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Tuesday, January 09, 2007
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 Zombie Girlfriend By Molly Lederer
In the ranks of Pinkerton High School society, Hugo Sidwell was a nobody. If he had been good at something, he might have slipped into the margins of some crowd or other. If he had math or science skills, he could've competed in tournaments and worn a standard issue, maroon polyester sports jacket with the Pinkerton coat-of-arms emblazoned on the breast pocket- oh, how he had dreamed of that sports jacket. If he played Dungeons & Dragons or video games or even chess, for God's sake, those groups would have welcomed him too. Or at least let him sit with them at lunch or during school assemblies, where everyone scrambled up the bleachers to be beside a familiar face and Hugo always ended up on the edge of the row, one chubby leg dangling dejectedly off.
Hugo had peculiar tastes that simply didn't mesh with the rest of the student body, even the fringes. His heart belonged to his pet rat Jerome, Earl Grey tea and Nancy Drew mysteries. Except this fall, he had developed an interest which he shared with MANY of his Pinkerton peers: Stacey Sinclair. Stacey Sinclair sat behind him in homeroom- Sidwell, Sinclair- and she was nothing short of perfection. Long red hair, eight million freckles, shiny green eyes the size of quarters, and glimmery white, tiny teeth that marched through his (only occasionally lustful) dreams every night.
Stacey Sinclair, in Pinkerton High School society, was a Big Deal. In the locker room, boys talked about her T and A in terms more worshipful than lascivious, while in the cafeteria girls crowded her table to watch her sip Diet Coke through a straw and re-apply Strawberry Sparkle Lip Gloss. Stacey Sinclair was on Prom Committee and Prom Court, Stacey Sinclair was Class Treasurer and Homeroom Representative, Stacey Sinclair played Varsity Field Hockey in the fall and Varsity Softball in the spring, Stacey Sinclair was everything Hugo Sidwell wanted to be and wanted to be with. And so, having no extracurricular demands on his time, Hugo made her his new hobby. Armed with a notebook and a slightly rat-chewed pencil, Hugo took to recording and analyzing Stacey Sinclair's every move. The entries from this past week read as follows:
Monday 10:03 am. Sighted in corridor, wearing pink polo shirt and ponytail. Laughing v. loudly. Can see almost every tooth.
Tuesday 8:21 pm. Licking strawberry ice cream cone on Main St. With girls who don't matter.
Wednesday 3:47 pm. Scores goal in home field hockey game against Beresford, wearing white headband and matching mouthguard. Gloating.
Thursday 8:11 am. Told by Mrs. Pepperidge to swallow that gum please or spit it out. Swallows.
Friday 12:39 pm. Cafeteria. Wears yellow tee-shirt which is v. tight. Nipples!!!
Saturday 9:27 pm. Jumps in green Jeep Wrangler driven by nasty, horrible, soccer-playing Zach Dorfman.
Saturday 11:58 pm. Jumps out of Zach Dorfman's Jeep, rapidly adjusting pink skirt and rumpled pink top, and blows kisses as he drives away with his nasty, horrible self.
Sunday 3:02 am. [yes, Hugo has fallen asleep in a bush behind the Sinclair house- not an unusual turn-of-events] Wearing white cotton nightie WHICH IS SEE-THROUGH climbs out window, shimmies down rose trestle UNDERPANTS VISIBLE, walks slowly in straight line through three backyards, across street, over stone wall, into Pinkerton County Cemetery-
Here Hugo's meticulous entries trailed off. As he stared, bewitched by her red hair and transparent nightgown in the light of the full moon,it hardly seemed strange when Stacey Sinclair fell to her knees by the grave of a certain Ermina Keller. Nor did Hugo find it odd when she began stroking the grass below the headstone, making a mournful keening noise deep in the back of her perfect throat. When she began digging frantically into the grave, well, then Hugo couldn't deny that something a little fishy was going on. But a little fishy was a small price to pay for the sight of Stacey Sinclair in her see-through nightie and white panties dotted with little red hearts, right? Right?
