Three poems by Scott Thurlow for your enjoyment:
The Incentives of Incendiaries
Things aren't currently going so well
There isn't a hope in hell
And I'm left with a dwindling box of shells
But I'm not going out quite that easily
I've still got a trick or two up my sleeve
The trick that I've rigged should blaze up so, so beautifully
When they finally come to eat me
Knock, Knock
Knock knock
Whose there?
Your former grandmother
or maybe your former neighbor
They're hungry
Can you spare a cup of brains?
Sorry, fresh out, try next door
It'll be safer when
there is no door left
to knock on
Ring Out Your Dead
Bullets, gun or run
You'd better pick one
or you will be done
No more having fun
When they come
Faster, faster
they're coming up the path
better do something now
or it'll be your last
head shots, head shots
and they all
fall
down
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Author Bio: Steven Ormosi in his own words
Steven Ormosi has been a zombie enthusiast since that one sleepover when him and a bunch of friends watched Night of the Living Dead and drank his buddy's mom's Gold Schlager. That was tight, yo. He did always wonder why those zombies moved so slow, though. He means...he guesses that old, "they're decomposing so they can't run" explanation is alriiiight, but what about the fresh zombies? Shouldn't they be pretty quick? They all just stroll around, real slow like, hoping to stumble upon some brains. That's no way to get what you want. You have to earn it! Keep your eye on the prize and so on! God, those zombies make him so angry.
Steven also likes sun showers and stuffed animals. But not together. The fur gets wet and starts to smell.
Steve's LAD Stories:
Volume 1:
Volume 2:
Volume 3:
Volume 4:
Volume 5:
Volume 6:
Shorts:
Holiday Specials:
Poetry:
Volume 2: The Big "It"
The Big “It”
Steven Ormosi
I've spent all my life observing. I’m really a journalist at heart. I like to be near important events, but not involved, no, never involved. It ruins the integrity. Sometimes it’s impossible not to get involved though, you know? Sometimes lives depend on you doing something. That’s not a responsibility that I take lightly, so yes, I’ll tell you what I was doing that night, and no, I’m not sorry, no matter what you do to me.
And it doesn't matter what you try to do anyway, I've got friends you can only imagine having. I've got friends and they will string you up by your toes if you harm one hair on my head. And you’ll wonder what happened and how you got into this predicament, as you’re hanging upside down by your toes--that is, if you’re not in too much pain to wonder, and I’ll put my pudgy little face up to your skinny little upside down face and say, “I told you so. Why didn't you listen to me?” And you’ll say “Ahhhhhhhhhh, MY FUCKING TOES!” And I’ll laugh.
Ok, Ok, I’m getting to it, relax, no need for name calling.
Let’s start from the start. You already know my name is Jenkins. Bruce Jenkins really, but everyone just calls me Jenkins. As to why I was in the city when everything crumbled, well, I've been a drifter my whole life. I like to be where the action is. I like to see what people are made of when things get uncivil. I've had help in my travels, but I've also been through tough times, where I only had myself to depend on. I've been to the Middle East. There’s always a good war going on somewhere out there, always something happening. At least there was. You know those flaming oil fields you saw on the news? I saw those with my own eyes, let me tell you, something really gets lost in the translation when you see it on TV. I've seen kings and sultans and czars and dictators and presidents and CEOs and come to the conclusion that they’re all full of just as much shit as you and me. I prefer the common man, the little guy, the everyday Joe facing extraordinary circumstances. And that’s what brought me here, actually.
There was a man in the city that this burnt out shit show used to be, who claimed he was a psychic, a real psychic and there was even some evidence to back his story up. So I came to meet him. I spent a couple days following him around. He acted normal enough, you know, went shopping, went out for a drink at the local bar, whatever. He never showed any sign that he noticed I was tailing him. Then one day he turned around and walked straight at me. I kept reading the paper and glancing up at him as he approached and finally he got right in front of me. So I casually put the paper down and said, “Can I help you?” And he said--and I’ll never forget this if I live to be a million years old--he said “If you want proof, this is the best I can do. It starts today.” And then he pulled a revolver out of his pocket and before I could even get up to try to grab him, his brains were on the sidewalk. That fucked with me. That was the day they found patient zero munching on his mother in a little town in Cambodia.
I’m gonna have a smoke.
Mmm, nothing like a good cigarette when the stress of the world is getting to you. Seems everyone is picking up smoking these days and these Jackals are the only damn thing around anymore. Too bad their execs are probably busy trying to eat their consumer base. A lot of people are going to be in a bad way when we run out of our supply. It is relaxing though. And hell, after living through the apocalypse, I guess people aren't so worried about lung cancer anymore.
