The ‘f’ in my own ‘family’ stood for flogging. We were bred with it. It was a dietary requirement. And no, don’t be fooled by the title, there was nothing sugary about the experience. Not to us. It was only sweet for our parents, especially Mama. Mama could be too tired to cook, but let her find out that we left a chore undone, or an errand unattended. Her muscles would spring to life. Yes, for beating. She was always, it seemed, gunning for some sort of cane prize.

It wasn’t as though my younger brother, Akin, and I liked to be mischievous, sometimes we were simply unlucky—like the day I was bringing my parents’ meal from the kitchen and was about to set it down when Mama asked me to bring her an extra plate. Then some accursed, godforsaken witch of a housefly found no better moment to perch on my earlobe. Both hands occupied so I couldn’t swat it, I raised my shoulder to attend the itch—a motion, most sadly, Mama would misinterpret.

“Eh-ehn, am I the one you’re shrugging your shoulder at because I asked you to bring me a plate? Go and bring me that cane.” That was the format for guaranteed punishment: a rhetorical question, masquerading as an investigative inquiry, followed by an imperative statement. To attempt either answering the question or appealing the order only fetched a bonus pre-punishment slap, so what was the point? Discipline received (with swollen arms and a bruised knee as testament), and dinner forfeited (my favorite àmàlà and ewédú), I made sure I killed off all the insects I could find in the house that night. And the next day.

Mama’s motive for beating us, as she put it, was that the world was just too rotten and she couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow her two boys be corrupted by indiscipline. Her mantras included the Proverbial “…a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame,” and “Train up a child in the way he should go…” The day she would upgrade our caning ration, she invited us both to sit down and lamented how we—I, actually—had not been taking my studies seriously considering I had the Common Entrance exam in a few months. Then she tasted her tallest finger and leafed through her unclothed Bible before proclaiming, “Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod…” Akin and I went flat on the floor at ‘rod’. As I begged her to be lenient, and Akin pretended to pass out, she continued reading, “…if thou beatest him with the rod he shall not die.” There was no going back.

While it was the most popular, flogging was not the only method of instilling discipline. Mama could also ask us to ‘kneel down, raise up your hands and close your eyes’ as our school teachers did, with Mama’s version including, ‘and face the wall.’ I never quite understood the eye-closing and wall-facing part, but I understood that an unexpected lash would attend the buttocks if our raised hands showed any sign of drooping. Alternatively, it would be the dreaded ‘Lọ f’ìka ẹ d’ólè s’íbèyẹn!’ meaning “Go and plant your finger on that spot,’—a punishment that was akin to the posture in hopscotch when you are about to pick up the stone, but in this case, you would be forced to freeze. The actual torment was the clear instruction to never change legs or switch fingers. It wouldn’t take more than 15 minutes for a union of sweat and tears to begin the solemn procession of tumbling off the tip of our noses.

Did I mention that Mama had uncanny prediction accuracy? If she told us ‘Spoil that mousetrap and see what I’ll do to you,’ we could as well begin to weep in advance, because by either extreme caution, or a complete absence of the same, we would engineer the fulfillment of her prophecy. Was it when, while pouring her some drinking water, gravely mindful of her strict, not-too-low-but-not-to-the-brim policy, Akin’s trembling hands overfilled the china cup, wetting her wrapper? Or how, despite warnings against handling hot things without a cloth, I would attempt removing a clay pot of fresh gbègìrì soup from the fire with bare hands, ending up with a shapeless, canary-yellow sea dotted with black shards staring back at me from the sandy kitchen floor? After earning a fat knock on the head that he would nurse all week, and after I acquired her fingerprints across my cheek, Akin and I needed no telling: Mama never threatens. She assures.

Still, all too often, my brother and I seemed to discard prior warnings and revisit our old ways. One Saturday afternoon after chores, Akin and I left the house without permission. Not that we could have sought it, because neither parent was home. The whole thing was my idea; Akin hardly had the courage to break rules anymore. I, on the other hand, was bored out of my wits and needed some rowdy company. We just had to make sure we were home on time.

