# 6/30/09 - The Dead Don't Die



## Tiamat (Jun 30, 2009)

Welcome to yet another round of the LM Challenge.  Here's your prompt everyone:
_
*The Dead Don't Die*

In no more than 500 words, write a story based on the phrase 'The Dead Don't Die'.  It could be comical, inspirational, depressing, frightening--the sky's the limit.

Thanks to Like A Fox for the prompt!_ _(And thanks to everyone who told me I was off my trolley with remarkable speed.  Kudos to you!)_

Submissions may only be posted in this thread or in the thread provided in the Writers' Workshop (you must provide a link to your submission in this thread if you opt to use the Writers' Workshop). Everyone is welcome to participate. Note: Judges are welcome to participate, but their entries cannot receive a score.

Submissions will be accepted until midnight my time (EDT) on July 14th.
The judging will be from July 15th - July 21st.
The results will be posted on or before July 22nd.

Best of luck, everyone!

The judges for this round are:
alanmt
Like A Fox
Tom
Myself


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## The Backward OX (Jul 1, 2009)

I had been looking forward to the announcement of this round as I had an idea for an entry.

Now I see what you've posted here, and all I can say is you're off your trolley. 

And it's not just me. I called in The Oracle and read your post to her, and she supports me 100% - there's no possible connection between the dead not dying and Clooney's teeth.

Maybe you've been out in the sun too long. 


Why not ask around? Ask those who voted? See what they say.


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## The Backward OX (Jul 1, 2009)

...


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## cyberspecter (Jul 1, 2009)

I'm with the OX. My understanding was that The Dead Don't Die and the celebrity thing were two different suggestions.


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## Robosquad (Jul 1, 2009)

So am I, like, supposed to write a story about Tom Hanks' embarrassing teen years as a zombie hunter or is that just a mistake?

I'll still totally do it, but describing his prom date's lust for brains in five-hundred words is going to be a real bitch.


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## Like a Fox (Jul 1, 2009)

Hey Tia, I think there might have been a bit of miscommunication.
I see now why you thought I'd only posted two suggestions, where I posted three. The title _The Dead Don't Die_ was actually totally separate to the famous person concept.

Now I'm not sure that it matters, and because I'm judging, not entering, I especially don't mind if it stays this way. But I have a feeling that those who voted wanted the open title. Not the concept. And I think the poosibilities are better if it's open.

Anyways, your call. I propose making it open and if someone wants to tie the celebrity thing in, then more power to 'em.


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## Robosquad (Jul 1, 2009)

Some are born into fame. Some rise up through the dirt and take it through grit and determination. For others still, fame is torn from the decaying jaws of zombie marauders. Tom Hanks was such a man, and he would never forget those days before his acclaimed acting career. They were days of shyness, days of discovery, and above all, days of killing what simply refused to die.

Tom was as nervous as any young teenager would be as he approached the door of his cherished highschool crush, flowers in hand and a question poised on his lips. "Will you go to prom with me?" wound its way through his head, searching for a way to escape. And against all better judgment, he decided to let it free on the doorstep of Cynthia Stephenson.

When she opened the door, Tom knew immediately that something was wrong. His throat closed shut and sweat trickled down his neck. Yet it was not the usual visceral joy at the sight of her that prompted the reaction. This time it was fear. His shyness drifted away as he beheld her ghastly, greenish pallor. Oozing chunks of raw flesh traveled down her cheek, her teeth gleaming and bare against bloody, tattered gums. 

"E-excuse me," Tom stuttered, displaying none of the confidence or terrible hair that would mark his celebrity years. "I was wondering if you might, if you're not too busy - "

He didn't have a chance to finish before Cynthia had lunged at him with maggot-ridden arms. Tom could see her exposed vocal chords emit a single, gasping sound.

"Braaaaaains."

His path was clear.

-------------------

Honestly, it's a bit of a difficult prompt and that's as far as I could manage for now. I don't think the theme of moral decay in an impersonal society is developed enough, but I suppose I have more time to work on it.


