Sample Post from the Horror Genre this Month:

Morozzi posts in FLESH

Their names were Helen and Ellen. Helen was the younger one and Morozzi guessed her to hovering around sixty. Ellen was her mother. The two ladies were holed up in their junk store. It wasn’t much, they said, but they had plenty of food for awhile anyway because the man who owned the little gas station next to it had given them a key and said have at it because he was going to the mountains, and they had managed to move its inventory into their place filling the already cluttered aisles with canned goods, candy bars, soft drinks, beer, and a hodge podge of non-perishables and the junk found in gas stations. The original store was a large bunker of a building with cinderblock walls, a cement foundation, and a good solid roof higher on one side than the other so it drained off rainwater. Off the front a tin roof extended a good twenty feet with three walls made of sturdy chain link. This protected all their valuable junk from would be thieves in the night. A little door in the back opened in to an add on that would have seemed cavernous if empty, but it was filled almost floor to ceiling with more junk. One side, the left side was all clothing, High double racks stuffed full of shirts, suits, dresses, including some horrendous prom dresses from the late eighties. The right side was household goods with shelves full of mismatched flatware, cups and plates, baking dishes, broken or just plain ugly knick-knacks, lamps, and just about anything imaginable. She’d never seen so many ice cube trays in one place in her life.

An old man was with them. His name was Hank or Tank. She wasn’t quite sure, nor was she sure if he was Ellen’s husband or not. His main job seemed to be scanning through several radios and police scanners trying to pick up any sort of broadcast. Occasionally he’d go outside the fenced overhang, walk among the dozens of cement lawn ornaments, and return to report no dumbfucks, sick or otherwise, in the area.

The fourth in their little party was tough brassy blond with darkly tanned skin and deep wrinkles on her face and hands from the tanning. The tan wasn’t from too much time time in a tanning bed. Morozzi knew this sort, lots of them back home on the farms. They worked hard for a living, preferring to be outdoors, doing serious work. Her forearms would be darker than her upper arms from rolling up her sleeves. If she had any make up it was a single tube of mascara and an assortment of cheap lipsticks. The tinted hair her only concession to femininity. She was not butch. Did not pretend to be masculine. She was just a tough hard worker. She either had a lot of brothers or was an only child. Her name was Sherry, but they called her Sher.

They gave Morozzi a Mountain Dew spiked with Canadian Mist. As she sat in an upholstered chair with no legs, her own legs stretched out in front of them, she watched the way they went about their business. Helen and Sher organized items on shelves, or went looking for some object of interest that came to mind, while Ellen sat at the counter as if awaiting customers who would never come and idly flipped through a ten year old Better Homes and Garden. They seemed to accept the way the world had become as just their lot in life. No panic needed. A virus made people insanely murderous, other people were living out their Road Warrior fantasies, and life went on inside the junk shop, with the only sounds being the big ventilation fan turning whenever a breeze came along, which wasn’t often enough for Morozzi who knew why they couldn’t open a back door for draft, but still longed for one in the heat, and the occasional hiss and squelch of the old man’s radios.

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