The crimson petals blushed and cowed their heads as the seductive darkness of night swept over them. Beneath their blanket of thorns she stirred - a bride whose wedding day had never come. Each year, she rose and, with fingers reduced to brittle bones, she clawed herself from her grave. Each year she’d stalk the darkened streets, drawn to the doors of young women soon to be wed: compelled to deprive them of their marriage bed. Their suffering and loss fed the bitterness within her. As the morning sun crept over the horizon she would return to her grave, her pain satiated. Her grief satisfied. Lives ruined.

The mud had baked hard in the morning sun creating a hard, smooth outer shell. But now, in the cool of the evening, she cool feel the comforting warmth in her carapace dissipate. It was this that prompted her to move, to wiggle, to stretch her thin limbs to their capacity, till her clay armour cracked and the cool evening air crept over her.

Slowly, so as not to risk injury, she climbed from the ground and crawled, like a giant insect, to the water’s edge. The ground beneath her knees was a blanket of twigs and leaves - the debris gathered daily by the forest. Her cold skin split as small stones cut into her, imbedding themselves in her flesh. She did not grimace, she did not know.

Death has a habit of changing our priorities. Once breathing is no longer a priority there is little need to steel oneself and breathe through pain. Pain is a human concept. It is not for the undead to trouble themselves with.

By the water she carefully cleansed the dirt from her, once tanned, skin. Her fragility was clear: apply too firm a hand and her once firm and supple skin would peel away in the moonlight. One knee already showed the bleached bone beneath it and the wound where he’d stabbed her had grown loose and distorted over time. Yet cleaning was important. She would hate to be unrecognisable once found. She wanted her mother to still know her little girl’s face, even after all this time.

Once clean she lay bathing in the moonlight, silently listening to the water as it flowed and enjoying tickle of tiny feet that scurried across her on their nightly journeys. Murder had rather changed her perspective on fear. The fine, delicate legs of a spider were no longer a source of panic. Instead she watched with interest all the lives she had previously ignored. Life was so much more than human.

As the dawn threatened to rise her time to be discovered was up and so, with what dignity she had left, she began her journey back to the muddy pool in which she’d be left. What little muscle remained was weak and she struggled to haul her body back across the bracken. The difficulty was a painful reminder that, in a few short hours, once night had faded and morning broken, he would come from his house, through the trees, around the pond and, with a crackle, stand on the part baked earth of her grave - as if he knew that she could feel his weight. As if he knew that she was so much more than dead.

The mud had baked hard in the morning sun creating a hard, smooth outer shell. But now, in the cool of the evening, she cool feel the comforting warmth in her carapace dissipate. It was this that prompted her to move, to wiggle, to stretch her thin limbs to their capacity, till her clay armour cracked and the cool evening air crept over her.

Slowly, so as not to risk injury, she climbed from the ground and crawled, like a giant insect, to the water’s edge. The ground beneath her knees was a blanket of twigs and leaves - the debris gathered daily by the forest. Her cold skin split as small stones cut into her, imbedding themselves in her flesh. She did not grimace, she did not know.

Death has a habit of changing our priorities. Once breathing is no longer a priority there is little need to steel oneself and breathe through pain. Pain is a human concept. It is not for the undead to trouble themselves with.

By the water she carefully cleansed the dirt from her, once tanned, skin. Her fragility was clear: apply too firm a hand and her once firm and supple skin would peel away in the moonlight. One knee already showed the bleached bone beneath it and the wound where he’d stabbed her had grown loose and distorted over time. Yet cleaning was important. She would hate to be unrecognisable once found. She wanted her mother to still know her little girl’s face, even after all this time.

Once clean she lay bathing in the moonlight, silently listening to the water as it flowed and enjoying tickle of tiny feet that scurried across her on their nightly journeys. Murder had rather changed her perspective on fear. The fine, delicate legs of a spider were no longer a source of panic. Instead she watched with interest all the lives she had previously ignored. Life was so much more than human.