We visited our neighbour’s farm first and climbed and plucked and consumed all the cashews we could stomach, throwing up when we could go no further. We had spent over three hours there when Akin suggested we head home. I was about to succumb when I realized how bad an idea it was: our shirts were littered with cashew juice, one of the most stubborn stains I have encountered in this life. If Mama spotted or sniffed it, our alibi was blown. So I suggested we go play soccer with our friends. The dust would mask the cashew stains as long as we ensured that we slid and rolled abundantly on the pitch. It seemed like a brilliant plan but when we got to the pitch, and our team kept winning, it was almost impossible to leave. Akin pressured, but I kept reassuring him we would go home after the next win. It wasn’t until a teammate kicked the ball far into a thick bush, and no one volunteered to retrieve it, that everyone dispersed. Our curfew was “6pm sharp” so when my teammate glanced at his watch and casually declared that it was “past 7”, I took some relief in knowing I wouldn’t face our parents’ wrath alone. Chastisement is worse without a partner in crime. At least in this case Mama had no basis for her “Can’t you see your brother? Is this how he behaves?” statements. When I searched, sang and screamed to no end however, I realized how undone I was: Akin had gone home without me.

Stopping two doors away from home, panting like my heart would find its way out any moment, I bent down and locked two straws of spear grass together, then plucked a lash from my left eye and buried it in the hair atop my head—two of the sure-fire charms my school friends told me guaranteed their parents forgot to punish their wrongdoings. Remembering how little of an amnesiac my own mother was, doubled my pace. And my blood pressure.

I approached our front entrance, hesitant. The door was ajar. I peeped in between the door and its frame through the gap occasioned by the hinge. I squinted, widened, cupped the edges of my vision, but the lantern’s flickering light was inadequate to make out anything. Two taps on my back and I instinctively went flat on the ground, confessing, “Mama, the hosts of heaven are my witness, I went in search of Akin not knowing he came home by another route. He went out, plucking cashew all afternoon. In fact, his friends also told me that while they were playing ball…” I paused. Something was not right. Mama would have cut me off mid-sentence, even for the most valid of excuses. As I contemplated looking up at her face, and considered whether I could afford the extra penalty that would attract, I heard a sound. A cackle. Then sniggering.

It was Akin.

I sprang up, bent on vengeance—both for his ditching me and now for disrespecting me. Pleading filled the air, as we swapped positions. He gobbled my forgiveness before I was done cooking it up. Then he gave updates: As expected, our parents had been asking of me, but he covered for me, telling them I left my shoes back where we went to play ball. I thanked him, although I wondered how such explanation could fly. How would I trek over four kilometers and not realize I was barefoot? He said Mama was busy in their room and I only needed to make it to our own room unnoticed and start snoring. Tomorrow morning, we would outwit her in the time-of-arrival debate since she was not there when I came in; he was. My tense shoulders caved in as I smothered Akin in an embrace reserved for brothers.

So, tip I toed, hoping to make it safely to our room. In the low light of the lantern dimmed by its smoky shade, I saw two long, thick sticks—bigger than I’d ever witnessed—behind the kitchen door. To think, retribution had been chilling by the corner all this time, awaiting my arrival.

I was almost out of the passage when: “Olúwamúmiboríogun.”

Now, that was disturbing on two levels: One, my full name was only mentioned when I had committed a serious offence. Two, that was Papa’s voice. While Mama beat us as frequently and as soundly as she could, Papa hardly did. But whenever he had to, it was a guaranteed grand style thrashing. And knowing Papa, this was about more than flouting curfew.

“Y-ye-yes Papa.”

“Welcome,” he greeted, punctuated by the sound of the main door latching behind me. In slow motion. Paka…paka…paka. Triple-bolted. Fate sealed. No neighbours could intervene. “Come,” he said, grinning. He was just a couple feet away but reaching him seemed like a holy pilgrimage on foot.

“Father, I’m not worthy to be called thy son,” quoting the prodigal son from our Sunday School memory verse, as I prostrated right where I was. If disownment was the alternative to death via thrashing, my choice was clear.

“What nonsense! You’re indeed my son. And will always be.” Disinheritance bid unsuccessful. Then he motioned at something. Now, unlike Mama, Papa always went to the imperative statement; he had no time for rhetorical questions. He would only summarize the purpose of the thrashing after it was over, like, “Next time you won’t go and break somebody’s louvre blades with a ball.” So, I stood in front of him and awaited the imperative statement.

“Go and bring those canes.” He added for effect, and apparently to heighten my torment, “They are ALL yours.”

