Two boys went outside after watching a long marathon of scary movies. After several hours of staring at a TV screen, they blinked in the bright sunlight. One of the boy's mothers had insisted they go outside to 'get some fresh air'. Then she'd left to go to her book club. The friends were home alone.
 They found a deflated soccer ball near the garbage can, and after searching forever for a pump, they decided it was good enough. After all, it still rolled. They played soccer. Well, they started out playing soccer, but the game quickly disintegrated into a playful wrestling match, and then, a who-can-pick-up-the-most-heavy-rocks contest, and then, worn out, they simply sat on the dew-covered grass.
 Out of the blue, one boy turned to the other and said,
 "You know, I'm glad we're not in a horror movie."
 The other boy considered, then said, "I don't know. It might be kinda fun- you know, until you get to the dying part."
 "Fun? What part of fighting for your life is fun?"
 "You know, the adrenaline, the drama. I think it'd be cool."
 "Well, maybe."
 After a while, they re-discovered the soccer ball where it had landed in one of mom's hedges. They knocked it out with a long stick and resumed playing.
 When they stopped to take a breath, one kid saw something.
 The backyard had a low fence, and the house was on a hill, so he was able to see a large group of people moving slowly down Main Street. He squinted, but was unable to see much more detail. They walked all over the road, and cars didn't go anywhere near them.
 "Hey, what's that?"
 The boy followed his friend's gaze and shrugged.
 "I think it's a parade."
 "I don't remember Mom saying anything about a parade."
 "Well, your mom can't know everything."
 They returned to the soccer ball, and then had a small argument over where, exactly, the goals were. They decided to mark it with mud smears.
 Suddenly, a crashing sound, accompanied by sirens, echoed up to their ears. Neither payed it much mind, and they didn't even talk about it. True, it was only a medium-sized town, but sirens were common enough.
 After a while, one of them stopped the game and looked in the direction of the large crowd. He noticed that the whole crowd was a dull color of grey, as opposed to the colorful shirts of most parades. More than that, he noticed that there were no floats- just a long flow of people, marching onward.
 When he pointed this out, his friend had the perfect explanation.
 "It must be one of those zombie marathons! You know, where people dress up as zombies and walk a marathon. They're pretty cool."
 With that reasonable answer in mind, they both went inside for ice cream. The kitchen didn't have a window, just a sky light, so by the time they got back outside, the throng of people had disappeared below the curve of a hill. They were now out of sight, but close enough to hear. Sounds of moaning, with the occasional scream thrown in, floated up to their backyard.
 The first kid started to get nervous, with memories of the horror movies fresh in his mind, but his friend just laughed.
 "Cool, they've got a soundtrack to go with it! I wonder who recorded it. It sounds pretty real."
 "A sound track? For a Marathon?"
 "Sure. Lot's of people run to music."
 The boys stood in awkward silence for a while, because the noises were unnerving, even though they knew they were fake.
 After a few moments, one of them noticed a hole in their reasoning.
 "If this is a marathon, wouldn't they stick to Main Street? Why are they coming up my driveway?"
 Now they were both nervous. Thoughts of a Zombie Apocalypse creeped into their minds, no matter how many times they pushed them away.
 "I'll go talk to them. Maybe they're just confused."
 Neither of them really believed that. It would be pretty hard to confuse someone's long, twisted driveway with a main road, but they were running out of ways to justify these events.
 Slowly, the braver boy unlocked the gate and peeked out. He got one glimpse of the group, just a few hundred yards away, and immediately slammed the wooden fence door against his back and swore.
 "What is it?" the other kid asked, quickly rising to the brink of hysteria.
 In response, the first kid turned and bolted into the house. He tore through the living room and reached the front door. He griped the handle, expecting the door to fly open, and slammed cheek-first into the wall when it turned out to be locked.
He was still there, shaking the handle, when the other kid, who hadn't looked over the fence, came up to him holding the key.
 "Dude, why are you so-"
 He was about to say 'freaked out', but his friend jumped through the picture widow, cutting him off.
 Slowly, the boy's gaze passed the hole in the window and he looked to the street beyond.
 His mind churned, desperate to grip onto his last shreds of sanity. Of course, he knew make-up artists could easily make people look like flesh was hanging off their skin. But why would professional make-up artists waste their talent for a marathon? Could they be shooting a movie? But the cast of a movie doesn't usually knock over mailboxes and rip siding from a house, especially if people actually live in those houses. Maybe his whole life was a set-up for a move made by an uber-intelligent race? It made almost as much sense as what his eyes were telling him.
 Zombies. All around him were zombies.
 He stood there dumbly for a moment, then instinct kicked in and he bolted out the door.
 He didn't get far. He was only on the edge of the mass of zombies and, unfortunately, he ran towards the center, not away from it. As he ran, the crowd grew ever thicker, until he simply could not pass through.
 The zombies made no move to attack him, but they didn't need to. Within minutes, he was doubled over, puking from the smell of rotting flesh. From there, a lumbering zombie was enough to rock him over onto his side. Even though he was an easy target, it took forever. And then it was over.
 The other boy didn't live, either, though he took longer to die.
 For the record, neither of them thought it was fun.
 And, to be totally accurate, they never did end up in a horror movie. They did, however, make an excellent short story.