Steven Ormosi
I've spent all my life observing. I’m really a journalist at heart. I like to be near important events, but not involved, no, never involved. It ruins the integrity. Sometimes it’s impossible not to get involved though, you know? Sometimes lives depend on you doing something. That’s not a responsibility that I take lightly, so yes, I’ll tell you what I was doing that night, and no, I’m not sorry, no matter what you do to me.
And it doesn't matter what you try to do anyway, I've got friends you can only imagine having. I've got friends and they will string you up by your toes if you harm one hair on my head. And you’ll wonder what happened and how you got into this predicament, as you’re hanging upside down by your toes--that is, if you’re not in too much pain to wonder, and I’ll put my pudgy little face up to your skinny little upside down face and say, “I told you so. Why didn't you listen to me?” And you’ll say “Ahhhhhhhhhh, MY FUCKING TOES!” And I’ll laugh.
Ok, Ok, I’m getting to it, relax, no need for name calling.
Let’s start from the start. You already know my name is Jenkins. Bruce Jenkins really, but everyone just calls me Jenkins. As to why I was in the city when everything crumbled, well, I've been a drifter my whole life. I like to be where the action is. I like to see what people are made of when things get uncivil. I've had help in my travels, but I've also been through tough times, where I only had myself to depend on. I've been to the Middle East. There’s always a good war going on somewhere out there, always something happening. At least there was. You know those flaming oil fields you saw on the news? I saw those with my own eyes, let me tell you, something really gets lost in the translation when you see it on TV. I've seen kings and sultans and czars and dictators and presidents and CEOs and come to the conclusion that they’re all full of just as much shit as you and me. I prefer the common man, the little guy, the everyday Joe facing extraordinary circumstances. And that’s what brought me here, actually.
There was a man in the city that this burnt out shit show used to be, who claimed he was a psychic, a real psychic and there was even some evidence to back his story up. So I came to meet him. I spent a couple days following him around. He acted normal enough, you know, went shopping, went out for a drink at the local bar, whatever. He never showed any sign that he noticed I was tailing him. Then one day he turned around and walked straight at me. I kept reading the paper and glancing up at him as he approached and finally he got right in front of me. So I casually put the paper down and said, “Can I help you?” And he said--and I’ll never forget this if I live to be a million years old--he said “If you want proof, this is the best I can do. It starts today.” And then he pulled a revolver out of his pocket and before I could even get up to try to grab him, his brains were on the sidewalk. That fucked with me. That was the day they found patient zero munching on his mother in a little town in Cambodia.
I’m gonna have a smoke.
Mmm, nothing like a good cigarette when the stress of the world is getting to you. Seems everyone is picking up smoking these days and these Jackals are the only damn thing around anymore. Too bad their execs are probably busy trying to eat their consumer base. A lot of people are going to be in a bad way when we run out of our supply. It is relaxing though. And hell, after living through the apocalypse, I guess people aren't so worried about lung cancer anymore.
So as I was saying, this guy basically told me he knew the world was ending. No one realized the seriousness of the whole situation at the time, but looking back I wish I’d done a little more stockpiling. In the days and weeks following my psychic’s revelation I had gone about trying to gather information on his life. I talked to his friends, family, whoever had been in contact with him and he hadn't said anything even remotely as fucked up to any of them. I guess he’d just been keeping it bottled up, or maybe it had all just come flooding into him and he couldn't take it, I dunno. I try not to speculate too much.
So anyway, here I was when everything went down, out west. I was actually contemplating going out there to check it out, but the airports were shut down and I didn't want to waste a lot of time driving, especially since there might not be anything left when I finally made it.
And then the interesting stuff started happening here. They started building the wall. They started making the proclamations that we would be the survivors. Maybe it made me feel a little like I was a part of something, some long-buried sense of community. Maybe I just wanted to see how this would all turn out. I stayed, I helped to build the wall. It was an amazing thing actually, so many people working toward a common goal. Hell, here I was, in the thick of it again, maybe the last big “it” for humanity. I was fascinated.
And here we are five months later. Was that the beginning or the end? I guess we've just got to wait and see. At least a guy can still get cigarettes. They won't last much longer, eh? But I digress.
So you know why I'm in the city. Now you want to know where I was three nights ago? The night those kids went missing? I was with them. Or rather, they were with me. I'd told them I would teach em how to defend themselves. They looked like little uncoordinated jackasses running around slap fighting each other in the streets, playing kill the zombie after school. Kids need to learn defense don't they? I yelled out to them, I said, "Hey, you numskulls want to learn how to really fight? Or you wanna be zombie food?" We went out to the old playground on the north side. They live over that way. I taught em how to use knives and how to fight hand to hand. How to take out the zombies if they had to. We made a deal to meet there on Wednesdays to practice. Then they took off, rambling on about showing their classmates. I took that for a good sign. After that I hoofed it to Kelly's and had a drink or nine.
