A Ravenous Canvas

Walking forever through corridors of art, that's the fate I sought. If I were doomed to resurrect, as everyone was, why not wander eternally around beauty?

But when I tried to reach The Metropolitan Museum, the apocalypse stopped me. Manhattan's zombies swarmed my car, buried it in dead flesh. I'm trapped.

Now they're a ravenous canvas, pressed against my windshield. Their faces are yellow papyrus; their spoiling blood and bile are rancid inks and pigments, their viscera are rotting oils. This is their dead aesthetic; their moans exhort me to join it.

I'll starve.

I'll rise.

I'll create art too.

From Guest Contributor Eric Robert Nolan

I Killed Him

The corridors, they felt never ending. The blood stained my hands, no matter what I wiped them on the blood stained my hands. I attempted to wipe the blood from my face but that caused more mess. I turned right. I heard shouting from behind me. “RUN!” It was the last thing said to me before it happened. I slipped into the bathroom running into a stall. I tried not to look but I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Covered head to toe in blood. As I breathed heavy all I could think was I killed him.

From Guest Contributor Lulu

In her own words: My name's Lulu I'm 14, I wrote this in 2 minutes.