The Grove

The poplars looked cold. The trunks and narrow limbs seemed more than winter bare. They were stark. They were stripped and bleached.

Abe broke off a twig. It snapped dry.

On the tree, silver sap dripped from the new wound. The drops became a stream leaking onto the frozen ground. A thick puddle grew.

The stream became a spray, and Abe put his hand out to block it. Thick drops turned to rivulets down his wrist and hardened. He flexed his hand, and they cracked and flowed again in new directions down his arm.

Abe, frantic, wiped his heavy arm on his shirt. It stuck to the cloth and tore it as he pulled away. He could no longer flex his wrist or elbow. His shoulder stiffened.

He ran back down the road, but his legs became clumsy, and within seconds they stuck fast.


Tendrils climbed his neck, wormed into his nose, mouth and ears until his cry choked off. He stood a silver statue.

A low grating echoed quietly from his open mouth. A branch emerged, bone white. His fingertips, knees, shoulders and toes crackled as shoots pushed through, branching up and out.

The wind blew, and Abe swayed, stark and bare.

Zombie Luv Flash Fic Contest: Something Not Hunger

The Hungry had clawed for weeks at the walls of St. Martin’s Cathedral. Their fingertips and nails were stripped away, and exposed bone grated against the rough stones. 

It was a fortress for the faithful and had, so far, repelled all others. Each morning and evening they held Mass. Fervent entreaties to God mingled with the low groans from outside the walls.

“Judica me, Deus, et discerne causam meam de gente non sancta. Judge me, O God, and distinguish my cause from the nation that is not holy. Ab mortuis iniquo et doloso erue me. Deliver me from the unjust and deceitful dead.”

He marked the time by these communal prayers, leaning against a crumbled wall across the square.


He was the oldest among them. Boots, hard black leather, and a motorcycle helmet – as luck would have it – were sound armor for an animated corpse. With armor came longevity, and with longevity came experience. He had learned a few tricks and, in turn, followers who trailed him for scraps.

During the prolonged siege of the Cathedral, all but one had left him.

Her hair was the color of food: bright red, frizzed in the fetid humidity. She survived on the fringes, snatching scraps as the others fought bloody tug-of-wars. Her lower lip was split to the chin, and the slack caused the corners of her mouth to curl in a smile.

She crouched beside a bench; her slender fingers grasped the armrest. She watched him watch the onslaught in the dawn.