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The rattling was irritating. A foot stepped to a door, and a hand, quite related to the foot, forced that very same door back. The body of these appendages stayed well grounded. The driver of this train didn’t notice the lad in the doorway for a few moments, but he felt a presence. And then he heard sounds shaped: “You’re fifteen minutes late.” To his astonishment a boy stood behind him in quite a temper.
“Hullo?” he said, intersecting a continuous grumble. “Can I help you?”
“You’re fifteen minutes late,” stated the boy.
The following grumbles from the driver are quite insignificant, as just seconds after the boy snapped his neck. The stranger stood for a moment at the dead man’s face. The wrinkles grew pale, the scent of the living starting to diminish. He relieved a sigh, and then opened a window beside him. It was stiff and mucky. He then placed a tattered, brown shoe across it and pushed himself out into the evening, which was passing by in blurs of light. The wind caught him for a moment, and he was thrown against the side of the bullet. But quickly he picked himself up from the physics about him and spun through the gases above.
The sky was black, but the ground was lit. He followed the train track a while, but took a turn close to his station. He realized that the vehicle would probably crash soon and decided it would be best to distract himself until he could justify an excuse of walking home having missed the train.
His boot set down upon a roof, where he sat for a while in thought. He should be at work still or at least just on his way home. He was angry his boss had sacked him. It wasn’t fair that she should take what he needs from him. She had no idea what it truly was to live nor of the reality of justice. His mutilated veins pumped slowly beneath his yellow skin, and he stood. “Alas! ****ing woe is me!” he cried, and pushed off with his foot at great speed. He landed a minute later far enough away for safety’s sake. The realm was black here under the trees on the broken path which he decided to follow home now. His thoughts were calming and regret was weaving its web. Perhaps the train driver had deserved to live. After all, it may not even have been at his fault the train’s tardiness. He knew what a price was death; where was written his right to judge of it? The boy put his nails into his cheek but paused before he ripped further. If he was to hurt himself it shouldn’t be his face anymore; he should continue to maul his stomach. His mother, the dear old woman, would not see anything amiss then. What should he tell her of his work? He had none now; no income of any sort. He would not tell her, of course.
Of a sudden he became aware that he wasn’t even walking, but hovering above the pavement. He decided to sense the weight for once, and settled gravity upon his weary shoulders.

His key clicked messily as he turned it. The house was in darkness, as usual, except for a light from the sitting room. The television blared obnoxiously and his sister sat opposite hypnotised. She shot him a quick greeting, which apparently broke her transfixion, as when she turned back she seemed quite horrified by the TV. She yawned profoundly and slowly made her way to the door, then to the stairs as if drunk. “’Night,” she said.
The boy followed her up the narrow steps a few minutes after. The moon illuminated the hallway of the upstairs landing. He traced the light until he found a door, which he unlocked and entered through. Here the moonlight gave a similar affect of silver and white within dark Chaos. He took another pause before reaching his mother’s decrepit old figure on the bed. He stroked her pale skin gently and smelt her unclean sheets. She breathed with many breaks and very lightly. Her skin was a great contrast to his. White invaded her by reflection, but there still remained a hint of peach. His hand was pale, but green and yellow veins pulsated, and bruised patches made the gnarled thing purplish in places.
He sat beside her bed and touched her sleeping hand to his face. As contact was achieved his mother tried weakly to pull her hand away. It was cold to the touch on this calm night. The boy felt tears well, so he rose and exited, entering an opposing room, shutting the door, and seating himself upon his bed. When he began to weep he flopped to the floor. His rasping cries were low. He lay for a while and then began ripping at his flesh. It came apart like butter in his strong grip and scattered about the place. His pusy excuse for blood attempted to taint the carpet but to no avail: it was already replete.
The windows attained a chill, and the trees danced mournfully. Above all this the stars and their chief the moon observed omnipotently.


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Comments

The following comments are for "Zombie Boy"
by ThwanCondu

Zombie Boy
Gruesome. I like how you start the story off with a nice shocking event, it really pulled me in I must admit. The descriptions of the characters are really good. Especially the mother, and just the mention of unclean sheets was just the ullggg...effect. I enjoyed reading this, i do hope that isn't the end though. I'm curious to know why he is who he is.
Nice write.

( Posted by: Concept [Member] On: October 25, 2004 )

Very abject
You seem almost detached in the gruesomeness of the story, It makes it easier to read about that way, Im glad. Keep it up

( Posted by: FallGlimmerSparkleandFade [Member] On: October 26, 2004 )





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