Corpses clutch each child. Their dark, brindled meat a backdrop for soft faces. Cracked fingers press to ankles and wrists, dead sockets stare deep into bright, young eyes.Yet in those wide eyes there is no echo of youth, no shadow of innocence. The children are anguish and anger as the dead hands and dry mouths move to comfort them. When asked gently of their hurts, they respond with lies.
The pain in his neck would cease if you could just twist his head a bit farther. Sickness would fade if these lead pills could reach her heart, simply pull the lever to make it right.
One by one, dark humours of fury and sadness spill onto the corpses. Pale arms and fat ankles sink into accepting embraces, while in the rotting eyes there is only an innocence and sad confusion.
… I’ll probably post a small prose piece. It’s not something I do often since I really don’t think I’m good at prose. I’m bad at description, bad at dialogue, bad in general in that form. So when I do post prose, it’s almost always inspired by dreams.
Once in a very long while I’ll have a nightmare involving zombies. I’m not a horror buff, so there’s not a lot of external influence, but in my dreams zombies are always better than us. Smarter, more virtuous in many ways. Last night’s dream continued the theme.
Laid in bed for two hours. When I finally got to sleep I had unsettling nightmares. So, an hour and a half later, I’m up again.