say AAHHHH!

Bill figured the only reason why anyone became a dentist was because they took an unnatural delight in causing people pain. All those little kids who kicked puppies and poisoned goldfish who didn’t grow up to be serial killers, found outlets for their twisted proclivities in the mouths of innocent dental patients. Torturing small animals and younger siblings gave way to drilling bicuspids and extracting molars. That the depraved souls got paid to torment their victims was just a bonus. Not to mention the unlimited access to nitrous oxide.

Orin Scrivello – D.D.S. was painted in black on the frosted glass door. Bill wiped his sweating palms on his trousers before twisting the knob and stepping inside. The lobby was white and clean and the gray-haired receptionist greeted him with a kind smile. His hand shook as he grasped the pen to sign in, but he controlled his tremors enough to scratch out his name and the time of his appointment. He was twenty minutes early.

Easing himself into one of the blue chairs, Bill took a few deep breaths in an attempt to slow his racing pulse. The receptionist gave him a sympathetic look, but it wasn’t nerves that caused his agitated state.

Bill was excited.

Dentists weren’t the only possible end product of a twisted childhood. Some became sadists and others, like Bill, evolved into masochists. He’d blocked from his memory the seeds of trauma that were planted in his subconscious which later germinated into his current predilection for having pain inflicted upon his person. But he had no interest in curing his unusual desires. In fact, he’d studied hard and acquired a good job just for the access to excellent dental benefits.

Dr. Scrivello would be the tenth dentist Bill had seen in three years. Most refused to treat Bill after only a few visits not because of his obvious disregard for brushing his teeth and his candy addiction, but because he refused any anesthetic during even the most invasive of procedures.

Bill was called back into the exam room by a cute dental assistant. He reclined in the big, white chair and clasped his hands together to keep from fidgeting. After a moment there was a clatter from the hallway that sounded like a metal tray dropping to the tile floor followed by a scream. Two hygienists ran past his room. Bill was wondering if he should be alarmed when a figure in green scrubs stepped into the doorway.

The man that Bill assumed was Dr. Scrivello had red hair that hung from beneath his surgical cap and into his dark-rimmed eyes. His scrubs were ripped and stained with blood. In his hands was a large, gleaming drill, blood dripping from the tip. The dentist stumbled into the room and made a moaning sound that was muffled by his blood speckled mask.

Bill bit his lip to hold back his squeal and gripped the arms of the chair. At long last, it appeared he had finally found a dentist that understood his needs.

Any Little Shop of Horrors fans out there? If you are, then you will have already noticed that this post is an homage to Steve Martin and Bill Murray’s scene in that movie.  And, yes, I was singing “you’ll be a be a dentist (be a dentist)” to myself the whole time I was assembling this little guy, much to my husband’s dismay.

And I apologize for the late posting on this one.  I have a very good excuse and as soon as I think of what it is I will let you know.

See my other zombie friends from previous months here.

deceased and desist

Michelle pulled up the zippers on her new pair of boots and stood to admire herself in the full-length mirror.  The black leather, stack-heeled beauties reached her knees and were adorned with large silver buckles.  They were more Mad Max than Pretty Woman and they made Michelle feel like a bad ass.  She had to take them for a spin.

“Come on, Louis, let’s go.”

She hooked the leash to her little dog’s collar and strolled out her front door.  Yes, it was impractical to walk her dog in a short skirt and knee high boots, but she rationalized that she was just breaking in the leather.

The afternoon was unseasonably bright and warm for early March, which Michelle hoped meant that Winter was finally packing it up for the year.  As she walked down her block, she waved at her neighbor trimming his hedges and smiled at the cute bicycling guy who craned his neck to watch her as he passed.

She turned down the next street then stopped after a bit to let Louis inspect a mailbox post.  Looking up, she saw a police officer standing on the sidewalk about twenty yards ahead.  Louis saw the officer, too, and let out a low growl, his ears flat against his small brown head.  Michelle tugged on his leash and shushed him.  When she stepped forward, he didn’t budge, just continued to stare at the officer and growl.

“Louis! What is wrong with you?”

The officer walked toward her, and she was preparing an apology for her rude dog, but the sight of blood on his forearm stilled her tongue.  As he approached, she noticed his gait was stiff and awkward and his uniform was torn in several places.  However, what concerned her most was the awful gash across his chest that exposed his ribs.  Or, at least, it concerned her that the officer didn’t seem concerned in the slightest.  He kept advancing toward her, moaning and staggering in a way that was at once familiar and all too strange.

