Famous Last Words

It's a Family Addiction
by Robert Baucom

Matt Schnarr

First Boy
by Denise Brown
Third Place Winner, Fiction

“Life is just filthy water, mucked up with guilt, goin’ down the drain.”

My grandfather said this before he died. With his last breath he uttered the word, “gravestone.” No one else understood, but I did. I didn’t know why that was the last sentence out of his mouth, but I knew why he said gravestone.

They didn’t believe me. Stood to reason, I was the least favorite of the grandchildren. At the funeral my Aunt Jane read the eulogy. At the end of it, she began to name off the beloved family of my Grandfather; my name wasn’t in there. The dog, Spike, even Spike was on that list. If the cat hadn’t been run over by my grandmother, may she rest in peace; it would have been on the list as well.

After the coffin was lowered into the ground everyone put a shovel scoop’s worth of dirt over it. By the time it was my turn, the dirt pile next to the grave was nothing more than matted splotches between blades of grass; this closely resembled my feelings of “compassion” towards my family; I kept the shovel.

After everyone piled into their limousines they went to the after party. Modern day mourning only exists with a hangover; or cocktail shrimps and the like. I didn’t bother going, I slept in the car; I needed all the sleep I could get before sunset.

An excerpt from the Encyclopedia

The first zombie to be recorded in history could technically be marked down as Lazarus, or maybe even Jesus Christ. But it was in fact, Mark Twain. No one knew he was actually buried beneath a New Orleans river bend Café. He was, and it nearly startled an English Major student to death when he popped out from underneath his table.
Mark Twain pulled himself from the earth partially decayed, and in a dirty suit. He dusted himself off and pulled a cigar from the mouth of a passing sophisticate; who, in turn, lit a match for Mr. Twain and pulled another cigar out for himself.
Seeing as George A. Romero had not yet made his documentaries of the undead no one knew what to expect; they certainly didn’t expect this as it at all.
Mark Twain took a puff, looked at the English Major, and said something about the lack of humanity in consuming human flesh; something about alcohol being the answer, and flesh and blood being the path to destruction.
“I was conceived before my parents were actually married,” he blew smoke out, and enjoyed its taste. “I was born before the doc said I would be.” He collapsed into the chair behind him and sighed, “so, it stands to reason that I’d come back a few years before a certain day of apocalyptic proportions.” He went on, but everyone remembered he was dead and paid no attention.
He put the cigar in the shocked English Major’s open mouth, patted his cheek, and re-entered the cold earth. He buried himself and never returned; he didn’t see immortality worth it enough to come back.

-Prof. Roger Leon
Ph.D. Modern History
pg. 103

That night

I stared at the mobile above my bed; little woodland critters hand carved from maple wood. I always liked watching the badger. I would make stories up in my head as a child, he was always the hero. He was always strong and courageous; that’s what I needed to be that night.

I had to leave. I would tell my parents what I planned to, but my father would respond as most fathers would: “It’s past eight, sport, the dead have risen. We’ll go out in the morning and throw the ol’pigskin around.”

It couldn’t wait till morning. It needed to be done that night. I quickly made a martini, dropped an olive in it and rushed out the door shovel in hand. My grandfather made a chisel from the lower half of a railroad spike, sharpened and placed in a handle carved from oak; total, it was about a foot and half long. It was neatly crafted into the head of a stag, and spread with dark varnish. It hung diagonally from the back of my belt.

I placed the martini by a large crack in our wooden fence, the last defense against the undead. I jumped the fence and reached through the crack for the martini. I turned around. I stared at all the grave stones; the entire countryside had become a graveyard. We don’t really need the land for much else; mankind hadn’t left their houses for a few decades; mainly during the night. At night the grass would become dark green, almost black. The night sky would be smothered in dark grey clouds, clear enough to let the moonlight seep through.

I made my way to a gravestone labeled: “C.G.” I put the martini on top of it, and a hand with a maroon satin sleeve reached through the ground and grabbed at my ankle. I put the handle of the shovel out for it to get a grip on.

