The Zombie Who Liked Fred Astaire
By Jason K. Allen
Copyright 2014 Jason K. Allen
Inside the quaint dance studio, a young woman named Layla taught an older gentleman the art of swing dancing. The student was far from graceful, but that was okay because Layla was a patient, caring teacher.
The man paused and shook his head, disappointed by his performance.
“You’re doing fine,” said Layla. “I see definite improvement.” She glanced at clock on the wall. “Okay, that’s all for today. See you next week!”
The man nodded and departed.
Layla walked over to a table, grabbed a water bottle and took a sip. She wiped her face with a towel and refastened her long red hair into a bun. Taking a deep breath, she pushed a button on the table and spoke into a speaker. “Okay, send in the five o’clock.”
She ejected a CD from the boom box, replacing it with another. As she did, a door opened and someone entered the room. A pair of worn, muddy hiking boots slowly trudged toward her.
“Sorry my last lesson ran late,” said Layla, turning to greet the next student. “I just -- ” She glanced up and froze, stunned.
Standing in front of her was an honest-to-goodness zombie. The kind from the movies: deteriorating, hollow eyes, hunched over, repulsive. His name was Gunther.
The clothes Gunther wore had once been quite nice and stylish, but they were now dirty and tattered. His dark hair was combed quite nicely, however. He stared at Layla blankly. She stepped back, horrified, unable to speak.
Gunther clumsily reached into his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper. He handed it toward her.
Layla wasn’t sure what to do. Should she run? Scream? Ask him of his intentions? Still unable to speak, she cautiously took a step forward, grabbed the wrinkled paper, and quickly jumped back. She eyed him further, and then looked down at the piece of paper. It was an advertisement which read: “Swing Dance Lessons - 8 Week Course - Certificate Awarded.”
Layla was familiar with this ad since she herself had created it. She glanced back up at this ghastly monstrosity, puzzled.
“You... want dance lessons?” she asked.
He nodded awkwardly, grunting. She glanced down, suddenly noticing red stains on the piece of paper she held.
“Is this... blood?!”
Gunther shrugged, embarrassed. Layla grimaced and released the paper. She hurried over to the table, picked up her towel, and cleaned off her hands, sickened.
“I’m sorry, but... I don’t think we can help you here,” she said.
Gunther pointed to a sign on the wall which read: “We Don’t Discriminate.”
Layla nodded, struggling for a reply. “Yes, but...” She was at a complete loss.
Remembering something, Gunther reached into his jacket. He pulled out a photo and held it in her direction. She stepped forward, took the photo, and quickly stepped back. She studied the photo, which was a picture of Fred Astaire dancing. She glanced up, baffled. Gunther pointed at the photo, then pointed at himself.
“Um... you wanna be... like Fred Astaire?” she asked.
He nodded, grunting. She examined him, still a bit on edge. He seemed sincere, she thought. But he was still a zombie.
“Um... well, have you ever danced before?”
He stared at her blankly.
“I’m going to put on some music,” said Layla. “Feel free to dance or nod your head or... whatever. We need to see if you can move to the beat -- to see if you have rhythm.”
She went to the boom box and pushed a button. A swingin’ big band era song started to play. Gunther listened to it and stared at her, puzzled.
“Does that make you feel like doing anything?” asked Layla.
Gunther picked his nose. Layla nodded. She went to the boom box, pushed a button, and tried a different song -- one a bit slower.
“Okay, how about this one?”
Gunther listened to the music and then looked down at his feet. He tried to move them to the beat. Unfortunately he was only able to lift them up and down, slowly and clumsily.
Layla examined him, curious. She could now see that this poor creature truly wanted to dance. She turned off the music and cautiously approached him. Suddenly her teacher instincts took over and she was filled with empathy and determination.
“That’s okay,” Layla said. “I’ll help you. Just take my hand. Then put your other hand here, on my back.”