My eyes followed his outstretched hand from origin, across my head and to, my goodness, the back of the kitchen door. Yes, where stood the two skyscraper sticks that would draw the curtain on my sojourn in this world of sin and flagellation and death. This was the end; it couldn’t be any clearer. From far off in the galaxies, I could hear Papa’s favorite song from his phonograph playing in my head, my thumping heart replacing the bass drum as Jim Reeves sang, Take my hand…precious Lord, lead me home.

But Papa would interrupt the flow and abort my levitation, bringing me back to the parlour where I was now inching my way towards the kitchen, bum and boxers united by sweat. He smiled.

“Your headmaster said you passed your Common Entrance exam so I stopped to buy you some sugar cane. You like them, don’t you?”

The stranger knocked upon the door,

A creaking, wooden throb,

And someone on the other side

Unlatched and turned the knob.

Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"

And, "May I use your phone?"

The person on the other side

Appeared to be alone.

An observation taken in,

No pictures on the wall.

He pointed somewhere down the way-

"Go on and make a call."

The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled

As wires were cut instead.

The gentleman began to sense

A subtle hint of dread.

A conversation thus ensued-

"So what has brought you out?

The rain has flooded everything,

And wiped away the drought.

Say, did you walk, or did you drive?

Why don't I take your coat?"

The stranger slowly moved his arms,

A sentimental gloat.

The water from the pouring skies

Enveloped cloth and shoe.

"Say, would you like a place to sleep?

I'll leave it up to you."

The person on the other side

Discarded his mistrust.

The stranger said his tire was flat,

And shed the muddy crust.

"The phone won't work," he also said.

"It could just be the storm.

Perhaps I will stay here tonight,

To keep me safe and warm."

The patron of the house agreed.

He hadn't seen the wire.

The chilly dampness prompted him

To quickly build a fire.

"You have a name? They call me Ed.

My wife was Verna Dean.

She passed away five years ago

And left me here as seen.

I guess it's really not so bad.

We never had a child.

I loved that Verna awful much,"

He said and sadly smiled.

"No property to divvy up.

The bank will get it all.

Say, do you want to try again

To go and make that call?"

The stranger grinned and left the flame

As to the phone he strode.

Within his pocket, knives and twine

In hiding seemed to goad.

A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;

Eviscerate him whole.

The twine would keep him firmly held;

The knife would steal his soul.

A lusty surge erupted hence;

A wicked bit of sin.

The stranger hadn't noticed yet

That someone else came in.

About the time a shadow fell,

He spun to meet a pan.

The room around him faded out

As eyes looked on a man.

A day or two it seemed had passed,

And when he woke all tied,

The stranger gazed upon old Ed

Who simply said, "You lied."

Reversing thoughts, the moment fled

And Ed said in a lean,

"No worries, stranger. None at all.

Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"

He looked upon a wraith in rage;

It seemed his little lie

Combusted in a burning fit-

He didn't want to die.

So many victims in his life,

Some fifty bodies strewn.

And now he was the victim; now

The pain to him was known.

The stranger fought against the twine,

And noticed by his bed

The knife once in his pocket left

A trail of something red.

A bowl filled full of organs sat

As Verna poured some salt.

She exited with all of them.

"You know, this is your fault.

We demons wait for just the day

The guilty take the bait

And play with matches one last time-

I simply cannot wait

To taste the death within your flesh;

The venom in your gut.

So now you know the way they felt-

Hey, you've got quite a cut!"

The person on the other side

Removed his human skin-

Before his wife came back for more,

He offered with a grin:

"Say, stranger, is there anything

You'd like to say at all?"

I looked at all the blood and said,

"I'd like to make that call ... "

(A Living Parable)

Once, in a lonely field of beautiful flowers, there stood a single Mighty Oak.

He was strong.

He was tall.

He was majestic.

The only time he spoke was when the wind blew through his branches and the words became a beautiful song.

The birds would sit upon him, singing along.

With his branches reaching for the sky, he spoke to the Creator of his loneliness and he waited patiently for an answer.

One day, the local farmer planted a Cherry Tree near the Mighty Oak.

She was young.

She was fragile.

She was insecure.

She would twitter away with the birds at the slightest breeze and they responded back in song while eating of her fruit.

The Mighty Oak fell in love with the Cherry Tree, knowing she was a gift from his Creator.