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## Tiamat (Jul 1, 2009)

Honestly, I wondered about that myself.  Blarg.  I'll fix it.  Thanks everyone, for being more on the ball than me.


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## Like a Fox (Jul 1, 2009)

** not necessary to derail this thread anymore


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## alanmt (Jul 3, 2009)

*Judge's entry: 500 words*

*A Tale of the Christ*

“Am I to kill him again, then?” asked the Centurian.

“The dead don’t die,” replied the Governor, “But with a little care, his ability to cause trouble will.”

Another Centurian, Quintus Sirianus, passing in the courtyard below, overheard the exchange and paused, listening.

“How so?” asked the first Centurian.

“These zealots love a martyr,” explained the Governor. “On death, they will make a teacher into a prophet, a demagogue into a messiah. To prevent this, one must demystify the death.”

“Nothing mystical about a common crucifixion,” said the Centurian.

“Take legionnaires to the tomb,” the Governor ordered. “Arrest any men trying to incite riot. Announce that this man had died while infected with plague. Retrieve his decomposing body as a matter of public health. Display it, under guard, for two days, then burn it. The reality of his rot will dispel the mystery of his death. The fear of disease will disperse his mourners.”

Quintus Sirianus, eyes shiny with tears, moved swiftly from the courtyard, his errand forgotten. The dead man had been the Son of God. He had seen it. Had not this prophet saved the life of Demetrios, his Greek _hetairos, _the youth who had enslaved the Centurian’s heart? Once free of the Palace, the Roman began to run.

* * *

Demetrios looked up in alarm as Quintus burst into the atrium, winded.

“What is wrong, my master?”

“The Governor intends to desecrate the body of Jesus, and arrest his mourners.”

“No!” cried Demetrios.

“I will warn them,” continued Quintus. “Please! You must delay Centurian Vibius, who will pass outside with legionnaires on his way to the tomb.” He pulled Demetrios to him by the shoulders for a breathless kiss, and ran back into the street.

* * * 

“Centurian Vibius, please come inside. I have an urgent message for you from my Master, Centurian Quintus Sirianus.”

The Centurian stared at the golden youth in front of him. 

“I am on the Governor’s business. This had better be important.” He turned to the Legionnaires. “Wait here.”

Quintus was not in the house.

“Where is he? What is his message?”

Demetrios kneeled before the soldier.

“My Master’s cohort is being sent to Sidon. As a gift for your friendship, he has offered me to you for this afternoon.” The slave put his hand on the Roman’s calf, and slid it up his muscled leg. He looked up, eyes half-lidded and chest heaving slightly.

“May I serve you, Centurian?”

* * * 
Two hours later, Vibius emerged from the house of Quintus Sirianus. 

“Let us proceed!” he ordered. 

No one was at the tomb. The rock had been moved. The tomb was empty. The body was gone. 

As the Centurian returned to the Governer’s Palace, he was accosted by a jubilant boy.

“Did you hear? Of the miracle?”

“What miracle?”

“Jesus is risen from the dead! He ascended to heaven to sit at the right hand of God!”

The Centurian frowned.

“No good will come of this,” he muttered.


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## cyberspecter (Jul 3, 2009)

I've put my entry here: 

http://www.writingforums.com/writer...llenge-6-30-09-dead-dont-die.html#post1294072


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## Leyline (Jul 4, 2009)

*Butterfly-Shaped Objects *
*by George Potter *​ 
_(489 words)_


It was a gift, they said, that let her see the quiet, sun drenched field as a rolling, primal sea. An artistic world view that heralded great things and a bright future. The wild green grass and sudden bursts of flowers became breaking waves and tiny coral islands.  

She was only seven when they noticed her strangeness. Charming at first, delightful almost. As she aged, it became mundane, then tiresome and finally disturbing. It began young, that separation from the normal children.  

It was a curse, they decided, to see the same field as a disguised piece of mechanical trickery, a violent beach head in an invasion from some strange universe next door. The drifting pollen was a secret weapon, she swore. The swarming butterflies were clever robots, designed to charm while they spied upon the ignorant. 

