[So sparse updates have been sparse lately. In an attempt to alleviate that, today I'm going to present you readers with something a little different. I'm currently in a Creative Writing course that I had to write a short story for and this was the result. It's an easy way to fake content give you something to hold you over until I write a proper update, and I think it's the type of tale the internet might approve of. The rest of this update is the aforementioned short story, unchanged but for a few formatting edits to make it more readable in an online format]
It was a
quiet morning for the Stevenson family. Early morning light was starting to
filter through the blinds. Mr. Stevenson was a tall, serious looking man in a
gray suit, striped tie and thin rimmed glasses. He was currently reading the
paper, his other hand clasping his morning cup of coffee. Mrs. Stevenson was an
amiable looking woman with frizzled brown hair she could never quite get the
way she wanted it. She was currently scraping some more bacon on to their young
daughter Sally’s plate. It was a Monday morning and they were all a bit groggy,
so it took them a minute to notice the noise.
“…did you say something, dear?” Mrs. Stevenson said, not
looking up from the fridge as she pulled out a carton of orange juice.
“Not a word, dear,” replied Mr. Stevenson.
“Hm…” said Mrs. Stevenson, stopping for minute to strain
her ears for noise. “I could have sworn I heard some type of…grumbling or
something…”
“Perhaps it’s Sally’s tummy, the way she’s putting away
that bacon,” said Mr. Stevenson with a smile at his daughter. Sally stuck her
tongue out and made a face at him.
“No…I think it’s coming from outside…” said Mrs.
Stevenson slowly. Mr. Stevenson lowered his paper and shot his wife a
questioning glance. Looking pensive, Mrs. Stevenson walked over to the window
and peeked through the blinds. “Oh dear…” she said.
Mr. Stevenson sighed, placed his coffee mug on the table
and folded up the paper. “How many of them are there, Carol?” he said.
“Oh, well, it looks to be about a half dozen or so, dear,
out near the begonias,” she said meekly, fidgeting with her apron. “But Harold,
you know you don’t have to-“
“No no no,” said Mr. Stevenson briskly. “You ought to
occupy yourself with getting Sally ready for school; I’ll just have to rush my
commute a bit, that’s all. I’m sure the boys at the office will understand.”
“Well…if you say so,” said Mrs. Stevenson as her husband
opened the door to the basement and descended.
Picking the right tool for the job was always something
that Mr. Stevenson took his time on. Of course when used properly just about
anything would get the job done, but Mr. Stevenson prided himself on
efficiency. He examined the various tools arrayed across the wall with a
critical eye, occasionally stopping to pick one up and weigh it in his hand. “All
together in a huddle I’m guessing, dear?” he shouted up to Mrs. Stevenson.
“Just so,” she replied from upstairs, “thick as thieves,
as they tend to travel.” She paused as she heard a soft thump near the door, as
if something was walking into the wall. “Though there may be one or two
wandering about the yard. If you can, try not to stain your clothes dear, we
just had that suit dry cleaned.”
Mr. Stevenson’s hand, which had been hovering over a weed
whacker, paused for a moment and pulled back. After a moments deliberation he
selected a pole hedge clipper, and carefully carried it with him back upstairs.
As he closed the back door behind him, Sally walked over to the blinds.
“Now Sally, you don’t have time to watch your father, you
need to get ready for school” said Mrs. Stevenson with a stern expression.
“But mum, I wanna’ see
‘em,” Sally whined, gripping the windowsill.
“I can’t imagine why a lovely young girl like you should
want to see that,” said her mother
airily, shooing Sally away from the window and upstairs. “Your bed needs
making, and if yesterday was any indication you just threw the comforter over
the top and hoped I wouldn’t notice. Go on, up with you!”
Mrs. Stevenson was just putting away the last of the
dishes when Mr. Stevenson walked back inside, conscientiously wiping his boots
on the mat before setting them aside. The tip of the pole hedge clipper he was
carrying was covered in blood, with a little bit running down the pole onto his
hands. Mrs. Stevenson offered him a paper towel.
“Went as smoothly to be expected,” said Mr. Stevenson as
he wiped off his hands. “I’ll run the hose on the clippers before I leave for
work. And of course I could use a hand getting them to the garbage after the
bus comes for Sally.”
The Stevenson’s house was one of the last on the bus
route, as it was out in one of the outer districts. As a matter of fact, theirs
was the only house on the block left standing. Of course the city had done its
best in recent years to remove enough rubble to make it look presentable, but you
could tell the few that had actually been damaged in The Incident itself apart
from the many intentionally torn down after residents moved. This comprised
many of them, as regardless of whether it was their home in Hampshire or
elsewhere, people had moved away from the Incident areas and into the cities.
