An excerpt from The Revivers, by Adam Dennis

From Zombies?! Zombies!!




A new member to the group occupied the seat closest to the exit. He looked to be in his thirties dressed in an orange track suit and running shoes. A workout bag sat on the floor at his feet. His spare tire revealed a man that once had been in shape but had let other things get in the way as he got older. He occupied himself with a sugary glazed crueller eying the pastry obsessively while washing it down with a cup of Folgers. Debbie gave him a moment to finish before addressing him.

“And you sir, what’s your name?” She asked. The man snapped awake suddenly realizing his participation was expected.

“Me?” He said. “Oh yeah, I’m Phil.”

“Nice to meet you, Phil.” She said. “And how did you hear about our little group?”

“Um…a guy at work told me about it. I thought I’d check it out.” He said as he gulped down some more coffee.

“Of course, thanks for coming.” She said. “And feel free to participate as much as you like. No pressure.”

“Sure, thanks.” He responded as he headed back to the table for seconds.

“So now that we all know each other, why don’t we get started? Who wants to be first tonight?” Debbie glanced around the room for a volunteer. “Okay, as usual I’m just going to have to pick someone.” She turned to Mark. “Mark, would you like to get the conversation going?” He looked at her like she had a vendetta against him.

“Not really.” He replied.

“Please Mark. You should give it a chance. It might help.” She said biting her tongue. “Why don’t you tell us what you remember about what happened.”

The over-confident, dismissive adolescent attitude disappeared as he responded.

“I don’t really remember much.”

Mark had spent the summer before his senior year doing what most prospective seniors do before they start their final year, packing in as many parties as possible. Unfortunately, he chose to end the summer at the one party he should have skipped. The chosen site for the parents-out-of-town-raid-the-liquor-cabinet bash had been packed with a hundred or so drunken, horny teenagers each doing their fair share of damage to the unsuspecting home.

To avoid the long lines to the bathroom, Mark decided to take the easy way out and water the lawn instead. He was alone, drunk and stumbling around in the back yard as mom and dad’s new Panasonic blasted the neighbors. He found a suitable spot near the tool shed to handle his affairs. The far end of the yard stayed dark beyond the reach of the lights of the back deck. Mark had just relieved himself of the last five beers when someone emerged from behind the shed. A woman, if you could call her that, staggered completely naked into the back yard with one utterly primal instinct driving her…hunger, a hunger that drove her to kill. The medical community called her diseased; everyone else called her a zombie.

The living zombie stumbled towards him muffled by the blaring beats from the house and masked by Mark’s lack of sobriety. She slammed clumsily into Mark and grabbed hold of his arm. The two toppled over to the ground as she tore off a massive hunk of muscle with her teeth. Mark screamed frantically not feeling the pain, only the utter fear and surprise. His sobriety quickly returned as the adrenaline shot to his brain like a bullet. The smell of the woman sickened him, like piss and rotting meat brewing in a trash can for days in an August heat. His arm spouted a geyser of blood raining down on the leaves around the scuffle. He managed to yank his arm from her mouth but nothing more. Once he denied her, she fought harder.

“Holy shit! It’s a Reviver! She’s got Mark!” Mark could hear someone yelling but couldn’t recognize the voice. Seconds later, he heard screams as half of the party spilled out into the back yard.

“What do we do?!” He heard.

“Get her off him!” A female partygoer screamed in response.

Mark was losing the strength in his arms. She was small, but relentless. Suddenly, someone grabbed the woman and flung her off him. He barely looked up to see who had saved him and lay dazed and drunk in the grass staring up at a starry sky. The screams quieted as he managed to lift himself out of the dirt. No one offered to help.

“Oh shit, he’s bit!” A fellow reveler stood five feet from him breathing heavily and clutching a rake like a broadsword. A drunken gang of teenagers pelted the zombie with rocks as she shuffled back into the woods. Mark looked down at his arm. It was soaking wet with blood and dripping down his leg. His pants were drenched where he had wet himself unable to finish his business before the attack. The entire party stood in the yard gawking like they were waiting on orders to turn the rocks on him. Mark clutched his wound and walked to the street not saying a word. Still, no one attempted to help. In their eyes, he was already dead.