Now I know just from the way you've been treating me and starin' your stares that I'm your prime suspect, likely your only suspect, but I'll tell you now, I don't know anything about the whereabouts of those kids. Too bad that psychic bit his own bullet, huh? He might be able to tell you. I feel bad they've gone missing, I really do, but I can't tell you the first thing about where they got off to, which really sucks for me because someone's gotta burn for this, right? Do I get my phone call?
Right, right. No phones.
Hey, what are you in here for?
Well that's a damn sight better than me, you'll be out tomorrow afternoon. They'll probably draw and quarter me. For something I didn't even do, shit. You know that election going on? The guy running--not Donovan, Ed Jenkins--he's my brother. Well he doesn't know it yet, but he is my brother. I just have no way to prove it to him. Yeah, he's been in politics his whole life from what I gleaned. He's been working behind the scenes for this city for years. Now he's makin’ a play at mayor. Maybe he can help me out, you know? Maybe he'll believe me.
You're right, he probably won't. Desperate man saved at the last second by long lost, powerful brother. Way too deus ex machina, am I right?
Oh, day-oos ex ma-keena. It's when some completely unbelievable shit miraculously happens to save the hero of the story right at the end, just as he's about to bite it. That stuff never happens in real life. I'm gonna go down as a kiddie killer. Those damn kids probably snuck over the wall, they're probably in the belly of some brainless people eater by now, negating any chance of me ever getting the hell out of here via the act of being ingested. And all the while I'm answering questions for the farce that passes as the local law enforcement even though they already made their minds up about me. Well I guess my luck had to run out sometime, eh? It eventually does for all of us.
I've had a good life though, I've seen more than my share of incredible things. You know, I saw a man walk on water once. He walked right out into the ocean on top of the waves, just bobbing up and down. Never saw him again once he passed the horizon. He just kept walking. I wonder if he ever made it to Africa.
That's where he was going. Was gonna, "heal the sick," he said. I thought he was the second coming for a while. Until all this happened. No rapture, no one gets saved. Hell on Earth is all. But I've always known I was going to Hell, so I've been ready for it. And then it showed up right in our back yard and all I could do was grit my teeth and laugh, same as I've always done, and always will.
So bring on the law. Bring on the judges and forget the juries, I've got no shot with them. Bring on the pigs, the man, the fucking boys in blue. They say I did it, they must be right, and I've got nowhere left to run to anyway. The rest of the world is D-E-D, dead. Just like I'm about to be.
If you think of it, find my brother and tell him about me. Let him know that I'll be the one with rigor mortis keeping the corners of my mouth curled into a gruesome smile as I swing low and slow. That's one thing--no matter what, I'll smile till the end.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Busy, busy, busy
After a short summer hiatus, we at Life After Death are ecstatic to be back with what will be the most content-packed two weeks of our existence. I'm proud to announce the long awaited third volume will be here on August 1st.
On that note, I have a bit of bad news. It seems that hubris got the best of us when we tried to create a monthly physical magazine. It was one nightmare after another headache and we all agreed to return to the original intent of the project, an online publication. Regardless of the method of delivery, we will still produce the high quality, post apocalyptia that you have come to know and love.
In honor of Volume 3, we will be having daily site updates including all previously unreleased work from Volumes 1 and 2, as well as a few other surprises. So keep checking back for the best in brain munching entertainment.
Volume 1: Our World
Our World
by Steve Ormosi
I’m in a contemplative mood tonight. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty much always contemplating; I guess that’s why I got this job working at City Hall trying to help those who don’t want to be helped. My specific runaway train of thought tonight is how to keep this damn city working together now that a little bit of order is coming back into the world – our world at least.
Now that The Watch is in place and there isn’t immediate danger from the hordes coming through and chewing our balls straight off, people are cutting out the whole working together thing and starting to carve out niches for themselves. Power struggles are starting to emerge, people are getting uppity with each other and I’m the one who has to fix the bullshit. Let me explain that a little better, I’m the one who has to come up with the answer that someone else will use to fix the bullshit. Politics, eh? That’s ok, I don’t really want the notoriety anyway, ‘cuz chances are any semblance of order and peace won’t last, and when that happens, I won’t be the one who gets crucified.
