Metamorphosis 2.0 – a 200 word story

Wide awake, Gregor lay paralyzed in bed. Moonlight fell across his body. He watched the skin on his chest wriggle unnaturally, bubbling up, finally splitting into an inch-long gash. Blood flowed across raw flesh. Pain filled him utterly. As the cockroach pushed its way out of the hole and crawled across his chest, the screams echoed loudly only in his mind.

\\ Test unit 5yk77 has moved off mission.  Report.
// 5yk77 has left post, is not found.
\\ Continue without unit.
// Understood.

Gregor woke that morning changed. There was no wound, no evidence of anything but nightmare. Yet he could not shake the feeling that he was not alone in his skin. He went about his days feeling things moving inside him. His muscles would move of their own volition. His bones itched. His blood slowed. He felt madness growing inside him pushing his passengers to the surface.

// Mission compromised.   
// 5yk77 has caused presence fugue in subject.
\\ Abort.
// Understood.

Gregor stumbled and fell into an alley. Limbs shaking uncontrollably, his heart skipped, then slowed. His jaw locked open. As his life faded, roaches poured out of his mouth, scattering into the darkness.

Abandoning the ship.

Voted Off The Island – a 200 word story.

John dropped to the ground, a red, ragged hole where his eye used to be. The host lowered his pistol, eyes and hands calm, a hint of a smile on his lips. Suddenly, we were playing a whole other reality show game than the one we had signed up for.

“You voted him off the island, but I’m afraid he’s going to be around for a little while yet. Enjoy.”

He walked away, leaving the rest of the cast shocked, terrified, and suddenly suspicious of every sound, every person. There would be no more alliances, no more tribes, no more friends. There would only be survival.

They stopped delivering food after John died. By the time anyone put two and two together, Liz, Brandon, Adam, and Michael were gone, buried in our makeshift graveyard.

“We’re not supposed to bury them,” Steven said the night Michael died. No one would look at him. We all knew the truth, and hated the fucker for saying it out loud.

The vote to send Steven “off the island” was unanimous. When the torch was extinguished, we all looked at Steven. Desperate. Haunted. Hungry. As the host raised his gun every one of us was salivating.

“We don’t use the ‘Z’ word” – a 200 word story

Of COURSE I had a will when I died.  Left everything to my wife.  She doesn’t want anything to do with me now.  Guess I can’t blame her.   Comets pass the Earth all the goddamn time, and don’t do anything but give cults a reason to off themselves.  How the fuck was I supposed to know this one’s different?

Shit, I’m just glad I went from a damned heart attack.  I don’t smell too pretty, but at least I’ve got an intact brain.  There’s a reason you don’t see too many accident victims or stroke patients looking to get back into the world.  A little too close to the Romero standard, y’know?

Anyway, now that the dead are back and looking for work, they’re taking all the jobs that the illegals and high school kids used to take.  Well, not fast food.  We’ve got some standards.  The guy that owns this place, his kid drowned in their pool, so he’s got some sympathy for us Post-Mortem Americans.

So that’s my story.  Now, unless you want me to eat your brains, I humbly suggest you buy your smokes and lottery tickets and get the fuck out.  Thanks for shopping at Z-Mart.