Michelle had seen Daryl Dixon fire his crossbow enough times to know what she was dealing with, however, she never expected to encounter a zombie outside of her television screen.

She turned and ran back the way she had come, Louis right by her side.  When she saw that her neighbor was still in his yard, she sprinted up to him and held out Louis’ leash.  “Mr. Campbell,” she said, trying to catch her breath.  “This is going to sound odd, but can you watch my dog for a minute while I borrow your hedge clippers?”

Mr. Campbell regarded her with a raised eyebrow.  “What’s this all about?”

“I promise I’ll explain after I’m done.  Please.”

He still appeared reluctant, but he handed Michelle the clippers anyway and took the leash.

“Thank you!” she yelled over her shoulder as she jogged back toward the creature that used to be a police officer.

She saw the thing immediately after she turned the corner and she slowed to a walk, gripping the hedge clippers tight.  It occurred to her that she was much calmer than she would have ever thought possible in this sort of situation.  She knew exactly what she needed to do, and she was focused on her task.

The undead officer was only a few feet from her now and it lunged toward her.  In one movement, she stepped to the side, lifted the clippers with both hands, then drove them into the zombie’s skull.  It fell to the sidewalk, a heap of rotting flesh and bones.  She took a moment to admire her work before yanking the clippers out of the now fully-dead creature then wiping the blades clean of blood and brains on the tattered uniform shirt.

As Michelle walked back to Mr. Campbell’s, she couldn’t help but feel proud of what she’d just done.  She never thought she’d be capable of facing something as terrifying as a zombie without so much as a flinch.

Must be the new boots, she thought with a smile.

A while back, I received a very nice request from Michelle (of Steadily Skipping Stones) that I insert her into one of my zombie stories.  I was at once flattered and terrified.  I mean, immortalizing someone in a story is all kinds of pressure.  But, I promised I’d do it so here it is.  I hope you like it, Michelle.  And I hope you get your own pair of zombie-ass-kickin’ boots one day.

If you would like me to write you into a zombie story, you have to get in line behind Lenore, because she’s next. After that, my schedule is clear.  Just let me know if you’d prefer to be one of the living or one of the undead.  I’d hate to kill you and have you be all pissed off at me. Who needs that, right?

And if you’d like to read my zombie stories for January and February, just go to my Zombie-A-Month 2013 page.

good kitty

Loud mewling echoed from behind the cellar door followed by violent scratching that rattled the hinges.  Hazel placed one dry palm against the unvarnished wood and whispered, “Shhh, kitty. Maw-maw will have your dinner soon.” The mewling was replaced with a rumbling that could’ve been either a purr or a growl. Only Hazel knew the difference.

The hunched woman tightened the belt of her threadbare housecoat and shuffled to the kitchen on slippered feet.  In the cupboard, she found a can of tuna and then rummaged around in a drawer for the rusty opener.  She was draining the tuna in the sink when she heard a knock on her front door. 

Hazel made her way to the front window and pushed aside the yellowed lace curtain to inspect her visitor.  He was a shaggy sort of man in his late twenties wearing ill-fitting pants and a faded t-shirt. Hazel wrinkled her nose at his appearance, but opened the door anyway. 

“Can I help you?” Hazel asked, tucking a stray lock of white hair behind her ear. 

The man absently scratched his neck and mumbled, ”Um, did you have an ad in the paper about old comic books for sale?”

Hazel opened the door wider and stepped aside.  “Yes. That was my ad. Please, come in.”

After the man had crossed the threshold, Hazel motioned for him to follow her further into the house. 

He glanced around the dim, dusty home. “So, all these comics are from the forties and late thirties and are in mint condition?”

“Oh, yes,” said Hazel. “They are all sealed in plastic. Looks like they’ve never been read.”

“And you want five bucks apiece for them?” He said this loud and slow as if he thought the old woman might be hard of hearing.

Hazel smiled to herself.  “Yes. Five dollars. That’s what the stores are selling comics for these days, isn’t it? I thought that price was more than fair.”

The man’s jaw dropped, but Hazel pretended not to notice.  She opened the door to the cellar and pointed one gnarled finger down into the darkness.  “My old bones aren’t what they used to be, so you will have to pick through them by yourself.”   

To his credit, the man hesitated a moment and contemplated the dank, over-ripe stench bubbling up from the depths of the cellar.  But, his greed compelled him to descend the stairs, one hand sliding along the damp wall for support. 

