your fingers itch and it feels like the mere movement of your much too dry lips over each other could start a landslide.
Your every muscle tenses as you prepare to speak, and cold sweat rolls down your face.
“On words pressed to skin and the space within.”