It grabbed it and I pulled out the revived cadaver of Cary Grant from his grave. He shook the dirt off of his maroon satin smoking jacket, burgundy silk pajamas, and slick dark brown slippers. He grabbed the martini, sipped at it, and looked at me.

He still spoke like he had cotton balls in his mouth; but he was completely discernable. “Thank you, it’s a little dry down there.” I loved the way he pronounced everything phonetically, thought out, yet fast and witty.

“It’s no problem Mr. Grant, really. It’s my pleasure.”

“Cary, come-on, call me Cary.” He’d told me a thousand times but I knew he loved to say it. “How’s the night so far?”

“It’s okay I guess, I have to chop my grandfather’s head off.”

He nearly choked on his drink, rubbed his throat, and stared at nothing in particular and then at me. “Charming.” I shrugged; he put a fake smile on. “Come on, kid, don’t go losing your head!” He slouched over and pointed at me with an open mouthed smile, he made a goofy laugh and hoped I’d return it; I didn’t, I started walking.

“It has to be done, plus, I owe him a favor.”

I walked past him. He was spaced out, again staring at nothing in particular. He realized I was a few gravestones away. “Can I walk with you?” He shouted to me. I shrugged and kept walking. He ran after me, making sure not to spill his drink. “What do you say to a little company?” He took a sip and swallowed. He looked at my shovel. “Why do you do it?”

“My grandfather did it, and I’m the only one that understands why.”

“Well, why?” He finished off the drink and ate the olive, grunting with satisfaction.

“Well I--“

He stopped me in my tracks. “You mount the head’s of the undead on your living room wall.” He smiled at his own genius, and slapped his hands together; he started making vocal music, “yah duh, dah dah…” and dancing in place. He stopped and looked at me, I was unimpressed, and not completely in the mood. He giggled, “Oh, no-no-no, go on.” I quirked an eyebrow, he kept encouraging me. “Go on, go on.”

“We can’t stop it from happening, but we can keep the ones we love where they should be.”

“In the grave…”

“At peace.”

We started walking again. He looked at me, “why haven’t you killed me?”

I stared at him through the corner of my eyes. “Yet.”

He stopped in his tracks and stared blankly ahead.

“Kidding.”

He gave me a sincere look, and his mouth cracked into a whimsical smile. “Aahhh, you got me. That was good.” He chuckled. “That was good.”

I hid a smile. “What was your life like before I gave you a martini?”

“My formula for living was simple. I got out of my grave at night, and buried myself again in the morning. In between, I occupied myself as best I could.”

“Did you eat human flesh?”

“I tried it once; it tasted like bad apples…no…” He laughed to himself, “worse, it tasted like Hitchcock’s pasta.” I took it that Hitchcock didn’t make very good pasta. He stopped laughing, but kept smiling. “Why’d you put the martini on my gravestone all those years ago?”

“I don’t know, I was young, and I didn’t think you’d like human blood very much.”

“Granted.”

“I thought you’d like something with a little more class.”

He made a high pitched “hmmm”.

Truth be told, I didn’t have the slightest idea what the martinis were actually doing to him

Undead Science
Emotion:
As we all know an intense and sudden burst of emotion causes the undead to become mindless killers. Often it is the sight of a loved one that sets them off:
1. They will begin to think of the past with much regret and frustration.
2. The rush of emotion via memories fries the brain along with the entire central nervous system.
3. This will cause them to twitch and groan: Mental and physical pain.
4. They will begin to breathe heavy as all emotions dissolve into a mindless rage.
5. When their eyes are completely dilated you will know that they have become primal.

Alcohol:
The dehydrating effects of alcohol mixed with the oily nature of olives create a stasis within the undead. Their skin becomes as alive as it can possibly be. The mind stays dry and cool; i.e. level headed.
Human flesh will no longer be a craving; only conversation and company become desirable; this would in theory lead to very classy, very entertaining cocktail parties; again, in theory.

