Norman Riot
My sweat glands expand like a golf course, each pore widening as the beads score bogeys.
The ones that miss, creep down my face as they navigate themselves towards my neck. The
wet patches dry, then become wet again, reminding me how high I climbed tonight. I’m glued
to the dining room chair, as are my friends, and we have ourselves a zombie meeting. The girl
across from me has a scalp made from fungus. I’m attracted to the speed she decays, and the
price tag on the fancy powder we consumed. We laugh when the funny salt stings like
pepper, and then we freeze again in our zombie meeting. The boy on the other side of the
kitchen has a sound box. He takes twenty minutes to plug it in, twenty minutes to resurrect a
neon pulse at the push of a button. We wail at the sound of helicopter blades in a blender as
we gasp for air. Some of the zombies leave the scene for liquorice dipped in sherbet. The
spores consume the girl as she excretes airborne powders into my lungs. I begin to chance a
balancing act on the edge of wooden beams as I climb onto the table. The zombies in the
room encourage me to walk towards the end – over the pit of corpses that lurk beyond the
void. There is movement at the bottom of the abyss, zombies eating fleas. One girl opens a
window and it starts to snow. I begin to lose my balance. I stretch out to a fetal crawl on my
hands and knees as the cold reddens them. The room is different from before. There are no
more spores or neon lights. I can smell my friends as they attempt to dance – their movement
creates gusts of wind motivated to push me off the end of the wooden plank. When I reach
the end, my nostrils are clear of snow, and I inhale a concentrated dose of air. This is where
zombies meet.
The ones that miss, creep down my face as they navigate themselves towards my neck. The
wet patches dry, then become wet again, reminding me how high I climbed tonight. I’m glued
to the dining room chair, as are my friends, and we have ourselves a zombie meeting. The girl
across from me has a scalp made from fungus. I’m attracted to the speed she decays, and the
price tag on the fancy powder we consumed. We laugh when the funny salt stings like
pepper, and then we freeze again in our zombie meeting. The boy on the other side of the
kitchen has a sound box. He takes twenty minutes to plug it in, twenty minutes to resurrect a
neon pulse at the push of a button. We wail at the sound of helicopter blades in a blender as
we gasp for air. Some of the zombies leave the scene for liquorice dipped in sherbet. The
spores consume the girl as she excretes airborne powders into my lungs. I begin to chance a
balancing act on the edge of wooden beams as I climb onto the table. The zombies in the
room encourage me to walk towards the end – over the pit of corpses that lurk beyond the
void. There is movement at the bottom of the abyss, zombies eating fleas. One girl opens a
window and it starts to snow. I begin to lose my balance. I stretch out to a fetal crawl on my
hands and knees as the cold reddens them. The room is different from before. There are no
more spores or neon lights. I can smell my friends as they attempt to dance – their movement
creates gusts of wind motivated to push me off the end of the wooden plank. When I reach
the end, my nostrils are clear of snow, and I inhale a concentrated dose of air. This is where
zombies meet.
Norman Riot is a queer writer of horror and weird fiction who has recently finished their master of arts degree in Creative Writing from the University of Lincoln. Norman got his name from his imaginary friend Dr. Norman who used to follow him around as a child. Norman was a former editor for The Lincoln Review and his work will be featured in the forthcoming issue of Speakeasy Magazine. Norman's debut chapbook will be published in the winter by Naked Cat Literary Magazine.
