A Long Winter's Fright: 13 FREE YA Holiday Poems & Stories

A Long Winter’s Fright:

  13 FREE Holiday Poems & Stories

  By Rusty Fischer, author of Zombies Don’t Cry

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  A Long Winter’s Fright

  Rusty Fischer

  Copyright 2012 by Rusty Fischer

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  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously. (You know, except for the parts about the zombies, vampires and werewolves – they’re totally true!)

  Cover credit: © zzzdim – Fotolia.com

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  Author’s Note

  The following is a collection of 13 FREE undead short stories.

  Any errors, typos, grammar or spelling issues are completely the fault of the zombies, with a little help from the vampires this year. (And don’t even get me started on how the werewolves feel about the whole editorial process, either!)

  Anyway, I hope you can overlook any minor errors you may find; enjoy!

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  Introduction

  I’ve always enjoyed a good scare over the holidays.

  How about you?

  I hope so, because A Long Winter’s Fright contains thirteen of my most popular, most FREE poems and stories about zombies, vampires and, now, with a little extra werewolf thrown in for good measure. (Okay, a LOT of extra werewolf thrown in for good measure!)

  So curl up by the fire, grab a little blood wine or a brain smoothie, and enjoy these not-so-sweet holiday treats!

  * * * * *

  Zombies Don’t Trick or Treat:

  A Living Dead Halloween Poem

  The zombies were out

  For a fun, festive night;

  There were goblins and ghouls

  And witches in sight.

  Over there was a demon

  His legs warm as toast;

  Down that street’s a pumpkin

  Down that one’s a ghost.

  No, it wasn’t Armageddon

  Or a monster’s pot luck;

  It was the one mortal night

  That didn’t quite… suck!

  That’s right, little ghosties

  It was… Halloween;

  The creepiest, crawliest

  Living dead scene!

  Poor Chester was frightened

  He was new to this town;

  And ever since dying

  Poor Chester’d been down.

  He wasn’t quite used

  To being undead;

  If he had his way

  He’d be living… instead.

  His friends liked being zombies

  They found it quite cool;

  But all Chester felt

  Was like one giant fool!

  He hated his hairdo

  He hated his skin;

  He hated the fact

  That he could no longer grin.

  His legs they were stiff

  His arms were quite chilly;

  And stumbling around

  Just made Chester feel… silly.

  Tonight might be different

  Poor Chester agreed;

  As he watched other kids

  Look as foolish as he.

  For each one looked goofy

  For each one looked grim;

  For each one looked not

  Quite much better than… him!

  “But where are they going?”

  He asked of a bud;

  Who looked at him like

  He had the IQ of a spud.

  “They’re all trick or treating,”

  Was the answer he gave;

  “Or have you forgotten,

  Since you rose from the grave?”

  “I seem to recall,”

  Little Chester did say;

  “Of begging for candy

  On Halloween day.”

  “Let’s give it a try,”

  His buddy made it sound like a synch;

  “Chocolate’s not as good as brains

  But it’ll do in a pinch.”

  Chester shrugged

  And followed his friend;

  As they shuffled and groaned

  Up the long driveway’s end.

  The lawn was festooned

  With orange and black;

  The setting quite ripe

  For a zombie attack!

  The young man who stood

  At his cozy front door;

  Thought the zombies on his porch

  Wore costumes; nothing more.

  He smiled,

  They shuffled;

  He sniffed

  And he snuffled.

  “I quite love your costumes,”

  He said with a smile.

  “But your breath I smelled coming

  For more than a mile!”

  When the man tried to offer

  A bowl full of candy;

  All Chester could smell

  Was his brain oh-so-dandy.

  He reached for the bowl

  But dropped it instead;

  And as the man bent to catch it

  Clamped onto his head.

  “But why?” asked the man

  Squealing in pain;

  “Why bother with candy,” Chester said

  “When my treat is… your brain!”

  * * * * *

  The Werewolf’s Halloween Costume:

  A Werewolf Trick or Treat Story

  “I’m just gonna put this out there now,” I murmur as I pull away from his curb, Topher riding shotgun in his standard crisp black jeans and matching v-neck t-shirt, “but… I am so not impressed with your costume this year.”

  Forget Halloween, dude wears the same damn thing every single day and must do six loads of laundry every week because they always look brand spanking new.

  Topher smiles his cheesy, knowing grin and says, “Trust me, Rain; you’re not ready for my Halloween costume.”

  I make that annoying scary movie “ooooohhhhh” sound, waving my fingers above the steering wheel dramatically as I roll down Mott Street.

  “Why, are you going as a male stripper and have to do a pole dance at every door because, seriously, that’s about the only thing would impress me at this point.”