He would speak words of encouragement to the Cherry Tree to help her grow.

He would listen patiently to her knowing she was in the process of maturing.

He quietly showed her how to dig her roots deep into the ground and reach to the Sky in songs of joy.

The Cherry Tree found great comfort in the shadow of the Mighty Oak.

She loved him in return, and learned more of the Creator through him.

For many seasons they grew together in that beautiful field of flowers.

They sang with one another.

They talked about the deep mysteries of life with one another.

Their roots became entwined within one another.

One dark day, a mighty storm came.

The rains poured hard and loosened the ground.

As the winds tore through her branches, the Cherry Tree felt she would be blown away.

But as the storm raged against her, she remained anchored to the earth through the roots of the Mighty Oak.

She realized that after so many years together, they had become like a single tree underneath the ground.

Suddenly, the sky cracked and a light flashed.

The Cherry Tree looked up and saw that her Mighty Oak had been struck by lightning, catching on fire.

So she cried out for someone to save the Mighty Oak.

A downpour arose and put out the fire.

The Cherry Tree let out a sigh of relief, thankf ul for the rain.

As the days went by, the Mighty Oak became more and more silent.

His trunk was scarred from the lightning strike and his leaves began falling to the ground.

The breeze would blow through his branches but he no longer sang.

He just bowed in reverence.

So the Cherry Tree sang to him, and the birds came to rest on his branches.

They sang along with the Cherry Tree and it made the Mighty Oak smile inside.

He tried to speak to the Cherry Tree the best he could, though her sadness made it hard for her to listen.

One clear day, the Mighty Oak whispered to the Cherry Tree telling her to trust the Creator in all things.

He told her she had become a strong and courageous tree through the storm.

The Cherry Tree thanked the Mighty Oak for helping her grow, that she would never forget his love for her and teaching her to understand the Creator better.

Then, the Mighty Oak became silent and the birds flew from his branches as he fell to the ground, forever falling asleep.

The Cherry Tree wept quietly, going deeply inward.

Though sadness filled her heart, she still felt the roots of the Mighty Oak intertwined with hers and knew he would forever be a part of her.

There, in that same lonely field of beautiful flowers, the Cherry Tree stood alone for what felt like forever.

She was taller.

She was stronger.

She was quieter.

She whispered when the wind blew through her branches and her words became a soft song of remembrance.

The birds would sit upon her branches and sing along.

She silently cried out in lonliness to the Creator, and she waited patiently for an answer.

One quiet and sunny day, she saw the local farmer come up the side of the hill.

A song of thankfulness started to rise within her, even though she was uncertain of what the future might hold.

She knew that, whatever the farmer planted, their roots would grow together and she would pass on the message of love embedded within her by the Mighty Oak.

To put it simply, I was lost.

Pretty hopelessly, I might add.

I don't take orders well. Or heed warnings.

So when I heard of these woods, whose leaves were said to come alive at night, I couldn't resist. What can I say? My curiosity knows no bounds.

Of course, I didn't stick around to hear him finish saying every soul to go exploring here never came back. So here I was, probably not coming back.

Honestly, I had to stop doing this.

If there ever was a trail, there wasn't one now. How odd, I thought. I couldn't remember coming in. I couldn't even remember the treeline.

It was when that realization struck me that the trees began rustling with a certain restlessness, bushes started shaking excitedly, and vines seemed to move of their own accord.

Everything seemed...enlivened, in the worst way.

My surroundings darkened, and I looked up to find limbs closing over me, blocking out the sky.

That's when I realized the enormity of my mistake.

When the first leaf separated from the rest, I panicked.

I wasn't getting out of this one.

Alive, at least.

***

I woke up shaking.

Er, being shaken, rather.

"Damn it, Shay! What the fuck were you thinking?" I blinked open my eyes to find above me a blurry, familiar face, etched with concern.

"A...Aidan? Where am I? What are you doing here?"

Before he could answer, I passed out.

***

My memories came flooding back, and I bolted upright.

The swarm...

"NO! Aidan, hurry! We have to run!"

He held me down. "What? Shay, run from what? We're inside. You're safe."

I stopped, and stared around me in disbelief.

Sure enough, I was at the inn. The crackling of a fire blazing in the hearth, the comfort of my room. I was in bed, a chair pulled up next to me. I shook my head. This wasn't right. None of this was right.

