Into the Void

The dead lurch out of the darkness. They stagger forward with the insatiable hunger of the damned, taloned fingers clutching greedily for my face, my hair, my clothes.

I pull the shotgun trigger again and again, but it clicks empty.

Cornered, surrounded.


I close my eyes, preparing for a bitter taste of dark immortality.


Hope Sullivan McMickle.

Woman Smoking Cigar


She was standing on the front porch again this morning, still wearing his letter jacket.

Yesterday she’d paced there for hours. He’d dumped her over a year ago because she was too clingy, but it would take a headshot to be free of her now.

She was, he’d found, even worse as a zombie.





He’d lurked in the culvert for hours in the desert heat. Monitoring traffic. Waiting.

Finally, a lone sedan trundled up the road, hugging the center line.

He crawled up the embankment, fixing a look of vulnerable desperation on his face.

The motorist would stop.

There would be blood.

He licked his lips in hungry anticipation.


Hope Sullivan McMickle.