As the dawn threatened to rise her time to be discovered was up and so, with what dignity she had left, she began her journey back to the muddy pool in which she’d be left. What little muscle remained was weak and she struggled to haul her body back across the bracken. The difficulty was a painful reminder that, in a few short hours, once night had faded and morning broken, he would come from his house, through the trees, around the pond and, with a crackle, stand on the part baked earth of her grave - as if he knew that she could feel his weight. As if he knew that she was so much more than dead.

She’s not “away”. She is not “sleeping”. If she were, why are we weeping? No, in truth I know she’s dead. From the pain that’s in my head. This agony, that’s eating me, Tradition states it’s plain to see. So platitudes are fine and well but please admit that this is hell.

Their weren't tears when I was told. Not at first. First there was the shock, then the pain, then nothing.

How could you die? You were eternal. Creeping towards a century and steady on your feet (for the most part). I won’t come close to that achievement.

You cried when you heard my voice. I was scared the memory of yours would fade. I’m glad I was wrong. The phone closed a distance I could not.

Stop. Just for the moment let me see you as you were meant to be. In that space before life joined us Stop. let me see.

My pain has started in this time. We have stopped you are not mine. Instead you are but one day colder. Leaving me a vacant shoulder.

And there, in darkness, where I sit he has come to challenge it. To force me to the light of day and ensure that I keep on this way.

Stop. Now you will see. What your absence has done to me. That I am left confused. Conflicted. All because my heart's restricted.

I think I just met the happiest person in the world!

She wasn’t rich and nor was she particularly pretty. She wasn’t athletic or gifted. She was divorced. She was me.

I believed when I met you that you made me the happiest person in the world ‘cause, fuck it, I loved you! You took my breath away. You were handsome, and funny, and kind, and smart, and playful, and I thought you were fucking perfect. Do you hear me? I thought you were perfect. I wouldn’t hear a bad word against you. Even when you hurt me.

No matter what you did I thought you were golden. You were a Greek God to me. Powerful. Mythical. What I didn’t realise was you weren’t real.

It wasn’t till you tried to hit me that I realised. Realised how blind I’d been. Suddenly, I could hear all the times you called me fat, told me I wasn’t enough, made me cry. It was like you’d knocked some sense into me: a sense of fear and a sense of perspective because I’ve read too many articles about dead women where their friends said, “He was just so nice!” Like being nice meant you couldn’t be a monster. Well, you were a monster. As you hit me that’s what I realised.

I’d spent five years lifting you up and exalting you while you let my head sink beneath the surface. By the end of our relationship I was ugly, fat and bloated. A corpse caught in the current of your tidal wave. I was trapped in my happy marriage because heaven forbid I tell anyone what you’d done. Because no one believes a woman when she’s married to a man like you: a man she loves. God, I loved you.

I loved you so much that I hated myself for not being enough for you. I loved you so much that I thought I was the happiest girl in the world. I told myself I was the luckiest. I told myself that to survive. If I were better you wouldn’t need to tear me down. If I were better you wouldn’t need to laugh at me. If I were better you’d have listened when I asked you to stop that night. That night you didn’t listen. That night you climbed on top and I lay, eyes closed, pretending I was anywhere but under you. But you apologised. So that made it okay. You always apologised and God in heaven I forgave you.

It wasn’t okay. I only realised that today. Today, when I met the happiest person in the world. She was in the car and I realised that when our song came on I didn’t think of you. It wasn’t ours anymore, it was mine. Because music is free and so am I. She was in the car, divorce papers riding in the seat where you used to sit, and I realised I was happy. You were gone. I realised this today.

The blood pounded in his ears - an echoing drumbeat for hell’s soldiers. The pressure in his head pushed at his eyes till his vision blurred and distorted. A dizzying agony of shapes and confusion moved before him but looking was a pain that could be avoided. He squeezed closed his eyes in a feeble attempt to ease the throbbing in his temples. The ticking of his pulse counted down the moments of consciousness he had left.

