My introduction to zombies was the movie “Night of the Living Dead.”
That is George Romero’s 1968 masterpiece, considered the first modern zombie movie.
As I watched, I realized the undead suck.
Unless you are talking about vampires. I like vampires; they are cool, which is ironic, because they are also undead and they literally suck.
I guess I am a hypocrite, when it comes to zombies.
“Night of the Living Dead” is a black-and-white movie. I watched it at a drive-in.
A drive-in is an outdoor movie theater. You watch the movie from you car, big screen jutting up to the sky,
There aren’t many drive-ins left.
”Night of the Living Dead” — a young zombie (Kyra Schon) and her victim (Karl Hardman).
Don’t think black-and-white movies aren’t cool; that grainy texture lends itself to the story of the undead.
Arguably, George Romero’s movie is better without color.
The Walking Dead
The zombie genre has improved substantially with the television series “The Walking Dead,” which began in 2010.
No. I haven’t watched the series, but it is widely watched, and people, whose opinion I respect, praise the drama.
I must admit to watching another zombie movie.
It was “World War Z,” an action horror flick released in 2013 about a world overrun with zombies.
I admit I found the movie entertaining, but it doesn’t change my opinion of zombies.
Zombies are dirty, rotting, brainless corpses who are cannibals.
They have rotting skin hanging off their bones, blood splattered inside and out and around their mouths where they ate people.
They are ugly.
I assume they stink of death, the worst smell ever.
Good thing we can’t smell them through the big or little screen.
Where do zombies come from?
Legend says a zombie can create more zombies by biting humans.
Modern stories blame the undead on military experiments gone horror show. Or humans can be transformed by an alien attack.
As with many a horror story, zombies are based on fact, in Hattian voodoo, birthed by West African magic.
A sorcerer or witch called a bokor concocts a potion that includes tetrodotoxin, a deadly neurotoxin found in the pufferfish.
Administered in the correct dose, the pufferfish poison causes a coma so deep it mimics death.
There are credible reports of dead Hattians, said to be victims of voodoo, found alive.
My disgust for zombies began with that first movie “Night of the Living Dead.”
A zombie chowed down on some human intestines, and I was revolted.
Really? Intestines? Nasty.
Zombie popularity
Who could unnasty the zombie?
Music superstar Michael Jackson; that’s who.
Jackson deserves credit for an explosion of zombie popularity; never underestimate a great work of art.
His 1982 groundbreaking 13-minute music video “Thriller” featured the undead coming out of their graves to join the superstar in a funky graveyard dance.
To this day, large crowds dress as zombies and dance to “Thriller.”
The Guiness World Record for People Dancing “Thriller” was set in Mexico City in 2009, by more than 11,000 temporary zombies shown below.
I must admit, I don’t have a problem with Michael Jackson’s zombies; such is the power of music and art.
You can see “Thriller” below. It is worth a watch.
Did I just talk myself out of the premise of my blog, that zombies suck?
Not really.
Most zombies suck.
‘The Guiness World Record for People Dancing “Thriller” was set in Mexico City in 2009, by more than 11,000 temporary zombies.
Thank you to Wikipedia for the photo of the little zombie girl and for providing clarifying information for this blog. Read all about zombies at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zombie.
FabulousFables.com wishes you a Happy Thanksgiving.
This year I am thankful for many things, and by many things I mean stories.
I am thankful that I can share my stories through FabulousFables.com.
I am thankful for stories in all their many forms: those passed down verbally through generations, newspaper articles, new stories, old stories, short stories, books, movies, television, true stories, fiction, fables.
Songs. The great storyteller songwriters. Willie Nelson. Johnny Cash. Dolly Parton. Sade. Bruce Springsteen. So many more.
I am thankful for the imagination of a child telling the first story. The recollections of an older couple at the Thanksgiving table.
Even gossip, that nasty habit, is the telling of stories.
I am thankful for the great works: The Bible. The timeless classics. The Outsiders. The Trilogy of the Rings.
The great story tellers: Charles Dickens. Stephen King. George Orwell. J.K. Rowling. There are too many to list here.
It is the story that sustains us.
The stories, regardless of genre, that reflect our world, our lives.
They are stories made of stardust.
So with great thankfulness and humility, FabulousFables.com offers you a Thanksgiving story: Gilbert the Dancing Hummingbird.