That summer marked the end of the epidemic, or so the authorities claimed. Rumors of random attacks circulated nonetheless. As time went on, the media coverage lessened. Theorists say that the government had something to do with the drop-off, but in reality, the public was simply tired of death. People wanted the disease to go away and just forget about what had happened. Denial can sometimes be an effective coping mechanism.

Mark stared at his forearm and shook his head. “As soon as everyone saw that I was bitten they looked at me like I was some kind of freak.” An air of sympathy fell over the group that had not been there before.

“After about a week I came back as one of them. It’s weird how there’s still a part of you that is aware of who you were. I went after a girl that I had had a huge crush on for forever. I ended up at her house…why would I go to her house?” He pondered aloud.

Scientists never had an explanation for what caused the memory overlap. There had been scattered reports of infected hosts wandering to their workplaces, schools, or locations that they frequented in their normal life. It was not uncommon for friends or family members in neighboring towns to be attacked.

“So, who was she?” Beth asked. Mark looked at her a moment before responding.

“Her name was Jennifer Lane…and I killed her.”


Read the rest of the story and more in Zombies!? Zombies!?



Zombies?! Zombies!! is now in print

Just in time for Halloween, Zombies?! Zombies!! An Anthology is live and in publication!

While sites like Amazon won’t have the book or ebook for another month, you can order it now via the new order page located here.

Zombie fiction, zombie poetry, zombie comic; everything for the zombie lover!

And here’s a sample, an excerpt from PJ Oubre‘s excellent story Caesar’s First Zombie War

Two of the legions with us had fought the lemures previously, however, the third legion had no idea what they were about to face.  Caesar rode his horse at the front of the train of soldiers; he always believed that he was responsible for leading and inspiring the soldiers under his command.   After two hours, we could smell the stench of decaying flesh emanating from the town.  This odor managed to rattle the third legion and I remember seeing smoke rising into the sky as we approached.  We found a city in ruins.  The town was ablaze and only a small portion was protected as the appointed leader of the city appealed to Caesar for assistance and described the account of what had happened.

Four months earlier, a family returning from the south had fallen ill and died.  A day later, the pale, reanimated family began to shamble in the direction of any living being and attacked them.  These walking dead began to bite anyone near enough and stupid enough to allow him to get close.  Within days, the western half of the city was consumed by thousands of lemures that the city leadership did not know how to combat.  They built a temporary wall to contain the undead, but not before losing several thousand citizens.

Salamanca was a significant town for the Romans since it contained a massive aqueduct that brought water to many camps and villages.  It was strategically and economically important for control of the entire Iberian Peninsula.  Salamanca was located along the Roman road (Via de la Plata), which was paramount for control of the northwestern portion of the peninsula.  This road gave the Romans access to the ocean and made transport of merchant goods vital.  Caesar knew that he had to liberate this city from the undead as quickly as possible or the water supply might be disrupted and fail to support the forces under Vetus.  He called together his troops and planned to invade the western half of the city at daybreak.  The night before battle, I had not seen him so nervous, for he was about to command troops in battle for the first time.  All of his studying and preparation led him to this moment.  He only had 8000 soldiers at his disposal and for many this was the first significant engagement against a true horde of the decomposing undead.  The moans of the undead trolled on for hours and the smell of decaying flesh tickled our nostrils.  The first sight of shambling former Roman citizens and blood soaked streets and walls must have been a disconcerting sight for the new legion.

Caesar kept 500 soldiers in reserve and utilized the remainder to fight.  He designed his troops to walk in tightly packed formations, shoulder to shoulder, with shields in front of them and swords poking between the front rows of shields, grinding their opponents into pulp.  He ordered his soldiers to march in formation five rows deep on each street and to rotate every hour to combat battle fatigue.  He knew that the best way to combat the walking dead was in slow systematic units that decapitated each undead.  He emphasized the need for each unit to work as a whole and that the only way to defeat their new enemy was by decapitation.  The challenge for this army was the fact that the undead moved slowly and did not always coordinate into groups.  Occasionally one would be overlooked and manage to bite a soldier, which caused the disease to spread into our ranks.  In effect, they had to break formation to combat the shambling individuals aimlessly walking the streets.