As a chill rose up his stocky arms and legs and curved around the back of his neck, Hugo kept repeating that thought. Right? as Stacey Sinclair suddenly appeared to be slipping into the dirt she was digging, sinking into the ground. Right? as two hands, honest-to-goodness hands of bleached bone and ragged flesh reached up from the ground and encircled Stacey Sinclair. Right? Right? Right? as Stacey Sinclair completely disappeared from view, pulled down underground until only one lonely lock of red hair lay shining on the grass.
Hugo crumpled to the ground, shaking uncontrollably as a warm stream of urine flowed down one leg of his unfashionable tweed trousers. He might never have left that spot again had not a miracle occurred right before his eyes. Ermina's grave began rumbling. Bits of grass and clumps of dirt shot up into the air until, suddenly, Stacey Sinclair herself started to rise out of the ground. Red hair tangled and matted, nightgown torn and streaked with dirt, skin paler than the moon and blue veins pulsing dramatically, but it was Stacey Sinclair. Hugo stood up and cheered like the girls did at the football games, "Goooooooooo Stacey!"
At the sound of his voice, she turned her head and looked at him. As far as Hugo knew, it was the first time she had ever looked right at him. Her quarter-sized eyes were bloodshot, the green irises swallowed up by big inky pupils. Her lips, lacking their Strawberry Sparkle Lip Gloss, were grey and parched, but she was still beautiful, still a Big Deal, still Hugo's beloved Stacey Sinclair. As she walked towards him slowly with her arms outstretched, tears of joy began to drip down Hugo's pudgy cheeks. At last, he thought, picturing a different Pinkerton High, imagining kiss-covered lunches and huggable homerooms, making out under the bleachers at school assemblies .. whatever making out entailed, gosh, to find out!, getting high fives in the locker room and begged, to reveal every secret of Stacey Sinclair but never, ever telling because she was his girlfriend.
The word "girlfriend" was the last Hugo ever thought before Stacey Sinclair's glimmery white, tiny teeth tore into his jugular. When the police found his ravaged body the next day, draped over a wrought iron bench in Pinkerton County Cemetary, one chubby leg dangling dejectedly over the side, they couldn't help noticing it wore the blissful smile of a boy in love.
Turning By Gavin Castleton
They finally pick Cotter to watch because he's known me the shortest time, and probably because he's wound so tight they don't want him around the others. He lost his sister on the way here and has since turned into a stone-faced automaton. I feel like we've been staring each other in the eye for over an hour and he isn't blinking, as if he thinks in that millisecond someone might swoop in and do the job for him. And he wants the kill. He's the only one out of us keeping track, cutting them into his forearm with his Swiss army knife. Or maybe he's imagining exactly where on my forehead the entry point should be. Who knows. Like I said, stone-faced.
I'm trying not to hate him for it. I know he's just doing what has to be done and that he's young and lost. It's just irritating. Every time I twitch he raises the rifle a tiny bit. Just a centimeter maybe, but I notice. Despite the obvious distraction of THE FLARING FUCKING PAIN IN MY FUCKING NECK that really didn't seem that bad at first but two days later it's smelling like a dog's mouth full of gym socks and I still have to apply pressure to it and tilt my head to keep it from drooling on my shirt. I'm tired in a weird way - still aware of everything happening in this small back room (and just outside the door where Heather's bawling for them to let her patch me up better) but unable to get the word out to my limbs like I used to. Can still make them do what I want, but the signal is dulled, delayed, like a bad echoey cell connection.
To be honesttt I can't really tell how much of the blurry is the turning and how much is the whiskey that they funneled into me when I was thrashing around. Heather couldn't get the skin around the bite to hold on to the dental floss she used to sew me up, and after she'd shredded the whole area she just frantically tried to stop the bleeding and she was afraid I would see the Jim Beam spurts on the bandage and realize how fucked up and deep it really was but I was somehow relieved that she was more scared than me and I tried to gurgle out calm things at her.