“A Wild Ride Up 14th Street” is a true story that has been embellished for your entertainment. What is true and what is exaggerated is up to you to decide.
The setting is a simpler time, a time of no cell phones, when mothers sent kids out to play and didn’t worry about them once they were out the door.
It was a time of no pandemics, a time when freedom was a way of life, and kids were afforded the opportunity to learn freedom’s lessons.
This story isn’t so much about lessons learned — though lessons were learned — as it is about adventure and heroics on 14th Street.
I wish you a fabulous New Year and a peaceful New Decade.
Let me be so bold as to issue a plea.
Let us keep our hearts peaceful and full of love. The only way to defeat the forces of evil, is by love, and with love, comes peace.
It will take love in each of our hearts to turn this new year and decade into the positive future we deserve.
We must recognize the humanity of those with whom we interact. It does not matter what color they are, what religion they are, what ethnicity they are, what they believe, or even how they behave.
We are all children of that force that created the universe, the all-powerful, unconditional loving force that turned us from stardust into humans. Call him God. Call him Allah. Call him the Great Spirit.
He is the same. Always.
We change.
So let us change for the better.
Let us be kind to one another. Let us love one another. With love in each of our hearts, we defeat the evil that besets this Earth, and a new day will dawn, an era of peace and goodwill.
Rastas Boodrow was just like many other little boys in that he loved games. All kinds, but especially sports. He was good at sports. He loved computer games as well, but Rastas didn’t own any.
Rastas preferred to play outside anyway.
Rastas was poor. His parents earned minimum wage. His dad worked two jobs, but the family never got ahead. Financially, they were losing pace, not even running in place, one illness away from homelessness.
Rastas was different from most the neighborhood kids because he was Jamaican. He was darker than his peers; he had dreads, and he dressed in second-hand clothes and wore old beat-up sneakers.
Whereas, most children his age — Rastas was 7 — would be ostracized for their poverty by their classmates, Rastas was not.
Rastas was popular. He was an exceptional athlete. He was fast. He was strong. He had a winner’s heart. Everybody wanted to be on Rastas’ team.
Rastas was also smart. He liked to read books, and he loved the intricacies of math. Not just adding and subtracting, but now multiplying and dividing, fractions and decimals, meters and milliliters.
Oh yes, he was advanced for his age when it came to math. He was born with numbers running through his mind. He was a genius who already pondered the possibility of endless mathematical probabilities. Maybe that is why he was a bit weird.
Rastas had a compassionate heart. He loved deeply.
He loved his parents even though there were no gifts for him or his sister Amancia under the tree. Christmas was two days away, and nothing.
Rastas knew something would appear on Christmas night from his parents.
It would be clothes or shoes. The real gift would come from Santa Claus. Rastas and his sister would rely on Santa Claus for a perfect gift just like they did every year.
This year, Rastas wasn’t confident he made Santa’s nice list. He dreaded landing on the naughty list. Especially when he wanted a special gift.
He wanted a red bicycle. That wasn’t too much to ask was it?
Rastas imagined the many possibilities a bike would give. He would be mobile, go where he pleased.
No more rides to the library. Rastas didn’t own a phone, so he read books. The library was a magical place, and Rastas didn’t understand why he didn’t see more young people there. Rastas also read above his age level. That’s how he knew so much about math.
He also loved the fantasy books. He imagined he was in the worlds he read about. Leaving this world for a while was comforting.
Rastas was at the age that little boys begin to develop a strange sense of humor that can sometimes lead to cruel pranks.
Though he loved his sister Amancia with all his being, he sometimes pranked her. She didn’t hold it against him. Amancia was just as her name reflected: one who loves unconditionally. There was no doubt Santa would be good to her.
Rastas also didn’t obey his parents as he should.
They came home tired and still made dinner and helped with homework. And how did Rastas repay them? By doing dumb stuff like hiding his clothes under his bed rather than hanging them in the closet.
Now I know that sounds stupid. Rastas didn’t know why he did it; he just did it.
So it left him no choice but to appeal to the big man himself: Santa Claus. How would he get Santa’s attention long enough to explain? He didn’t have a ride to take him to the mall, where he knew Santa hung out.
That’s when one of those mathematical possibilities presented itself to young Rastas. He would study the fireplace and its flue. Measure it, and turn his problem into an equation. Therein was the answer.