Posts tagged ‘voodoo’
THE RELUCTANT ZOMBIE: A SHORT STORY
The Reluctant Zombie is a humorous short story involving a college professor visiting Haiti where he succeeds in getting himself turned into a zombie.
It has been previously published by Blood, Blade & Thruster in their Winter 2006/2007 issue.
THE RELUCTANT ZOMBIE
As Norman stumbled through the dank Haitian swamp, he groaned, “Willard, it seems so unnatural walking around with my arms outstretched, but I can’t put them down. I have an image to uphold.”
Willard, who was also stumbling along shook his head and sighed, “Of course its unnatural, you’re a zombie, damn it – your image is history.”
Norman complained, “I didn’t ask to be a zombie.” With some difficulty he swiveled his neck and surveyed the Haitian countryside.
Norman took in the landscape surrounding him. He walked through a village. It was nothing more than a few huts of mud and straw along a dusty road. Chickens pecked in the brush along the roadside. Chickens! For some reason their presence made him uncomfortable. “I really don’t want to be a zombie,” Norman muttered. He was a forty-year-old college professor, a dark-haired trim man always dressed well. Now he was walking around covered in grim and dressed in rags.
Willard said, “If you didn’t want to be a zombie, you shouldn’t have runover the old voodoo woman’s chickens with your jeep. Was she pissed… She’s also the one that converted me into a zombie, but that’s another story.”
Norman looked at Willard and could not guess what he once looked like. Willard was pale, gaunt and also dressed in rags. His age was made undeterminable by his zombie state.
“As soon as you angered her she began making one of her little dolls. She cackled while she worked. That’s never a good sign. That doll is now where your soul now resides.”
“I can’t believe this is happening to me, Willard. I came to Haiti to do research on Haitian religions. I am, or was, respected and well-publicized anthropologist. Now look at me. I’m wearing rags and walking around like a … like a …”
“Zombie?” asked Willard.
“Just because I ran over a few chickens?”
“Um, Norman, they looked like chickens, but they weren’t. Nothing around the voodoo woman’s house is what it appears to be. They were once her enemies. She changed them into chickens, and you freed them from pecking for insects along the road for the rest of their lives. You ended their suffering. So naturally, in her anger, she turned you into a zombie. I’m here to instruct zombies how to attack people and teach them what are the best parts to eat.”
Norman made a face at this remark.
“Now what’s the matter?” asked Willard.
Norman sighed, “I’m a vegetarian, but I do eat dairy.”
Willard said with discuss, “There are no vegetarian zombies. And attacking the dairy section of a store is not going to do much for the zombie image.”
Norman grumbled, “Oh, I wouldn’t want to do anything to detract from the zombie image. Give be a break.”
As the two zombies were arguing, Willard happened to glance over at the woman’s house. There she stood in the doorway. Willard could tell she was not happy.
She hobbled toward Willard and Norman, a waddling mass adorned with bones and beads. Her crown of thick dreadlocks made her appear as if some multi-legged beast was sitting on her head.
The old voodoo woman shouted at Norman, “I know you be a troublemaker, with your fancy jeep, running over people’s property.”
Norman mumbled, “Sorry about the chickens.”
“You sorry alright. You be good and sorry real soon.”
The old woman produced her Norman doll, lifted the doll skyward, and began chanting in a low rumbling voice.
Norman’s soul returned to his body. He felt like his old self. He laughed with relief, then glanced up. Willard stumbled toward him; arms raised.
Willard, old buddy, we’re friends – right?”
Willard only groaned and roared.
Norman looked desperately for an escape. On either side of him zombies with ash-grey complexions staggered in his direction. He was surrounded.
The old voodoo woman said, “Here be my children, and they be hungry.” She cackled as the circle of zombies grew smaller and smaller around Norman.
From beyond the wall of the living dead, Norman pleaded, “Please, make me a chicken!”
The End
THE RELUCTANT ZOMBI
The Reluctant Zombi was accepted for publication by Blood, Blade & Thruster, a print publication, in October 2006.
There is a story behind this story.