These miniature armies systematically walked each street and let the undead walk toward them and they severed the heads as swiftly as possible.  Caesar had ordered his soldiers to shout and bang their shields together in order to attract larger numbers of lemures making combat easier.  Apparently, we had noticed that the lemures were attracted to loud noise, which suggested that their hearing was more acute than under normal living conditions.  The idea that Roman soldiers had to alter their training to attract the enemy and let them come to them was a new and unusual concept for them to grasp.  Roman soldiers were accustomed to walking slowly in formation towards their enemy and devastate their opponents with methodical precision and destruction.  Caesar ordered them to remain calm and stand in formation and make every effort to draw the walking dead to them.  This required a great deal of patience and many soldiers did not possess the patience required.  Often, a pair of soldiers would break formation and go out in search of glory, only to receive a bite and quickly turn into one of the lemures.  Those soldiers stationed behind these street units, Caesar ordered to remove the decapitated bodies to the side of the streets for removal at the end of the day.

At the end of the first day, they had slaughtered 500 lemures and Caesar ordered the citizens of the city to erect movable walls to barricade each street recently cleaned up.  The reserve troops hauled the corpses to the camp outside the city and built massive pyres for corpse removal.  Caesar understood the need for sanitary conditions and conducted the pyres outside the city for this purpose.  I oversaw hours of burning corpses upon these pyres.  I also overheard some of the standard soldiers weeping in their tents (either out of fear or shame for being a part of such a scene).  War is a crazy spectacle and men react in ways as various as the stars in the sky; in addition, all of these soldiers had never before seen the reanimated corpse of the dead and this second shock caused many men to run in fear.  Luckily for us, Caesar had an inhuman ability to inspire the most uninspired soldiers under his command.  Caesar had gained two legions assigned to him that he had not recruited from his private army.  That first night was the longest of my life.

Paynetown, a fiction excerpt by Lowell R Torres

Here is an excerpt from the novella Paynetown by yours truly.  It’s a work in progress, and will be included in my Zombies? Zombies! anthology.

The following is the last few paragraphs of the introduction and a few pages of the protagonist’s recollection of the night of the first major zombie outbreak in the US.

This generation now experience zombies through TV and videos online, or at the freaking zoo.  Most preteens have gone their whole lives without seeing one, outbreaks are so contained; most preteens in the West, that is.  Some third world countries are still a mess; there are chunks of China, Russia and India that are like scenes straight out of hell, and much of Africa is a vast ruin.  The world isn’t all peachy, like you’re told to believe.  There is madness, so much madness that it’s hard not to give in to it if you think about it too long.

But most of you know all this.  I’m just giving a retread.  Anyone with an internet connection has knowledge and more of what I’ve said.  Anyone can gain knowledge, but without experience knowledge is just words in your head.  Most people haven’t experienced the true horror of an outbreak.  I have.  I was part of the first major outbreak.

I was in Bloomington on July 18, 2007.  I was part of “America’s Zombie Wake-Up Call,” as the media dubbed it, when a category F-4 tornado bounced through the city, leaving a bobbing path of destruction and killing twelve hundred people as they slept.  About eight hundred of those would rise up as murderous, rampaging zombies.  Over fifteen thousand people eventually wound up dead; nearly a fifth of the population of a small city wiped out in just a nine-hour span.

I was there through most of it and my part in the “heroics” of that day were limited, but the media and government needed a hero to throw at the public.  And, well, I’m just good-looking and smart enough to qualify for the part, and I came with a ready-made pedigree pronouncing me Hero with a capital H.  But I’ll get to that later.

First came the storm.

Click here to continue reading

Plum Grove, a short story by Lowell R Torres

From Hoosier Writers 2012 by Lowell R Torres

I spent the spring 2005 semester studying abroad at Edge Hill University in Ormskirk, a tiny village right outside of Liverpool, England.  My favorite class that semester was the creative writing class, as it was different from every other CW class I’d participated in before or since.  One very different activity was a field trip to the Tate Art Gallery in Liverpool, where our assignment was to find a piece of art and write a short story about it.

