Peasant Fiction

A few of us here have the delusion that we can actually write, and don’t have the good sense to leave it to the people actually capable of doing so.  Kind of like a certain President that we all know.  This page has been set up to keep these alcohol-fueled delusions of adequacy available for posterity, because the internets are forever, but they shouldn’t make it difficult to find reasons to embarrass those who play on them.

Efforts for “Z Minus 9”, published in this thread.

By BiW:

Joe Bob looked at Billy William and Bobby Robert, who each met his gaze without any emotion.

“Men,” he said with all the severity the occasion merited, “the motor is out of gas, we are in alligator infested waters, and we have 4 beers left.”

No wind stirred the mirror-like waters, which were tinged a shade of orange and pink that only the evening sky could successfully create. The sound of the evening bird calls mixed seamlessly with the low moans and shuffling sounds of the hungry zombies on shores of the lake, standing watch for days now in their futile attempt to satisfy their undying hunger for vibrant, pulsing, living human flesh.

Billy William, in no hurry to become the evening’s entree, knew that the gas held in reserve for the chain saws could power the motor if the winds rose again and began to push the pontoon barge closer to the undead mouths that threatened a horrible death followed by a never-ending torment of an all-encompassing hunger that could never be fulfilled. Fastening his best poker face on, he silently began wondering if he could dismember his friends fast enough to keep them from becoming a threat if he killed them before either of them grabbed another beer.

Bobby Robert quietly cursed his luck. God had never blessed him with an abundance of brains, but he had at least enjoyed the good fortune of friends who had always looked out for him, and saved him from his own shortcomings. His presence on this boat when the rest of the town was now wordlessly shuffling on the shore, looking to take a bite or ten out of his ample pink flesh, was all testimony necessary to establish this fact. But even the hamster wheel in his head started to turn slowly with the faint recognition that Joe Bob’s announcement meant that a “rubber meets the road” moment was fast approaching. He shut his eyes and offered a silent prayer to the God who had treated him so cruelly would at least grant him the mercy of a swift death that would grasp him in an eternal embrace and spare him the agony of the resurrection into a half-life ruled by nothing more than a taste for human flesh.

Joe Bob coolly looked in to the faces of the two men he had known from childhood, and slowly reached around to the .45 stuffed in the back of his pants, pausing only long enough to consider the absolute lack of any conscience preventing him from feeling any sorrow about his plans….


Scott Simpson stood at the end of the pier, facing the mainland and wrapped in the cloak of his own unsettling thoughts.

It had been a week since the strange, confused broadcasts. It just hadn’t seemed possible that the dead had risen again, to feast upon the living, but within a day, the broadcasts had ended, and even the radio stations now beamed nothing my silence in the surrounding ether. Two days ago, the distant lights went dark.

On the island, Scott had grown used to isolation. Fifteen years of running the bed and breakfast had made him immune from its effects, or so he thought. But lately, his feelings matched the opinions voiced by his wife, Susan, and their two summer staff members, Josh and Betty. This time of year was usually their busy time, but on the first day of the reports, most of the guests hurried on to the ferry operated by Smith’s Ferry Service and left to rejoin their families on the eastern shore. Scott thought of Captain Smith’s last radio broadcast, and an involuntary shiver shot down his back with the force of a shotgun blast.

Bennett’s Island was one of the bigger offshore islands located in Lake Michigan. At almost ten miles long, and four miles wide at its widest point, it was still largely wild, and possessed a good supply of both game and timber. Scott and his family were the only permanent residents, and maintained a small farm to grow local vegetables, and to provide eggs and dairy products to the bed and breakfast. They had laid in the winter supplies early because of an anticipated price hike in the diesel that ran the generators, and the heating oil that kept the home warm in the teeth of the wildest Michigan winters.

As alone as Scott felt looking across the waters to the sliver of land just on the end of the horizon, Scott’s thoughts centered on the coming winter, and he quietly hoped that the winter would not be so cold that the lake would turn to ice between the island and the shore, as it had done at random intervals in the decades before. He was normally a hospitable person, as the three guests who had remained and were now stranded, would agree, yet he wanted no part of the guests that such a freeze might bring to his door.


Bryce Tifton adjusted the cowboy hat, bringing the brim even lower on his forehead. He shut his left eye, his right working in concert with his arms and hands to bring the crosshairs to rest on the head of what had been the only doctor in Los Chachere, Texas, Ralph Tamblin. Effortlessly, he squeezed the trigger, and the good doctor fell to the dirt street, finally at peace. Bryce drew the rifle back, and wiped the sweat from his brow with an old handkerchief. He never liked people much. Most of his life had been a series of failed relationships and angry confrontations with the various members of society. Still, this small town had always claimed him as one of its own, no matter how much anger he flashed to them in happier times before the world went mad…and hungry.