Word just came back from my left hand that it wants a divorce and how strange is it to watch your new purplegray skin tone creep up quietly to your knuckles. It's so interesting I almost point it out to Cotter but when he sees me looking down, he thinks my eyes are closing and the gun is up two more inches so NO NO NO he's not invited to the rigor mortis party. Worst part about this shit is that I can't even try for some compassion because everything I say is red bubbly and he might mistake "I loved her too man, you have to believe me" for "mmmmmmmmmmmmeeeeegggghhhhh" the way these fuckers say it all bovine and lethargic when they come for your FUCKING NECK. Her teeth broke on my throat - how weak is that? Where is Darwin in all of this? How is a little girl with only one arm and splintery teeth higher in the food chain than a heavily-armed 28 year old (terrified) man?
Shitfuck at least Cotter could help me hold this shit on so my right arm can rest up for a few... He didn't act so fucking Spock when it was his sister leaking all over herself - No, I recall him being quite considerate of her situation and it's pretty clear that he's holding a grudge here. If he was really so fucking objective, he'd realize that I was just the closest one and she was moving for Heather and I'm not really so aggressive usually but she was a fucking Thing then not a 14 year-old drama queen with an obvious weight problem.
I think he saw my lowering hand because he just oh-so-quietly (you fuck) clicked off the safety and I wasn't really paying attention trying to calm my stomach, God, so gray it's almost not even realistic maybe this is part of it - you go color blind at first and then you just stare to the top left of whatever you're looking at and then, "mmmmmmmmmmmmeeeeegggghhhhh."
I haffff to use my fucking wrist to hold this thing on now because my hands are completely insubordinate and goodbye legs... sure we may want to bolt from this shitty store and at least out there they'll show a flicker of love for something (even if it's my dying FUCKING FLESH), show something not like stony McRockhard bitchassbitch vengeful fuckwitface here but my legs have officially peeeeaced out for good so
the rest of us will try
come up with some lasst wordsbubbles. I wish he'd say something so could see if ears are still
involvd intrested in this weird metamorfashit. I don't even know if
I'm breething I just know
that he
got rifle it
all thewayu p now in
bothh han
The Morning After
By Jenny Lederer
Walt died at approximately 4:30 a.m. but came down to breakfast at the usual time that day. His wife shot him a quick, rabbity look from where she stood at the counter, and over-poured her cereal into a small golden mound above the rim of the bowl. His son Todd was sitting as usual at the kitchen table with his back to the door, crunching tunelessly from his own bowl. The baby was eating something beige and mealy in his highchair. The children kept eating, as unaware of their father's death as they had been from the moment they awakened.
As he stood looking over this familiar scene, a crooked finger of hunger unfurled in Walt's stomach. He reached over his son's shoulder and picked up a slice of toast from the table. His wife made a small sound like she'd been pricked by something, turned away quickly and began scooping the spilled cereal up into the box. Walt allowed himself to feel a small measure of relief at the practiced motions of pulling out a chair, sitting, bringing toast to mouth and chewing in the relentless sunny morning-ness of his own kitchen.
"Gross, man," said Todd. The toast, once chewed, was leaving his mouth at the same rate it was introduced, and collecting in a slimy mass on the tabletop. Walt looked down at the mess and began to cry. The baby goggled at him; his wife pressed the sharp knuckles of her hands up into her brow and began weeping into the palms of her hands.
"I'm so hungry," he said, but the words coagulated uselessly on a tongue that lay thick and foreign in his mouth. He tried again and again, and bits of that tongue flew out of his mouth with the force of his effort. His son rose from the table and tried to back away but got tangled in the legs of his chair and fell heavily to the floor. Walt stretched his hands out to his family, wanting them to understand so badly, and also wanting more somehow than he'd ever asked of them. He gathered them into the corner of the kitchen.
The baby was crying, and so was he.
He was crying and eating, and then just eating and eating.
6:16 PM
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