The piece I eventually chose was Plum Grove, by Peter Howson and it depicted a brutal scene from the fighting between Bosnia and Herzegovina in the early 1990s.  My story changes that setting to somewhere in the south during the US Civil War.

Plum Grove by Peter Howson, courtesy of

A crow pecked and pulled at the man’s left hand.  The appendage was purple and bloated, but that didn’t deter the crow any.  It ripped off a piece of flesh and gulped the prize down with a quick motion of its head.  The bird went about securing itself another morsel in a business-like way.

Fran’s rock missed the bird by a good six inches and proved to be more annoyance to it than a threat.  It ruffled its feathers and cocked its head her way, one black beady eye glaring at her with what her mind’s eye considered malice.  Don’t try that again lass, or may be I’ll dine on you next; the look seemed to tell her.  Isaac’s rock was much bigger, and while he missed as well, it was enough of a threat to send the crow off with a disdainful caw.  Fran followed its progress to a nearby tree before her eyes were compelled to return to the man.

They had come upon him strung up to one of the plum trees as they played and raced through the grove.  Fran nearly ran right into him as she risked a swift glance over her shoulder to check how close Isaac was, and only her brother’s look of shocked surprise had saved her.  When she turned around to see what it was that had Isaac gaping, she gave a panicked yelp of surprise that quickly turned into a shriek of horror.

The rope started at the man’s right ankle, tied tight so that his leg hung up awkward behind him while the other one dangled on the ground.  Up and across his stomach it went, securing him to the thick limb of the downed tree.  After looping around his chest it went under his armpit and stopped at his left wrist, secured to a branch.  His whole left arm was sticking up behind his head in such a grotesque way his shoulder had to be broken or dislocated.  But the arm wasn’t the worst, nor was it his lumpy face, all cut up and bleeding and bruised.  The worst was his lower.  His trousers were pulled down, and instead of his man parts there was just an ugly gaping red hole.  Trails of dried blood ran down his thighs.

The area was thick with flies.  The air hummed with their buzzing.

“What happened, Sissa?” Isaac asked, his voice full of awe, but not fear.  Isaac was very brave for a four-year-old.  Almost too brave.

“He got lynched, you dummy.  What do you think happened?”  She didn’t mean to be cross with him, but her nerves were quite frayed suddenly, and she felt jumpy.  Her stomach fluttered dangerously, but she told herself she wouldn’t vomit.

“But he’s wearing the grays!” Isaac pointed out, as if she couldn’t see the Confederate uniform for herself.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.  How a soldier on their side could have been lynched, especially down here in friendly territory, was beyond her.

“Was there a battle?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Maybe it was a battle,” he said, though it was more of a question.

“I said I don’t know!” she shouted, and then shrieked again as the man’s eyes opened.  Fran was sure she was going to drop dead of a chest seizure at that very moment.  Even though nine-year-olds were too young to drop dead, she was positive there were some exceptions.

“He’s alive,” Isaac said dumbly.  He didn’t even jump, but his eyes were real wide.

One of the man’s eyes was so filled up with blood you couldn’t make out the color, but the other was a startling hazel.  Even though the eye was dull and glazed over with pain it struck her.  There was something about the color that was familiar, but she’d never seen this man before.  His gaze moved from brother to sister with a quiet desperation.  He opened his mouth, but only a dry click came out.  He cleared his throat loudly, and grimaced in pain.

“Water,” he finally rasped.  “Please . . . water . . . dying.”

“Was there a battle?” Isaac asked and stepped forward.

Fran was too stunned to act at first.  Her heart still felt like it was in her throat.  The man seemed confused by Isaac’s question.  He shook his head, like he was trying to clear it of cobwebs, and then repeated his plea for water.  Fran noticed two his two front teeth were missing, the gums bloody.

“What happened, mister?” she brought herself to ask.  She wanted to run away, run home.  The smell of him and the sight of the flies crawling in and out of the hole in his crotch made her feel faint, and even more sick.  But her curiosity overwhelmed those feelings.

“It was a battle, wasn’t it?” Isaac asked again, and Fran contemplated punching him in the nose.

“It weren’t no battle, you stupid!” she spat at him.  “There would be bodies everywhere and we would’a heard it.”  Isaac just rolled his eyes at her, and then looked at the soldier again.

