Leave Kyle Palombi Alone!
By David Edward Nell


At nine in the morning, the most beautiful man in Beverly Hills went outside, and was startled. A large crowd was pressed up against his driveway gate, chanting and calling his name, reaching for him through the bars, flashing cameras, proposing, singing, doing all sorts of desperate, shameless things. They were persistent, like rabid dogs, with mad expressions on their faces. He hadn't felt such fear before.
Snatching his newspaper off the mat with a shudder, he dashed inside and dialed the police. A few minutes later, sirens whooped. But then the arriving officers didn't seem interested in moving the crowd. Instead, realising they were at the mansion of the now-incredibly-famous Kyle Palombi, they joined in the idolatry. They stood with the civilians at the gate and snapped pictures of their own.
Kyle dropped his newspaper. It was the shock. The headline stated, in bold:
“World's First Zombie: Teen Idol Kyle Palombi Rises From The Dead...And Lives!”.
Feeling like he was about to faint, he phoned his agent. He didn't get an answer. He paced back and forth. He kept looking out the window, unsure of what to do. At half-past-nine, the crowd was so big, the road was blocked. The crowd was growing madder, rattling his gate, removing the barbed-wire lining his walls.
He tried his agent again. This time, he connected.
“Kyle, please don't be mad at me,” said his agent immediately. Judging by the sounds in the background, he was in a public place.
“Tony, you mother f–”
“Kyle, Kyle, Kyle, buddy, please. I know what you're feeling right now, but be cool. I know about the nutters outside your house. But, my man, I'm handling it.”
Kyle breathed in calmly. “What? How do you know about the–”
“The news,” replied his agent. “And I'm with them. I'm in front of your house. Can you see me?”
Kyle slammed the phone against his other hand. “What the hell? Bastard. Cunt. Shitstai–”
“Kyle, listen,” Tony shouted. “Right now, I'm trying to end the situation.”
“What about last night?”
“Wasn't me who gossiped, man. You have to believe.”
“Who got my address, then?”
“I don't know, paparazzi? I'd never give away your address, man.”
“Could only have been you. You snooped on me. How much did you get paid?”
“Dude, come on. I've been with you for ten years. Who's been more loyal in your down years? Just listen already. The paparazzi had the hospital covered, bro. They knew you were in a car accident last night. They bugged your room, they stole documents, they found out everything. Swear, that's the truth.”
“I wish I could punch your face.”
“And I'd let you. But damn it, Kyle, how many times have I got to tell you, it wasn't me?”
“So you're saying the paparazzi heard when the doc said I was going to turn into a zombie? They heard all that?”
“I guess so. Yes. Uh-huh.”
“What am I going to do now? I'm too scared to leave my house.”
“It'll blow off.”
“Will it?”
“But look at the bright side. At least you're more famous than you ever were.”
Kyle went red in the face. “What are you trying to say?”
“I'm saying the whole world is at your doorstep, not just teenage chicks now. Which is a good thing.”
“Screw you.”
“Any press is good press, right? Kyle, I'm just kidding. I'll get you out of this, I promise.”
Kyle peeked through the curtain. He panicked. “Oh, heck, no.”
“What is it? Talk to me.”
“Some moron just jumped the wall.”
“Don't do anything rash–”
Kyle disengaged. He stomped outside, clenched his fists, blocked off the young trespasser's path and puffed out his chest. In response, the young man gasped and waved around a pen and notepad. But Kyle wasn't interested in signing his autograph. Rather, Kyle wanted to hurt him. So, he grabbed the young man by the shirt and shook him around and shoved him to the ground and threw a sandal he was wearing. The young man didn't seem irked by the bout of physicality, however. As he raised the sandal in the air like it was a trophy, he declared to the sky that he could finally go to his grave a happy man.

