You can’t be alive.
Not in past, not in future,
Thousand times we die. (jf)
She came to him and
Laid her head aside. Headless
She felt more alive. (jf)
It had been a while since the last raid. Zeds made their way around the farm and not entered it. Doro was refreshing walls in the inner yard with the last bag of concrete she could find. Mary and herself were the last two alive in the countryside, as far as they could see the only living souls within 40 miles of distance. Mary was working on a straw zombie. Her black hair was shining in setting sun.
These postmodern scarecrows were a great idea they had had weeks ago. They produced them in an impressive height of 10 feet. They gave them hats and ripped clothes as well, sometimes they also makeup’d them. Unique sculptures. This worked and seemed to scare the zombies from miles away. They placed them all over their home and wild fields, it was a scary view, like time had frozen in an abstruse moment of destruction.
Somehow time stood for real. Days were endless, scouting for food at daylight and playing cards or tailoring new zombie outfits in the evening. Air was clean, since industry had stopped everywhere. Sometimes fires lit somewhere and threw lights at one part of horizon. But night always came.
Somehow life was easy and well organized at these times. Like it had been since ever. Doro remembered going to cinema and watching new horror movies or driving to a dancing night in village back in the days, but those memories were vanishing like straw zeds being deconstructed regularly by the smart swarms of raven which were visiting day after day.
They could catch some of this birds from time to time. With some salt, pepper and paprika they tasted like Mum’s chicken and always gave a good meal. After dinner Mary often painted pieces of landscapes, expressive views on a postapocalyptic life, they hung all over the farmhouse like a weirdo’s exhibition.
The moments Doro feart most were the ones she felt comfortable with this situation. Was all that luxury of past times unimportant? Was a life full of work, nature and daily routines more worthy than her old job, friends and hobbies? She was sitting in kitchen, painting her face in camouflage, because she planned another outdoor exploration. Maybe they could conquer the old mill 2 miles away… Mary helped and her colored fingers were touching Doro’s face gently. She could see, they both felt happy.
Happiness is a
Lost crow that always returns
To the playing swarm.