“Please . . . water,” he pleaded, voice full of pain.  “She . . . she wanted to . . . was willing . . . swear . . . God!”  This last word he said with vehemence, as if invoking the name of the Holy Father explained it all.  Fran didn’t think it explained anything.  “Please . . . water . . . please.”  She understood that much.

Fran turned to go, then remembered her brother.  She grabbed Isaac’s sleeve and tugged, but he resisted her.  The dying man entranced him.  Fran had seen all she wanted to see of the man, but she pitied him so much she would get him some water.

“Come on, Isaac,” she urged, but her brother ignored her.  To her complete and utter horror he reached out a hand and touched the man’s outstretched leg.

That was when their father arrived.

“What are you children doing?” he boomed in his angry voice.  Fran turned to look at him in helpless mute appeal.  Isaac jumped back so fast he tripped on a root and fell onto his bottom with a teeth-rattling thud.

“Francis made me!” he wailed, and then started crying.

“You rotten lying little!” she shrieked and kicked him in the leg, which made him start bawling even louder.  He looked at Father as if that proved his point.  Fran was relieved to see that Father didn’t seem to believe Isaac’s lie.  He marched forward and pulled Isaac to his feet.

“You both get home right this instant, or I’ll be tanning both your hides!”

“He wants water,” Isaac said as Fran tried pulling him away.  Father glowered at them for a moment, and then his face softened.

“I come to bring him something better than that,” he said, and Fran noticed the big bayonet sticking out of his waistband.  “You children get on now.”

Fran obeyed her father and drug Isaac after her.  She was still mad about his blaming her, but he was a little devil like that.  At the end of the row she turned back for one last look.  Her father was talking to the soldier, who was nodding his head slowly.  The man said one last thing, and then her father drove the knife into the man’s heart.

The soldier’s body gave a shudder, and was still.

The Monster Part 16, a story by Gabe Torres

A few months ago my son came home from school with a book he created.  He was nervous when he showed it to my wife and I, but proud too.  This was the first complete story he’d written by himself.

The weekend before, the subject of my upcoming zombie anthology had come up with my wife and he overheard.  Shortly after he brought me a few pages of mini-notebook paper he’d taped together and asked if I wanted to make a zombie book with him.  Of course I was more than happy to.

And so Zach the Zombie was born.  We worked on that for a little while but then he decided he needed to work on a different book.  Over the next few days he’s create several covers to books he wanted to write, but when it was time to write he’d have an idea for a new book.

The Monster Part 16 is the first one he completed, and now I present it to you.  The gripping sixteenth installment of The Monster:

The Monster, Part 16

The Monster, Part 16

one day a kid

one day a kid

got lost

                got lost

but someone found him

    but someone found him

but it wasn't a man

but it wasn’t a man

it was a monster

        it was a monster

The End

               The End

An excerpt from Seat Belts, a short story by Clay Cunningham

This short story was originally published in Hoosier Writers 2012 by Clay Cunningham

I was thinking too much again. I wasn’t disarming a bomb; I was feeling up a teenage girl. It shouldn’t have been exceptionally difficult.

It was. I quickly discovered that I’d needed the momentum created by my perfectly positioned hand more than I’d hoped. My efforts to blindly locate an entrance to the inside of her top were remarkably awkward. My hand kept shooting off in various, incorrect directions, failing to adhere to the commands of my brain, as I was again running the risk of ripping the shirt’s fabric.

The whole process seemed like it would go on forever before I finally felt something. My hand had clearly navigated through some sort of obstruction and was now resting on a soft, bulgy protuberance. I’d officially broken through, all the while maintaining visionary focus on the road. That expedition was over. I was now free to fondle at will.

And yet, something wasn’t right. As I blindly groped and massaged Lana’s left breast, I wasn’t getting the sensation I had anticipated (perhaps a honking sound would have offered some type of reassurance, but alas, that did indeed prove to be a false prophecy). Granted I hadn’t felt a breast before, but I had felt human skin, and all previous experience never would have led me to anticipate feeling something so oddly cloth-like. At first I thought it might have just been the bra, but unless her bra was a foot tall, I should be feeling flesh and I wasn’t. Something was afoul.