Gunther nodded nervously and took her hand. Layla realized she was now grasping his rough, deteriorating hand. She looked away momentarily, grimacing, disgusted. She regained her composure and put his other hand on her back.
Layla suddenly got a whiff of his rank scent and coughed uncontrollably, nauseated. Gunther dropped his head, ashamed. Finally she gathered herself and approached him again.
“Just follow my lead,” said Layla. “One, two, three, four...”
He attempted to follow, but he clumsily stepped on her foot. He stepped back, shaking his head, embarrassed.
“That’s okay,” she offered. “Let’s try again. One, two, three, four...”
Gunther struggled mightily. He stepped on her foot again, nearly falling over. Frustrated, he growled, grabbed Layla menacingly and started to take a bite out of her shoulder.
“Hey!” screamed Layla. She struggled free and slapped his rotting face. He stepped backward, mouth open, stunned. Suddenly he dropped to the floor and started to sob pitifully. Layla sighed,wondering what she had gotten herself into.
* * *
The following week, Gunther returned for his next lesson.
Layla taught him basic swing dance moves, but he clumsily tripped over his own feet and crashed violently to the floor. She had much work to do.
* * *
On the third week, Layla taught Gunther another new move, but he couldn’t get the hang of it. Layla now understood that zombies were slow learners, much like the movies had portrayed them. But that was okay because she liked challenges.
Gunther was now out of breath, so they took a short break. Layla wiped her sweat away with a towel and took a sip of water. The zombie watched her, fascinated by her routine. She reached into her gym bag and pulled out an energy bar. She unwrapped it and took a bite.
Following her lead, Gunther reached into his blood-stained gym bag, pulled out the remains of a human foot, and took a bite. Horrified, Layla turned away, spat out her energy bar and ran off to the restroom.
* * *
Now it was week four, and Layla taught the zombie yet another new move -- a simpler one.
As they started to dance, Gunther slowly slid his hand down onto Layla’s buttocks. She slid his hand back up to her back. He slid it back down onto her buttocks. Finally she yanked his hand away and pointed her finger at him, scolding him. He dropped his head, apologetic. He knew he had done wrong. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and remain patient because, after all, he was a zombie.
They resumed dancing. Gunther struggled, lost his balance and fell flat onto his face.
Two kids standing beside the door pointed at the fallen zombie, laughing. “What a dork,” one of them uttered. Gunther dropped his head, ashamed.
* * *
During their fifth lesson, Gunther caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror while dancing. He shrieked, alarmed.
He broke away from Layla and cautiously approached the mirror, examining himself. He didn’t like what he saw. He pulled out his photo of Fred Astaire and held it up to the mirror. He studied Fred Astaire, and then he looked at himself. He frowned.
Licking his hand, he attempted to slick back his hair like Fred Astaire. He pulled some flaky, rotting skin from his
face, hoping to improve his complexion.
Layla watched him, fascinated.
* * *
It was now week six. Layla prepared for another lesson as the door opened and a shiny black pair of shoes appeared in the doorway. She turned and looked.
Gunther stood at the door wearing a fancy suit, a gold chain, new shoes, and a top hat with a long feather. He looked like a super pimping zombie. He eyed Layla anxiously, anticipating a positive reaction.
Layla just stared at him, mouth open. She had the urge to giggle, but then she decided he didn’t look too bad for a zombie. She nodded, appearing impressed.
* * *
During lesson number seven, swing music played on the boom box while Layla sat on the floor, wiping tears from her eyes, frustrated. Gunther stood nearby, watching her, puzzled.
“I’m sorry,” said Layla. “It’s just... I take pride in teaching people to dance. But I’ve tried everything with you. I feel like... such a failure.”
Gunther dropped his head, dejected. He took out his photo of Fred Astaire and studied it. He looked down at his feet and tried to get them to dance. They wouldn’t cooperate. He sighed.
“Can you turn off the music, please?” asked Layla.
