by Tracy Davidson
My arms ache from swinging the scythe so often. Must have decapitated fifty already today, and it’s not even lunchtime.
They outnumber us now. Most human survivors shelter offshore. Zombies don’t seem to like oceans. But I’m still a hundred miles from the nearest coast.
Dammit, here’s another one, drooling at the sight of flesh. My scythe’s by the door. I throw the nearest object, running for my weapon. But don’t need it. The zombie’s head melts away.
A salt cellar? Salt! No wonder they avoid oceans.
I stock up. I’m gonna make it after all. Maybe we all will.
Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.