"You fell down the stairs, remember? I found you, early in the morning while everyone was asleep. Scared the daylights out of me. What were you doing, anyway?"

I blinked.

I fell? It...it was all a dream?

"Aidan, I was..." I started, then stopped.

The longer I thought about it, the less I remembered.

"It must have been quite a knock for you to wake up like that. Are you sure you're alright?"

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, paused, and looked at him. "I'm...okay. Um, are you sure you didn't find me...anywhere strange? In the forest, by chance?"

He gave me an odd look, then stood to leave. "Shay, your mind sure does throw me for a loop sometimes. Besides, you know not to go exploring. I told you, those woods are dangerous."

Right before he closed the door, he winked. "Especially for a pretty girl like you."

I blushed, glad he couldn't see, then winced at the sudden throb at the back of my head.

Glancing out the window towards the trees, I decided it was a dream.

A really, really vivid dream.

***

That night, he stood at the heart of it all, at the end of the disappearing trail.

Where he'd found Shay splayed across the stump in front of him - an altar of sorts - right in the nick of time.

"She's mine."

Vines slithered about his feet.

There are not many who venture here.

"I don't care. You can't have her."

Limbs swung menacingly above his head.

You do not control us.

"Ah, but I know the one who does. Did you forget, so soon?"

The harsh whispering of shrubs quieted.

Who will feed us?

"I will. Do it now, before I lose patience."

As the host of tiny, winged fae detached from their plants and bit into every visible inch of his skin, he gritted his teeth. And waited the required time. He had to pay the price for her life, after all.

When it was done, he spoke.

"The tithe is paid. Leave me."

As their fangs left his flesh and they flew back to their places, a collective chuckle sounded.

You are a fool.

"Once every three moons, I will send a traveler here from the inn. In return, you will disclose what you know to no one. Is that clear?"

What you seek is forbidden.

"Or do you wish me to tell your master that you're close to growing beyond his control? Surely, you know what will happen then."

Silence greeted him.

"I will ask again. Is that clear?"

Yessssssssssssssssss.

As he left the wood, he sighed.

Damn her. She'd caused a lot of trouble for him.

Oh well, he thought, and smiled.

Such was the nature of falling in love with a human.

I am making a list

By no means exhaustive

Of what you took from me

Not being scared

I miss it the most

If you could find a way

To return that

Please

Feeling that the world

Was a safe place

Where people could be happy

I would like that back

As well

Accepting the touch

Of someone who loved me

Instead of pulling away

In breathless panic

That one was precious

I keep finding more things

Missing

You took everything

Perhaps

And if you don't plan

To return it

Could I just ask you

Please

Was it worth it?

There is a leaving do, for, umm, whats-her-name, in Publishing. It's a drizzly Wednesday and Francesca likes the outfit she's wearing. She's also thirsty.

She pouts in the mirror of the ladies toilet a few minutes before everyone plans to leave, and dry-shampoos her hair for one last time. The powder remains floating around in the room as she leaves, eventually settling on the windowsill and the toilet seat, and some on the sink. There's also a smattering of it on the floor. 

How does one drink with one's colleagues? Francesca hasn't been there that long, and she's super parched.

The trick is to get on to two rounds, Francesca goes to the bar with one person, and they order, she then drinks that first elixir within ten minutes - tops. It’s a thirst, and it’s unquenchable. There’s nothing worse than trying to chat to colleagues when all you can think about is how soon you're going to have the next drink in your hands. Am I right? Well, Francesca thinks so... She gets fidgety and she can’t look them in the eye, her attention darts to other people’s drinks; how are they drinking so slowly? Her colleague has barely sipped her way through a finger of her G&T, whilst Fran's Bloody Mary is finished, done. It’s warm glow is coursing through her limbs, and she's in need of another instalment. She eyes the bar. So close. But to go alone attracts attention, raised eyebrows... 

Yes! Francesca gives too many fucks people! But she drank earnestly with two male colleagues a month or so back, and they keep reminding her, and the rest of the office, about her uncanny ability to surge through double the booze they did. She wonders, do they remind Craig, from Sales, about that time he got a handjob under the table at the office Christmas party (from Alan, also in Sales)? Or Lara, in HR about the email she accidentally sent as a 'Reply to all', with a picture of someone's tattooed butt-hole. Not hers though! She swears! Apparently Francesca's ability to neck a few pints after a long, hard Monday is more important to share out loud; in the cafeteria, in the lift, in meetings (internal and external).

