Issue 47 – Zombies!

Late night trade seems dead
The zombie apocalypse
Head out to the mall

By DJ Tyrer

Dawn of the Day of the Night
By Harris Coverley

zombie flesh eaters
pouring through the graveyard gates
(Hell full yet again)
creeping along city streets
begging for a brain bullet


By Mark Hudson

There are zombies on Lake Shore drive,
driving fast to work in their cars.
They are going to their nine to fives,
and off they go to drink in bars.
How do any of them survive?
Their bosses act like they are czars.
The zombies have appropriate wives,
they all act like they’re from Mars.
they’d like to stab their bosses with knives,
but they’d end up behind bars.
In the Gold Coast when they arrive,
they wish they could be stars.
They go out at night and drink and brawl,
just another of the zombie crawls.

The Zombie’s Are Coming!
By Celine Rose Mariotti

It’s the coming of the Zombies,
Watch out for the laundry
It’s the coming of the Undead,
From the grave,
I see a head,
From the grave,
I see a hand,
Zombies across the land,
From the grave,
I see a pair of eyes,
And then I hear the cries,
Screams from the Undead,
There’s more up ahead,
Zombies are coming!
We better start running!


The Revenant
By Scott J. Couturier

Gothic rot in a garden plot –
contorted gargoyles frown down
from walls tangled in ivy’s wraith.

Bite of spade into bitter earth,
mute shoveling of disturbed dirt:
here one is buried grace would not allot.

Robber & raconteur, murderer,
faithless to friend & foe alike,
caring not for his fellow-being a jot:

valuing solely what could be stolen
or by grosser dealings got,
derisive of Hell’s embers hot.

Finally infamy came to call
via a musket’s brain-bound ball,
I only left to mourn that lethal shot –

he interred here a fortnight’s time,
in loam thick with worms to toil,
a bribed priest’s furtive blessing

insufficient to set his essence at rest,
so fraught by rage’s woeful roil.
Instead, this fine grave-bed he detests!

Rising at twilight to wander village
byway & lane, lugging often his
pinewood coffin, draped in frippery

from far finer corpses pilfered,
moldering body bloated & ruddy,
roving revenant, malign undead.

Always at night’s fall he knocks,
hoarsely calling out to proclaim,
weeping as none did at his funeral.

Let me in, dear friend,” he moans,
for I know you are not to blame.”
I bar door & window while he groans,

Open up, in our Saviour’s name!”
Denied, he roams road & countryside,
supping on blood of all he can waylay.

I overturn a scant two feet
of fecund sod before his face appears,
rubicund & fat, lips smeared with rud,

& a smile of tenderest bliss,
having savoured of that fatal kiss
until ready to burst in corpulent flood.

Trembling, I raise high my spade.
A whimper before plunging down
to hack repeatedly with blunted blade,

shearing clean neck from crown,
fountain of gore gushing to moil
grave-soil to a viscous morass of mud.

His head – still grinning! – rolls to stare
accusingly, maggots in its glare,
alive with hungers no glut could allay.

Mouth opening, he speaks my name.
Poor creature, pathetic thing of clay,
in my image I could have made you fair.”

Then his eyes shut, & shut they stay.


By DJ Tyrer

He always scoffed at the notion
A silly, silly stereotype
Then, one day, he died
And rose from the grave
Hungry, so hungry
Craving but a single thing
Brains… Brains…
A barely-audible groan
Brains… Brains…
Now, he’s unliving the stereotype

Originally published in Siren’s Call

Very Hungry
By Cardinal Cox

Reanimated they are
Sluggish at first
Jerkily moving stiff limbs
Then the dominant
Motivation becomes hunger
They hunt in packs
Overcoming prey purely
By weight of numbers
They feast – consuming
Day and night
While their flesh corrupts
When the limbs inevitably break
They become dormant
Entering a sedentary phase
Out of necessity
Meanwhile – something inside
Transforms – pupates
We’ve seen the husks
Empty corpses split
Along the breast bone
But not seen what hatches



Knew This Day ’d Come
By DS Davidson

His friends all mocked him
Laughed at the basement bomb-shelter
The piled-high cans, boxes of food
Gallon bottles of fresh water, medicine
And the weapons, so many weapons
Shotguns, rifles, pistols, machetes, axes, knives
Body armour, a veritable armoury
His predictions of doom – pandemics
Nuclear war, alien invasions, zombies
Especially the damn zombies – an obsession
But then, of course, it happened
Spread by a contagious bite, cannibal hunger
He knew this day ’d come
Only, dammit, never expected it’d be like this
Him – one of the first ones bitten!


zombie lovers kiss
a little of each remains
love slowly decays

By DJ Tyrer

Originally published in Scifaikuest