So I’m sitting here in this bare room, these four walls keeping order. There are no windows in this room. This is delicate work and I need complete concentration. How does one bring a group of people together? How does one channel George Washington. How does one reimagine Thomas Jefferson for a world infested by unthinking, unfeeling killing machines instead of Red Coats? And a better question, why? Why give a shit? Why hope? How do you even keep hope alive when you’re staring down the barrel of a gun? A million guns? A billion? With teeth?
I think it’s great how short attention spans are. How many of these people even think about the fact that all that stands between them and a slow, munching, slurping end are a few thin walls? Once the apocalypse becomes mundane, world peace goes out the window again. So, of course, it’s up to the cursed few, who harp on the bad to figure shit out for the masses. We few pessimists who remember what it’s like to see everything crumble are the ones left holding the world – our world – in our hands.
What do I do? Is a police state the way to go? Probably, but I don’t know if we have the brute strength for that. So what’s the next best thing? Do we try democracy? That’s what this country was founded on right? Well maybe not democracy but a facsimile of a facsimile of democracy. Hell, with this few people, we could maybe make a real democracy work. But no one would ever agree. Who’s got to step up and take control? We need to find someone with the knowhow, and the elbow grease to get humanity kick started.
We need a symbol. We need a creed. We need to find something to unite behind. Right? Or do we need to just follow Machiavelli’s advice and make the unwashed masses fear us? And who are we anyway? Who do I trust enough to run this place somewhere other than into the ground? Oh fuck, no. I need a drink.
I spend the next hour trying to convince myself that this is a bad idea. I don’t want it. I don’t want the responsibility. Who else? Jacobs? No, too stupid. Wilson? No, too soft. Vlad? Not committed (ha, I should be committed for even thinking about this). What about Max Donovan? Hell, he’s basically running the place now anyway. But he’s a megalomaniacal douche bag.
I tell my brain to go to hell for the night and lay into a bottle of bourbon that was found by a scouting party recently. Perks of the job I guess. I’ll figure this out tomorrow.
Tomorrow comes much too quickly. My headache tells me that people from Kentucky are assholes. Kentucky bourbon, what a god awful disgusting and wholly beautiful drink. As I drag myself from the bed I've fashioned in this thing that they tell me is an apartment I can’t help but realize that I've puked all over my shirt at some point during the night. I also take note that my brain has in fact gone to hell and hell really hurts. Fuck it’s bright. Fuck it’s loud. Fuck.
I need coffee. I go to the market. As I’m walking through I look at these people, all wandering aimlessly. It’s pretty goddamn clear that we need some real leadership. The revelations of the night before leave me with very little hope for humanity. Who am I to assume that what everyone needs is a little bit more me? I arrive at the “café."
“Double latte, please.”
“Haha, fuck off.”
I sit at one of the three tables carefully constructed of whatever the hell was around at the time and grimace.
“What the hell was he even doing representing a fast food place? That clown had an agenda. He should be off making kids laugh and what’s he doing? Hawking cheap burgers and shitty fries.”
“You crack me up man, the whole world gets turned upside down and you’re worried about the motives of a clown. I guess he snuck away from the circus and joined the corporate world.”
“Double latte sir,” Horace says as he slaps a tin mug of black coffee in front of me.
“Haha, fuck off.”
The coffee kick-starts me a bit, but I’m still hurting. Horace is going on about something or other, I feel a bit bad I’m drowning him out, but not bad enough to listen. My brain is going a mile a minute trying to figure how to tie all these damn people together. We’re not going to survive apart. There’s danger on the doorstep and it’s not going away. I make my decisions and go to talk with a couple of the more prominent public figures.
by Steve Ormosi
I’m in a contemplative mood tonight. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty much always contemplating; I guess that’s why I got this job working at City Hall trying to help those who don’t want to be helped. My specific runaway train of thought tonight is how to keep this damn city working together now that a little bit of order is coming back into the world – our world at least.
Now that The Watch is in place and there isn’t immediate danger from the hordes coming through and chewing our balls straight off, people are cutting out the whole working together thing and starting to carve out niches for themselves. Power struggles are starting to emerge, people are getting uppity with each other and I’m the one who has to fix the bullshit. Let me explain that a little better, I’m the one who has to come up with the answer that someone else will use to fix the bullshit. Politics, eh? That’s ok, I don’t really want the notoriety anyway, ‘cuz chances are any semblance of order and peace won’t last, and when that happens, I won’t be the one who gets crucified.