She is pigeon-holed in a conversation right now - she's nodding - she thinks it's about the database, but she's not so sure... She can’t just stop everything mid-sentence and leave for a lonely bar trip? Can she? 

A late-comer turns up: ‘drinks anyone?’ They scan the drinks and their eyes come to rest on Francesca's glass, hosting a straw, celery stick and some melting ice, tarnished with the gritty red remnants of a thirsty, thirsty girl. 

"Same again, Fran?" 

"Oh!" She looks at her glass, surprised, "go on then!"

Meanwhile, her initial bar partner is further down the table, only three fingers in. When they glance over fifteen minutes later Francesca has just polished off what is in fact her second Bloody Mary, disguised as her first. And now it’s her round and they move on to G&T’s.

There are only so many pieces of us

You have most of mine

Every day I love you more

And you cherish the pieces of my heart

While tossing your own to swine

I fear that soon

I'll run out of heart

And there will be nothing

For you to come home to

My love hasn't been

Enough

I thought it could save you

When you rushed into danger

And came back bleeding

I patched you

And then I bled

Rending open my chest

To give you more pieces of me

I weep not only because you hurt

But because I have not hurt enough

My road has been smooth

And yours a nightmare

Saturated in blood

The imbalance is offensive

I need to take your pain

But you will not give it to me

So I fall screaming onto love's sword

Tearing myself

Like a zealous self-flagellating penitent

I mortify my flesh

With a violent garment of love

Instead of sackcloth or horsehair

Torturing and scarring away the guilt

Of not having suffered as you do

When I have given you my last piece

When I have shed every drop of blood

Leaving only a cracked shell

Will I have loved you

Enough

Or will you still be blind

To your brilliant value

Will you still doubt

Your priceless worth

Despite your scars and broken edges

Will you still let beasts

Take you apart

Ignorant of the divine light in you

Until it is finally

Snuffed

And there is nothing left

Of either of us?

It's been a week since I've seen another -living- soul. I've seen plenty of zombies. Infected mothers...toddlers...crawling on the ground as if they were hungry bugs. I've seen zombified men scavenging a deer carcass and fighting each other over it. I wonder...are zombies cannibalistic? Will they eat each other if pushed? The way my mind works sometimes, i swear. But hey...that means they won't come after me, right? I bet you are wondering how i managed to survive for almost a year? Well i'll tell you. First...I live underground. That's right. Under. ground. I dug it and fortified it myself and i have pure running water. It's cold, but it won't infect me with the zombie plague or any other disease. When there were others, we scavenged a bank vault door out of the nearby town and at night we....I..camouflage the entrance to look like the hill it leads into and i also splash ammonia around to clear any trace of my scent every night. I sleep with my hunting rifle in the back of the bunker, and i have booby traps all around the area. The only time i am truly afraid of being found? Blood moons. It does something crazy to 'em. Thank whoever is listening that there's only two or so each year. I can always tell when one is coming because of the howls. Zombies howl. The blood moon is the only time they howl and it's a sound that freezes the blood in my veins, every time. Any time i hear them howling, i take out my ammonia, splash it behind me as i jog, get to the bunker, clear the area of my scent and stay in there. I don't move. I barely breathe and I sure as hell don't sleep.

Rationing is the name of the game, people. People? Why do I even bother....anyway. I've got six jugs of purified water left, two racks of smoked cow before they were all systematically hunted down by the zombies because cows are living, and slow. Meat is a luxury though because it seems to attract them. I've shot more zombies defending a fresh deer kill or when i am out about...ohhh...half a mile away cooking the meat than i have any time else. They don't seem to mind the fruit trees I've managed to tend and grow, around the area so they must need living meat to survive or not go into stasis, right? I've crafted enough ammunition for my hunting rifle to last the winter, and soon I'll begin canning the fruit that i can collect during the day. I don't go out at night, for safety reasons obviously.

There used to be others living with me, but personalities flared and they left the safety of the bunker. I haven't seen or heard from them since. I regret them leaving because it gets lonely, and nerve wracking to possibly be the only person alive. I used to see people in their vehicles going past slowly during the day and I'd warn them that going into the town was suicide, but no one ever listened. I don't know if anyone ever passed by at night...if they did they have a death wish.

