YOU’RE HUNGRY.
Not the oh-shit-I-forgot-lunch kind of hungry.
The kind that gnaws.
The kind that starts in your gut and climbs your spine like a rat with a meat cleaver.
You haven’t eaten in three days.
Not since the power grid coughed up a hairball and died.
Not since the cucumbers in the fridge started screaming.
(You don’t question the screaming cucumbers anymore. You just leave the kitchen. Fast.)
Here’s the thing about the end of the world…
It’s boring. Apocalypses aren’t fireworks and leather-clad cannibals on flaming Harleys…
Nope, they’re this:
Day 1: Your kid fills a Tupperware with dead ladybugs, calls it “soup.”
Day 2: You drink hand sanitiser. (The raspberry kind. Classy.)
Day 3: You Google “can rage cure lactose intolerance” while your ex blows up your phone with texts like ”u still alive???”
The baby monitor crackles. Static, then a wet gurgle. You pretend it’s nothing.
(Spoiler: It’s never nothing. This isn’t a Hallmark movie. This is David Cronenberg directing an infomercial for baby monitors.)
You stumble upstairs.
Big mistake…
The nursery door’s ajar.
Inside… Crib bars bent like liquorice twists. The air smells of burnt honey and regret.
And there, in the corner. Your kid.
Except their skin’s peeling off in ribbon-curls, pink and shiny as raw chicken.
Their eyes? Two oily marbles.
Their mouth? A wet hole full of teeth that aren’t theirs.
“Mommy,” it says.
(Or the thing wearing your kid’s voice like a skinsuit says.)
“I’m hungry too.”
LET’S PAUSE.
Because here’s the secret they don’t tell you in those shitty self-help books
(Looking at you, ”Apocalypse for Dummies”)
You don’t get to be the hero. Heroes bathe in sunlight and have moral compasses sharper than a vegan’s eyeliner.
You? You’ve got…
A half-empty bottle of Xanax (circa 2019, vintage)
A crowbar named “Mr. Cuddles.”
A love for your kid that feels less like warmth and more like swallowing a lit sparkler.
You choose the sparkler.
THE THING THAT ISN’T YOUR KID lunges.
You swing Mr. Cuddles. It screeches. A sound like a thousand Instagram influencers discovering they’re all wearing the same outfit.
The crowbar sticks. Of course it does. The thing’s flesh parts like warm brie.
“Fuck,” you say.
And then, louder… “FUCK.”
Because parenting pamphlets never mentioned this.
(Your Child: Demonic Possession and You! – Free with coupon.)
It lunges again. You dodge. The Xanax bottle rattles in your pocket like a tiny ghost.
Take me, it whispers. Swallow the whole damn thing and nap through the rapture.
But you…
(Wait. Hold on. Let’s talk craft for a sec. You’re writing a protagonist here. Give them agency. Make them choose. Not a saint, not a demon. A person. A person who’d sell their soul for Wi-Fi and eats grief like it’s gas station sushi. Got it? Good. Now back to the screaming.)
…you grab the Xanax. Not to swallow. To bait. You shake the pills like maracas.
“C’mon, you little sphincter-waffle. Dinner’s served.”
The thing hesitates. (Even monsters get anxious, pal…)
You throw the pills down its throat. It chokes. Gags. Its skin bubbles like nacho cheese in a meth lab.
Then POP
It explodes.
The aftermath? Chunks. Everywhere. One lands in your hair. It whispers, ”Mommy…”
You pluck it out. Flick it into the ruins of the crib. “Call me Mother,” you say. Because boundaries matter.
Then comes the epilogue:
You sit on the porch. The sky’s the colour of a bruised avocado. Your phone dings. It’s your ex… ”u good???”
You type back ”Peachy. Kids are hard.”
The sun rises. Or maybe it’s a wildfire. Either way, you light a cigarette with a shaking hand and laugh. Because what’s next?
Who the fuck knows.
But you’ll choose it.
(And if you don’t? Well, fuck it. There’s always hand sanitiser to wash it down with.)
Now if you stuck it to the end.
This is what I get up to during the day while inhaling every bit of caffeine possible, when I don’t have adult responsibilities and the weather is absolutely god awful.
Semi-horror-apocalyptic short story ideas scribbled down in a notepad, followed by sending it to my editor who will tell me if it’s a good idea to write out fully and make it thing.
Nothing too crazy and something I’m focusing more on in the future.
So if you see me plugging a collection of horror shorts. I’m trying to knock Stephen King and Dean Koontz off of the top spot.
Stephen Walker
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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom