Yes, I know this is way overdue, but here it is anyway: the composition that I wrote in camp based on the one-word prompt "zombie". You know, because why not.
"And remember that part when she bit him? How he tried to resist the virus but still became infected in the end? That was so cool!"
Four teenagers walked out of the cinema hall, but one voice rang louder than the rest. While the other three enjoyed the occasional zombie flick, John loved zombie movies with a passion. The horror of seeing men walk with the spark of life missing from their eyes, the despair that the lonely survivors feel, the existential torment that zombies must feel in limbo between life and death; these were all emotions that John loved to watch, and he hoped that one day he would be able to show his version of the zombie apocalypse to the world. John's dream was to become a movie director, to be able to feel all the powerful, beautiful emotions of fantasy and reality and portray them on the big screen for the world to see.
As absurd and far-fetched as that goal may seem to an outsider, it was a goal that fit right into John's clique, which also consisted aspiring footballer Zach, avid painter Marcus and self-proclaimed future dance queen Zoe. "The Dreamers", as they liked to call themselves, became close friends through their shared tendency to dream big and their determination to achieve their goals. At that point, the group decided to split up as Zach needed to go for soccer practice, so John made his way back home.
Even before entering the front door of his house, John knew from the sound of the six o'clock news from the television that his dad was home early from work, and anxiously waited outside, debating with himself over whether he should stay outside another hour until his dad went back to his room to read the newspapers. "Don't be silly," John told himself. "You'll have to breach the subject sooner or later, so might as well make it today." With a final deep breath, John slowly creaked the door open.
"Dad," John said, trying to sound casually confident. He evidently did not try hard enough, as his dad looked up with a slightly puzzled and wary look. John pressed on. "Did Mom pass you my report card?"
"Yes," his dad said, letting his guard down slightly and allowing a faint smile to form on his lips. "Great job, son. I had confidence in you, but straight A's is still a very pleasant surprise."
Boldened by the positive response, John continued. "Well, do you think this proves that I will be able to adapt to the School of the-"
His dad's face turned black nearly instantly. "Not this again," he said, restrained exasperation clear in his voice. "I've told you before that it's much safer to go to a normal school and get a normal, stable job. I'm not letting my son go to some so-called 'School of the Arts'." John opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by his father. "Think about your grades, son," he said. "They're brilliant! You should be going to a proper university to study a high-flier course like medicine or law, instead of going to some film school. This conversation-"
"This conversation is over, right? Yes, I know the drill." With that, John walked slowly to his room, head hung low in defeat. He laid in his bed and stared at the ceiling for hours, stopping only to pretend to be asleep when his mother called him for dinner. He wasn't exactly sad or angry, because he's had this conversation quite a few times already. He definitely wasn't happy either. All he felt was emptiness, as it slowly dawned upon him that his dream, which had for so long been his primary driving force, was more or less unreachable. That night, a little part of him died, and he finally fell asleep.
Ten years later, John's alarm clock blared loudly in his ear, as he struggled to keep his eyes open long enough to find the snooze button. Half-dazed, he slowly washed up and got changed for work. "Another day..."he mumbled to himself, as he shambled out of the house.
Still half-asleep when he reached his workplace, John willed himself out of the elevator, lurching slightly forward due to his drowsy stupor. Finally, with a loud and clumsy thud, he landed heavily in his chair in his cubicle and started the computer. His eyes stared at the screen and his hand moved the mouse, but his mind refused to be part of the whole affair and decided to go into hiding. John just hated his job; something inside him just wretched at the thought of sitting in front of a screen and crunching numbers the whole day. Still, he put up with it, if not for the fact that it paid the bills every month. The overall experience was tolerable; he just tried not to think too much while working.
As the office clock chimed the end of the work day, John awoke from his daze and made his way out, and hopped onto a bus towards that cosy little pub that Zoe told him about. The Dreamers were finally meeting up again after close to ten years. So they chatted, and one by one they filled each other in on the past decade. Zach didn't do well enough to make it to sports school, and he's now working as a waiter in a restaurant; Marcus tried to work as a freelance artist, but gave it up and got a desk job. Their voices were tinged with disappointment as they recounted their lost dreams. Zoe, on the other hand, only listened intently.
When it was her turn to talk, she explained how she's now a part-time cashier at a fast food chain while enrolling in a dance choreography course. "The going's tough, but I know I can do it," she said, eyes burning with desire. However, those fires were soon struggling to survive as Zach and Marcus started throwing cold water on her plan. It's too risky, they said; it's not worth it, they said; it's too difficult, they said. Slowly, Zoe's confidence drained away, replaced by fear and uncertainty for the future. Watching the scene in front of him, John remembered some thoughts he once had as a teenager.
"The horrow of seeing men walk with the spark of life missing from their eyes." John looked first at Zach, then at Marcus, and he realised the drive to achieve their dreams at all cost, the spark which made them make the most of their lives, was gone. He reflected upon his own life too, and how he gave up his dream of being a director in favour of a less risky office job. He was as dead as Zach and Marcus.
"The despair that the lonely survivors feel." John now focused his attention on Zoe, and how she was starting to panic as her fellow dream chasers from her childhood now seemed to be completely different people, urging her to give up what used to keep them all alive. John tried to muster the will to encourage Zoe, to convince her to continue on her risky path, but he found that he could not look her in the eye and tell her so. He was too restrained by his own cowardice.
"The existential torment that zombies must feel in limbo between life and death." John thought about his daily routine, of the constant conflict within him between quitting a job he hated and maintaining a job at all. He thought about his failure to stand up for Zoe just now, quelling the remnants of his past self that protested Zach's and Marcus' pessimism. Living enough to recognise that he is dying, and dying enough to not be able to truly live again.
A bitter grimace formed on John's face as he downed the full mug of beer in front of him. "Another beer, please," he signaled to a nearby waitress, as he looked forward to blacking out his brain with alcohol that night. If he was going to be a brainless zombie, he might as well start acting the part.
I need to start writing more descriptively. I always get so caught up with the main story that's swirling in my head that I don't bother to take the time to give the reader a better idea of what exactly they're looking at in any given scene. Heck, I don't even give my characters names most of the time, but I had to make an exception this time because there were four characters in focus instead of just one. Oh well, all that will be for another time.
