He was a reluctant zombie. Never asked to be one, but after dying somehow got summoned up to break through the coffin lid and claw his way through six feet of dirt. It was a bitch, to say the least. And then to have to clumsily plod along taking faltering and halting steps toward the living that look as delicious as greasy cheeseburgers after a night of heavy drinking – all the while thinking, “WTF, how did this happen?” He keeps hoping to get a wooden stake or silver bullet or whatever the zombie equivalent is in order to return to “eternal sleep.”
rote service
my mindless smile to her
“have a good one”
by Jeffrey Winke
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
No comments:
Post a Comment