  He smirks but I turn away slightly to hide the sudden blush that’s blossomed from my throat to my forehead.

  (Whoa, where did that come from?)

  He shakes his head, unruly black curls doing their unruly black curly thing. “Hey, at least I don’t cop out completely and wear one of those cheesy ‘This IS My Costume’ T-shirts like you know Braxton’s going to.”

  I shake my head, limp chestnut hair not doing much but staying in place as I cruise over to the wrong-ish side of town to pick up Braxton. “Yeah, well, at least the dude’s trying. This is… just… pitiful.”

  I make a kind of half-hearted gesture with my free hand toward the passenger seat where Topher is reclining, smiling, fiddling with the simple crystal pendant he always wears, the one tied loosely around his graceful neck with a cheap leather thong.

  As if remembering he’s not driving himself, Topher finally looks over and chuckles.

  “I’m pitiful?” he barks, leaning back against the passenger seat door to get a better look. “I’m pitiful? What do you call… that?”

  The way he’s eyeing me up and down, from toenails to earlobes, I’m assuming “that” is my costume.

  You know, what there is of it.

  “I’m supposed to be a French maid,” I say, sliding my little feather duster out from the cu
p holder in the door panel and waving it, wand-like, in the air for emphasis.

  “Since when did the French start hiring hookers to clean their houses?”

  He laughs at his own joke, but won’t stop looking just the same.

  Part of me hates him right now; part of me really, really wants him to keep looking.

  My face goes pink again and he says, softer this time, “I’m sorry, Rain, it’s just… I’ve never seen so… much… of you before.”

  The pumpkin beer I’d snatched from Dad’s cooler before I left the house just now has me feeling slightly frisky so I purr, “What… are you complaining?”

  “Actually,” he says, sounding vaguely shocked. “No. I kind of like it.”

  “Yeah, well,” I snort, focusing on my driving since I’ve been kind of distracted for the last few minutes, “let’s just hope the judges like it.”

  “What judges?” he asks lazily, like he does everything else.

  “Seriously, Topher? The judges at the costume party we’re going to tonight. For Halloween, remember? We’ve only talked about this for, like, the last sixteen lunch periods straight.”

  He looks a little miffed, whether at me or just at himself I’m not quite sure.

  “Well, why didn’t you remind me?” he whines a little, shaking those short little curls. “I would’ve actually, you know, worn something!”

  “It’s too late now,” I grunt, pulling into Braxton’s grody apartment building, dodging kids playing football in the parking lot and dumpsters still left out from trash day. “Hopefully Braxton will pull out all the stops and… nope… there he is, and he’s—”

  “Wearing the same ‘This IS My Halloween Costume’ T-shirt as last year,” Topher smiles, getting out and climbing in back to give Braxton and his 260-pounds the shotgun seat, as usual.

  “Nice costume,” Braxton wheezes as he hoists himself in.

  “What’s it to you?” Topher bluffs from behind our seats as I help Braxton buckle himself in.

  Braxton and I share a look before he turns around and says, “We were going to try and win that prize money and split it, remember?”

  “No,” Topher says quietly, our eyes meeting in the rearview mirror as I wait for traffic to die down so I can get back on the road. “I honestly don’t.”

  Braxton shakes his head, long blond hair coming down to the shoulders of his size XXL Halloween shirt. “A hundred bucks each would really help out right about now, you know Topher?”

  “The grand prize for the Costume Contest is $300 this year?” Topher asks, and I swear it’s like he’s hearing this for the very first time.

  Braxton and I share another glance, but say nothing.

  “Come on,” Topher suddenly urges as we come out the other side of the Cedar Cove Arms apartment complex. “Let’s swing by the drug store and see if they have anything good left. We can totally still win that money.”

  “What do you care?” I harrumph, turning in the opposite direction toward the community center on Maple Street.

  His brown eyes are pleading in the rearview mirror as I meet them again. “Honestly, guys, I totally forgot all about the grand prize. Come on, let’s—”

  “It’s too late anyway,” says Braxton, chewing on a breath mint from his pocket. “The Rotary Club won’t let you in after 7, costume or no, so…”

  As if on cue, we all look at the digital clock above my busted dashboard radio: we don’t even have ten minutes to spare, and the drug store is in the totally opposite direction.

  Topher goes silent as the community center suddenly rolls into view.

  “I don’t know why you’re suddenly freaking out now,” says Braxton, chewing on mint number four. “You had all week to get ready.”

  “You too,” Topher shoots back.

  Braxton rolls his eyes. “You know how hard it is to find a costume in my size? Besides, I spent all week helping Rain with her hooker costume.”