Hopefully some day soon the zombie plague around the area will be dealt with. I don't know if it's world-wide yet. I don't even know if it's just this area. If anyone living ever finds this diary....please take it with you to remember me. And if i'm a zombie? Headshot.

Matilda Boucheron—although she preferred the moniker Tilly to the full tilt version of her name—lowered her shapely bottom onto the edge of one of two crypts resting side-by-side in the private cemetery. She slipped off one of her black stilettos and held it by the long, slender heel. There were diamond studs in a line from the top down to the hard tip, flashing in the sunlight. Tipping the heel over, she casually let an annoying pebble fall to the ground. After wiping her black, silk stockinged foot with her hand, she slid the dangerously pointed-toed, designer pump back on her foot.

“I love this place,” she said in her Louisiana syrupy drawl. She drew herself up from the cold marble. “It's so restful.” She giggled. “I'm sorry, darlin', I shouldn't be so disrespectful to the dead.” The word dead was drawn out into almost three syllables.

She was completely alone in the cemetery, although she never behaved as if she were alone anywhere, always acknowledging the presence of someone watching her, and listening to her every word. In this case, it was the dead who were watching and listening, and in her way of thinking, they were enraptured with her every word.

“I keep seein' that damned snake, though,” she continued. “I kin smell it, too. I'll be walkin' to the kitchen, or in the garden, or doin' my ablutions, and there's that smell … a stinkin' whiff o' evil ... The ol' devil serpent.” She sighed in a dismissive way, waving her hand under her sculpted nose. “I miss y'all,” she said, while spreading a big smile across her face. She shook her head. “Really, I do. I promise.” She crossed her chest with two fingers and held them up.

Falling to her knees on the grass, her cool gray eyes were not fixed on anything. They just meandered around the face of the crypts. She ran her hands over the cold, smooth stone, as if she were trying to comfort the occupant within. Then, she laid a white rose on the stone cross, rose from her knees, then strolled around the crypt toward the other. Gently, she laid a rose on the second crypt. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw movement under a palm.

“There it is,” she said pointing. “I am sorry that spirit won't leave y'all in peace, but I don't think that varmint likes you. Someone must have put a gris gris on y'all.” She giggled. “Imagine that ... a gris gris. Hale, you never believed in such things.”

Standing between the two crypts, she kissed her manicured fingers, then laid them on each one. The rusty face of the sun shown through the cypress trees, casting its light onto the prehistoric palms and the crypts beneath them. The diamond on her finger flashed, and she admired it, raising it up to the light to let it sparkle.

“Oh, y'all wonderin' about this,” she said, holding up her hand to show off her ring. “It's just a dreegailles, a trinket. Just a little ol' thing that I needed to help ease the pain of losing my husband and my sister at the same time.” She raised her black veil. “It goes with this.” She ran the back of her fingers under the diamond necklace coiled around her slender neck. “And these.” She flicked an earring. “I do regret killin' the snake. One of God's creatures. But it had to be killed, even though it was only doin' what snakes do, and that was defendin' itself by bitin' y'all. Why y'all wouldn't have noticed a hurricane. Probably, cuz you were so distracted. I mean, y'all were havin' sex in my bed. That would have been enough to distract me, too.” She leaned forward, as if she were about to impart a secret. “He was very good at it, wasn't he Kallie?” She turned to walk away, but paused, and faced both crypts. “C'est sa couillion, Hale,” she said. “Oh, I forgot.” She placed her fingers over her mouth. “Y'all never did understand Cajun, did ya? You were a fool to be with Kallie, ya cheatin' bastard,” she said with deadly earnestness. “Y'all should never have slept with my sister. And Kallie,” she directed her eyes to the other crypt, “ya lyin' bitch. Seducin' my husband in my bed is a treachery that just can't be forgiven. Y'all just had to die.”

The sun disappeared behind a large fluffy cloud, easing the heat of the day. Tilly couldn't coax the image of the two of them in her bed from her head, their moaning in delight, and naked bodies locked in a climatic sexual embrace. Glancing down at her ring, she stretched a wide grin across her face, then turned to wave her fingers at the two crypts.

“The money does help ease the pain, though. See y'all in hell.” She turned and strolled toward the gate, leaving the crypts behind.