They just weren’t comfortable living where they used to afterwards and this led
to the odd imagery of seeing a single home standing amidst a block of empty
lots and the weed covered foundations of former houses.
“Seems the bus is running a bit late again…” said Mr.
Stevenson, looking at his watch with a grimace.
“I don’t want to make you any later, dear,” said Mrs.
Stevenson, ushering Sally out onto the door step. “Why don’t I head out back
and help you until the bus gets here?”
On his way around back, Mr. Stevenson opened up the
special disposal dumpster the city had given to everyone still living in the outer
districts. He’d often grumble that they it was just about all they gave them
but he had to admit it was useful. A minute later, the couple was in the
backyard with rubber gloves and a small tarp. “I tried to keep it clean, of
course,” said Mr. Stevenson. They lifted the first headless corpse onto the tarp
and from there to the dumpster. “But I’m afraid they got a bit of blood on the
rose bush.”
“Well, I suppose they were red anyway…” sighed Mrs.
Stevenson. “Still, I’ve always found it odd how creatures so wrinkly and dry
can squirt quite so much.” There were
seven of them total, now separated into seven gray-skinned bodies and seven
similarly ill-complexioned severed heads, strewn haphazardly about the yard.
Mrs. Stevenson couldn’t help but notice one of the heads
was hanging from the back door. Mr. Stevenson followed her gaze and said “Ah. I
think it was trying to eat the door knob, the daft bugger.”
“Well, nothing a quick shine won’t fix I suppose” said
Mrs. Stevenson wearily as she removed the head with a dry pop.
“So
I heard that the Andersons son Philip was in the paper the other day” said Mrs.
Stevenson conversationally as she buffed the door knob with her handkerchief.
“Is that right?” said Mr. Stevenson as he got the tarp
under the first body. “What’s the occasion?”
“He was involved in making a float for the Labor Day
parade as a school project” said Mrs. Stevenson, helping lift the rotting
cadaver. “Mrs. Anderson informs me that he had a quote in the article and
everything.”
“Well fancy that. The Andersons have a daughter Sally’s
age, don’t they?” said Mr. Stevenson as he picked some shattered bits of spinal
column out of the weeds.
“Indeed they do” said Mrs. Stevenson as the couple
rounded the corner of the house. “Her name is Gloria and I take it she’s a very
sweet little girl from what Sally tells me, though she’s in a different class
than her so she only talks with her at recess.” This last part was said
slightly louder to be heard over the sound of the next corpse hitting the
bottom of the dumpster.
“I don’t see Mr. Anderson around very much” said Mr.
Stevenson, a hint of reproach entering his voice. “And when I saw him at the
Smith’s party last month he kept his distance. Is he a particularly reserved
man?”
“Not exactly,” said Mrs. Stevenson, a mischievous smile
appearing on her face. “However, it might be that he doesn’t want to talk to
you because I know for a fact that he’s a stalwart Tigers supporter,” Mrs.
Stevenson paused to get out her handkerchief and wipe some blood off the side
of the house. “And they’ve been having a much better season than us, as I’m
sure you know.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Stevenson with just barely audible relief.
“A Tigers fan in my neighborhood?” he chuckled. “Might be for the best that I don’t
know the man anyway.”
As they
slid the last corpse off the tarp into the dumpster Mrs. Stevenson noticed
Sally peeking around the corner of the house at them. “Young lady, don’t you
have a bus to look out for?” she admonished as they shook bits of stray flesh
off the tarp. Sally’s head quickly retreated. “Honestly,” she said, turning
back to her husband, “I don’t know why she’s so interested in these dreadful
things.”
Mr. Stevenson sighed. “I gather that some of the children
find them fascinating, as they often do with morbid things” he said. “The young
ones who’ve never seen one are also a bit ill-informed, and tend to have all
manner of fanciful ideas about them. They think zombies are like the old
movies.” Mr. Stevenson shook his head. As if barely conscious, mostly
decomposed masses of brittle flesh could be any more threatening than an angry
raccoon.
“You’d think their parents would set them straight on the
matter” Mrs. Stevenson said with a raised eyebrow.
“Well dear,” Mr. Stevenson said as he closed the
dumpster, “I don’t think the kids talk much with their parents about the
undead. I bet they hear about them from other kids, and kids love telling
stories. No doubt Sally will get some interest over mentioning it.”
“Goodness” said Mrs. Stevenson as she started to hose
down the tarp. “And here I thought she would want to keep such things to
herself. I feel I shall have to bring up the difference of positive and
negative attention to Sally after school. No need to be crude just to get
attention.”