Then the young man boasted, “I'm going to be famous.” He waved to cameras. “Hi, Mama.”
The crowd applauded and requested manhandling.
Kyle stood over the young man, and said, “Who do you think you are, stepping onto private property? This is my”–Kyle's tongue came loose. Before it could slip out his mouth, he twisted it back inside–“my house?”
Swooned the young man, “But I'm your biggest fan–”
Kyle smashed his phone over the young man's head, and didn't stop smashing, not until the young man's skull was caved in, until the young man was quiet. Quiet and dead. When he was done, he glared and growled at the crowd at the gate, who had gone silent. He told them, “Boo.”
They reacted with confused stares.
“See what I did there?” Kyle said, taunting them with a swing of his arms. He wasn't sure if his knees were weakening due to the trauma of killing someone or the rot. “Now get away from me and my house, or the same will happen to you. I'm not afraid to bust in people's heads, as you can see.”
They said nothing. Their mouths were wide open.
“Hear me? Do you people understand English or what?”
Their mouths slowly turned into smiles. A clap of hands started. Everyone resumed cheering and howling and whooing. Right then, the gate toppled inward from the crowd's collective weight.
Heart in his throat, Kyle ran.
He locked the front door, eloped upstairs, hid in his bedroom, curled up in a corner, wet himself and prayed. He heard the destruction of the front door and windows, the sound of their footsteps on the stairs. Soon, they came banging at the bedroom door. Then there was no door. Then they were in.
Kyle yelled, “Stop this. You're savages.”
The room went quiet.
“Don't you know I'm just a human being? I need my privacy, too.”
Someone said, “You're Kyle Palombi, Teen Idol, World's First Zombie. You're not human.”
Others agreed.
“Well, yes. But am I not like you? Am I not able to walk and talk? Do I not feel feelings? Do you see these clothes, these eyes and ears, this heart?”
“Buh?” said someone in the back. They lurched in his direction, stretching out their long, bony fingers. They trapped him up against the wall then had him where they wanted him.

Completely surrounded, Kyle bit his nails nervously. “Guys? It's me, Kyle Palombi. I gave the world Heartbreak. Remember? That number one hit?”

They swarmed in like wolves.
Someone shook his hand, someone rubbed his arms, someone pinched his cheeks, someone poked snot in his nostrils, someone wet his ears, someone punched his stomach, someone made him clap his hands together, someone rhythmically patted his hips, someone tore his hair, someone did a frog's leap over him, someone suplexed him, someone soothed him, someone insisted he smoke marijauna, someone cupped his groin.
“I just touched a zombie. OMG.”
“I love you, Kyle. You're my hero.”
“I hate you and hope you die a miserable death.”
“Hey, sexy.”
“He's real. Really real.”
“Your grandfather thinks you're a disgrace, boy.”
“When are you doing a follow-up to the First Kiss album?”
Kyle didn't know what was happening anymore. He let go and decided to answer their questions.
After a while, he noticed his arms were missing, and so was his right leg; and just as he realised that, his remaining leg was stolen as well; and he fell on stumps before those were taken, too; and almost every other part of his body, snatched by those greedy hands. Finally, the crowd, bored, began leaving. Afterwards, all that remained of him was his head.

He felt no pain, only a deep sadness.

But then he felt nothing at all, as someone else came into the room to dig for his brain. His agent wrapped it in foil and departed for the nearest museum.


- - -
David Edward Nell writes from Cape Town, South Africa. He can be touched at: http://davidedwardnell.blogspot.com

Rhona of Old
By David Edward Nell


My bride had returned. There she was, in the flesh, passing before me in the distance. For minutes, watching by the window, I waited in glee for Rhona to turn her head, run up to my arms. Yet, as if stricken with amnesia, she never glanced once at her home. I left my cottage atop the Torridon Hills and pursued her.

“Rhona,” I cried behind. “Have you forgotten your husband? Answer me.”

She vanished up ahead into the swamp, its croaking ills deceiving enough to have me believe those were her calls, that, as I then entered, it was alive. I found her footprints next to a pond. Her pungent lavender fumes lingered, overwhelming even sulfur's decay, setting my senses alight and my awareness keen. When I stood again, I was startled, and then that surprise became ecstasy, for she was right before me, my Irish gem. Her lips were full and inked in a subtle red. Pale white skin like soapy bath water, hair a bounce of fiery curls. An outcast against earth's disease.

“Talk to me,” I said, the mud tugging at my feet, seizing me. She looked away, began to leave. Desperately, I bridged an arm to her shoulder where her garb was loose. Memories of my lip's nurture seemed to glow there. An old connection. My hand went right through, wringing trails of ectoplasm that quickly disseminated, sailed off. I announced my presence again, reached out several times more. Contact was useless. I dropped to my knees.

Rhona was met with company, greeted by a well-dressed man.

