The Widow
by Anatoly BelilovskyOctober 28, 2021
Behind her, she heard the rear door splinter.
"You're back," she said. "Back from the grave to console the widow?"
There were only shuffling noises in the darkness.
"I wish I could say it's good to see you," she said. "But I can't. I can't see anything. As you darn well know." By touch she found the right kitchen drawer, reached for her husband's old revolver, and pulled back its hammer. "On the other hand, you know what they say about widows."
The noises came closer.
"A widow always knows where her husband is," she said, and shot the zombie.
About Anatoly Belilovsky
More from Anatoly Belilovsky
Scars
It isn't that we blind people get superpowers to compensate; it's that we pay attention. Cliquot '21 really does taste different from '20; a Stradivarius sounds different from an Amati; and when someone I know walks into the Heart of Darkness, I recognize them, and by the number…
Bot and Paid For
The noonday desert sun beat down on Berkowitz, reflections from the GoebBot's shiny carapace blinding him temporarily. Berkowitz lifted his arm to shield his eyes. "Greetings," said the GoebBot. "Are you a member of the Master Race?" "I'm from Kiev," said Berkowitz. "Originally.…
Virror, Virror
She blinked three times to boot her contacts, and braced herself for her double vision to clear, the real and the virtual images to coalesce, but the lag was a fraction of a second this time, much less disorienting than before. "Oh, I love this new upgrade!" she said and watched…
Not To Praise Her
I have some words to say. Some will be new to you, loanwords from her language. Attend, I shall endeavor to explain. She was my adversary. She was my friend. She is dead. "She" is a pronoun that refers to egg-carriers; also possessive "her," noun "woman" and adjective "female."…
Queen of Hearts, Servant of Spades
"I love your hands," she says. Her date lifts their hand from where it covers hers on the tablecloth between them, stares at it briefly. "Funny you should say that. No one ever noticed my hands before." They lower their hand, squeeze hers briefly. "I am a pilot; I guess I need…
Quantum Mechanics
Swear to God, that's what the sign said: Quantum Mechanics. A faded, peeling sign on a rickety garage on a weed-choked lot. I looked out the window from the little Mexican taqueria across the street, and it still said: "Quantum Mechanics." Damn misleading. "What's misleading?"…