After confirming it was momentarily safe to again avert my gaze from the road, I looked over to investigate, my eyes going straight to the location my hand, which, as I had thought, was perched upon her breast. What I hadn’t anticipated was that said hand would still be in my direct line-of-sight.

Sadly my lack of focus while attempting a move that clearly required my full attention backfired, as I was actually pawing at her from the outside of her shirt. Turns out the penetration hadn’t been of any article of clothing, but rather the passenger side automatic seat belt! For the second time this little mechanism, one of the great life-saving mechanisms in human history, had played a significant role in not only killing my love life, but burying it in a shallow grave of perpetual virginity.

I had no idea what I was supposed to do and Lana, no doubt stunned by my ineptitude, had no initial reaction. So I just sat there, exchanging glances between her and the road, one hand at ten o’clock, the other clinging for dear life to her chest.

Whatever sex appeal there was to fondling a breast clearly didn’t exist in this situation. What was supposed to be a sweet, sensual expression of my newfound feelings had been carried out with all the grace you’d expect to be exhibited by a trench coat wearing pervert hiding behind park bushes, waiting for the opportunity to flash his vile dick at whatever woman had the misfortune of walking by. Even worse, I had gone from being nervous to downright scared, and this fear had rendered me almost paralyzed, completely unable to react on my own. So until she gave me some sort of instruction, I was staying put.

“Please let go,” she finally said.

Tone Deaf, a short story by Lowell R Torres

An earlier version of this work in progress appeared in Hoosier Writers 2012 (e-book available for only $3)

There were no certainties in life.  Audra was taught that at a young age.  The lessons were hammered in with ruthless efficiency, so she would never ever forget.  Nothing was guaranteed.  Your next meal, your next full night of sleep or warm bed, your next shower or hug or conversation or connection with another human being.  Even your next breath wasn’t guaranteed.

Because there were no certainties in life.

Her mother’s shrill yell still echoed through her memories.


Like clockwork, the herald came every day at seven sharp.  It was as reliable as the setting sun.


Mother wasn’t as much as a minute late with dinner.  Not ever.  Audra knew, and not because Mother reminded her every day during dinner.  Audra knew because she kept the time, as Mother had taught her when she was “seven-years-seven-months-seven-days-seven-hours-seven-minutes-and-seven-seconds old.”

That litany was as familiar as the dinner call.

Din-din ‘Dra!

Followed by what her mother called her dinner bell: several metal screws in a baby food jar, shaken mercilessly.  Mother knew the sound was like nails on a chalkboard to her, and she knew Audra hated being called ‘Dra.  It was a stupid little baby name and Audra was eleven-years-old now.  Not a baby anymore, but Mother was quick to use either voice or bell if she didn’t hear Audra moving after the second call.

“I’m coming Mother!” she sung, a high soprano this time.  She always sang.  Mother taught lessons and made her practice for hours a day; ever since she was seven-years-seven-months-seven-days-seven-hours-seven-minutes-and-seven-seconds old.

“Good, darling,” her mother’s voice rang back to her in a pitch perfect soprano.  “But you want to hold the E6 through ‘coming Mother,’”

“Yes, Moth. . .” the word tapered off as she entered the dining room.  A place mat lay on the table in front of her chair, and a plate on top of it.  Silverware lay on a cloth napkin next to the plate, but there was no food on the plate.  There was always food on the plate.  It was always there, on the plate, served and ready.

Mother was never late.

“Else you’ll waver and no one will pay to see a waverer,” Mother continued from the kitchen.

Mother swept into the room carrying a single plate.  Mother always did things like that.  She swept or pranced or sashayed, never anything as simple as a walk, or sitting down.  No, she glided into her seat, like a dandelion seed coming to rest after flowing on a gentle breeze, a swan landing elegantly on the water.  Every movement calculated to draw attention to her lithe grace.

The smell wafting from Mother’s plate made Audra’s mouth water, her temporary irritation at Mother’s constant dramatic flair forgotten.  As she approached the table she saw on Mother’s plate was her favorite: grilled chicken with buttered asparagus and baby red potatoes.

But there was just one plate.  One.  There were always two.  One for Mother and one for her.  One for Audra.