So I’m sitting here in this bare room, these four walls keeping order. There are no windows in this room. This is delicate work and I need complete concentration. How does one bring a group of people together? How does one channel George Washington. How does one reimagine Thomas Jefferson for a world infested by unthinking, unfeeling killing machines instead of Red Coats? And a better question, why? Why give a shit? Why hope? How do you even keep hope alive when you’re staring down the barrel of a gun? A million guns? A billion? With teeth?
I think it’s great how short attention spans are. How many of these people even think about the fact that all that stands between them and a slow, munching, slurping end are a few thin walls? Once the apocalypse becomes mundane, world peace goes out the window again. So, of course, it’s up to the cursed few, who harp on the bad to figure shit out for the masses. We few pessimists who remember what it’s like to see everything crumble are the ones left holding the world – our world – in our hands.
What do I do? Is a police state the way to go? Probably, but I don’t know if we have the brute strength for that. So what’s the next best thing? Do we try democracy? That’s what this country was founded on right? Well maybe not democracy but a facsimile of a facsimile of democracy. Hell, with this few people, we could maybe make a real democracy work. But no one would ever agree. Who’s got to step up and take control? We need to find someone with the knowhow, and the elbow grease to get humanity kick started.
We need a symbol. We need a creed. We need to find something to unite behind. Right? Or do we need to just follow Machiavelli’s advice and make the unwashed masses fear us? And who are we anyway? Who do I trust enough to run this place somewhere other than into the ground? Oh fuck, no. I need a drink.
I spend the next hour trying to convince myself that this is a bad idea. I don’t want it. I don’t want the responsibility. Who else? Jacobs? No, too stupid. Wilson? No, too soft. Vlad? Not committed (ha, I should be committed for even thinking about this). What about Max Donovan? Hell, he’s basically running the place now anyway. But he’s a megalomaniacal douche bag.
I tell my brain to go to hell for the night and lay into a bottle of bourbon that was found by a scouting party recently. Perks of the job I guess. I’ll figure this out tomorrow.
Tomorrow comes much too quickly. My headache tells me that people from Kentucky are assholes. Kentucky bourbon, what a god awful disgusting and wholly beautiful drink. As I drag myself from the bed I've fashioned in this thing that they tell me is an apartment I can’t help but realize that I've puked all over my shirt at some point during the night. I also take note that my brain has in fact gone to hell and hell really hurts. Fuck it’s bright. Fuck it’s loud. Fuck.
I need coffee. I go to the market. As I’m walking through I look at these people, all wandering aimlessly. It’s pretty goddamn clear that we need some real leadership. The revelations of the night before leave me with very little hope for humanity. Who am I to assume that what everyone needs is a little bit more me? I arrive at the “café."
“Double latte, please.”
“Haha, fuck off.”
I sit at one of the three tables carefully constructed of whatever the hell was around at the time and grimace.
“You look like shit,” I’m told.
“Thanks Horace, you always were a charmer. If it weren’t for the zombies, I think you’d have gone national by now on personality alone.”
“Gotta have a nation to go national.”
“You ain’t lying.”
“I’m sure you and the boys in city hall are working on getting that going, eh?” Horace says to me with a straight face. With a straight goddamn face he says this.
“Well, I guess we’re gonna find out. Though I wouldn’t hold my breath for seeing a McDonald's around anytime soon, it’s just not good for you.”
“Yeah, the cholesterol will kill you. And I always thought that clown was fucking creepy.”
“You thought Ronald was creepy?” I laugh, which is nice, because I hadn’t expected any levity this morning.
“Thanks Horace, you always were a charmer. If it weren’t for the zombies, I think you’d have gone national by now on personality alone.”
“Gotta have a nation to go national.”
“You ain’t lying.”
“I’m sure you and the boys in city hall are working on getting that going, eh?” Horace says to me with a straight face. With a straight goddamn face he says this.
“Well, I guess we’re gonna find out. Though I wouldn’t hold my breath for seeing a McDonald's around anytime soon, it’s just not good for you.”
“Yeah, the cholesterol will kill you. And I always thought that clown was fucking creepy.”
“You thought Ronald was creepy?” I laugh, which is nice, because I hadn’t expected any levity this morning.
“What the hell was he even doing representing a fast food place? That clown had an agenda. He should be off making kids laugh and what’s he doing? Hawking cheap burgers and shitty fries.”
“You crack me up man, the whole world gets turned upside down and you’re worried about the motives of a clown. I guess he snuck away from the circus and joined the corporate world.”
“Double latte sir,” Horace says as he slaps a tin mug of black coffee in front of me.
“Haha, fuck off.”
The coffee kick-starts me a bit, but I’m still hurting. Horace is going on about something or other, I feel a bit bad I’m drowning him out, but not bad enough to listen. My brain is going a mile a minute trying to figure how to tie all these damn people together. We’re not going to survive apart. There’s danger on the doorstep and it’s not going away. I make my decisions and go to talk with a couple of the more prominent public figures.
