Monday, 5 July 2010

Zombie Luv Flash Fic Contest: The Lovely Tale of Toothgroan

I have entered a zombie luv competition, if you want to join or wish to know the rules, here they be:


  • Word count: maximum 1.000
  • The story must be a romance between two zombies. Make it as horrific as you like. ;)
  • Stories containing animal cruelty, torture, graphic sex or violence, any form of exaltation of violence, racism or other forms of prejudice will be immediately disqualified.
  • Post your entry on your own blog, with a title resembling this:
Zombie Luv Flash Fic Contest: Story Title
  • Leave your story title and a link to the story entry post as a comment at mari's randomities:
  • Copy and paste the contest logo and the guidelines at the end of your entry post.


‘”Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world.” Toothgroan stopped reading the words of his ancestors, tilting his head to the moonlight that had escaped from the cloudless sky to fall, lucidly, calmly, through his windowpane. Placing the volume of... he paused, turning the book over to try and read the word... “Shrka-Spar!” Nearly there. He could nearly wrap his lips around the syllables (well, the act may have occurred if Toothgroan had kept his lips; he should never have fought that titan of a zomb’ by the name of Deadmuscle).

                It had been many millennia since Z-Day, as one Max Brooks would have described (but now can’t due to the passing of time and also because he was shot with the anti-vaccine mere days after the contagion had spread). As the millennia passed, evolution took its hold on the refuge of mankind. The mad ever-galloping ever-moaning confused leaking relics of humanity formed tribes, then societies, then civilisations! And with this came a whole new world of possibility. A new language, unwritten, unplanned, where other fellow undeadicles had to guess at what was being said, evolved from the wreckage of the past-tongue. Conversation however rarely surpassed “Meat! Brn! Grrr!” and so no one complained. But also, naturally, with buildings built from the twice-dead’s skeletons, with roads glistening with crimson blood (no cars, one merely slid to one’s destination), and with intelligence slowly increasing from a ‘need to feed’ to a ‘need to feed on prepared foods’ there came love. Love. Zombie love. It did not mirror the love of our times, definitely not. For example, Toothgroan had lost his lips to another, Deadmuscle, as you know... this fight was not an idle spat over who should eat the zombified rabbit but over a female of this new Homo necrolisis. She was a fine specimen – many an undead male (or female, or neither if they had been unlucky in decomposition) wished to love her – with fluttering eyelid, fragmented nose, hair drooping clumsily with various fluids across shoulder, this very shoulder adorned with gash of exquisite pus... she was gorgeous to these new humans of the undead variety.

                So Deadmuscle, with fingernail-less 3 fingered hands, had ripped the lips from our poor Toothgroan, giggling liquidly at how he would never be able to kiss the lovely Pustule. Toothgroan had returned to his flat – a nice place built from the bones of scientists and newspaper vendors – saddened at both his inability to show his affection for Pustule, but also sad for he could no longer wrap his lips around a gelatine-popsicle, one of his favourite delights. I must note (I being a fellow zombie of this new era, who – through many years of practice – has learnt how to use the language known as English) that Toothgroan had tried licking these frozen fatty delicacies but had found it merely glued itself to his already hole-covered upper palate due to its temperature.
                He sat in the silence of his skeletal abode watching the starlings maul each other in the air.  Across the river of blood and bodies that once was Temms (if my historical knowledge is correct) sat Pustule, equally watching the swirling, twirling, hissing avian’s, equally feeling sad to be alone. She so wished to let her lips pass over his, if he possessed any. She so wished to hug him till a rib cracked (if she had some).

                Toothgroan, angry at the world, stood up.
                Pustule, angry at her rib cage, began to powder her nose-hole.

                He leapt from the window and... oh, I apologise readers not of undead descent. To leap from ones window is a sign of honourable motivation, not of suicide. Falling does little to a zombie. I continue. He leapt from the window and, with arms of great strength due to enhanced undead potential, swam across that river of bodies and blood and other appetisers to Pustules home. He wished to growl with her, talk things over.
                Pulling himself up onto the bloodied pavement, Toothgroan looked up to see a tiny greenish light coming from a bedroom window. Pustule. It must be.
                “T’th grrrn! Hehehe. Trr’ng ter ser yah lurrrv!” Deadmuscle, with such eloquence of speech, stared down at our poor hero. They watched each other’s oozing eyes for a moment before Toothgroan pulled Deadmuscle towards him. “Yah crrrnt beet mar!” He said (whatever that was), but Toothgroan merely smirked, teeth a-glimmer in the moonlight, before sliding his nemesis into the waters below, annoying said nemesis a bit.

                Up the stairs, round the corner, through into the corridor of yellow carpeting; strange undead crustaceans of the hotel stared up at him, snapping their pincers in exaltation. These dog-sized scavengers of the zombie life knew this man-thing needed respect! They knew! He was going to woo his love!

                Through into the upper landings, past a dithering old woman gnawing on a rogue leprosy ridden arm, sprinting over a crowd of dogs laughing at each other as they ate each other’s tails... further, further...

                She was waiting for him at the bottom of the hall, smiling lopsidedly; her face was somewhat deflated. He loved that in her. They loved each other after a brief kiss. He now lives with her; they own a pet shop selling parakeets in various stages of decomposition.

                And that is the future zombie; undead pet selling loveable civilisation building romantic fools.

Word Count: 907