Gunther trudged over to the boom box. He examined the gadget, confused by it. He pushed a button, but it only changed to a different song. He tried pushing another button. Frustrated, he pushed another button and the song “Monster Mash” started to play. His eyes widened. Suddenly he perked up. To his own amazement, he started swaying to and fro. He looked down at his feet, which started to move. His actions became smoother -- he felt the rhythm. Layla watched him, amazed.
Gunther suddenly held out his hand toward Layla. Hesitating, she finally stood and took his hand. And then they danced.
They danced smoothly, beautifully, gracefully. Gunther was suddenly an unstoppable force of nature, full of confidence, gliding on air. Layla was astounded.
As the song concluded, Gunther spun Layla and then dipped her, holding her close to the floor. Layla gazed up at him, her breath taken away.
“Wow,” she uttered.
Gunther grinned slyly. Then, realizing the song had ended, he dropped Layla with a THUD to the floor and resumed lumbering clumsily. He found a chair and sat down to catch his breath.
Layla picked herself up off the floor and sat beside him. She toweled off and drank some water. Gunther toweled off and chomped on a human liver. Layla studied him for a bit. She was by no means attracted to him, but her curiosity grew.
“So, um... how long have you been a zombie?” she asked.
He just looked at her blankly. Layla felt silly for having asked. There was an awkward silence as they both looked down.
* * *
Now it was the eighth and final week. It was time for the big dance where all of the students would show what they had learned. Many people were gathered.
The crowd applauded as a pair of dancers finished their routine and stepped off the dance floor.
Stepping up to the dance floor next were Layla and Gunther. Some in the audience applauded, while others looked on in confused silence. Most, apparently, had never seen a zombie such as this one.
Gunther looked dapper in his slacks and white shirt. Seeming a bit nervous, he slicked down his hair and took Layla’s hand. Layla nodded at him and grinned, boosting his confidence.
“The Monster Mash” began to play, and Gunther suddenly transformed into the Fred Astaire of the undead. They danced with abandon, joy, and passion.
The crowd cheered them on enthusiastically. Many appeared stunned by the performance. Even the two kids who had previously laughed at the zombie were suddenly big fans.
Layla and Gunther danced beautifully together. He spun her, picked her up, and tossed her into the air. He moved gracefully, confidently. Layla made eye contact with him. She smiled, impressed. He winked back at her.
As the music ended, the crowd burst into applause. Layla and Gunther took a bow. Several people in the crowd snapped photos. One little girl ran up to get Gunther’s autograph. He clumsily took the pen and signed it “Z”.
Gunther blew kisses as he lumbered off.
* * *
Later that night, the dance studio was empty, dark and quiet. Gunther stood alone, holding a piece of paper. He studied it intently. It was his dance certificate.
There was the sound of footsteps as Layla approached. She noticed him admiring the certificate.
“You deserve it,” said Layla. “You earned it! Congratulations.”
He studied the certificate some more and glanced up at her. A tear formed in his eye and ran down his cheek. Layla was moved by his emotion. She patted him on the back.
“So what are you gonna do now?” she asked.
Gunther glanced at her and looked down, uncertain. He thought about it for a bit. His stomach rumbled. He rubbed his stomach, famished. He eyed Layla. Then he grabbed her and growled ferociously.
“Hey!” screamed Layla. “What do you think you’re doing?!”
He attempted to take a bite out of her arm, but she smacked him upside the head with her gym bag. He recoiled and stepped backward, stunned by her ferocity. She glared at him.
“Remember, you’re one of my students now!” she said. “You can’t just go around eating people anymore. I have a reputation to protect, ya know.” She paused, contemplating something. “I'm pretty sure Fred Astaire never ate anyone.”
Gunther dropped his head, remorseful.
Layla reached into her gym bag and took out an energy bar. She offered it to him. He examined it and looked up at her. Finally he reached out and accepted it.