As detached as he had always been from the goings-on, around town, he couldn’t say when the people he’d known all his life changed from normal people to shuffling corpses, animated with only one thought. He ony knew it happened fast…as fast as the change could transform a person into one of them. Even though it happened days ago, he could still remember them showing up at his place, and his high-speed trip in to town, and stop at Rodgers’ Gun Shop.

Chet Rodgers had been one of the few people Bryce had ever met who didn’t drive him insane. Maybe it was because outside of discussing firearms, Chet didn’t have much to say. Maybe it was because Bryce could look into Chet’s eyes and recognize that same thing that he harbored in his own…memories of far-off places, terrible deeds, and things that no polite company could ever truly contemplate. Regardless of that shared experience, Bryce saw something different on that day…fear.

As he screeched to a stop in front of the gun shop, he saw Chet swing the door open and yell “Fer chrisakes, hurry the hell up! I can’t hold them off forever!”
Bryce jumped out of the pickup and tore in through the open doorway. Behind him, Chet fired six rounds, then slammed the door shut and locked it.

As the daylight faded, Chet told Bryce that what had started out as a normal day had turned to chaos before lunch. He also told him that his wife, Charlene, was still alive in the Diner across the street, as a combination of luck and good timing had allowed her to lock the doors and hid before she had been noticed. The two had spoken just before the town’s phone exchange had gone dead.

That night, Charlene attempted to cross what she thought had been a quiet and abandoned Main Street. She had almost made it to the middle of the street when what had been Josh Harold shot out from behind a parked car and grabbed her, clawing and biting at her neck. Chet and Bryce both fired, and Josh’s body collapsed almost instantly as parts of his brains sprayed in two different directions. Charlene fell to her knees, crying out Chet’s name, as he broke cover and rushed out into the street. Charlene couldn’t get up. She seemed to be convulsing, so Chet bent over to pick her up, and with her safe in his arms, he turned to start back to the gun shop. Bryce watched through the rifle scope when suddenly Charlene’s head bobbed and she sank her teeth into Chet’s neck, blood squirting everywhere as Chet’s screams broke the night’s silence. Bryce slowly exhaled and Chalene’s head dissolved as Chet fell to his knees. In less than thirty seconds, Chet had stopped convulsing, and when his head raised back up and turned to Bryce’s direction, Bryce could see in his freind’s eyes that man he once knew was gone. He slammed the reinforced door shut, and locked it, while Chet’s body growled and threw itself against the door and building in a futile attempt to get to Bryce.

That was a week and a half ago.

Bryce wasn’t sure how much the ammunition would last. Chet had done a great job of laying in supplies. Food and water were in ample supply, and while the ammunition still seemed to be plentiful, so did the corpses coming to the building on Main Street. He never realized that so many people once lived in this little town, and he wasn’t prepared to see how death had found so many of them. Little Cindy Johnson, blood all around her mouth, staining her dress and shoes, her dead eyes focused on Bryce. Lydia Roberts had obviously been entertaining, her once desirable naked body with bites taken out of random places, her face frozen in a grotesque mask of shock. It had seemed a kindness to help both of their bodies join their long-departed souls.

A warm breeze carried the stench of decaying flesh up to his roof top perch as the beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. It was already hot, and it wasn’t yet mid-day. He sat forward as he realized he finally had the shot he’d wanted to take for days.

As he set the crosshairs on Chet’s body’s head, he exhaled slowly, sighing as Chet’s body crumbled to the dirt. “So long, Ol’ buddy.” he muttered, as he set the rifle down, and cracked open a warm can of beer.

From TIFW:

Meanwhile, Bubba Wayne and Darlene had locked themselves in the Circle K, so as to avoid becoming zombies themselves. After feasting on moonpies and RC Cola, they salvaged around on the shelves until they found what they were looking for.

Not knowing when or if they would make it through the rest of the long night, they wasted no time in divesting each other of their clothing and getting down to business.

Bubba Wayne filled his hands with Darlene’s ample breasts and started to feast. Darlene arched her back in avid delight and held Bubba Wayne’s mullet-shorn head tightly to her heaving bosom. Her hands moved down his body to grasp his firm flanks, well-muscled from days spent working in the fields.

A soft gasp escaped Darlene’s mouth, open in unspoken ecstasy. The gasp became a moan when Bubba Wayne used one of his hands to reach up and roughly grab a handful of Darlene’s hair, until that moment held in place with a liberal application of White Rain hairspray.

2 Responses to “Peasant Fiction”

  1. Teresa in Fort Worth, TX March 14, 2011 at 4:27 pm #

    Dude, I have NO delusions that I can write – I was just adding some “spice” to your story…. 😉

    I was trying to be funny, too – hence the “white trash” stereotypes – but it lost something in the translation –

    I don’t know how real writers do it – that was HARD!!!!!

  2. Dick March 14, 2011 at 4:41 pm #

    I don’t know how real writers do it – that was HARD!!!!!

    Neither do I.

Bitch and moan at your peril.

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