Special classes and tutors and doctors and tests came next. Why could the world not simply be the world, her well intentioned tormentors asked her, again and again? Why could a field not simply be a field, a butterfly a pretty sight on a pleasant spring day? 

"Because that would be a lie"," was the only answer she could give. Because that was the only answer that was true. 

"They're not angels or animals or insects," she informed her interviewers. "They're _objects_." Her voice steadily dwindled to a determined whisper. "The dead don't die," she assured them. "They just hide from the light and the sight of the judgmental. The living don't live -- they just keep moving out of habit."  

It was madness, they concluded, that let her see different worlds in between each blink. That conjured ghosts hidden beneath shadows and saw the living as sour creatures of mindless habit. The only solution was The Institute. 

She died young in captivity, barely a teenager, pining for the fantasia she saw in what was mere reality to the rest of the world. Died from lack of the chaos she loved and they thought she feared. 

They'd never see themselves as killers. Some lies are told too well, and believed too deeply. To them, good intentions trumped all and the world was always simply the world. It was an illusion they thought worth kidnapping and killing to maintain. 

They laid her to rest in a cemetery that bore more than a passing resemblance to that field of her childhood. They hid her from the sight of judgement on a lovely spring day. The service was short, and as they made their way to their cars they passed through the raging sea and all the pretty tools of invasion. A few imagined they could hear her laugh, there amidst the maybe and might have been.

And was it gift or curse or madness that let them note the passing of a cloud of butterflies, to hear the dim clockwork ticking of exquisite tiny springs and gears, and the secret soft flutter of plastic wings?


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## SparkyLT (Jul 6, 2009)

For Lack of a Better Name: http://www.writingforums.com/writer...llenge-6-30-09-dead-dont-die.html#post1294893


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## Yanlins (Jul 6, 2009)

He: http://www.writingforums.com/writer...llenge-6-30-09-dead-dont-die.html#post1294902


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## Robosquad (Jul 7, 2009)

My _real_ entry:​ 
-------------------------​ 
Playing Dead (500 words)​ 
Kevin rolled over in his box, overwhelmed by the scent of rotting flesh. It hung over him like a cloud, uniquely tracing his steps. Looking in the mirror that morning he was certain he had seen faint green lines waft up from the ghastly pallor of his bloodless skin. No one would tell him, sure, but the odor and pale skin were there all the same. 

No one would acknowledge Kevin’s predicament because, he understood, it would be uncouth. He couldn’t have expected the grocery bagger to look up with his pimpled face and say, “Excuse me, sir, you’ve left a bit of decayed tissue on the register,” even if his nervous grin had betrayed such a thought. Kevin’s condition was to remain, frustratingly, necessarily, unspoken. Not one set of lips but his own would allow the truth to cross them: Kevin was dead. And yet he still walked.

He understood all too well that the dead never truly left the Earth. It was why he still felt a flutter and smelled perfume when he peered into photographs of his grandmother. It was why young men grew old and became images of their fathers. Had Kevin done that? His father, he knew, had never held a picture of his deceased mother and seen a reflection less alive than the contents of the frame. 

When Kevin died the idea had become twisted, literal. He did not walk the dreamscape of savored memories as normal. Instead he continued unacknowledged and unassuming among the living. The doctor had given it a name, but it was difficult to remember. Cordant’s syndrome? Corlette’s? Cotard’s? The string of consonants was harsh, and Kevin’s tongue was so much oozing mush. 

Still, he remembered the meaning. Walking corpse delusion. He had looked from his coffin-like chair around the brown, dreary room, taken in the lifeless potted plants and ever-encased diplomas. Honing in on the doctor’s sagging face and pale skin, Kevin had thought that maybe he was dead as well. 

Maybe there were a whole lot of them, these Cortons or whatever. Maybe they were all waiting to talk to each other. Maybe they were important. Maybe, he thought, you only had to die to find out. Really die. Stop walking, stop eating, and stop pretending to be a human being. Then everyone could say, “Yeah, Kevin. You were dead and we were playing. Let us know what the other Corties people say.”

