The start of a zombie story...

The tv was on from the night before and some anchor-de-jour was preaching h1n1 into the morning gloom. Ronnie pulled her old nighty over her new balloon belly, and walked down the stairs into the living room.

"Ya know, my boy ain't gonna want no pig baby," Annette said from her rocker. There was a quilt draped over her lap and underneath two spindly branches for legs tapped anxiously against the floor.

"Annette I've got to get the shot, it's for the baby," Ronnie let out with more energy than she thought she had.

"I heard that pigs don't need the shot," she said without hesitating. Ronnie knew Annette stayed in the chair all night just for Ronnie to wake up.

"That's okay. I'm leaving." She said and she turned back the upstairs to get ready.

"What da ya got en that red shirt, a basketball?" Nurse Pritchard asked as she slipped the needle into her arm.

"Feels like it," Ronnie said as she winced a slow breath.

"Ah don't worry hun. Frank came out like a lawnmower in the weeds. Damn near broke the mold with that one."

Mold. Ronnie stood up and heaved. Ronnie worked at the local supermarket/gas station. Earlier that week, she had to suck out the gelatinous mold that thrived in the cold-sweat of the coolers with a vacuum. It looked like chicken fat with gangrene. She threw up again.

"Oh bless your sweetheart, you sure got somethin in ya now!" she said as she picked up the waste basket from the corner of the room and set it in Ronnie's out-stretched hands. Nurse Pritchard put a firm hand on her upper back, just shy of where Ronnie's brown leathery hair stuck against the short of her neck. Ronnie bletched three more times.

"Sweetheart are you going to be okay? That shot ain't supposed you sick," Mrs. Pritchard said as she leaned into Ronnie's eyes. "My god what happened to your eyes! Their yellow!"

"I just hate the shots, that's all. I get all worked up seein that needle comin' at me like a sucker on a skeeter. I ain't got that much in me, ya know?"

"Oh sweetie you got a lot more in ya now than you might think." Nurse Pritchard smiled as she walked away with the needle pointed up.

Ronnie eased down into the chair, numbly holding the trash can in front of her. It took Peanut a whole week to scrape up the $31 to get her there. Twenty five for the shot. Six for the diesel. But Peanut hadn't came; he had to be at the soccer fields by six to start the mowers. They couldn't afford the shot for the whole family, not even Annette, but the doctors had urged her and Peanut to get one for the baby. She stood up reluctantly and fell. She had gotten to her feet before Nurse Pritchard came back and she made her way out the exit of the steel door.

On her way home, Ronnie caught a glance of her eyes in the rearview. They really were yellow. She stared at them, swirling in the reflection, until she ran off the road and into the ditch. When she woke up, she felt like she was floating.

For a while, things were cold. What those things were, she did not know, because she couldn't see anything. She thought may be she was blind. Her eyes had been such a strange yellow, like a cat's eye in the dark.

The needle in Melanie's vein stuck straight out of her limp arm. The long slack of the pink belt rested against her bottom jaw. Melanie knew as she slipped out of conciousness, out of sight, that it was best for her and her baby.

The Philedaplhia suburbs weren't as hard as the inner cities, but a girl still had to be careful. Melanie wasn't old, but she wasn't young either, so she caught awfully long glances from men she felt awfully bad for. Her mom told her not to pity the men, they were drug addicts and crooks, not men of God, but Melanie wasn't so sure.

Leo, the one blond among brunettes in front of DeFlora's Floral, was why she wasn't sure. Granted he was the same as the rest: he catcalled, he smoked, he even wore his pants down low...er than most, but he was very GQ, in a very G-Unit way. Most, his blue eyes, even in their reddest state, knew how to look at her to make her feel ashamed. And excited. He was the reason she went to confessional every week.

Leo knew this, of course, but never asked for a date, just playtime, which made Melanie insane and worse, in love. It wasn't a problem until Melanie became pregnant. The word got around fast and Leo dissapeared. She was four months along before he was back in front of the pale blue awnings in front of DeFloras.

