He dispatched the citizenry with blinding quickness and a deafening roar. When the smoke finally cleared on that dead little town, only one person was left breathing. But if the dead could talk, they would tell you that what rode out of town that day was not a person at all, but a demon straight from hell.
How could so much go wrong at once? What did I do to deserve such a fucked up life? Where did I go astray? And just when exactly was it that God himself deserted me? All those times I thought, "It can't get any worse," and it did. I tried and tried but never came out ahead. All that time--wasted.
So here I stand, high above the world.
Just one step ends it all.
I don't know how it began, but the dead have risen and they're angry. It's been a week since they were first sighted, clawing their way to the surface to wreak havoc among the living. Needless to say, it was quite a surprise. Turns out, they're all bloodthirsty, vicious killers. So in order to survive, that's what we have to be. Killers. Zombie hunters. Wild, huh?
Never thought I'd be hunting zombies for a living, but there's more of 'em every day, and we're not getting any younger ourselves.
'Course, no one really knows how to stop it...
Under the hill lived the nastiest glumwump, Yogrot, and ugly creature who hated everything. All day long, day after day, he complained to the empty air about how much he hated the world.
One not-so-fine morning, this nastiest of glumwumps got out of his lumpy bed and went into his horribly tiny kitchen to make some awful tea.
He grumbled to himself as his accursed water boiled, then poured himself a cup of misery. As he swallowed the foul concoction, Yogrot was thankful that he had found his first thing to complain about this dreadful morning.
The mighty warrior stood proudly on a jutting peak, face into the wind, head held high. It had been a glorious day on the battlefield. Many enemies had been slain, and he knew that the old ones would tell of this victory for generations to come.
Sweat and blood glistened on his brow as he surveyed the carnage below. Scanning the remains, his gaze fell on his mangled brother. With an aching heart and tears of rage, he raised his voice to the gods in a mournful wail. As the sun set, the valley filled with his sorrowful goodbye.
There was a glimmer in her eyes that he couldn't resist. He noticed her "checking him out" about ten minutes ago. As he sat on the bench in the bus station, he discreetly stole a glance in her direction, and she was still smiling at him.
To test the waters, he flashed her his warmest grin. Seeing this, her grin widened as she stifled a giggle. He screwed up his courage to approach, when he noticed her gaze drifting in a beckoning fashion. He followed her eyes to a point adjacent him on the bench.
A sign: "WET PAINT."
And then there was the poem I wrote and emailed to my buddy in Afghanistan that same year. We emailed back and forth quite a bit back then while I was at work and his workday was done for the night. One day I emailed him and got no immediate response, so I wrote this poem on the fly and sent it to him.
Sleep on, my fairy princess
Float on tiny clouds
Dream of kings and princes
And make your tiny sounds
Waken from your slumber
A new day dawning bright
Still a fairy princess
And such a lovely sight
Pretty little ribbons
In your flowing hair
Pajamas made of satin
Cling to your derriere
A necklace made of diamond
A bracelet made of pearls
I'm sure you are the envy
Of all the little girls
But where's the golden castle?
Where's the handsome prince?
Now that your head is clearing
All you see are tents
The jewelry is real enough
As are the pretty clothes
But the princes all surround you
And want to break your nose
Good night, my fairy princess
Sleep on 'til evening comes
Beaten to unconsciousness
By your Air Force chums
His response: "I wasn't sleeping. Nice poem, asshole. Fairy princess my ass. And I could kick the shit out of most of the guys here."