“Thought you'd be here,” he said, marking Rhona's hips. “We have to go before father and the guests scold.”

“Dinner can wait,” she replied, and he cupped her hand but she resisted. “I swear I saw him wandering these parts, Jacob. Yesterday. Maybe the inspector didn't search right. We should really look again.”

“Darling, won't you put this behind you? I fear you're gambling with madness.”

She looked down. “You don't understand. I think I can...sense him.”

“Please, Rhona,” he urged. “Stop being a fool. For the sake of our future, move on. I beg you. You know I love you.”

Their eyes met. It was a lovers' carnal exchange, and one spring day past, such an embrace was familiar to me. Thus, I couldn't bear the sight, thrashing from my strange, new soil entrapment, before I fell to my hands. Then I was locked in by the elbows, forced to watch the marriage of their lips.

“The horses grow weary. Go clean yourself up.” Jacob daubed the wetness from her cheeks, warmed her to his red coat, and she left first.

Rhona faded away into the sun. As I tried to have one last gander at the gem of my existence, light rays shot forth into my vision; it was as if I was forbidden from seeing the rest of her departure, as if there was hate in that light.

“Rhona,” went my final effort, my mouth tasting the salt of my misery.

“Erroll,” I heard in response, and it had come from elsewhere. The swamp. It was having its way with me. Madly, I chuckled and hacked, inspired by the increasing distortion of this reality, the wind feeding an appetizer of granules down my throat. And I laughed at Jacob, too, who was sifting through a patch of leaves, who thereafter gave some hard, fallow object a punt into the pond. Then he went, leaving me alone.

Outside the swamp, the sun turned blue. I heard a tune mimicking my inner hopelessness. I knew the soil was hungering, wanting me inside, for then it had me in its filth-spattering grip. I felt the dirt creep into my sockets, hugging me tighter, pulling me inward, into the nightmarish mire lurking beneath, below where no man had ever ventured. My lungs brimmed with its sourness, and no longer did I drown; the baptizing evil began to sustain me. Hands, as beautiful and silky as Rhona's, came over mine, and they came to mill at my limbs, to rip me asunder, to mould my body into some perfect shape to make way for tree roots. When the harvest was done, I understood the necessity of this union, for it would see the swamp flourish again.


- - -
Having spent years trying to evade the Equestrian mafia, David Edward Nell now writes from a nameless hideout in Cape Town, South Africa. By night, disguised as numerous pop culture figures, he can usually be found scouring the African plains for loving. Stalk him at http://davidedwardnell.blogspot.com, but keep this a secret.

Unfortunate Circumstances
By David Edward Nell


The harbour was close. Marco was sure of it. Soon he'd be away from war, on a nighttime boat to Brazil with his briefcase, bidding ciao to stepmother Italy, to the past. That was the plan, anyway. First he had to find his way out of the Libyan desert. Somehow. Marco took off his camouflage shirt and whipped it to the sand, where it created an anthropomorphism of il Duce, Dear Leader, and he threw a final salute before rubbing it into chaos with his large toe. What little wind there was brushed his emaciation, as though nature was hugging him in understanding. When he winked back at nature, it rebelled with no gusts. There was a mirror shard nearby as tall as he, cut perfectly upright into a desert vein. Marco stood in front of it and remarked, “Handsome tan,” ogling himself.

An array of mahogany furniture pieces was scattered all the way up and over a hill. On the other side, the remains of a downed German plane was sending smoke into the fair skies. That was Marco's first and only hit, a non-combat friendly, a casualty of a single round from his rifle. If only the boys could have seen him at work. Now he was king of the Libyan desert, master gunner. An upside-down couch appeared a suitable throne, so he rolled it onto its hind and slumped into its crevasse and massaged his feet of scabs. Mama and Papa were watching from another couch, expecting him to smile to express his victory, puncture his lip sores. If he had the energy, he would have done jumping jacks and twirly dances, too, just to impress them and have them do their entertained claps that he missed so much. There was a knock at the mirror. It was Marco's reflection no more. Drill Sergeant Fabrizzio was staring at him with those scrutinizing devil goggles, pointing at him as if to accuse.

“What do you want?” Marco said.

“Bastard. Pig dog. Son of a whore. I've never seen such a disgrace to the uniform.”

“What uniform?”

“Open your briefcase and put it back on right now.”

“Fuck off.”

