Category Archives for Fiction

LONDON COLD SNAP KILLS 42 ZOMBIES

Brrrrr!

Courtesy of stock.xchng

LONDON, United Kingdom – A bout of severe, snowy weather has left at least 42 zombies dead as the second snowfall of the year hits the capital. Officials are taking extra precautions to protect the zombies, dozens of whom froze to death on the streets of London during last week alone.

Nearly 300 zombies sought defrosting procedures from University College London Hospital, with scores of hospitals overrun by the heat-seeking undead.

Emergency officials have said many of the zombies are homeless, and desperate for heat and nourishment. 800 shelters have been opened to provide shelter and brain-substitute burgers, but authorities are struggling to communicate with the zombies, whose cognitively impairments are exacerbated by the cold.

Unable to locate the shelters, many zombies are seeking protection in phone booths and tube stations. Oxford Circus and Bond Street stations were indefinitely closed after twelve commuters were injured in a zombie incident. All twelve have been inoculated and will be under quarantine for 72 hours.

The extreme weather comes at a bad time for undead rights group ZombieAid, who are currently lobbying Parliament to classify zombies as ‘non-human persons’ in order to accord them with basic human rights.

Police are appealing the public to keep zombie relatives indoors and to take care when travelling through the city.

RED HERRINGS

His beard is a disguise.

People see the dark skin, the thick hair, the traditional clothing, and come to all the wrong conclusions. But it is his beard they notice first, the thickness of it, its length. It is the first of many red herrings in his appearance.

Hiding behind its thick, curled tangle are gentle cheeks, a sad smile, soft lips that mouth poetry on the underground.

He’s clutching two open notebooks, one on top of the other. His nails are rough-ridged and cracked but he holds the pen delicately, copying words from one notebook into the other.

The words themselves are another red herring: words of pain and suffering, of loneliness and anger, carefully misspelled to feign ignorance.

He needs these — the beard, the words, the disguise — because without them, he is nothing, no one. Just another man on the tube, another forgettable face.

A CHARMING WITCH

This short story is set several years before the events in Above Ground. It provides insight into the WPL (Witches’ Protection League) and marks a turning point in WPL’s policies, from passive anti-werekin attitudes to the aggressive tactics seen in Above Ground.

Evelyn was a short woman, petite and blonde, seemingly innocent in appearance. She was also a woman who knew how to charm. She stood idly by the doorway, hardly betraying her inner turmoil. In front of her, slowly coming to his senses, was a werewolf.

The floor was covered with a murky carpet that matched her feelings inside. He was sprawled on it, one hand still stained with blood, a flash of colour in the near darkness.

He sat up, unabashed by his nudity. “What happened?”

She raised one hand and placed it against the door, keeping the other behind her back. “You changed.”

“Impossible. I don’t remember.” He sniffed the air, then scanned her body. “Did I bite you? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

He noticed the blood on his fingers, brought it up to his nose. “Then what…?” He paused, unable to resist the impulse to lick off some of the blood. The sight nearly killed her.

“What did I do?” he asked.

“You lost control.”

He shook his head in response, looking bewildered. “Weres don’t lose control. We’re just as sentient in animal form as we are when human.”

Evelyn allowed herself a brief daydream: striding across the room, slapping his face, shoving his nose into the pool of blood behind him. When he looked up at her, she shrugged, striving to make the movement look casual.

“The smell’s so strong,” he said, finally. “I can’t tell where it’s coming from.”

Keeping her voice innocent-sweet, she replied, “How about behind you?”

He turned around, then let out a hoarse pain-filled cry. He scrambled away from the small body, on his hands and knees like the animal he was, and knocked over a vase filled with fresh, red roses. The petals scattered.

“No!” He pushed himself to his feet, turned to her, his lips curled into a snarl. “You did this! You and your stupid coven! They don’t like me, they never have!”

She let her control slip, just the tiniest bit. “How dare you accuse me of killing my own daughter?”

“How else could you stand there, looking so calm?” In his anger, his fingertips changed back to claws. He didn’t seem to notice.

Evelyn kept her voice flat. “Right now, my hatred for your kind surpasses any other emotion I could feel.”

“My kind?” He noticed his hands, forced them to change back. “What do werewolves have to do with it?”

“They killed her.” She paused, then added, “You killed her.”