Mother saw her standing there with a look of confusion on her face.  She knew what the confusion was about.  Still, she waited for Audra to speak first.

“Mother?” Audra began uncertainly in a low contralto.

“Is there a problem, my dear?” Mother answered in her most innocent soubrette.

“My food, Mother.”

“Are you hungry, dear?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Well.  Go fix yourself something, dear.”


“Please don’t stutter.  You sound like a constipated hen.”

“But you-”

“I what?  I prepare your plate for you, just as I prepare the food you eat?  And shop for the food.  And work to make the money I use to shop for food.”

Audra maintained that same look of confusion but inside she was suddenly terrified.  There was a set routine for dinner; the same routine they followed rigidly ever since she was seven-years-seven-months-seven-days-seven-hours-seven-minutes-and-seven-seconds old.  Mother was never as much as a second late, every day, day after day for four years.  It was as comfortable and known to her as her ballet slippers or Judy Garland’s E3, Barbara Streisand and Edith Piaf’s D5s, Patti Labelle’s E6 and Sarah Brightman’s whistle register.

Something was horribly wrong.

“From now on you will make your own plate.  You can do that, can’t you?”  Her mother’s plain mezzo-soprano was almost dreadful.  “You’re not a baby.  Are you?”

“N-n-no, Mother.”

“No, you’re not.  Go on then.”

And just like that, a routine she had mistaken for a certainty disappeared from her life.

So Audra knew very well that nothing was ever certain.  Every second of time has the power and potential to change the universe.  An infinite amount of threads could come spilling out of any moment, taking her on an unlimited amount of varying courses through life.  Any moment could change the rest of her life, which meant nothing was certain.

With that said, Audra was quite positive there was a man following her.

Most people would just see a man; a thin man of average height with shaggy blonde hair, wearing a charcoal-grey suit and Italian loafers meant to look more expensive than they actually were.  He looked a little overworked, or like he’d been hitting the bottle too much lately.

Audra saw that and more.  The tailored suit and loafers clashed with the unkempt hair.  This was a man who put effort into his looks, and his looks said the hair was long overdue for a meeting with a barber’s scissors. The suit was expensive but worn out, as forgotten as the hair.  It also hung loose on the man, as if he had recently lost weight.

And of course there was the monster riding on his shoulder.

 The act of making her own plate didn’t bother her, as she quickly grew to prefer dishing out her own helpings.  If Mother was in a foul mood after Audra’s practice sessions – a rigid nonstop four-hour routine sandwiched between chores and whatever home schooling worksheets Mother assigned – she would ladle up extra of a side Audra found unpleasant while skimping on everything else.

It was the shock of chaos, of a brand new experience.  Her entire life since she was seven-years-seven-months-seven-days-seven-hours-seven-minutes-and-seven-seconds old had been one repeating cycle.  She remembered just being a child, as she thought of herself in the time before mother’s lessons began.  She remembered parks and playgrounds, carnivals and birthday parties.  She had memories of playing with other children and adults.  A girl with bright red hair in pigtails; a boy with the bluest eyes, blue like the sky on perfect summer day; a man with a smile and booming laugh; a woman large with child.

The memories had grown hazy but she still had them, and cherished them while feeling guilty all the same.

“You and I, Audra my dear,” her mother would often sing when Audra mentioned Outside.  “We are all the company we need.  We are a cosmos unto ourselves.  Until you are ready.”

She had few memories since her rebirth – as mother liked to call it – where their rigid schedule had not been maintained.  And those had been because of sickness or emergencies and not due to a purposeful action.  Until Mother didn’t make her plate, but that was the only change.  Mother continued on as if nothing were any different after that.  They continued their normal routine.

Wake up, have whole wheat toast with raspberry jam, a banana and a glass of milk.  Chores, which varied from sweeping and weeding the garden to mending their clothes and mother’s work uniforms.  Four hours of singing with only a couple of fifteen second breaks to wet her mouth and throat.

And worksheets, which she loathed.  She didn’t know which she hated more: that the sheets Mother gave her were often for children younger than she was, or that she still struggled to complete them.  She asked Mother for help countless times, but Mother insisted she was teaching her everything she needed to know.

