Genre-Busted Fiction

Photo by Christopher Johnson on Unsplash

The corpse, stretched out on its back on the kitchen floor, twitched.

“Seeing things,” said the detective, rubbing at weary eyes. She turned away to examine the pattern of blood spatters on the tiled walls.

When she turned back the corpse was sitting upright.

“Bloomin’ heck!”

“You’re telling me,” said the dead man. “I was chopping onions one minute, next thing I know the knife slipped and I was bleeding out.”

“But you’ve been stabbed in fifteen places.”

The corpse shrugged. “I’m clumsy.”

“How are you still breathing?”

“Dunno. Tell you what, though, I’m looking at you and feeling very hungry all of a sudden. Mouth’s watering. How weird.”

“So this is a zombie story now? I thought it was a crime thriller.”

“I thought it was a comedy.”

“Farce, more like.”

“Almost a tragedy.”

“Sod this,” said the detective. “Plot’s a mess. I quit.”

“And me.” The corpse got to his feet. “This might be a bit forward, but do you fancy going for a drink?”

“Er… go on then. Pub?”

“Perfect. Bit of romance for luck, eh? Tick all the boxes.”

“God help us.”