His mouth opened and closed silently. He turned around, stared at the body. “Impossible,” he mumbled. He didn’t look at her. “How… how do you know?”

The hand behind her back clenched tighter around the cool metal. “Because I watched you do it!”

He flinched at the words, moved closer to the body on the floor. He crouched down. “No. I can’t have. I love her.”

He reached out, touching a cheek tenderly and brushing away the tangles of hair that covered the two year olds’ face. Glassy emerald eyes stared at the ceiling, small lips curved downwards in a frozen frown. His body shuddered with suppressed grief as he turned to pick up a rose from where it lay on the floor, amongst the scattered bits of glass. He placed it beside the young girl’s cheek. The rose had already begun to wither.

He straightened, took a few steps towards her. “Evelyn, I… I don’t understand.”

Evelyn pulled out the gun she’d been hiding behind her back and levelled it at his body. She didn’t give him any warning. His body shuddered from the impact and fell backward.

She released a whoosh of breath, let her arm drop to her side. It was over.

Someone coughed politely behind her.

Evelyn jumped and whirled around, bringing the gun up again. It was the witch who worked on reception at the W.A.W. headquarters, a self-important and overweight man. She lowered the gun. “What is it?” she snapped.

He looked startled. Reminding herself of the importance of networking, Evelyn forced a smile and apologized, then asked the question again.

He stroked his moustache, looking nervous. “The Grand High has been murdered. She named you her successor.”

Evelyn gave herself one second to process the news. Then, with a grave, sympathetic smile, she reached out and touched the man’s arm. “Very well. I’ll be with you in a moment.” She squeezed his arm reassuringly, letting her fingertips trail across his hand as she pulled away.

He smiled back almost giddily. His eyes slid past her, into the room, but he said nothing. He bowed deeply and strode down the corridor.

Evelyn was a short woman, but mostly a woman who knew how to charm. She stood idly by the doorway with a smirk on her face, hardly betraying her inner turmoil. At her feet, drawing his last, gasping breaths, was a werewolf.

Next
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THE GIANT BUTTERFLY

Once upon a time there was a butterfly named Bonnie.

Now Bonnie was no ordinary butterfly, she was a GIANT butterfly. She was bigger than all the other butterflies. She was bigger than the dragonflies. She was even bigger than your two hands put together!

Bonnie was so big that when she landed on a flower, the flower would break. When she drank from a puddle, water would splash everywhere. And when she flew through the fields, the wind from her wings would knock all the other butterflies off-course.

None of the other butterflies wanted to play with Bonnie.

Bonnie was lonely.

One day a zebra arrived in the forest.

Now this was no ordinary zebra, this was a KILLER zebra. His tail was thin and whip-like. His hooves were sharp and strong. And his teeth were very large, and very white.

The zebra trotted into Bonnie’s field. He hit all the butterflies with his tail. He squashed all the flowers with his hooves. And he ripped up the grass in great chunks with his teeth.

“Help, help!” cried the other butterflies, watching their home get destroyed.

And Bonnie, because she was big and because she was brave, went to the rescue.

She flew right up to the zebra and landed right between his ears, where he couldn’t see her. Then she leaned over and shouted into his ear: “LEAVE THIS FIELD, ZEBRA!”

The zebra jumped. “Who’s that? Who’s there?” He turned round and round on the spot, but couldn’t see anyone. The field was empty. He shook his head nervously, and Bonnie had to hold on tight so as not to fall off.

“I AM THE MIGHTY LION!” roared Bonnie into his ear.

Oh, how the zebra jumped now! “L-l-l-lion?” he stuttered, his hooves knocking together in fright, because zebras and lions were mortal enemies. He galloped to the edge of the field and hid behind a tree.

The zebra shook his head again, and again Bonnie had to hold on tight.

“THAT’S NOT FAR ENOUGH!” she shouted, growling angrily.

“Eep!” yelped the zebra. He ran even further from the butterfly field, and hid behind a large rock.

Bonnie took a deep breath and said: “NO, THAT’S NOT FAR ENOU–”

But as Bonnie was speaking, the zebra shook his head again, and she fell splat onto the rock!

“You’re not a lion!” the zebra said angrily. “You liar!”

He lifted up a hoof to squash her, but Bonnie cried out, “I had to lie! You were destroying our home! You squashed all the flowers and ripped up all the grass and hit my friends with your tail!”