"Where have you been?" Melanie let out softly.

"Working.. in my appartment. I have something to show you. Something I want to give you." He said with his eyes loosely afloat about Melanie's head.

"Really?" She asked, her bright eyes begged his to come back down. She knew this could work. She knew her mom was too hard on her high hopes. Leo left with her at once, feeling low for someone so high.

They were only walking for five minutes before the alleys grew dark, literally growing around her; fenced walls fortressed the streets, apartment buildings shot into the cloudy sky like rain fell to the ground, but it all seemed more unnatural than rain. Melanie felt her stomache for warmth, but her belly felt like cold-press, a collection of anxious energy in a murky, icy darkness. They walked until they were under a street lamp next to a man in sweatpants and a leather jacket. Leo stopped and spoke to the man, he gave him a large bill and recieved only a small package that he palmed. He put his arm around Melanie who shivered and stopped at this touch.

"What is that?" Melanie asked, looking back at the man. "What did he give you for all that money?"

"It's for the baby, to make sure it's healthy. Come on let's go." He said as he leaned into her eyes. He made a step onto the crosswalk and pulled Melanie with him.

They got to Leo's apartment. In the daylight, the lonely books on the floor held a minimalist scholarly appeal, blindly she had never paid enough attention to them, they were covered in ash and dust. Months ago, the light through the blinds had warmed her skin as she sat on an old mattress, the only furniture in the room, but now the blinds were closed and the darkness felt dank. He led her past the books and through a tunnel of a hallway and onto another bed. He pulled out a needle.

"Babe I want you to do something for me," he said looking her in the eye.

"Leo I don't want to," she said as she skirted to the middle of the bed. She knew what was next. She never asked questions about what he did because he always treated her well enough. She thought of how happy she was when she saw him at the Floral shop again, she thought he left for good.

"What is that, Leo?" She asked as she moved back closer to the edge of the bed.

"Well Babe, it's like vitamins, for your head," he said as he took her right arm at the wrist, "It will help you relax. It will help the baby relax. It's for girls pregnant young as you. I wouldn't lie," he said as he touched her belly with his other hand. She took a deep breath in, letting the balloon in her shirt inflate under his hand. He winced.

"Okay babe are you ready?" He asked as he took her belt off.

"Leo no. I'm already pregnant," she smiled as she put a palm over her crotch.

"Not that," he smiled sheepishly as he slipped her belt through the loops, gently removing her fingers off the belt buckle. He held his hands open palmed with the belt lying like a dead snake in between them. She put her arm over the belt and Leo wrapped it around her forearm like an anaconda in a knot.

"Lay down, relax," he said, and she laid down on the dirty mattress.

Things that make me stew..

Le Fache (Angry) Chef's Menu:

(Reservations for one are required)

Soup de Jour:

People who copycat and being pushed into originality

People who need to be the first

People who want to be last

Fake pregnancies

Entrees:

Bad drivers, people who don't pay attention to life minute by minute

When I drive badly

When people who don't know what's good/bad for them and why

(Blind people who still have their eyes)

Cool kids

Kids who are actually cool, but not "cool," who strive to become "cool"

Cheaters

Prostitutes

My parent's dissolution

Becoming my dad

Birthdays

Desserts:

Pornography

My mom's new place

Turkey day

Christmas

Fuck, any holidays

The smell of my old house

The chair my dad sits in, in the dark, while listening to classical music

My dad's Match.com emails

Trusting others

Grandamama

My grandma lived to be ninety three and happy. I can't say for sure that she lived to become ninety three, but she did live to be happy.

The last night that I saw her was around Thanksgiving time in 2008. It was a Thanksgiving to be thankful for: I met writers, I met editors, I met my dreams. I also met my grandma. But still, when January came, It was a hard year to feel good about the new, but I suppose all years can be like that. In February 2009 I attended her funeral.