So Kevin had built his box, six-by-two out of wood and nails, and laid it in his living room. It took the last of his withered muscles' strength, but he wouldn’t need them anymore. In his box he could lay and sleep and wake up in a place where the dead were simply dead. He had played the part of living so well he had forgotten the next step. Now was the time to cast aside all former visages. It was merely, the dead man thought, a matter of changing roles.


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## Crazed Scribe (Jul 9, 2009)

The Living Don't Live


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## edropus (Jul 13, 2009)

Poc's gonna kill someone.

The note he left on the outside of my door says "Went for kill J.S. at 1500". My watch says 2:43, so I've got about 15 minutes to find him. There's no nail or tack holding the note up, it's just plastered to the wood grain with something sticky, just like the hundreds of other notes sprawled across my door. I try to shake the feeling that if I step back while looking at them I'll fall to some deep place; it's the same feeling I get when doing anything related to Poc.

The streets are mostly empty, three-story brownstones perched on the edges of the narrow sidewalks, forcing people out into the road. Mary's on the stoop, drinking coffee and hacking thumb-sized pucks of tar and lung tissue onto the sidewalk. It's tough stuff, and no amount of rain or bacteria will clear it from the concrete.

"See the note?" She asks, and smokes, and hacks, and spits.

I tell her that I'd just seen it now, and that I'm on my way to find Poc. I ask her if she's seen him.

"I have better shit to do. Fuck that bum. You find him, he's your friend."

Poc won't leave the block, so it doesn't take me long to find him, huddled in a doorway, cradling the same gallon of milk he's been drinking for the last week and a half in his arms. I start to whistle as loud as I can and stomp my feet and clap and generally make as much noise as I can at one time with my whole body.

We sit for a few minutes, Poc rocking forward now and then to peer around the corner at the sidewalk beyond.

"Soon." He whispers.

I ask him who we're waiting for.

"Jack. Kill Jack."

I check my watch, then ask about Jack.

Poc looks right at me, searching for and immediately finding what he's looking for. "Shadow man. Like Poc. Two left, kill before eat our fingers. To save us."

To Poc, today is tomorrow is yesterday; the day he signed up for the service is the same day he arrived home, brothers gone, mother gone, father there but truly gone with the rest of them. Jack had told me most of this, though some of it I'd gathered over the months when I'd let Poc stay with me, before the burning hair stink and his irradiating warmth forced me to kick him back onto the streets. How Jack knows I'm not sure; Poc insists that they were in Kampong Chhnang together but if that's true then Jack should be in his sixties.

Jack never shows. Poc weeps against me until he falls asleep. I prop him up against the stoop and buy a new gallon of milk and leave it next to him.  His face is peaceful; dreaming of the jungle, invisible and hidden in the past, where his haunting dead have not yet died, so stay in their graves.


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## Pawn (Jul 14, 2009)

[an]Not an entry, just what came to mind.[/an]
The morning of my death found me in a strangely philosophical mood. The sky had gone quite white, and the birds ceased chirping. There was a stillness to the air, as if that room were the eye of some inscrutable storm, an entity vast and quietly malignant, as unthinking and immune in its perambulations as a giant God fallen slowly from heaven. I looked down without indignation at the gaping maw that had once been my chest, traced the contours of the wound gingerly with my outstretched fingers, and felt nothing much like anything. Where once my nipples had extended - at some times, admittedly, more than others - there was now only a sharp cliff face, stretching down from the plains of my mottled skin to the exposed dull crimson flesh beneath. Walking that ridge with my middle finger, I was reminded of my childhood, of the eroding seafront at Dunwich, where once monasteries had dwelt in throngs, and of the unleashed mutt that from time to time I had led there. I recalled the ester stench of pear drops, little chemical candies stored in glass jars above the counters of local shops, and of the recalling could think only that it was a strange thing to recall, that particular thing, at this time, being dead.


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## eggo (Jul 15, 2009)

Here's my entry;




Not Quite


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## Tiamat (Jul 15, 2009)

That's it, everyone.  This LM is officially closed.  Judges, you're up!


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