The End

"You're going to be a great mom," he whispered, pressing his palms to her swollen belly.

She could see his pupils dilate as he touched her, felt the thrum of life within. The physiology of love. That's how you can tell he's in love with you, her friends used to tell her, years ago when falling in love seemed like the most important thing in the world. His pupils get big. You can't fake that.

"You really think so?" she sighed, wincing as she felt a momentary cramp. Did her pupils ever get big like that? Did her body know how to love?

"Of course!" he exclaimed, kissing her just above her navel. "You're built for this."

Built?

"How do you mean?"

He raised his head, and again she saw his eyes, large and darkened. He was built to love her.

"I've been reading," he said, shining with that same hungry delight that always illuminated him when he'd tumbled down some scientific rabbit hole and returned grossly overfed with delicious knowledge. "When a woman gets pregnant, she's flooded with all these intense hormones. They're already preparing you. And think of how you're connected to the baby right now. Your tissues are knitted together, communicating, already building a relationship. It'll change our brains, being parents--did you know that? Babies make all these sounds and scents that our brains pick up and respond to. We're wired for this, and if we're not already prepared, we adapt neurologically. As soon as we have that little baby in our arms, we'll know exactly how to love it and to care for it, just as people have always done, going back to the beginning of time. Our bodies know. Isn't that beautiful?"

"Yeah," she agreed, smiling softly. But it wasn't beautiful. It made her feel enslaved. Was neurological adaptation a reason to be a mother? Were hormones a reason to crave offspring?

She hadn't told him about the panic attack she'd had in the car the other day, after her doctor's appointment. She'd been listening to other mothers in the waiting room chirping away about how motherhood made them feel so beautiful, made them truly understand what love meant. They chuckled over the times they'd been so unsure, the times they'd wondered if they even wanted children at all, but of course, when it's your own child, you inevitably fall in love with it, and blessings abound. That was what They always said.

What if those were lies women told to keep up the appearance of being good mothers? Surely there were some, at least, who regretted everything. Surely there were some who didn't feel drowned in love and blessings... only drowned. It just wasn't socially acceptable to talk about these things, and maybe it never would be. A mother was supposed to be a bastion of endless unconditional love and self-sacrifice. A mother admitting to anyone that she didn't feel that way at all would be a sociopath. At best, she'd be considered sick in the head... at worst, a monster. Most people who were sick in the head were considered monsters by the general public anyway, so it all came down to the same.

You're built for this.

Already she felt on the verge of another panic attack. The full weight of the social and biological pressure was pressing down on every inch of her.

"Are you okay?" he asked, still gazing at her, his wife, the incubator of his offspring, his own personal fertility goddess.

She pushed her mouth into another smile. "Sure. It's just... you know... stupid pregnancy hormones. The doctor said it was normal to feel weepy at random times. And I'm having a wicked craving. I think I need cookie butter, pronto."

"Of course!" he gushed, already getting to his feet. "You polished off the last jar yesterday, didn't you? I'll zip down to Trader Joe's."

"You're a saint," she sighed. And he was a saint. How could she ever compare? He was acing this dad thing already.

Once she'd heard his car leave the driveway, she succumbed to the bout of ugly, heaving sobs that had been digging at her, her face streaming with tears and snot. Were her inner tissues already communicating with the little sea slug inside her that was going to be her baby? Did it already know it existed because she had a short period of "baby fever" after being around her pregnant sister too much? Did it know about hormones, and how they'd made her think she wanted something she had never desired before? Did it know she had been the only girl of all her friends who never understood playing with dolls? Did it know she felt tricked, and trapped?

You're built for this.

Maybe they were built for all of it. She probably didn't even realize the reasons she'd chosen her husband. She'd thought it was everything to do with his personality, his interests, his disposition, and how he treated her. It could have simply been to do with the symmetry of his face or with his pheromones. Were they any different from dogs, pigeons, sea turtles, tapeworms? Everything simply followed biology, as it had been designed to. Someone, or something, was pulling all the strings. Did anything or anyone ever really make a choice?

She wasn't allowed to have regrets now. The baby was coming, as surely as the sun rose and set and the tides drifted in and out. It didn't feel beautiful. Not yet, at least. But if it never did, she would have to keep this secret deep inside herself, incubate it like the dark counterpart of the fetus burgeoning in her womb, and hope that it would never be born.