Andrew Girle's Blog

Crime and Speculative Fiction Blooking

Curse you, Writing Excuses!

Posted by Andrew Girle on May 23, 2012

Listening to an old Writing Excuses podcast today, there was a writing prompt. I’m not always one for jumping on a writing prompt, but this time it was too intriguing to NOT try. The prompt? To write a story from the point of view of an undead soldier in a shambling horde. WITHOUT using the word ‘BRAAAAIIIINNNNSSS’.

 

So here we go!

XXX

The worst part of being dead is trying to pick up chicks in bars.

It’s not like I’ve got rotting flesh hanging off me. That all went thirty, maybe forty years ago when my whole horde got hit with a fireball. Sure cleaned my old bones right up, gave them a great polish. And where is that meddling do-gooder wizard now? Who cares? Not me, that’s for sure.

But even when I give the old parietal bone a good rub with some floor wax and a soft cloth, there’s not a single woman that gives me a second look. It’s dead-ism, that’s what it is. It’s outright discrimination against the dead of the species. Dead guys need love too, y’know.

I suppose it can be a little off-putting for some people. I do the best I can. When I put on a good robe, I can cut quite a fetching figure. I mean, everyone dresses up, don’t they? True, it can be difficult to look me in the eye sockets, but at least I have plenty of coin. I realise the coins usually come in pairs, but there is a good reason for that; just don’t ask. You probably don’t want to know.

Back when I was still alive, I read somewhere that chicks go for funny guys. I can absolutely call bullshit on that. It’s not like I’m not a funny guy. I’ve got a lifetime of funny stories. And even more from afterwards. I mean, there was the time when we were besieging some castle made of white marble, way up in the hills. This psycho priest got in amongst us, and set off some kind of blasting ritual. We ended up scattered all over the place for years. Eventually the next Dark Lord came along and reanimated us, and I ended up with a jawbone from old Gustav, and a hand from Angus. You don’t think that’s funny? Well, you obviously never met those two. They hated each other, and I spent the rest of my time in THAT horde punching myself in the face.

See? You smiled that time. I’m an expert on grins.

I had a kid tell me I tell Dead Jokes.

Dead jokes? Dad jokes? It was a pun, get it?

Oh come on, it wasn’t that bad.

Where are you going? Come back! Please?

Bugger.

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