She grabbed another energy bar for herself. They unwrapped the bars and ate their snacks together. Gunther chewed, grimacing, repulsed by the strange food. He chewed and chewed, struggling to swallow it.
Gunther reached into his jacket and pulled out the photo of Fred Astaire. He studied it intently.
“Well, you did it,” Layla said. “You’re just like Fred Astaire now.”
He removed another wrinkled photo from his jacket. It was a picture of Ginger Rogers. He pointed at Fred Astaire and pointed at himself. Then he pointed at Ginger Rogers and pointed at Layla.
“Me?” said Layla. “You want me to be your Ginger Rogers?”
She studied him, befuddled and amused. She stood and collected her things.
“I dunno,” said Layla. “I’m picky about my dance partners.”
As Layla headed for the door, she glanced back at Gunther, grinning. “We’ll see.”
She opened the door and departed. Gunther considered this a semi-victory. He gazed at the photo of Ginger Rogers, hopeful.
Gunther gathered his things and picked up his gym bag. He studied the energy bar in his hand, grimacing. He tossed it into the trash can. Reaching into his bag, he took out a severed human arm. He gnawed on his snack and trudged toward the door, satisfied.
Gunther now thought about everything that had transpired over the past eight weeks. He visualized himself on the cover of The Zombie Gazette. Suddenly, from out of the blue, he spun around and danced an impressive celebratory jig, kicking up his heels. Then, returning to zombie mode, he lumbered to the door and departed. Tonight he would celebrate.
THE END
The Goldfish Who Contemplated Life
By Jason K. Allen
Copyright 2014 Jason K. Allen
It was a typical teenage girl’s bedroom: messy yet cheerful. Brightly colored clothes were scattered on the bed. A Justin Bieber poster hung on the wall. An empty pizza box lay on the floor.
In the corner, a fishbowl sat on a table. A lone goldfish floated in the water. He was a fine-looking specimen aside from an odd-looking pot belly normally seen in small Vietnamese pigs. He was never one for fitness. His name was Goldfish.
Outside the window, it was a warm, sunny afternoon. Kids ran and played. Adults mowed their lawns and worked in their flower beds.
A dog napped under a shade tree.
Inside the bedroom all was quiet. There was no one around. The activity outside the window seemed a world away.
The motionless Goldfish stared ahead solemnly. This was not the life he had bargained for.
He continued to float silently. After several minutes of contemplation, he finally decided that he was horny. However, he could do nothing about it because he lacked arms and hands.
“What I would give for one day of freedom from this eternal hell,” Goldfish muttered quietly to himself. “I would eat ice cream. I would fly a kite. I would climb a mountain.”
The sad Goldfish stared ahead. Waiting. For something. Anything.
Nearly an hour later, the silence and stillness was interrupted by a buzzing sound. A fly landed on a table beside the fishbowl. Goldfish turned in his bowl, noticing the new arrival.
“Hi,” said Goldfish politely. “How did you get here? What manner of creature are you?”
The stoic fly sat motionless on the table.
“Hi,” said the fly. “I am Fly, Musca domestica. There was a hole in the window screen.”
Goldfish thought this was a fine and interesting story, but he did not say so. There was still much to learn about this new arrival.
“Hi,” Goldfish said again. “Yes, I have heard about your species on my human's TV. I have heard many bad things about you. You are considered repulsive.”
Fly was not offended by this statement because he was a fly and was not easily offended. He had been called worse. He studied the floating, pot-bellied creature in the bowl. “You are a goldfish?”
“Yes, Carassius auratus,” responded Goldfish.
“Is there any doo-doo in here?” Fly asked.
“Doo-doo?” answered Goldfish.
“Yes,” replied Fly. “Feces. Excrement. Poop.”
“No, thank you,” said Goldfish.
This was followed by several minutes of awkward silence. Goldfish was curious about Fly, but he wasn’t sure what to make of him. He seemed to be a rather odd duck; he talked of treacherous things.
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