Attendance makes me think of high school roll calls and mandatory attitudes. Maybe that's what scared me about the funeral, everyone acted like it was mandatory, with sincere smiles and apologetic eyes. Everywhere, there was nothing. Nothing that my grandma was at least. The faces in the service looked "who's next" rather than "god bless," and as the pastor spoke I wondered if he knew her at all. Achievements were listed as many. Her contributions to the community numerous. Her personality giving. Yep, they had her cut out like christmas cookies.

My younger brother, on cello, played a version of "On Eagle's Wings" during the service that almost brought me to tears. I hated the song, always have, but it was easier to get emotionally lost in the music than in my relative's memories.

When he was done playing, the service ended and my dad walked up and gave him a big hug. I had walked up behind them, figuring I would be next. My dad turned to me, mid-hug, and asked for me to help get my brother's stuff in the car. My diagphram burned as I picked up an amp way too big for me and started lugging it down the side stairs.

The reception was held in the basement of the church. When I made it downstairs, there was a food line that ran all the way down the hall. I always felt sick watching people eat at these kind of things. It reminded me of a line for hot dogs at the Metrodome.

I sat down as an unknown at a table where I assumed the other unknowns congregated. The table was covered in pastels, with little pastel almonds to match what was about to be my puke. My fellow unknowns were a floral shirt and a Dickie's outfit, a set of fish lips who should have left the mascara at home, and her (what I assumed to be) spawn who sat with a napkin held to her lip.

Fortunately though, it wasn't that awkward. The silence of our table was overshadowed by the one behind ours. I turned my head to see a couple of my uncles with their arms around my younger brother. Behind them, my older brother stood fixated on the wall. Nothing had set in before the pastor started to tap a microphone.

"I'd like to ask anyone to come up and share a few memories and stories they have about Florence." He asked with his biggest pastor smile, the kind Rabbinical school didn't teach.

My aunt Mary, who had married into the family, stood up with a flock of white printer paper in hand. Earlier I had seen her working on it like it was due by midnight. Truthfully, she had worked on it for months, since grandma passed. She had wanted to read at the service but was nixed out by my other aunt, Jean, who had only started her speech the day of the service. I saw the scattered notes on the table at breakfast that day and at the service she read her speech from a hand written copy.

My aunt Mary was long winded, but bless her, if only her, because she had a hell of a lot to say. Unfortunately, by the time she was done the crowd looked as anxiously bored as during the service. My dad's side weren't compassionate speakers, or compassionate, and since I was adopted and overshadowed, I figured maybe I should share my story. I raised my hand to volunteer next.

I wasn't picked first, but I didn't expect to be. I waited out an economics lesson and a vague character description before I was picked. I walked up to the center and looked around. God there were a lot more people than I thought. I looked around until I found a focus, a lady who I had never seen before, possibly from India, with real green eyes that shined through the pastel people. I dropped my head low.

"Hi my name is Peter Starkebaum and I'm a grandson," I paused with the umm of a dying motor boat, "I just wanted to share story about my grandma." And just then I realized where I was and I started crying, but I did not stop.

"I came down with my dad last Thanksgiving to visit my grandma. When we got there she wasn't doing so well.. but when she was there, I mean awake, I hadn't, I never," I broke off in hard coughs. Great, now I'm convulsing in front of a bunch of strangers, nice logic Pete. I felt an arm come around me and I turned my head and saw the plump bleach blond head of the pastor lean towards my ear.

"Now son," he said as my body retracted into it's smallest, "Go on, please. It's okay, God is with you. I'm with you." I was about to say something to him, something regrettable. But from somewhere, my guess is Heaven, my mom came and grabbed me by my side. My body slackened on the mom side and I found a new energy from my discomfort. The pastor retreated seeing that mom was in control now, and I went on.

"So, oh god," I couldn't talk because my voice was convulsing. It felt like my heart was in my voice box. It felt good and I went on.