“The light switch is at the bottom on your right, ” said Hazel.  “Mind your step.”  

When he reached the edge of the pool of light cast by the open door he paused and turned to look up at Hazel. 

She smiled down at him and closed the door. 

“Hey! Wait!” yelled the man. 

Hazel turned the lock.  Through the door she could hear him trip on the stairs and fall further into the cellar.  Then she heard the growl.  Yes, this was definitely a growl.  When she heard the man’s frantic screams, she murmured, “good, kitty,” then shuffled to the kitchen to finish preparing her tuna sandwich. 

Let this be a lesson to you. If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. Five dollar mint condition comic books from the thirties? That guy was too gullible to live, anyway.

Two more zombies left. It’s getting down to the wire. I don’t know what I’m gonna do if there isn’t a 2012 make your own zombie calendar. It could be dark times ahead.  And I don’t mean that in a good way.

See the rest of my zombie friends and read their stories by clicking on these underlined words.

i have a really good excuse

I’m a bad blogger.  I know.  It’s been over a week since my last post and now, here I am posting a post just for the sake of posting a post.  Pathetic. You, dear reader, deserve better. 

But wait!  Before you go, at least let me tell you why I’ve neglected you.  Please?

First I got sick.  I don’t often get sick, but when I do, I prefer Dos Equis I don’t half-ass it.  I go all the way.  Well, this time, luckily, I didn’t need an MRI or an alien-ectomy.  I just needed lots of drugs.  A steroid shot in the arm, a liquid antibiotic that tasted like a melted mint-banana milkshake, a course of regular antibiotics and Tylenol with codeine to top it all off.  All this ammo just to fight a little, throbbing pustule of nastiness that had decided to make my tonsil its home.  Well, he got evicted and now I can swallow without screaming.  Good times.

Then, I got engaged.  Yes, I am already married.  No, I am not a polygamist. 
See, my blogging friend over at Thoughts Appear’s Blog had a list of 30 things she wanted to do before turning 30.  The last item on her list was to get engaged.  Since her boyfriend, Kiefer Sutherland, (that’s his code name - hear that? we’re using code names) is dragging his feet, she asked if anyone would want to marry her blog.  She asked all potential suitors to submit their proposal for marriage in the comments.  And she picked me!  How awesome is that? We’re going to have a zombie wedding where we’ll exchange our Pop-Tart rings.  It’s gonna be magical.  Oh, and I get to guest post on her blog.  Once I come up with something to blog about, that is.  But, she already told me not to hurry ’cause she’s super cool and supportive like that.  Just like a good blog-wife should be.

And, lastly, I got fish.  No, that’s not code for something.  I now own three goldfish.  (No, I don’t have any pictures of them.  They’re goldfish.  Google “goldfish” and that’s what they look like.)  My sister’s best friend, Cresse, and her family are moving three states away and didn’t think the fish would survive the trip.  My sister is already fostering a cat from another friend who moved and didn’t want to add to her collection of wayward animals.  So, I offered to take them.  And the 20 gallon tank they call home.  Relatively speaking, those fish have a bigger house than I do.  We brought them home yesterday and they lived through the night, so today we’ll set up their filter and aeration system and the hood-light.  Then they will probably die cause fish are f*ckers like that.  
Cresse’s daughter had named the fish Daisy, Rosie and Cindy or something.  Only the child knows which fish is which.  So, to alleviate any confusion, we just call them all Steve.  They don’t seem to mind.

 Well, that’s what’s been up with me.  How are you?

 

washi madness

A short while back I mentioned that I would like to own some washi tape. I even helpfully supplied a website where said tape could be purchased for a reasonable price plus shipping and handling. Lucky for me, my sister and my mother both read my blog.  And super dog lucky for me, neither one of them consulted with the other before buying me some tape for my birthday.  So, I got a double-shot of washi love.

I'm gonna make it rain washi up in here, bitches!

I immediately stuck tape on everything.  It was awesome (yeah, I gotta get out more).  I used it to prettify my day planner and to decorate my mother’s birthday present.  I also used it to wrap my husband’s birthday present.

Actually, I mummified his present.

Then, things got kind of weird. 

I ripped off little pieces of tape and stuck them to a big sheet of paper. The placement wasn’t random, but I didn’t yet know exactly what the configuration meant.  I can only describe it as a Richard Dreyfuss moment from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I ripped and stuck and ripped and stuck and eventually the image before me made sense.  When I was done, instead of a miniature Devil’s Tower, I had this:

It’s a washi zombie. What else did you expect from me?