“Do you want me to come there and tear out your balls? Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you, you little pickle tickler?”

Marco sighed. “I lost it.”

“You certainly have, you incredibly worthless turd--”

To the east, a rumble of tanks sounded. Fighting over the dunes came a regiment, with them a beating of drums and a flag of Australia wavering about. When there seemed an end to their numbers, more materialized. Then they weren't ants anymore. They were surrounding him. Marco, nibbling on a nail for calcium, saw the guns aimed at his cranius, and sneezed out daisies and vaseline.

“G'day. Davis,” a child introduced himself, a boy general with a long, gray beard.

“I don't English,” Marco replied, flicking a nail at the soldiers.

“Bloody grommets. Deutsch?”

“No, no.”

“Italiano?”

“No Italiano.”

“What do you speak, then?”

“I speak the shit, Mickey Mouse.”

“Do we have any shit-speakers here?” Davis asked of his men.
“Yes, sir. I'm fluent in shit-speak,” answered a helpful private.

“Ask him what he's doing here, what's his affiliation,” Davis commanded, and a translation was communicated.

Marco listened and said, “I'm no Nazi, no fascist, just a tourist on a trip.”

“What's in the briefcase? Bomb?”

“Dream.” Marco opened it up for them. Inside was a pink ballet skirt, neatly folded and shimmering. And he noticed Sergeant Fabrizzio wearing a proud beam in the mirror, fading away, and Mama and Papa clapping their hands off. This is what they wanted, the unveiling. “I'm going to South America to become a dancer. Are you going to stop me, right when I'm nearly there?” Already he could see the golden shores of São Paulo on the horizon, smell the brine of the seas and sweetness of the markets, his senses set alight with expectation. It was a postcard come to life, and it was within a few walks, so close.

Davis cleared his throat, announced, “Give this proper man a lift.”

So they did, applauding together, journeying the Libyan desert, until, seconds later, the fringe of Brazil was in sight. Marco went thrashing about in the waves, playfully chugging more salt water than his lungs could take in, flaunting his seamless Vaganova. His plie sequences incited cyclones and rainbows to capture the sky.

“I'm so happy for you,” Davis shouted from the beach when Marco reared his head.

“Thank you,” Marco said in English.

“I have a secret.”

“What's that?”

“I'm a ballet dancer as well. Well, not anymore. Don't you remember me?”

“I--” Marco lost his smile. The world darkened. “I used to teach classes, yes. Cisternino, 1936. But I can't remember you, sir.”

“It'll come back, I'm sure, mate. Won't you teach me how to fly?”

“Maybe.”

“There's others like me.”

“I don't...”

“Look underneath.”

Marco shook his head, refusing.

“It's alright.” Davis peeled back his skin.

“Why did you do that to your wonderful face?”

“I had to,” Davis replied, and opened a jar of feathers and poured it into the water, which then turned black. Everything was becoming black. Now, his thoughts.

“What are you doing?” Marco screamed, hands pulling him down into the void.

“The universe doesn't care, teacher.”


“...doesn't care,” Marco muttered with a mouth full of granules, lying on his side, where his briefcase was splayed open. They were loose, his pets. Free, like his photographs. And he couldn't move his legs. Marco looked down, saw the pair of baby vultures picking at what was left of him.

“Fuck me,” he said, sighing.


- - -
Having spent years trying to evade the Equestrian mafia, David Edward Nell now writes from a nameless hideout in Cape Town, South Africa. By night, disguised as numerous pop culture figures, he can usually be found scouring the African plains for loving. Stalk him at http://davidedwardnell.blogspot.com, but keep this a secret.

Cycle of the Gods
By David Edward Nell


Wednesday. Just another dreary work day. It was lunch hour, and I was glad to be off my hind for a change. I left the office and took the bridge to the mall. My eyes were still seeing lines of computer code. At Subway, I frisked my pockets for lunch money then realized I'd forgotten my wallet in the car underground. I mounted the elevator alone.

My new cellphone bickered.

“Hello?” A jangly scraping noise sounded off on the other end, which caused me to wince and hold the device a short distance away from my ear. Above, the artificial light shortly darkened.

“K-Karl, are you there?” a voice frantically muttered. It was Ebrahim, my younger brother, burbling uncharacteristic sobs. It sounded as if he was attempting to suppress his cries against the mouthpiece. I grew chills. I hadn't heard from him in a week, and now this.