Jim Jones is a doctor. The more violent the world gets, the more important healers are. He’s a charismatic guy with a penchant for getting folks to give him information he needs. Treating a patient and treating a city are similar (as far as I can tell). You need to know the problems to be able to fix them, but more importantly, you need to be able to know how to ask the right questions and look in the right places to know where the problems are.
I come-a-calling to his place at around 8:15, just after the sun’s gone down. He greets me with a glass of water and a smile, “And what can I do for you this evening?”
“Hi Jim, was just wondering if I could have a couple minutes of your time, got something I want to talk to you about.”
He sits on an armchair he’s got. I sit on a wooden rocking chair, “ Listen,” I say, “I think we’ve got to have a mayoral election. We need somebody to run this place.”
“Right, what poor schmuck’s life are you trying to ruin?”
I pause for a moment, once I say this I've got a co-conspirator. Once I do this, I've got to follow through, “Mine.”
His right eyebrow arches ever so slightly, “Mayor , huh? Well good luck, I’m not sure I’d peg you as the politician type.”
“Yeah, but politicians are assholes. We need solidifying power here, not people quibbling over bullshit and tying to further their own careers. Besides, that’s kind of what I need you for. I need someone to talk to the people, find out what they want, what they need. I need someone to be my eye in the sky, and you’re the first person I thought of.”
He smiles, “Ok, ok, I get it. You’re a good guy, I’ll help you out. Hell, anyone other than Donovan will suit me fine, he’s a self serving prick.”
“Just don’t let him hear you say that, he’ll put a hit squad out on you.”
“I’ll watch my back.”
With Jim on my side I’m feeling a lot better about myself. My coffee is wearing off and it’s about time I find somebody who has a bit of pull with the locals. I need to talk to Kelly, the local bartender. I shake off thoughts of the night before and go to talk to her.
“Hi Kel,” I say as I walk through the door.
“Hey stranger, just a minute,” Kelly says as she pours a beer for a guy down the bar.
“How’s business?”
“Booming as always,” she says as she hands me a mug.
“Listen, I’ve got a thing going, I’d like your help,” I say just before taking the first swig. The beer tastes like piss water, but at least it’s beer, “What do you think about a little law and order coming back into this place?”
“You’re gonna be the police?”
“In a manner of speaking, I guess. I’m thinking about having an election for mayor. With so much to do in the city, we need some kind of leadership.”
“And you think you’re the one to lead?”
“Believe me, if I could think of anyone that could do it well that wanted to I wouldn’t even be here right now, but everyone with any pull right now would probably just get us all killed.”
Kelly looks up and down the bar, “You think this is gonna make you popular? You’re going to have everyone up your ass in no time.”
“Yeah Kel, listen, I need to know that you have my back on this. You know everyone here and I need everyone.”
“I dunno, I’d be sticking my neck out there.”
I look at her with my most sincere face, “I need your help Kelly. We need to keep this place together or we’ll all be zombie food. Donovan will have us all at each others’ throats. We need to be strong now. We need unity.”
“Alright, good speech. Look, if you think you can do it then I’ll back ya. I’ll get the word out to my people, but don’t you half ass this thing. I want to know that your heart is in it.”
“You have my word Kel,” I say as she slaps a shot down in front of me, “Aw, jeez, you serious?”
“Seal it.”
I knock the shot back, thank Kelly and walk out, still tearing from the fumes.
I come-a-calling to his place at around 8:15, just after the sun’s gone down. He greets me with a glass of water and a smile, “And what can I do for you this evening?”
“Hi Jim, was just wondering if I could have a couple minutes of your time, got something I want to talk to you about.”
He sits on an armchair he’s got. I sit on a wooden rocking chair, “ Listen,” I say, “I think we’ve got to have a mayoral election. We need somebody to run this place.”
“Right, what poor schmuck’s life are you trying to ruin?”
I pause for a moment, once I say this I've got a co-conspirator. Once I do this, I've got to follow through, “Mine.”
His right eyebrow arches ever so slightly, “Mayor , huh? Well good luck, I’m not sure I’d peg you as the politician type.”
“Yeah, but politicians are assholes. We need solidifying power here, not people quibbling over bullshit and tying to further their own careers. Besides, that’s kind of what I need you for. I need someone to talk to the people, find out what they want, what they need. I need someone to be my eye in the sky, and you’re the first person I thought of.”
He smiles, “Ok, ok, I get it. You’re a good guy, I’ll help you out. Hell, anyone other than Donovan will suit me fine, he’s a self serving prick.”
