This is not a love story

Before you go any further I have to warn you that this isn’t a love story. Okay, that’s a lie, it’s a deeply depressing love story. It doesn’t have a happy ending but then I don’t think every love story should have one.

Saying Goodbye.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time, not that long ago, when we could have walked hand in hand down the street. There had been a time that we could have kissed without him trying to eat my face.

A national wide message had gone out. The army wanted to kill off all the remaining zombies. They knew that some people had kept their relatives who’d been turned. We’d been holding on to what we’d lost. We all knew that it was dangerous, stupid even but we couldn’t let go.

I kept him on a chain, tied to a loop in the ground, the metal of the chain melted to the loop. The loop had been buried deep into the ground and concrete poured around it so he couldn’t get free. I threw him bloody chucks of meat. I did it in the hope that the raw meat would stop him wanting to get his teeth into me. Every time I watched him chomping on picked clean bone it broke my heart. I’d thought that maybe, just maybe, somebody would find a cure and even though I knew it would be safer to just let him go, I wanted him close just in case.

Then we all got the message, any untainted human caught harbouring a zombie would be killed. The time had finally come to say goodbye. The night before I sat in the garden, right at the edge, I knew that I would be far enough away that I wouldn’t be within arms reach. He’d been sleeping on the ground, but I think a part of him could sense me. As soon as I sit down he opened his eyes. He used to have beautiful brown eyes, now they were blood red. Some part of him must have recognised me, he didn’t sit down but he crouched, and he watched me.

I brought out the pictures, the little odds and ends I collected over the time we’d been together. Then I told him everything. I wanted to give him those precious memories. Most of all I wanted him to remember. I told him about the first day we meet. I’d worn a yellow dress, him a suit. I mentioned how we ended up sharing an umbrella, a bright shade of yellow with white dots.

As I sit there he started to move. I threw another piece of raw streak and as he scoots over, and shoves it into his mouth, blood dripped down and over his chin. I looked away and continued our story.

We talked about children, of getting married. The day the virus took hold I found a ring box in his trouser pocket. I never wanted to get married before; it had never felt right with anyone until I met him. I wear the ring now, it glitters on my finger and reminds me of happier times.

I tell him that in the morning the army would be sending someone to collect him, and then that would be it. I tell him that I’ll miss him, but in truth, I lost him a long time ago.
* * *
A knock on the door and I suddenly wish I could change my mind. I hear the snarling coming from the garden as I opened the door. The man standing in the doorway wears a uniform and held a very large gun. He must have seen my eyes widen because he tells me that what was in the gun wouldn’t kill him. They’ll be doing that somewhere else. The bullet would only make him sleep, he asks me to wait in the house but I say no, I don’t want him to go through it alone.

My boyfriend looks at me with dead eyes, but he stands still. I wonder if a part of him knows that this is it. It all happens in an instance. The bullets hit him in the stomach, shoulder and leg. He falls to the ground and I have to fight the urge to run to him but I can’t stop the tears that start to fall.

The drugs take hold, the soldier calls it in and a few others arrive with a stretcher and load him up. Before they take him out I pull my ring out, attaching it to a piece of chain and then slipping it over his head.

I curse the world for taking him away from me, and as the army take him away I fall to the ground and cry.


My Nemesis

I don’t like snow, actually I hate it with a violent passion and I would gladly stay inside until the bloody thing goes again. I’m so accident prone when it come to the white stuff that all I have to do is look at it and I fall over.

There was this one time, when I was at college, I fell over and cracked my head. For a good few minutes I forgot my mum’s telephone number.

It isn’t really the snows fault, it’s the twisted cousin…ices fault. Then again I’m not a fan of extreme weather, everything too hot or cold and I just want to hid somewhere dark till it goes away.

Unfortunately, that isn’t a option anymore. I have a son, two years old and this is really the first time he’s seen snow. Okay, it was here last year, briefly, but I really don’t think he remembers it. He really hadn’t mastered walking. So I’m still in bed but I can hear them downstairs, talking about making snowman, and igloos. Oh god, someone rescue me. Bring me a hot drink and tell me that the snow was just a bad dream…please?


A Rare Talent.

When I was in primary school, probably in year 5, which means I was ten, I read a book that has always stayed with me. A Spell for Chameloen by Piers Anthony, the copy belong to my mum and it was about a man who had no magical talent. The whole thing about the world that Piers Anthony created, called Xanth, was that everyone had a magical talent. They weren’t all powerful, but some had want were called Magician level talents and it were these that went on to become rulers of the country or world. There was one, I can’t remember his name who was a warrior and his talent was he was immortal. It didn’t matter if you chopped up his body, as long as the pieces were touching or close together, they would knit themselves together and he’d come back to life. I’ve always thought that Piers Anthony was an awesome writer, I liked how his mind worked. How he could look at something like approaching adulthood and create his own interpretation about it.

The thing is being a writer is hard, there are thousands of us out there. All you have to do is type something into amazon for a hundred stories based in that genre to pop up. What separates the writers who earn the big bucks and the rest of us? Is it an idea? A lucky break?

Or is it something simpler?