There was a war going on. And not just any war.
He stood watching intently with wise eyes and arthritic hands that were clasped over his walking stick.
It was a storm of Wit and Reason, of Doubt and Knowledge, of Truth and Faith, and dancing there around the outskirts of it all was Habit, laughing in a patronising fashion.
"Why are you watching the war?" a young boy asked.
"No laddie," said the man, peering down wearily, "why
aren't you watching the war. You can't close your eyes to the ugly things in life."
"I can!" replied the boy, and he squeezed his eyes shut to demonstrate just how clever he was.
When he opened them, the man had gone.
~
I skipped precariously out into the sunshine, wondering why there were so many lemons lined up along the front wall of my house. Is this the life of lemons? Why are they lined up as though waiting for a round of sweets? And why so many? Surely two would do? But there were at least thirteen, maybe more! I turned my back on this citrus-y invasion and continued happily down the street until I tripped on an uneven surface in the pavement, and just who is in charge of laying down this sidewalk? I looked up into the sky as if the ever expansive field of changing blues would shine down answers.
Sadly, they did not.
"Hello," came a despondent voice from my left, and I turned to see a person who looked rather green.
"Are you ill?" I asked stupidly.
"Ill?" the person repeated in a dejected way, staring down at me in a fit of gloom and I thought he should be carrying an umbrella in preparation for the storming rain-cloud that was sure to follow. I squinted as I stood up; yes, this was a male, but for some reason I couldn't be sure.
The green male watched me and I realised it was my turn to speak. Since when had I become so dumbfounded?
"Oh! You asked me a question, or rather, I asked you. Didn't I?"
The green male continued looking depressed.
"Sorry!" I said, suddenly flustered, for it became appallingly obvious that this male was entirely green, from head to foot, from hand to shoulder, and I had rudely accused him of being ill. "You're not ill, I can see that. I much apologise."
I smiled, waiting and scrutinizing this amazingly green specimen of a person. His hair was brown, his eyes were brown, his lips were pink and his teeth were off-white, but that was ok because his skin was a light green so the importance of his teeth colour paled in comparison.
"Why is your skin green?" I asked as politely as I could, considering I was pointing out a major difference in our appearance.
"Oh," he moaned and looked down at the poorly-constructed sidewalk, "I'm a zombie."
"Are you?" I said briskly, well trained for these matters, "well you're not a very happy one."
"Mmm."
He didn't look up, didn't smile, blink or frown. It occurred to me that he may be staring at my shoes, and as I wasn't wearing any and as I hadn't cleaned my feet in about two weeks, I understandably felt self-conscious about this. I studied his face closely to take my mind off this weird predicament. Up close I saw what could be described as 'potholes' in his green skin, just as if someone had taken out a scoop of flesh to make melon ice-cream. The edges of these potholes were a sort of dark grey colour and some of them seemed to be bleeding. There were six on his face in total. I glanced at the rest of his body and saw more of these sores on his arms and legs, so I said: "Bad day for rain, isn't it?" because that's what my neighbour always says whenever she sees me.
"Rain makes me sneeze," said the zombie.
"Of course," I said, and the zombie lifted up his arms as if to catch a falling raindrop, and before I could tell him that his zombie-senses must be wired incorrectly and he should probably see a surgeon, or at least a mad scientist, I noticed that he only had one hand. There was absolutely nothing under his elbow.
I scowled at him, "Now, Zombie, you're supposed to eat other people, not
yourself." Jeez, is he new at this?
He looked up at me then, his eyes sad and deep, and I wondered how long it would take for me to find him another hand. Is there a second hand zombie-parts shop? And if not, why is this? Zombies have needs, too. "This world is entirely human-orientated!" I exclaimed, stamping my foot to show how much I didn't support the non-existence of zombie essentials, and then I wondered if zombies could be counted as people? Were they not just the remains of disease and decay gone horribly wrong? Do they not have feelings?
"The balloon took it," the zombie interrupted my passionate tantrum and pointed with his only hand up into the sky where I had been looking not ten minutes ago.
"Is time still the same when you're a zombie?" I asked, intrigued, because I could use some variations to the hours I keep at present.
He ignored me and stared longingly, but also dead-like, above, and I reluctantly followed his pointed, green finger.
"Is that your arm?" I asked in awe. He nodded mournfully.
It was the most green-looking arm I had ever seen, with its fingers gripping the long ribbon of the blue balloon that was floating about lazily in the light breeze.
"Zombie," I said, "I will get it down for you."
And just as I said this, a bird collided with the balloon's ribbon and the zombie and I watched as the bird, balloon and green arm all fell to the ground in a shocking mess. I marched purposefully over to the mess, intent on righting this horrible wrong. The zombie had been without his arm for too long.
I was momentarily distracted by the squawking of the imprisoned bird, but I ignored that, bent down and gently picked up the adventurous arm. It was heavy, rough and rather solid. I had been expecting death to be light.
"It's quite attractive, this arm," I said to lighten the mood, and turned, feeling triumphant.
The zombie ignored his arm completely, and I must say, I felt that this zombie had his priorities all awry. He rushed past me and snatched up the blue balloon, shook out the bird and gave an odd cry of what could have been delight, or indigestion, I just wasn't sure.
I was put out. And I was put upon. What was I supposed to do with this arm now?
"Zombie," I said, in a serious voice that I only reserve for discussions about the weather and passing trains, "I have your arm."
He turned to me with a small smile and I suddenly felt a surge of hostility. Who was this zombie to treat his own arm this way?
"It's my favourite colour," he said in a rasping kind of way.
I frowned at him, "It's not green?"
The zombie stared at me, and I thought:
where, exactly, do you keep your brains again? Or have you eaten them, too?
I stood still, holding the meaty arm, aware that my index finger was slowly sinking into one of the potholes, and watched as the zombie came shuffling towards me slowly. He stared at the balloon the whole time. When he had come close enough to touch my shoulder, the zombie stopped.
In a move rather quick and startling, but not entirely unexpected considering his disposition, the zombie leaned in close and bit a chunk of flesh from my neck.
I screamed but couldn't move.
He straightened up and I glared at him, "You have no respect for the body."
And being a zombie, it really wasn't his fault.
"Thank you," the zombie said as I felt blood run thickly down my throat.
So this is how zombie's thank people, and here I was thinking they just exchanged stolen body parts.
He shuffled away, gazing at his balloon in twisted zombie love, and I shouted: "Next time just give me an eyeball, you fucker!" because my throat was really starting to hurt.
I looked down at the arm warily.
It might have been my imagination, but I felt like I was already starting to change, and as I entertained the endless possibilities of being a hideous, frightening zombie, I felt comforted in the knowledge that I already had a weapon to aid me in the outbreak of mass bribery.
I had a rotting arm.
...it's only imaginary games we play