“Just don’t let him hear you say that, he’ll put a hit squad out on you.”
“I’ll watch my back.”
With Jim on my side I’m feeling a lot better about myself. My coffee is wearing off and it’s about time I find somebody who has a bit of pull with the locals. I need to talk to Kelly, the local bartender. I shake off thoughts of the night before and go to talk to her.
“Hi Kel,” I say as I walk through the door.
“Hey stranger, just a minute,” Kelly says as she pours a beer for a guy down the bar.
“How’s business?”
“Booming as always,” she says as she hands me a mug.
“Listen, I’ve got a thing going, I’d like your help,” I say just before taking the first swig. The beer tastes like piss water, but at least it’s beer, “What do you think about a little law and order coming back into this place?”
“You’re gonna be the police?”
“In a manner of speaking, I guess. I’m thinking about having an election for mayor. With so much to do in the city, we need some kind of leadership.”
“And you think you’re the one to lead?”
“Believe me, if I could think of anyone that could do it well that wanted to I wouldn’t even be here right now, but everyone with any pull right now would probably just get us all killed.”
Kelly looks up and down the bar, “You think this is gonna make you popular? You’re going to have everyone up your ass in no time.”
“Yeah Kel, listen, I need to know that you have my back on this. You know everyone here and I need everyone.”
“I dunno, I’d be sticking my neck out there.”
I look at her with my most sincere face, “I need your help Kelly. We need to keep this place together or we’ll all be zombie food. Donovan will have us all at each others’ throats. We need to be strong now. We need unity.”
“Alright, good speech. Look, if you think you can do it then I’ll back ya. I’ll get the word out to my people, but don’t you half ass this thing. I want to know that your heart is in it.”
“You have my word Kel,” I say as she slaps a shot down in front of me, “Aw, jeez, you serious?”
“Seal it.”
I knock the shot back, thank Kelly and walk out, still tearing from the fumes.
The next day I walk into city hall and announce my intentions, Donovan is predictably unhappy.
“So what makes you think you can run this place?” he demands.
“I know the people, and I think I have an idea of what we need to do to get us back on track. Maybe even start fighting back against the hordes.”
“We’re barely surviving right now, we can’t fight back, hell we can’t even light our houses. Most of us don’t even have houses.”
“Max, we have to look to the future. This isn't a good existence, we have to give everyone hope,” I turn my attention to the rest of the council, “We need hope now, because we don’t have anything else. We have to cling to something and we have to pull ourselves together.”
Donovan stops me, “I understand all that, but why do you think that you’re the best one for the job? You've never stuck your head out for anything. I would have never pegged you as the kind of guy to make a grab for power.”
“I’m not grabbing for power, and believe me, I’m the last one I would suspect to be doing this too, but I know what needs to be done and I know important people who can bring the populace onto our side and we need that.”
“So back me,” Donovan says, “I can do all the things you’re going on about with the right backing.”
“Max,” I try to choose my words carefully, “I’m not sure if that would be the best thing for everyone. I've been asking around and I think it has to be me or we don’t get the support we need.”
“You don’t have the backbone for this. You don’t have what it takes. If you want an election, you've got it. It was the obvious next step anyway. Start campaigning boy.”
“I already have.”
Donovan looks at the council, “I’d like to make a motion for an election in three months. Agreed?”
All I’s.
“Fine, motion passed,” he looks back at me and winks, the bastard winks at me, “Election will be held in three months. For now we continue on as we have been, council decisions are the rule.”
“That will be fine,” I walk over to him and hold out my hand, “Good luck to you,” I say.
He takes my hand and leans in, “You’re in over your head. You’ll wish you’d never started this by the time that election rolls around.”
I smile at him to hide my disdain, “I only hope the people choose correctly. Whoever wins, our goal has to be the survival of our race. I have trust that we both feel the same way.”
“See you at the polls, boy.”
Poetry: On the Night Street & In the Garden of Mrs. McRae
On the Night Street
by Kathryn Ormosi
All I remember is the quickness of the thing
in the dark.
A sickening sweet smell, like three-day old lilies.
The grab upon my wrist was hard
and fast.
An unnatural strength and a sickening crack
of my bone
sent me into sheer panic.
It was only the cover of the book
that came between my flesh and the snap
of those teeth.
Thank god for the policeman.
Who shot it dead. Right through the eye,
which, for one suspended, terrifying moment,
fixed me
with a sadness and ravenous hunger
as it opened its mouth
to die.
In the Garden of Mrs. McRae
by Kathryn Ormosi
I have made a small garden, here in the city.