"My grandma was asleep most of the time we were there. The last night we were there she wanted to go for a walk to see the christmas lights. My dad, my aunt, and I," I said as I looked for my aunt and dad in the crowd. I was looking for their faces as much as the encouragement on them, but I couldn't see them through the water in my eyes. I choked on a croak and started again.

"We took her for a walk around the neighborhood to see the Christmas lights, but there really wasn't any except for a few houses down the road. I pushed her along on the sidewalk, before we got to a final house.

"All she could say was how beautiful everything was. Everything. The whole time I was there I didn't hear one complaint for anything and I never realized how amazing of a woman she was until.. Until we got to the last house on the road. It was a friend of hers, but she couldn't remember their names. My dad knows them I guess, if anyone wants to know who it was. But we made it down there and she wouldn't, couldn't have been happier with anything else. But all it was was a set of lights, nothing great, not even special. But she thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world. I just don't get, we take so much for granted, she showed me that," I said with my head low. "Well thanks for letting me cry in front of you guys, I'm sorry I must look like a fool," I apologized. I looked up at the real green eyed lady for the first time since I started crying, what seemed like, days ago. She was looking right at me and crying too. I looked at her for a while, caught between the microphone and a connection. I looked away and saw most everyone was crying. I started crying harder and my my father came up and hugged me.

Billy Mayes

Billy sat anxiously in the Job Corp headquarters. The place looked like Phillipe Starck shat all over it: lemon colored butterfly chairs sat on top of a shag that looked like it was made from the clippings of a thousand jews hair. Maybe that's what Job Corp did with all the black sheep that crossed their paths, Billy thought. He looked up to see the sign change it's number and with a ding his name was called.
"Billy Mayes please come up to the front."
"Hey hey how's it going, okay here's what I was thinking..." Billy started out ready to pitch his way out of this unemployment office.
"Your job," the jobmaster said with a pause, "is to find the greatest song in the world."
Billy's face went slack like a broken guitar string. "Where am I supposed to even look?" He asked. "You've got to be joking."
"You have one year from today, January 31st, 2032, at 2:32 pm to complete this mission for the federation," the jobmaster said through droll lips. "There will be no more questions.
"Wait. You don't understand. I'm Billy Mayes. Sham-Wow! Oxi-clean! That's me! Now let's just talk about this song assignment."
"Sir, you have been given your assignment, you have one year from today, January 31st, 2032, at 2:32 pm, to complete your mission for the federation, now please step away from the window," and without a blink the windows closed.
In a wink Billy was back in his bathroom, where this all began. He floated above the toilet, just an inch farther than ten minutes ago. Wait, Billy thought as he realized he was floating. Thoughts of "this can't be good" moved through his brain as he tried to figure out just what was going on. The burning sensation in his nostrils had subsided, even though he had just taken a line off the vanity mirror that sat crookedly on the bathroom sink. From somewhere that was not there, or at least not in the physical sense, the air brought a song to him. It rang out O-Bla-Di, O-Bla-Da over and over again. A song, Billy thought, I must find the song.
The thought of his mission pushed his mind beyond his own addictions and for a split second he thought about where they had gone, but gave up in this new reality. Billy was still extremely confused, but settled. He didn't need to know who the federation was, it felt natural. He didn't need to dope on a fix, they had gone away. Even the holes in his nose felt more whole. "This song must be found, he thought, this song must be found."

Urban Legend

Hocus Hoaxes

So I shot six for ten at the gullible line, lost one point hoping that Bush really did read a childrens book upside down, and that bear was ridiculous. It was easy to tell the fakes apart from the real ones: they just weren't realistic. Why would a shark attack a human who's riding out from a helicopter? Makes no sense. A writer's gotta make sense. No matter how far fetched a plot is, its gotta make sense to a reader. A picture says a thousand words and if the main part of the picture doesn't make sense (a cat who's being held but holds itself like its standing) then the words are gonna say Bullshit.