Hairtyle: A Fictional Narrative

Cel was hungry. Not eating for a week had begun to take it’s toll on her. She felt tired more often, and was lonelier than ever. Despite all this, Cel was happy. She had made her way out of Brooklyn, and now she was in Central Park. Just being there made her heart sing, and she felt free. The tall trees and thick, thigh length grass made it difficult to see them though, dragging themselves along the road behind her, their arms broken and skin rotting, inching slowly but tirelessly after her.

Cel fingered her phone in the back pocket of her worn jeans. It had long since run out of battery, and the internet had disappeared with humanity, but just having it tucked into her jeans comforted her. Cel scratched at her frizzy hair, she had never liked it as kid but as she grew older, (well as old as you can be at 34) she began to embrace her natural hairstyle. Her phone was her lifeline back then, she was always …show more content…
What was the word? Fish? No, Flesh? Nope. Fresh! Ah that was it, fresh. Fresh, he had worked in a shop called Fresh years ago. The smell of her fresh blood reminded him of the fresh vegetables and fruits. The pack moved on, a collective grin spreading across them like a fire.

Cel awoke to the sound of cracking branches. She felt something grabbing at her foot, and caught movement in the corner of her eye. She rolled over, and looked at her foot. There was a man, his rotten face stretched into a maniacal grin, showing sharp, blood stained teeth. She let out a scream and kicked at the man’s head. It exploded, and Cel was showered with dark red blood, ‘gross’. This only made her scream more. Cel lept to her feet, and spotted a whole horde of them swarming towards her like a dark wave slowly washing down the road. Cel turned and ran as fast as her long legs could carry her.

The man cursed, one of his own had ruined all of their chances of a meal for the moment. He signaled to his followers to crawl