He had a knife. He had a knife in his hand, waiting for blood. Waiting for blood to stain it’s flawless silver surface. And in front of him, he had his family. 


Great, now I’m a zombie.

It still hurt. The bite. Who knew human teeth could make such damage? Or I guess they were not human anymore. At least the zombie wasn’t. I can’t believe I got myself bitten. I had been so careful. But it had still happened. And at such a bad moment too. 

Moments before. Well, I guess that was an exaggeration. It was really around three hours before. It is crazy how life kept going in spite of the zombie apocalypse. It was incredible how you could still get an acceptance letter to graduate school while people were dying outside your door.

They had started a while ago. The killings. The world had moved on. Yes, the zombies were still out there, but no one really cared anymore. The government just gave each adult (people over 18) a gun. And that was it. Yes, I know what you are thinking. IF I HAVE A STUPID GUN WHY DIDN’T I JUST KILL THE STUPID ZOMBIE. Well I forgot. Not to kill the zombie, that is stupid. I HAD FORGOTTEN THE STUPID GUN IN MY ROOM. 

I was on my way to get supplies. God, I am so stupid. And now the word “stupid” had lost meaning to me. God, I am a dumbass. 

I would miss my house. It was such a nice house. White marble. Large windows. Wooden floors and stairs. My friends were in there. My family was all gone, but my friends. My new family, was in there. They had seen the bite and knew there wasn’t anything to do. They still let me in the house. I was lying down in my own bed. And the fever had started. 

They knew there was nothing to be done, but they were good friends. They let me stay, at least until I was officially dead. Then they would have to take me outside. To join my new family. 

It still hurt. The bite. But the fever had started so the pain would be gone soon enough. I just hope I don’t kill any of my friends. 


My dress was golden. Or was it the sun? The grass looked golden. Or was it him? His shirt was golden. It was definitely the sun. Everything looked bright. Clean. We were both sitting on the fresh grass. My dress was white, but his eyes were golden. The moment was golden, nothing else.

Moments before we had been running. Running throughout the party, bumping people with our shoulders. They saw us, but did not seem to mind. They did not seem to mind the couple in love that was shining like the sun. 


Please don’t kill me.

She had done this. I still do not understand why. I had never liked my grandmother, that is true, but I could have never imagined this. We were her family after all. My father, mother, my sister and I, we were her family. As I looked at the blood on my hands I wondered. Why had she done this?

I never believed in monsters. Until now. There he was. Frankenstein. Or at least something that looked like Frankenstein. I know I have read too many horror books. Watched too many horror movies. But he was there. What I decided to call “Frankenstein”. He. It. He. He was out there running around. An axe in his hands. The blood on the axe was mine. It was a flesh wound, but it was mine. 

My grandmother looked out the window as I did. She probably had a different view, though. I was on my knees. She was standing. She was questioning me. Threatening me with her eyes as she looked at the axe with blood on it. She wanted to know where the rest of my family was. I knew where they were, but I would never tell her. Then something happened. 

Frankenstein became angry. A piercing scream was heard throughout the house. My grandmother’s expression turned to horror. To horror. As she saw the axe, which now had fresh blood on it. I did not cry. I love my dogs, I do, but it was the perfect distraction. My grandmother’s senses had been blocked by this incident. And I ran. 

I ran as she still looked out the window. I ran as she ran outside to stop Frankenstein. I guess she did care if my dogs died. She just did not care about my family. Her family. Dying. I pressed the button. The wall moved.

There they were. My father, my mother. My sister. A single lightbulb. Lit lightbulb. Hung from the ceiling, illuminating my father’s face. He was terrified. We were all terrified. But it would be ok. In the seconds before this moment I had formulated a plan. I knew how to escape. For now. But for now. We just had to wait. 



It is a fly’s life out there.


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We had become flies. Real flies with wings, and the bug eyes and everything. This was not a choice. Well, it was, but what other choice was there really? Would I rather not be a fly? Yes. Do I really want to not die in the hands of a serial killer? Yes, again. So here we were. Why flies? I have no idea.

My friend and I just kept going. We were shape-shifters. That much you probably realized by now. But flies? Well, we could be anywhere. That is where the choice came from. Anywhere. We could be on the killer’s right ear and he would never know.

From a fly’s eyes the city seemed so different. Cardboard almost. All grey’s were the same. All windows looked spaceless. It all seemed like a painting.

We are safe for now. The killer is still out there, but we are safe. How long we must stay like this? I have no idea. I just hope it is not long. I really do not like being a fly.



It is a mobster’s world.


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The flower was made of plastic. A small button on the side opened a small compartment on the bottom. The compartment held a rapidly scribbled note. “It is over. Do not look for me. They have won.” Tears rolled to my eyes. I still thought we had hope. Apparently not. They had won. The men with the dark suits and the dark coats. The men with the sunglasses and the guns. And that man. The man with the bald head that had ruined all our lives. I could imagine him reading this same note and smiling. I could hear his chuckle of triumph as he inspected this plastic flower box. My shoulder started to hurt once more. The bullet was gone, the doctor had made sure of that, but the pain had stayed.

I could still feel it. The gun against my left shoulder. It was cold. Even though I was wearing a coat, the gun felt cold. The bald man had smiled as he pressed it against me. He looked forward to pulling the trigger. I could have pulled away. Run away. Or at least crouched under the passenger car window He had been reaching out of. But I couldn’t. I needed that document. I needed that piece of paper that had made his coat pocket its home. And I had gotten it. At a price.

I had not felt much at first. I could see the blood pouring out of my shoulder. I could see his black car pulling away. And I could see my friends running towards me. But the evidence of his guilt. The bald man. That was in my hand.

Yes, I was very lucky. But he was dead. The love of my life was dead. And it was his fault. The man with the bald head. The man with the mustache. I was reading the note again. “Do not look for me.” Well I did. I disobeyed his handwriting and looked for him. Richard. I love him. Loved him. I supposed it is not possible to love someone that is dead. At least I would never allow myself to do that. I could never allow myself to still love someone that was gone. Someone whose dead body I had seen. In that alley.

A week had gone by since I had received the plastic flower. All this for a small note? I realized Richard would never do that. As painful as it was I inspected the pink flower once more. And I found something. Three of the petals had a small hole in them. Only three. And three of the petals could be moved. They could be moved in a certain way. A way that I was sure the bald man had not figured out. The man with the scar. I knew he had intercepted this package. He was the mob boss of the city after all. He could intercept any package. I knew he had only seen the one note. I know he knew that Richard was dead. The most important man in our resistance. Without him we were nothing. But I knew the bald man had not found the secret compartment. The compartment that opened when moving each petal in a certain way and uncovering a secret button. I looked at the compartment. I looked and I smiled.

Two documents were in it. One was evidence. Evidence of the bald man’s taxes. That is all it was. With the evidence that our group already had, however, it was the handcuffs that would finally put the terror to peace. It was the evidence to finally put him in jail. The other was a letter. A letter addressed to me. A letter in Richard’s handwriting.

We had everything we needed. The problem was that the bald man knew it too. Someone had slipped. Someone had told. Now we were trapped. Trapped in our old school. Trapped with the men with guns standing right outside. Everyone was scared. I was scared. But I was the leader now. And I had the gun. I knew it had to be me. I could do it. With only one gun I could get pass them, hopefully killing a few, and get to the police. With only one gun I could finally put him behind bars. I took a deep breath. I prepared myself.

The gun in my hand, I came out shooting.



This is the home of my dreams. The images that come at night as I sleep will be documented here. I have always enjoyed the crazy dreams that my imagination brought to me, and now you can too.