Yes, I am aware that I might have a problem.

you’ve been served

The dining room was full to capacity and more were lined up outside.  Carlo couldn’t remember the last time the restaurant had so many patrons, but his memory wasn’t what it used to be.  Low murmurs and the smacking, scraping sounds of customers enjoying their meals could be heard even through the heavy swinging door of the kitchen.  Carlo smoothed a hand over his bushy mustache and hoisted the tray over his shoulder.  He then pushed open the door with his free hand and entered the bustling dining room.  At once, hands reached out to him, jockeying for his attention and pleading for refills.  Carlo silently maneuvered around them, raising the tray out of reach.  

The “Manager’s Special” had been a feature on the menu ever since the restaurant opened over ten years ago, but only a handful of people had ever ordered it.  Starting last week, however, the special was all anyone asked for.  They couldn’t get enough.  Carlo was aware that tastes changed with the times, but this sudden shift in the desires of his customers was unprecedented.  

Reaching table fifteen, Carlo lowered the tray and slid the plate full of the gray, glistening Special on to the checkered cloth.  The hungry couple seated at the table immediately dug knuckle deep into the plate, shoving handfuls into their drooling mouths.  

Carlo slowly shuffled back to the kitchen to fill his tray again. 

 

Being undead is no excuse to call in sick to work.  Carlo is one dedicated employee.  I love that his suspenders have “flair.”  The blue button says “Bite Me.”  I know how you feel, Carlo.  I know how you feel.

To see previous zombies or to learn just what the heck this is all about, please visit my Zombie-A-Month page.

i’d like to thank George Romero. . .

The crowded theater erupts into applause as a pallid female figure draped in a tattered Versace sequined gown limps across the stage on one metallic Louboutin pump and a gruesomely broken ankle.  As she shambles toward the podium, the presenter (a vacuous starlet known for her role as the heroine in teen vampire dramas) eyes her with caution, but smiles brightly and holds out the award while angling her body so she looks as thin as possible for the cameras.  The winner grabs the golden award from the starlet and caresses it with blood-crusted fingers then she holds it aloft, releasing a triumphant moan.  The audience responds with renewed applause.  The winner then tosses the award aside and turns to the starlet.  With one clumsy leap, the starlet is knocked to the floor and the winner sinks her teeth into the flesh of the starlet’s shoulder, ripping a bloody chunk away.  The starlet’s screams are drowned out by the roaring cheers from the crowd.   

It’s an embarrassment of riches over here at FIOD.  Someone has seen fit to shower me with another award.  While this one is as equally appreciated as the Stylish Blogger award, it is infinitely more appropriate. 

The incredibly talented Ian created this award to honor blogs that promote all things zombie.  Thank you so much, Ian!  My love of the shuffling pus-bags is well documented, but I had no idea that I would be recognized for it with an award.  And what an awesome award it is!  Ian made that, folks.  Seriously.  Take a moment to appreciate the artwork.  Freakin’ fantastic!  And, as of right now, I am one of only two bloggers who have been bestowed this honor.  An inaugural member, if you will. 

Well, I’m about to change all that.  Cause I am charged with passing this award on to two unsuspecting victims. 

Here’s the fine print:

1. If you are the recipient of this award and have dedicated at least one post in your blog to zombies, the undead or anything about the walking dead then you are truly one of the infected and have the power to award this gift to two other bloggers of your choice. Make a post announcing your utterly awesome achievement and name your two victims.
2. If you are the recipient of this award and have NOT written anything about zombies in your blog then you must dedicate one post to nothing but zombies. A legit post. Not a “I hate zombies” or “Zombies rock” two paragraph announcement. A real post folks. I don’t care if it’s a story, news, a movie review, book review, creative fiction, or whatever. Entertain us! Once you have done so you will have officially infected the internet with more zombie goodness and can reward the gift to others. Make a post announcing your super fresh award and name your two victims.

Obviously, I belong to category #1 (did you see the Zombie-A-Month 2011 page I created?  Hello?). 

So, whom shall I infect next?

I think I’ll bite Melissa over at life life.addicted.  She dressed as a zom-bee for Halloween and went to a zombie parade. 

Next is Thoughts Appear’s Blog because she not only watches zombie movies, she gleans important life lessons from them as well.