An Encounter

 An old man traveled down the rainy, busy street. Unlike most people there, his clothes were made of real fabric, not plastic. It had been a pain in the neck to find, but he felt it was worth it. Stranger still, he went on his own two feet, not an electric hover board.
 He didn't run, but walked with an urgency that was uncommon in this age of constant computer contact. He zig-zagged along the road, upsetting traffic, and asked the same questions over and over.
 "Do you hate our Nation? Do you believe in magic?"
 He was almost never allowed to get to the second question, because the person he was asking would always shriek at the idea and dart away, start yelling in his face, or simply come at him with fists raised. The very idea, to them, of disliking, let alone hating, the Nation was entirely unthinkable. The man avoided all attacks, and simply walked on with a stern, worried expression.
 He had been repeating those questions for hours now. His heart began to sink. Would he ever find anyone suitable? But then he saw a young boy, no older than five, nibbling quietly on a dried slab of Slips. He looked starved and cold. This was not unusual; hundreds of beggar boys lined this highway alone. This child's small eyes, however, were not focused on his scavenged food, or guarding his plastic cup with perhaps a coin or two in it. Instead, he watched each person as they flew by, seeming to be calculating, thinking. The boy's eyes connected with the old man's gaze, and they both knew something important was about to happen.
 The man crossed the street and stood before the child. The young boy stared defiantly up at him. If he was scared, he didn't show it.
 Heart pounding, the man asked his first question.
 "Do you hate our Nation?"
 The tiny, starved boy looked around, seeming to consider. Finally he answered simply,
 "Yes."
 The man could have jumped for joy. Lips curling into a smile, he asked the second question.
 "Do you believe in magic?"
 This time, the boy did not need to think. He grinned, revealing tiny, surprisingly white teeth and replied,
 "Yes."
 The man sighed in relief.
 "Take this, child."
 He held out an amulet, taken from his back pocket. It was a silver disk on a gold chain, engraved with a language long forgotten. If the child accepted it, the man's life's work would be complete.
 The kid did not drop his Slips, or hold out a hand.
 "What is it?"
 This kid was smart. He knew not to trust strangers.
 "It is your destiny."
 The boy raised a critical eyebrow and looked the man over for a good ten seconds. Finally, without a word, he put out his right hand, palm up.
 Smiling, the man lowered the amulet onto his outstretched hand.
 The boy watched in fascination as the the silver disk wiggled down his hand and then stopped on his wrist. After a moments pause, it slowly sunk into his skin, like a leaf in thick mud. Soon it seemed that the boy had a detailed, shiny tattoo on his wrist. The gold chain reached up and wrapped around his hand, and soon he had an irremovable bracelet. The process didn't hurt, but it did send happy shivers down his spine. He wiggled his wrist around, entertained by the jingling sound it made.
 Remembering his manners, he looked up to thank the man. But he was gone. All that was to be seen was dozens of people on their hover boards, logged into computers attached to their irises.
 The boy nodded to himself. In his mothers old stories, mysterious characters never stuck around, so why should this event be any different? He pulled up his sleeve to hide his new treasure, for he knew that if anyone saw it, they would do their best to snatch it, and that would only lead to trouble. Then he raised the stale Slips to his mouth, and quietly, simply, he returned to watching the wet streets.

The Angel's Choir

The shepherds saw, up in the sky, amid a soft, warm light,

A crowd of holy angels, singing through the night.

As they sang for Baby Jesus, (a manger for a bed,)

I wonder what they sang of, I wonder what they said.

I'm sure it had to do with hope, with love, and perfect peace,

I'm sure their voices rang out pure, without a single cease.

I wonder if they practiced, for hours every day,

Or if in that joyful moment, their hearts knew what to say?

Did they have a soloist, or a chorister in charge,

Or did they all have equal parts, the small up to the large?

Was I up there with them? Was I in that heavenly throng?

Did I barely murmur, or did I proudly sing along?

I don't know if I was there, thousands of years ago,

But as I sit here thinking, there's one thing that I know.

As I live from day to day, a song I'll always repeat,

And even if the times are hard, I'll never miss a beat.

Come with me, join my song, and together we will sing,

The same sweet song the angels sang to the King of everything.