-Prof. Irene Gibson
Ph.D. Undead Sciences
pg.96

Cary smiled, “I tell you, those really hit the spot.”

I stopped walking and stared at the gravestone before me. “Glad to hear it.”

“Just the way they tingle goin--oh…”

I sighed, and sat against the side of the gravestone; I would wait for him. Cary sat down next to me and twiddled his thumbs for a few minutes. He finally leaned against me and started pointing towards the ground. “Let’s go.” He looked at me, and I tried not to cry. “We’ll walk around the lake, there’s a guy down there who makes a mean--you’d---you’d…” He sighed, “no…you --you wouldn’t.” He left me in silence and looked around the area for something adventurous to distract me.

He was too late.

The ground began to move. My grandfather’s hand reached through the dirt. I put the shovel’s handle out for him to grab, and I pulled him out; I left his legs in the ground. He brushed the earth off his suit as looked up at me. Though I doubted it at the time, I swear I saw tears in his eyes.

“I knew you’d come.”

Usually I’d just take the shovel to their neck and call it a night, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it yet. I just stared at him, holding back tears, vulgarity, hiding my heart beat.

He was growing impatient. “Why aren’t you--“

I interrupted him, “Why didn’t--?”

Cary popped up from behind the grave and looked at my Grandfather, and then me; he became very serious. “This is a personal moment isn’t it…I’ll just mosey on over to the willow.” He nodded to me, “I’ll see you in a bit.”

My grandfather was biting his lower lip; sad, and frustrated.

I repeated the question. “Why didn’t you love me?”

He punched the grass. “I didn’t love you?!”

I was surprised by his reaction.

“Of all of them, I loved you the most!”

I thought of my grandmother, and when I had done the same to her. “But grandma…you--“

“You did what I couldn’t bring myself to do.”

“You never--“

“The minute she stopped breathing, I stopped trying to live.”

“…they all hate me.”

Tears began to fall from his eyes. “They hated that only you had my respect.”

“I just…I felt neglected when you were alive, and now I…”

“Look--“

I fell to the ground and rested my head on his shoulders; I let his suit soak up my tears. “I feel so alone.”

He was hesitant at first, but he put his arms around me. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” I backed up and sat in front of him. “Towards the end I only grumbled about the times, predicting the rise and falls of empires…but I saw what they were doing to you, and did nothing to stop it.” He started shivering. “I wanted to, but--“ His neck started twitching. “Forgive--forgive me. All that--.” His eyes began to dilate.

I stood up with the shovel, ready to swing.

He hit the ground with both hands, and composed himself. He strained to speak once more as himself. “Love! Without Love there is no hope!” Blood red tears began to fall from his eyes. “Hope through Love…” He breathed heavy, “Love…with hope…” His words melted into a groan, and his eyes grew dark. He began to salivate and I knew it was time.

“I love you.” I brought the shovel down across his neck swiftly. He went limp as his head fell to the ground. I fell to my hands and knees punching the ground repeatedly, and screaming to the sky. I wiped the tears from my eyes and began to put my grandfather back into his grave.

Cary waited by the willow tree like he said he would. He saw me walking back dragging my shovel behind me. He rushed over to me, and awkwardly patted my back; he couldn’t completely decide between hugging me, or just patting my back and his arms showed it. “There, there. It’ll be okay.” He brought my chin up and smiled, hoping he could get me to do the same.

I smiled, and put my arm around his shoulder. “Suns almost up Cary, time for bed.” I walked him back to his gravestone.

“You did good, kid. You did good.”

“Thanks.”

He returned to his grave and I went to bed. I woke up and I could tell by the look on my father’s face that he knew what I had done.

I fulfilled my grandfather’s last wish.

Upon the gravestone was now engraved:

“Life is just fil-
Hope through love
Love with hope”

The Perils of Time Travel
by Ben Greenstein