There you go, ladies.  Go forth and infect, but choose your victims carefully.  We don’t want this award to become decapitated before it has a chance to enjoy all the brains that blogland has to offer.

good doggie

Stu kicked open the rusty screen door and stomped out onto the sagging front porch of his single-wide.  He squinted into the late afternoon sunlight and absently dug a finger into the dank cavern that was his belly button.  After a brief examination, he wiped what he’d excavated across the front of his stained t-shirt. 

He was bored and out of beer – a hazardous combination.

Scanning his trash-strewn lawn, Stu’s gaze settled on a potential source of entertainment.  Grinning, he snatched an empty beer can off the porch railing and launched it at the rickety plywood structure his dog, Rufus, used for shelter.  The can ricocheted off the roof and Stu waited for the mongrel to explode out of the lopsided opening and bark savagely while straining at the end of his chain as he usually did following such a disturbance. 

Nothing stirred within the doghouse. 

Stu grunted in disgust and yelled out, “Wake up you lazy ass mutt afore I wake you up!”  He threw another empty can at the shelter and mumbled a curse when it missed. 

Still no reaction from Rufus. 

Not wanting to let a stupid dog get the best of him, Stu lumbered down the porch steps and shuffled across the yard toward the doghouse.  On the way, he stooped to pick up a small rock and flung it as hard as he could.  The rock slammed into the plywood shelter and the reverberations dislodged several layers of caked on dirt. 

Rufus remained reticent.

As Stu neared the doghouse, he noticed a rancid smell, like rotting meat.  “Damn, boy!  Did you roll in a dead skunk or somethin’?”  He covered his nose with the hem of his t-shirt and knelt in front of the darkened opening of the doghouse.  “Rufus.  Com’ere, boy.”  Stu slapped the wall beside the opening in an attempt to rouse the dog.  “You ain’t sick are ya?”  He leaned further into the doghouse.  “Rufus?”

From the darkness came a low, rolling growl and a shuffle of movement.  Stu tried to back away but lost balance and fell on his ass in the dirt.  Rufus, or more accurately, a beast that resembled Rufus, emerged from the doghouse, bloody drool dripping from his snarling maw.  The flesh of the animal’s muzzle was ripped away on one side revealing gums slashed down to the jawbone.  One foreleg was void of skin or muscle, a skeleton limb pawing at the dirt. 

Stu released a mewling scream and scrambled backwards on his hands.  The beast leapt forward, bloody jaws wide, and ripped out the throat of its former owner, ending his pathetic life much quicker than the man deserved.

There are no bad dogs.  Only bad owners.  And with dogs like Rufus around, soon there won’t be any bad owners either.

Check out my paper zombie friends from January and February, too.

nurse nightmare

The main hall of the neurosurgery wing is deserted except for an abandoned gurney and an overturned IV pole.  The overhead fluorescents flicker and buzz, casting geometric shadows on the pale green walls.  From around the corner comes a nurse, shuffling her white shoes across the scuffed linoleum.  She moves slowly, deliberately down the hall pausing only at opened doors, looking for any remaining patients.  When she comes to room 2211, she finds what she has been searching for.  An unconscious man lies on a bed, head wrapped in layers of thick bandages.  The nurse lurches toward him, reaching out like he is her long lost love.  Her hands flutter over the bandages then begin to rip at them, tearing the gauze away in bloody clumps.   When the man’s mangled scalp is revealed, she leans in and satisfies her unholy hunger. 

It’s the start of another month, and you know what that means?  A new paper zombie pal to keep me company at work. 

 

Her bedside manner may lack the warmth of the other nurses, but I bet she can find a vein like nobody’s business. 

In case you missed it, January’s zombie is here.

wanna hear something kinda funny?

So, the other day I’m reading my latest issue of Writer’s Digest (yeah, it’s kind of like a death row inmate reading Conde Nast Traveler) and on page 10, there is an article about creating a free website using WordPress. 

Well, how about that?  My favorite writing magazine has chosen to praise my favorite blogging platform for being easy to use and endlessly customizable.  It was nice to read that I had made a good choice for  my blog’s home base.  But, wait a minute.  What’s this?  Could it be?  No.  You’ve got to be kidding me! 

If you take a closer look at the screen-shot the author chose for the article you may notice something familiar.  It’s very tiny, but there is no mistaking what it is.  Here’s the circled image enlarged to readable size:

How funny is that?  The screen-shot was taken on the day my blog was Freshly Pressed.  That silly little zombie haiku post has brought me another five minutes of fame.  If you have a magnifying glass, that is.