“With third graders it might not even be negative
attention, dear” said Mr. Stevenson, fixing his glasses and brushing off his
clothes. He sighed. “It’s at least a kinder reaction than some adults give. Of
course, if we could only afford to live in the city…”
Mrs. Stevenson gave her husband a sad frown. “You know
that I don’t mind it, dear. I know you do your best, and we’ve got a lovely
home as it is. There’s no need to...”
Mr. Stevenson waved her silent. “Yes, yes I know” he said
wearily. “It’s not as if I mind the chore much personally. But you know how
people talk…”
Soon Sally’s bus came, and Mr. Stevenson left for work.
Mrs. Stevenson spent most of her day cleaning and running errands, apart from a
brief break to do what she could about the rose bush. Sally came home from
school and talked with her mother about her day. It had been fairly typical
apart from this one time during math when Jimmy Palmer sneezed so hard he fell
out of his chair, oh and when Sally had told her friends about the zombies, which
they found very impressive. Mrs. Stevenson gave Sally a brief lecture about
talking about the right thing at the right time and not upsetting anyone with
uncivilized conversation, which Sally took with all the severity that a third
grader usually does about a lecture on manners.
Mrs.
Stevenson was never quite sure how to approach the subject with her daughter.
She was certain her mother hadn’t had
to deal with any social faux pas regarding the undead. Back then a dumpster
full of corpses wouldn’t require any qualifiers. Of course, things were
different now. She supposed it wasn’t such a problem to talk about them these
days. But even years later, some people still regarded it as a bit…odd, and she
didn’t want Sally to have to deal with that.
Not much
of interest happened for another couple hours, and before too long Mrs.
Stevenson decided that she should start on preparing dinner. Mr. Stevenson was
apparently running a bit late, however, and soon enough she decided that she
and Sally would have to eat without him for the time being. She hoped her
husband hadn’t seen any trouble at work for being late. The third dish was
quite cold by the time Mr. Stevenson came home to a slightly fretful wife.
“Sorry dear,” he said as he walked through the door and
hung up his coat. He had an irritated look about him as he walked past his wife
into the living room. “It was a bit of a long day, partially because I came in
late and was behind on the accounts, though that isn’t the worst of it.” He
thumped down in his favorite armchair and rubbed his temples. “They were
blocking my commute back as well! A big group of them, must’ve been about 50 or
something, wandered out into the middle of 4th Avenue, bold as
brass! Lord knows how they such a big group of the blighters went unnoticed
until they got to such a busy street! Of course people called traffic control
and traffic control called a disposal team but it was well over 20 minutes
before they got it all cleared and then obviously it was backed up all the rest
of the way home…”
“Well that sounds awful” said Mrs. Stevenson
sympathetically. “I’m sorry to say we had dinner a while ago but I’ll go heat
up yours right away.”
Mrs. Stevenson heated up the food and Mr. Stevenson ate
it in sullen silence. Before too long it was Sally’s bed time and Mrs.
Stevenson escorted the protesting young girl up to her room. Her and Mr.
Stevenson sat watching the news for a while when Mr. Stevenson spoke up again.
“Today really was too much” said Mr. Stevenson. “City
council clearly hasn’t been monitoring the graveyards out in the Historic
District enough lately. I mean, I could understand this type of thing a while
back but The Incident was over 5 years ago now.”
Mrs.
Stevenson nodded. “They’ve got the disposal squads all set up and the city
reconstruction is coming along a treat,” she said, “which makes you wonder how
they can still be letting so many of the ghastly things loose.”
“Right”
said Mr. Stevenson. “You’d think they’d have the situation more under control
by now. I’m sure they’d be a good deal more involved if the city was still having undead trouble.”
He seemed to think to himself for a moment. “There’s nothing for it, I think I
shall have to write a formal complaint. I’ll drive down to the city offices on
Saturday after I pick up the groceries and deliver the letter personally. It simply needs to be said.”
“That
sounds like an excellent plan, dear” said Mrs. Stevenson. “It’s about time you
gave those officials a piece of your mind. Put them right about a few things.”
After
the news ended Mr. Stevenson went over to his writing desk and pulled out a
piece of paper and envelope. He wrote for a while but it was getting late and
he wasn’t quite done when he decided to call it a day and set aside the letter
for later. He wrote a bit more the next day but there was an interesting
documentary on that distracted him. And of course Wednesday they had to attend
Sally’s school play. Thursday they went out to dinner with Smith’s and quite
lost track of time. By Friday the letter had been forgotten.
He still complained of course, every now and again. And
he did vaguely remember the letter several weeks later, but at that point the
original document was lost and he couldn’t be troubled to start a new one. As
irritating as the problem was, he had to admit it wasn’t really that important.
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