It’s not much, close here to my back door.
I envy the potatoes, nestled safely
underground.
At the borders,
I have planted marigolds and rue,
to deter malevolent creatures.
At dawn I creep outside
to check the progress
of tomatoes, onions, carrots.
The weeds
threaten
to overrun
my world.
Choking tender plants.
I rip the invaders from the dirt,
furious
with despair.
I am at wits’ end
to keep them at bay,
so that all will not be lost.
As he was.
My young flower, turned poison.
Nothing to be done.
No tears could stop the sickness.
Once it came.
He is over the wall now.
I keep him out
with marigolds and fear.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
LAD Website Original: Old Habits
Old Habits
by J. Ian Manczur
Martin Thompson woke to three surprises. The first was the fact that he had awoken at all, a fear that had kept him conscious way past exhaustion the day before. The second came when he looked down and found himself covered in blood. Though, to be fair, this wasn’t as much of a surprise as it was an unfortunate confirmation. He knew he was going to be covered head to toe, as the previous day had been a hectic scramble to and fro strangers who would inevitably erupt in a geyser of innards. Martin hysterically laughed, with interspersed moments of vomiting, for some time after at the almost comical atrociousness of the day before.
The final surprise came as he regained his composure. Martin had no idea where he was. The place could have been any, a generic room interspaced with little things that the previous owner had hoped would give it originality and define it as their own. But, from a quick glimpse, the only fact Martin was aware of was it wasn’t his room.
With a little effort, Martin could have learned a lot about the previous occupant, but he, at this time, preferred not knowing. Martin was often found not knowing in life, having taken the saying “ignorance is bliss” to heart. Yet, as such were the times, Martin learned that whatever bliss he had successfully derived from ignorance was soon replaced by the irrational fear of the unknown. Old habits die hard.
In lieu of obtaining knowledge, Martin gave into that fear. In his past, it had been a given that those around him, those he considered friends, would undoubtedly save him for the need of having a charming individual, such as himself, around. Whatever the problem that would arise, be it gambling IOUs, a boyfriend/husband of a conquest, the prejudice system of cops and courts, or, as he recently found out, the zombie apocalypse, he could always count on someone stepping up to see him through. He was alone now and faced a challenge unlike any he had before; he was in charge of his own destiny.
Martin chose his path. He crawled along the trash-heap of a floor towards a hockey stick leaning against the far wall. He coiled himself around it, poised to strike any interloper who dare walk through the door. At least that was the illusion he wished to give. In reality, it was to hold up what little piece of him that was not already sunken to the floor, drained by despair.
There he waited, in his dark corner of the world. There he waited, for whatever unspeakable horrors would come to claim him. There he waited, for something, whether the creak of the door or the splintering of wood. There he waited.
It was a simple occurrence that would draw his attention. A bird crashing into the window. Once again the unknown would prey upon Martin’s mind. Whatever impending doom lay across that threshold he so guardingly watched was secondary to the immediate threat of noises at the un-spied windows. Yes, the room was three stories high. Yes, the closest perch was an inhuman distance away. But, while fear of the unknown is powerful, that very fear mixed with implications, uncertainties and imagination can ruin the toughest of men. Martin was far from a tough man. In his mind raced an amalgamation of every horror movie he had ever seen. And what he faced was terrible indeed.
He was going to die. It was a fitting end, he supposed, though the particulars of the how’s and why’s fell a little short. He imagined the various ways his death would occur, starting with the more obvious result of being eaten alive or torn to shreds and then eaten to a few more obscure methods he had seen in movies on these subjects. Then it came to him, how at all was this a fitting end? Perhaps if he had created this situation or even had considered this happening, somehow he could find some justification to his death. But, this was ridiculous and with that thought the very first spark of survival kindled.
Martin feverishly rose, grabbing a desk chair and flinging it through the window. He ran to the opening, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Come and get me!” There was no response. The alleyway below was absent of anything beyond a now broken chair. He let out a sigh of relief.
Returning to the room, his fingers trailed along the desk to his side. They came first to a bobble-head of some hockey player or another. Next, was a trophy, assigned to one Andrew Howard. Martin’s mind flashed with inspiration. Racing to the closet, he opened the door and immediately found what he was seeking. In a duffle bag at the bottom of the closet sat a full set of goalie padding. It was a loose fit, but Martin solved that with extra clothing from the closet. As a final measure, he pulled the goalie mask over his face.
Armored to the teeth, wielding his father’s jagged knife and stick in hand, Martin left his safe haven to earn his death. The devil himself could have appeared before him and Martin would have made damn sure that the devil remembered his name.
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