Criticism appreciated! Short little story. Might continue, might not!
Betty Finch, 1927
Bright, vivid red splayed the kitchen walls as my trembling finger eased off the shotgun trigger. My nice, canary yellow kitchen walls. The wallpaper was on sale at Mary's Linens. I'll probably never run into another deal like that again. I'd been minding my own business, being a model wife and scrubbing dishes in the sink when I heard him behind me. That husband of mine, Earl. Sluggish in step, a low wheeze of a groan escaping his lungs. The smell, too, was thick and skunk-like.
When I turned around, all I could see was his stubbled slack jaw and too-red eyes. The tell-tale signs of reanimation. What was a girl to do? I made for the shotgun in the cupboard under the sink, which, might I add, was next to a very impressive array of cleaning supplies. A momentary sense of pride at my sanitary equipment had a smile on my lips, so when I turned around and shot my husband in the face, my expression seemed inappropriately joyous. This was no good.
So I dropped the gun, and I screamed. Boy, let me tell you, it was a scream that belonged on the big screen. Right alongside Gertrude Olmstead in The Monster, I swear. It disheartened me greatly that nobody was around to hear it. Well, besides my dear son in the basement cellar. I wished that he, if nobody else, would commend me for my performance. But, alas, the boy was shackled too tightly to the floor to come give his traumatized mother a hug. Oh! Forgive me. I suppose I neglected to mention my little boy, Timothy.
We, my husband and I, realized that little Timmy wasn't himself when it was brains on his breath rather than his after school snack. Chocolate pudding. I'd made it especially delicious. And for who? Zombie Timothy simply wouldn't have it. I was astonished! Death had made him more picky than ever.
Still, we couldn't simply bump the poor boy off. He was our son! More or less. At any rate, there I was, standing in a growing pool of sticky crimson when that skunky smell returned in another potent waft. This time I recognized it, if faintly. It was that disgusting herb! You know... Mary-Jane. And no, I'm certainly not referring to that chatty cathy down the block. I'm talking about... Marijuana.
Alright. So how was I supposed to know poor Earl wasn't a zombie at all?
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