  “French maid,” I remind the two of them as Topher finally cracks a smile from the backseat.

  As I cruise around the crowded parking lot, hoping to find a spot somewhere within the same time zone, Braxton turns to Topher and asks, “What’s got you so distracted this year, anyway?”

  I slow down and sneak a peek at non-costume boy just as Topher shrugs and replies, “Halloween’s falling on a full moon this year.”

  “Doesn’t it always?” Braxton huffs, turning back around and pointing to a free space clear at the edge of the parking lot.

  “Have you ever tried hiking three miles in four-inch heels?” I bark, turning around for another pass. “There will be one closer.”

  “Only in movies,” Topher insists. “This is the first time there’s been a full moon on Halloween since, well…”

  But I’m too busy trying to find a good space to hear the distress in Topher’s voice, and Braxton’s chewing so loud on the last of his breath mints – please, let it be the last of his breath mints – that I can barely hear him anyway.

  I finally find a spot – not really, but what are they gonna do, tow a 12-year-old Datsun on Halloween? – on a slim patch of grass by the grease trap behind the Community Center.

  We climb out of the tiny car and stretch our backs at the same time.

  Around us stream much cooler kids with tons better costumes, and suddenly all chances of cashing in on that 300 buck prize go right out the window.

  Sure, Topher looks statuesque in his daily black getup and matching curls, but it’s not a hot body contest, you know?

  And me?

  I feel suddenly ridiculous in my skimpy French maid costume, particularly considering the chill in the air and how it’s washing across my mostly bare derriere.

  Yes, there’s a frilly black skirt covering my butt cheeks and, of course, the obligatory fish net stockings up and down my long legs but for a girl who’s used to about 22 more “layers” on a regular school day, I might as well be skinny dipping (minus the pool).

  As they have before school, and during school, and after school ever since we started hanging out together freshman year, the boys flank me; Topher on my right, Baxter on my left.

  “I’m sorry I forgot,” Topher whispers as a walking shower curtain passes by, a shoo-in for the Most Creative Prize. “I just… I’ve had a lot on my mind this month.”

  “It’s okay,” I say as we wait for Baxter to grab a pumpkin spice cocoa from a booth by the ticket window. “It’s not for me so much I’m trying to win, but… I know Bax is trying to fix his laptop and he’s having a hard time getting that last hundred bucks together, you know?”

  Topher nods, gravely, a pained look on his face.

  “No worries,” I chuckle, nudging him. “A few more weeks without being online 24-7 won’t kill the guy. Heck, it might even do him some good.”

  “No,” he sighs, fingering his crystal necklace nervously. “I know how much that computer means to him. I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have been so selfish.”

  I lean into him then, the black fabric of my frilly short skirt rustling against the stiff denim of his jeans. “I’d hardly call flaking on your Halloween costume selfish, dude. We’re just kidding with you.”

  “I’m not,” Baxter winks, handing us each a hot chocolate. “I was really counting on that dough. If we don’t win, Topher, I’m going to start crashing with you and using your computer.”

  Topher and I groan as I pay our way in.

  The Community Center is decked out gaily with black and orange streamers and blinking orange lights in every available nook and cranny.

  There are plastic skeletons hanging from the rafters and black rats stuck on every beam and a wisp of fog from a machine humming near the kitchen wafts across everyone’s feet.

  Kids from school cluster in groups along the (fake) cobweb-covered walls, as if we’re all sitting back in the cafeteria at Cedar Cove High.

  But it’s not a school function so there are grownups mingling as well, most of them decked out in standard costumes
plucked straight from the racks of the nearest Mart: there’s a husband and wife decked out like mustard and ketchup squeezers, a guy wearing a giant whoopee cushion and, of course, a dozen or more Jasons, Michaels and Ghostfaces from Scream.

  “You might have a shot after all, Rain,” Topher says, breath sweet like cocoa and nutmeg and warm as he leans in a little closely.

  “Yeah,” Baxter groans, pointing across the room at a cluster of clingy, leggy chicks from school. “You and the three other French Maids here tonight.”

  Sure enough, Molly Simmons, Caroline Gecko and Tracy Pollack all chose to wear matching French Maid getups, each one looking hotter than the last – and way hotter than me.

  I turn around and head straight for the snack table, Topher and Braxton racing to catch up.

  We feast on walnut peanut butter cookies and frozen apple ciders as spooky, scary songs mixed to a syntho-beat turn the covered basketball court into a frantic dance floor where giant ketchup containers dance with whoopee cushions and sexy Snow Whites.

  “Careful,” Braxton warns around a mouth full of peanut butter bars, “you have to be able to fit in that costume at least until the contest’s over.”