“Christ, Ebrahim. Where have you been?” I asked, willing away a throat lump. “Mommy's been looking for you. The police, everyone. Please tell me you're okay, at least.”

There was an incoherent whelp that hinted at distraction. It seemed his focus was elsewhere.

I pressed, “Say something! Where are you?” I paced to and fro in the metallic strictures of the descending carriage. The dank enamel of sweat on my palm slinked over onto the sides of the device. I clutched my clothing.

Ebrahim's voice returned. But I was sure he was on something again; all of a sudden, he was calmer. “Sorry, Karl. I don't know what came over me. I just had to phone you. Look, man--”

“I thought you quit, dude.”

“--I need you.”

“What do you mean?”

Then his wails started again, more gaudily. “Don't listen to me, Karl. Whatever you do, don't go to your car--”

The call ended.

My heart was bursting. I didn't understand what he meant, but I drew caution as the shaft doors pinged open.

I was presented with concrete barrenness. There was not a soul in the garage. For a moment, I merely stared at the unusually still grey expanse which was accompanied only by columns and smatterings of tenantless parking spots. Every draft and presumed movement had me jumpy, mindful. I analyzed my surroundings fastidiously, contemplating a bolt towards my ride that was stored half block up.

I converged on a rusty white van to the west with marginally tinted windows. It was out of place, near enough to touch.

I left the elevator, partially quelling my suspicions, hopeful that my brother was just having another one of his trips. I secretly cursed him.

Then there was movement through the dark hue.

Ten lagging paces onward, I strained my eyes behind. Something wasn't right.

Headlights.

My eyes were torched to a rumple. I reeled backwards and blocked against its subjugating glare. There was no sign of apology from the driver.

Instead, an engine's roar.

I ran. It followed. Just as I feared, the vehicle was on my trail. Undoubtedly, in my mind, it was out to kill. My legs were labouring hard; the back of my throat was hit with gusts of air. I regretted not heeding Ebrahim's warning, not being fitter, as the van was now bordering on my stride faster than could be avoided and I sensed death. My car, that hoary clunker, was in sight, I on the cusp of refuge. I thanked my maker.

But it was too late.

I was rammed forward. I fell to the unyielding surface, where stars wavered about, and what I saw next was the butt of a gun between my irises.


Whiteness was everywhere, endless in breadth. My flesh squirmed. It dawned that my limb movements were being throttled.

I was trapped.

I almost retched into my mouthpiece from the sensory discombobulation. There were no measurable dimensions, entrances or imperfections in this colorless void where everything seemed to be impossibly balanced. What was before me was impossible, but here it was and this was all too real.

A man was standing in nothingness.

From the vertically raised, machinelike perch to which I was ensnared, I accosted the coldly examining stare of a lank elder. His complexion was as pasty as that of a fresh mortuary corpse, his obsidian eyeballs an immersing complement to the full bodied tenebrosity of his lavish coat.

The man was silent. He hovered a finger clockwise atop a remote he was holding and drifted to his right, where an oblong mantle glided upwards into the immense pallidity and unveiled what appeared to be a window into a room.

My trapping steadily rotated to face it. I gasped even though it hurt widening my jaw. I was processing so many thoughts, I drove myself into a circle of questions. I wanted to faint.

Through the pane sat my brother, in a similar silvery cathedra, dazed and crimson.

The elder spoke, “We must all return to the soil eventually.”

Then behind Ebrahim materialized the preposterous figure of a praying mantis creature, Herculean in stature, appearing in a millisecond of unfeasibility from the shelters of a dark corner. It was here, on Earth, in this dimension, and it was scraping together its spike-festooned talons.

It was looking down over the comparably miniature head of my flesh and blood.

I batted my lids shut, expecting to wake up any minute.


The cycle must continue.

Today, I'm phoning my mother. It's her birthday and I have a surprise for her.

They're waiting, too.

They can't come out to the exterior world, so they use people like me. I understand now.

They're gods.

I care about them deeply. You could call it love, but it's beyond that. They're my sustenance. My beginning. My end.


- - -
A software developer by day, David Edward Nell writes speculative fiction in his limited spare time from Cape Town, South Africa. Some of his works will soon be published in The Dark Side of the Womb, Dark Edifice, Twisted Dreams, and Cynic Online.