Blood, Blade & Thruster ran a contest to see which story they would publish according to which story received the most votes. I can’t remember, but the stories must have been published online for people to read and then to vote.
I told friends about the contest. My wife told her friends about the contest. Then our friends told their friends about the contest.
I won. That is why you are now reading this story.
After the story was published someone posted online that they thought my story should not have been published because winning a contest by number of votes was not a valid way to obtain publication.
I guess he should have had more friends.
THE RELUCTANT ZOMBIE
As Norman stumbled through the dank Haitian swamp, he groaned, “Willard, it feels so unnatural walking around with my arms outstretched, but I can’t seem to put them down. “I have an image to uphold.”
Willard, who was shuffling along, shook his head and sighed, “Of course it’s unnatural, you’re a zombie, damn it. And your image is history.”
Norman complained, “I didn’t ask to be a zombie.” With some difficulty, he swiveled his neck and surveyed the Haitian countryside.
Norman took in the landscape surrounding him. He walked through a village. It was nothing more than a few huts of mud and straw along a dusty road. Chickens pecked in the brush along the roadside. Chickens! For some reason their presence made him uncomfortable. “I really don’t want to be a zombie,” Norman muttered. He was a forty-year-old college professor, a dark-haired trim man who always dressed well. Now he was walking around covered in grime and dressed in rags.
Willard said, “If you didn’t want to become a zombie, you shouldn’t have run over the old voodoo woman’s chickens with your jeep. Was she ever pissed? She’s also the one that converted me into a zombie, but that’s another story.”
Norman looked at Willard and could not guess what he once looked like. Willard was pale, gaunt and dressed in rags. His age made undeterminable by his zombie state.
“As soon as you angered her, she began making one of her little dolls. She cackled while she worked. That is never a good sign. The doll is where your soul now resides.”
“I can’t believe this is happening to me, Willard. I came to Haiti to do research on Haitian religions. I am, or was, a respected and well-published anthropologist. Now look at me. I’m wearing rags and walking around like a…, like a …”.
“Zombie!” asked Willard.
“Just because I ran over a few chickens?”
“Um, Norman, they looked like chickens, but they weren’t. Nothing around the voodoo woman’s house is what it appears. They were once her enemies. She changed them into chickens, and you freed them from pecking for insects along the road for the rest of their lives. You ended their suffering. So naturally, in her anger, she turned you into a zombie. I am assigned to train all novice zombies. To instruct how to attack people, teach them what are the best parts to eat.”
Norman made a face at this remark.
“Now what?” asked Willard.
Norman sighed, “I’m a vegetarian. But I will eat dairy.”
Willard said with disgust, “There are no vegetarian zombies. And attacking the dairy section of a store is not going to do much for the zombie image.”
Norman grumbled, “Oh, I wouldn’t want to do anything to detract from the zombie image. Give me a break.”
As the two zombies were arguing, Willard happened to glance over to the voodoo woman’s house. There she stood in the doorway. Willard could tell she was not happy.
She hobbled toward Willard and Norman, a waddling mass adorned with bones and beads. Her crown of thick dreadlocks made her appear as if some multi-legged beast was sitting on her head.
The old voodoo woman shouted at Norman, “I knew you be a troublemaker, with your fancy jeep and running over people’s property.”
Norman mumbled, “Sorry about the chickens.”
“You sorry all right. You be good and sorry real soon.”
The old woman produced her Norman doll, lifted the doll skyward, and began chanting in a low rumbling voice.
Norman’s soul returned to his body. He felt like his old self. He laughed with relief, then glanced up. Willard stumbled toward him; arms raised.
“Willard old buddy, we’re friends – right?”
Willard only growled and roared.
Norman looked desperately for an escape. On either side of him, zombies with ash-gray complexions staggered in his direction. He was surrounded.
The old voodoo woman said, “Here be my ‘children’, and they be hungry.” She cackled as the circle of zombies grew smaller and smaller around Norman.
From beyond the wall of the living dead, Norman pleaded, “Please, make me a chicken!”
THE END
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