Congratulations to the winners of the 11th Tales of the Zombie War contest:

1st Place: THERE ARE WORSE THINGS THAN HELL By Patrick Turner

Runner up: HOKAHEY By Christopher Eger

Thanks again to all of our authors and readers, and a special thanks to Pete Bevan for his invaluable help editing the site for the last six months.

Hats off.

-ed.

I saw Joe Reed sitting in a booth in the back of Dugan’s Bar & Grill, sipping a beer, staring forward, minding his business. Problem was – Joe Reed was dead. Killed by a heart attack six months ago at the age of forty-eight. My age. I had attended his funeral.

After squinting back there for a time, I shrugged it off. I waved the bartender over for another beer and tried watching a ball game on the small color TV on a shelf above the bar. But every now and then, I couldn’t resist glancing over my shoulder at the Joe Reed look-a-like. (more…)

Raphael Diego sat trembling in the small dark room. A single light bulb swung gently on a long cord. The bulb itself had blown some weeks ago, but Raphael still hadn’t noticed. The small beams of sunlight that would have otherwise seeped in through the tightly drawn shades were completely suffocated by thick dark blue comforters the man had tacked to the walls above the windows. The faint stench of mildew wafted from the walls, and the carpet under Raphael’s knees was damp, as if dew had somehow found its way into the drab little room. An ugly tan spot dotted with greenish-blue mold that sat lazily on the ceiling; the remnants of an old leak (Raphael often thought the mark resembled a chili pepper). (more…)

I think I’m seven bor maybe I’m six and a half still. I know my birthday is January 6^th, 2006. But I forgot which day is today.  Mommy forgot to put a calendar in the room when she locked the door. Yesterday it was September 9^th, 2012 when she locked the door. I remember because Mommy says I have a special brain.  I have High-Flying Autism and no one remembers like I do. Not even Indigo bor Daddy bor Maple bor even Mommy. (more…)

My wife Lilly walked out on the front porch and waved to me while I was trimming the hedges. Sweat from the warm summer evening was trickling down the side of my face, matting my unkempt blond hair to my head. I wiped my forehead with the back of my arm and walked over to meet her, dropping the hedge clippers at my feet. Lilly was a rare woman indeed. Her skin was the color of milkweed fluff and her eyes were a mirror for the sunlit maple leaves surrounding the house. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a long braid down her back; a few loose strands dangled in her face. (more…)