The zebra was shocked. “I did? I… I didn’t realise. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Bonnie said. “Just don’t do it again.”

And she gave the zebra directions to Africa, so that he could travel there and hang out with all the other zebras, where he belonged.

As soon as the zebra left, all the butterflies gathered around the rock, fluttering their beautiful wings. “Oh, Bonnie! You saved our home! Thank you, thank you!”

“It was nothing,” Bonnie said modestly, embarrassed by the attention.

She tried to flap her wings, to join them in the air, but nothing happened. Her wing was broken!

“Come on Bonnie,” said the butterflies. “Let’s go home!”

“I can’t!” she cried, trying to flap her wings again, wincing at the pain. “I can’t fly! I must have broken my wing when I fell on to the rock,” she said sadly.

And then all the other butterflies went away, because they knew Bonnie couldn’t be a butterfly anymore.

Inspired by and written for Bonnie Sparks.

SPEECH RECOGNITION

I wake up in a bed I do not recognize. My left temple is throbbing unnaturally and the shining white ceiling only makes it more difficult to see.

I bring the duvet up to my nose, contemplate going back to sleep. But when I close my eyes my head begins spinning wildly, and I have to choke back the nausea.

Awake it is, then. I turn my head to the side. There is another pillow next to mine, the centre still indented from the weight of another’s head.

The memories return: a flash of black hair, green eyes. I’d met him at the bar when I’d gone up to order a round. All of a sudden I can remember kissing him in the streetlight, but for the life of me I cannot remember his name.

I glance under the blankets. Still wearing yesterday’s clothes, although that could mean anything.

So where is he, then? I turn my head to either side, searching for clues. It’s a luxurious room, but impersonal; the duvet I’m clutching is goose down, but the painting above the bed is a mass-produced print. I’m definitely in an upper scale hotel. That’s right, wasn’t he a tourist?

That’s when I spot the small black box installed on the ceiling, and realize just how upper class this hotel is. If I’m not mistake, that box is an AI. This room had its own AI! Despite the clenching of my stomach and the vile taste in my mouth, I cannot contain the sudden surge of excitement. I have a vague recollection of talking to the AI last night; let’s see if I can remember how it works.

“Computer?” I say tentatively.

As soon as I speak, the AI powers out of snooze and comes to full attention, brightening the lamps in the room up to daylight levels.

I cringe, shield my head. “Dim lights!”

When it’s safe to look, I poke my head back out from under the blankets and push myself up to a sitting position, leaning back against the wall to catch my breath. In the corner of the room is a kitchenette, separated from the bedroom by a breakfast bar.

I sit up properly, now, eyeing the distance. It’s about twenty steps: far too far in my condition.

“Computer,” I say smugly, “make tea.”

A smooth, cultured female voice replies, the source of the sound impossible to pinpoint: “What did you say?”

Ah, yes. One has to enunciate things carefully for computers. I clear my throat. “Make. Tea.”

“What did you say?”

“Tea. Make tea. T. E. A.”

“What did you say?”

Okay. I rub my forehead. This requires some lateral thinking. “Boil water,” I then say.

No response.

“Kettle, on!”

“Command not found.”

I scream in frustration and flop back down onto the bed. That black box is laughing at me, I know it. I glare up at the ceiling, crawl over to the foot of the bed to better scowl at it. “What’s a girl got to do to get breakfast around here, huh?”

Finally, the AI seems to pick up on my words. “You would like breakfast, is that right? Just say yes or no.”

“Yes!”

“What did you say?”

“Yesssssssssssssss.” I probably look like a complete idiot, crouched on hands and knees on the bed, hissing at the ceiling. Oh well.

The light in the kitchenette brightens. Success! Something is happening! I wait for the AI magic to begin, ready to be impressed. Everyone talks about these miracles of science, these must-have gadgets that simplify even the hardest of tasks.

“Kitchen is fully stocked,” the AI says. “Please proceed to the kitchen to prepare your breakfast.”

To prepare my—?

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I tell the black box, shaking my fist at it. “You can’t even make tea? What’s the use of an AI if it can’t make tea?!”

A door behind me opens. I look over my shoulder, watch my mystery man walk into the room with a towel around his waist, fresh out of the shower.

He takes in the scene: me crouched on the bed, hand in middair, as the AI says for the umpteenth time: “What did you say?”

“Not this again,” he says.