“You’re a star, ‘Dra darling,” Mother replied once when Audra expressed frustration with a particularly tricky math sheet.  “You won’t need any of this nonsense when you’re old enough to Perform, but we can’t go against state wishes, can we?”

She was usually still working on the homework when Mother called her for dinner.  Every night.  At seven o’clock.  Sharp.

And her plate, with food usually still steaming, sat at her place on their table.  But no more.  The shock was great at first, but over time it lessened.  Soon making her own plate grew to be a familiar part of the routine.  For one year, until she came down and there was no dinner.

Every week after that led to a small but significant difference in her day.  The hot water would cut out mid-shower, if not altogether and Mother would ignore her screams.  Mother would let her sleep in or wake her up earlier than the seven sharp that had been her normal time.   Or she would cut practice or homework short with no notice and no explanation.  She usually just set what she was working with or on down, nodded without a word, and walked out the door.  The first time she was gone no more than five minutes, but within three months she would leave for hours at a time.

Every week, some difference to the routine of her day.  Every week for a year after the night there was no dinner.  At the end of the year there was no food with which to make dinner and the changes stopped being so small.  Mother would disappear for days on end with no explanation despite Audra’s pleading.  She would go weeks without grocery shopping, making Audra scrounge for meals out of the dwindling pantry choices.  Or cut the legs off all of Audra’s pants and make Audra work for the thread and needle to sew them back together.  Mother loved making Audra work to regain her lost “privileges”, usually through grueling two to six-hour long opera performances.

The year after that Mother walked out the door and never came back.

This monster was a kind of yellow-fungusy color, short and squat with no legs to speak of, just large claw-like feet and stubby arms with long, skinny fingers.  It’s face looked like it had seen the wrong end of an anvil, flattened with only one eye protruding from the surface.  As big as a goose-egg and red and swollen as a ripe tomato, the eye had several white irises floating around seemingly at random, until they all stopped and joined together to focus on an item of interest.  The thing had no nose or lips, just a gaping maw with little slivers of yellowed teeth pointed in every direction.

She named this one Squashenstein.

It had greedy elongated fingers stemming from stubby, muscular arms plugged into the man’s temple, and it’s horror of a mouth was constantly whispering suggestions.  Never commands.  These little buggers were the most passive of the three different types she’d seen.

They weren’t like the aggressive skinny green ones that looked like miniature versions of those movie monsters from her childhood, before Mother changed.  Gremlers or something.  Little Tyrants, she called them.  They screamed and hissed, stamping their spiky feet as they ripped and scratched at their victim’s head.

Or the nasty brownish blobs that wrapped around their victim’s head like a turban.  These didn’t bother with commands.  They would send a tentacle down the victim’s throat and assume direct control.  They were the Crude, because they looked like large globs of crude oil.

No one else saw the monsters.  Only Audra.  The monsters knew this.  No one else believed Audra.  Audra didn’t even believe Audra for the longest time.  She remembered being outside before Mother changed.  She didn’t remember monsters.  But the first time she ventured outside after Mother left, there they were.  But no one else saw the monsters.

The monsters knew this.

They hunted her.  They wanted her, maybe to kill her or maybe to take her over too.  She saw them all the time now, more and more when she left Home, which meant the already infrequent trips would only grow increasingly so.

The man was about ten feet behind her and getting closer.  This was the closest one had come to her in some time, but she felt no thrill of the chase.  Only a dull knot of familiar dread in her gut, like she wanted to vomit out the memories of her life’s joys.  It was Squashenstein, sending out his mojo to her.  She had let him get too close, too lost in her thoughts.

And too confident in herself.  She was, after all, far from defenseless.

Audra abruptly stopped in mid stride and spun around to face her attacker.  The sight of both man and monsters’ surprised reactions sent a trill of pleasure throughout her body.  Yes, she had slipped up a bit, let it get too close, but she was master here.  Audra was the only one who could see the monsters, and she was the only one who could stop them.  She took a moment, just a small clipping of an instant, to prepare for what she must do next.

She took a deep breath.  Engaged her core.  Shoulders straight.  She stared at Squashenstein, all of its little pupils balled together in the front of the eye, staring at her with venomous hatred.

Audra sang.

© 2013 Lowell R Torres