Clenching his core he strained against his bonds in an attempt to right himself and ease the pain in his head but his convulsions only proved to slice the cord that bound him deeper into his wrists and call forth a faint trickle of blood to weave it’s way from his wrist to his elbow. It was hopeless. He hung, like a pig in a slaughterhouse, from the large, curved hook that jutted from the ceiling.

“Was it worth it?” The voice from the corner was calm. Calmer than any voice had a right to be in the circumstances. “Please…” he started. “That doesn’t sound like an answer.” “What do you want me to say?” “Was… It… Worth it?” No, not calm. Cold. The voice from the corner made no attempt to soothe him. It was a cool, calculated stick with which to beat him. “You’ve got a lot less to say than you did last night.” “Please, Alison, I’m sorry.” “Sorry? Sorry!” The pitch increase as she spoke betrayed her anger. He heard her rise, from where she’d presumably been seated, and walk towards him. Her feet slapped lightly on the tiled floor. He’d liked those large, grey tiles when they’d bought them. He hadn’t considered he’d spend so much time looking at them though. Alison stood in front of him as he gently rotated on his hook, a rotisserie for her to examine. She’d painted her toenails. Something about that fact sickened him more than the situation he found himself in. The fact that his wife had hung him from the pulley hook in their garage seemed rational. Painting her nails while he was unconscious seemed terrifying.

“I won’t ask you again. Was it worth it?” “No. Of course not Alison. I’m sorry. I fucked up. I get that but please this is crazy, let me down.” “Crazy? No. Crazy, is fucking your secretary. You’re not even old enough for a midlife crisis!” “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was confused.” “Then you talk to me! You don’t fuck someone else!”

His ankles were carrying the majority of his weight and he’d long since lost the feeling in his feet. The rope that bound him was crudely tied and so his body hung at an awkward angle causing him to rotate slowly. Gentle waves of nausea washed over him as he turned but the pain in his head distracted him enough to prevent him from being physically sick. His wife’s feet passed in and out of his vision as she paced in front of him. “Ali, please, let me down.” “No.” “You can’t leave me like this.” “Want a bet?” “Ali, it was a mistake. A stupid mistake. I love you.” “Bullshit! You know I can believe that people cheat and regret it. I can believe that in hindsight they feel they made a mistake. But...” “Honey, please can we just…” “Shut up! Don’t ‘honey’ me. Was it good?” “Don’t…” “TELL ME WAS HE GOOD!” “Yes! I’m sorry. Yes. He was good… He was good. I’m…” The gurgling sound that spat from his mouth was not an apology but it did make her feel better. The blood bubbled from his lips as he spluttered his corrupt, crimson mess onto the floor. Alison stood back a little, to avoid getting any on her feet, and left the knife sticking out of his throat like a steel tongue. “…sorry. Yeah, you said.”

The pounding in my ears echoed as I ran. From above me the thick, acrid blood rained down from the wounded beast. Its eight, heaving legs strained against death. It was not desperate to fight, it was programmed to. A deep, inexplicable urge to consume and destroy drove the creature forwards.

Beneath its broken towering body I ran. My feet pounding into the blood soaked earth that glowed faintly beneath my feet. The planet was dying; these creatures were dying; and, although I did not know it yet, I was dying.

To my right Tommy raised the automatic in his arms. He held it tight as if it might escape him in one frantic buck. He was a big man, made mostly of muscle and yet that gun made him look prepubescent. The power as it fired drove his arms and steered his destruction. He gritted his teeth and fired into the fleshy underside of the crawling gargantuan. I had known the man for less than a week and yet we fought beside each other and moved as one. It sounds poetic but the reality is less so.

War is common sense. Once you’ve fought in enough of them it becomes automatic: like breathing. You can feel death chasing you and the drive to run faster takes over. You fight because you know how. You fight because it’s your only fucking option.

A burning, searing pain slashed my face. Blood. The towering bastard was bleeding on me. I wiped at my face with the crook of my arm but it did little other than spread the pain to new areas. Their blood doesn’t eat into the flesh but it sure hurts enough that you fear it might. No matter how long you fight these things you never get used to the pain of their blood. A little comic vengeance in their death.