A Long Winter's Fright: 13 FREE YA Holiday Poems & Stories

By Rusty Fischer

I’ve always enjoyed a good scare over the holidays.
How about you?
I hope so, because A Long Winter’s Fright contains thirteen of my most popular, most FREE poems and stories about zombies, vampires and, now, with a little extra werewolf thrown in for good measure. (Okay, a LOT of extra werewolf thrown in for good measure!)
So curl up by the fire, grab a little blood wine or a brain smoothie, and enjoy these not-so-sweet holiday treats!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rusty Fischer
• Release date: Jul 22, 2011

Rusty Fischer

Rusty Fischer is a full-time freelance writer, multi-published ghostwriter and the author of dozens of published books across a variety of genres, from nonfiction to fiction, including his popular A Living Dead Love Story series from Medallion Press. Visit him at www.rustyfischer.com to read more!

Book preview

A Long Winter’s Fright:

13 FREE Holiday Poems & Stories

By Rusty Fischer, author of Zombies Don’t Cry

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A Long Winter’s Fright

Rusty Fischer

Copyright 2012 by Rusty Fischer

Smashwords Edition

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This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously. (You know, except for the parts about the zombies, vampires and werewolves – they’re totally true!)

Cover credit: © zzzdim – Fotolia.com

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Author’s Note

The following is a collection of 13 FREE undead short stories.

Any errors, typos, grammar or spelling issues are completely the fault of the zombies, with a little help from the vampires this year. (And don’t even get me started on how the werewolves feel about the whole editorial process, either!)

Anyway, I hope you can overlook any minor errors you may find; enjoy!

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Introduction

I’ve always enjoyed a good scare over the holidays.

How about you?

I hope so, because A Long Winter’s Fright contains thirteen of my most popular, most FREE poems and stories about zombies, vampires and, now, with a little extra werewolf thrown in for good measure. (Okay, a LOT of extra werewolf thrown in for good measure!)

So curl up by the fire, grab a little blood wine or a brain smoothie, and enjoy these not-so-sweet holiday treats!

* * * * *

Zombies Don’t Trick or Treat:

A Living Dead Halloween Poem

The zombies were out

For a fun, festive night;

There were goblins and ghouls

And witches in sight.

Over there was a demon

His legs warm as toast;

Down that street’s a pumpkin

Down that one’s a ghost.

No, it wasn’t Armageddon

Or a monster’s pot luck;

It was the one mortal night

That didn’t quite… suck!

That’s right, little ghosties

It was… Halloween;

The creepiest, crawliest

Living dead scene!

Poor Chester was frightened

He was new to this town;

And ever since dying

Poor Chester’d been down.

He wasn’t quite used

To being undead;

If he had his way

He’d be living… instead.

His friends liked being zombies

They found it quite cool;

But all Chester felt

Was like one giant fool!

He hated his hairdo

He hated his skin;

He hated the fact

That he could no longer grin.

His legs they were stiff

His arms were quite chilly;

And stumbling around

Just made Chester feel… silly.

Tonight might be different

Poor Chester agreed;

As he watched other kids

Look as foolish as he.

For each one looked goofy

For each one looked grim;

For each one looked not

Quite much better than… him!

But where are they going?

He asked of a bud;

Who looked at him like

He had the IQ of a spud.

They’re all trick or treating,

Was the answer he gave;

"Or have you forgotten,

Since you rose from the grave?"

I seem to recall,

Little Chester did say;

"Of begging for candy

On Halloween day."

Let’s give it a try,

His buddy made it sound like a synch;

"Chocolate’s not as good as brains

But it’ll do in a pinch."

Chester shrugged

And followed his friend;

As they shuffled and groaned

Up the long driveway’s end.

The lawn was festooned

With orange and black;

The setting quite ripe

For a zombie attack!

The young man who stood

At his cozy front door;

Thought the zombies on his porch

Wore costumes; nothing more.

He smiled,

They shuffled;

He sniffed

And he snuffled.

I quite love your costumes,

He said with a smile.

"But your breath I smelled coming

For more than a mile!"

When the man tried to offer

A bowl full of candy;

All Chester could smell

Was his brain oh-so-dandy.

He reached for the bowl

But dropped it instead;

And as the man bent to catch it

Clamped onto his head.

But why? asked the man

Squealing in pain;

Why bother with candy, Chester said

When my treat is… your brain!

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The Werewolf’s Halloween Costume:

A Werewolf Trick or Treat Story

I’m just gonna put this out there now, I murmur as I pull away from his curb, Topher riding shotgun in his standard crisp black jeans and matching v-neck t-shirt, but… I am so not impressed with your costume this year.

Forget Halloween, dude wears the same damn thing every single day and must do six loads of laundry every week because they always look brand spanking new.

Topher smiles his cheesy, knowing grin and says, Trust me, Rain; you’re not ready for my Halloween costume.

I make that annoying scary movie ooooohhhhh sound, waving my fingers above the steering wheel dramatically as I roll down Mott Street.

Why, are you going as a male stripper and have to do a pole dance at every door because, seriously, that’s about the only thing would impress me at this point.

He smirks but I turn away slightly to hide the sudden blush that’s blossomed from my throat to my forehead.

(Whoa, where did that come from?)

He shakes his head, unruly black curls doing their unruly black curly thing. Hey, at least I don’t cop out completely and wear one of those cheesy ‘This IS My Costume’ T-shirts like you know Braxton’s going to.

I shake my head, limp chestnut hair not doing much but staying in place as I cruise over to the wrong-ish side of town to pick up Braxton. Yeah, well, at least the dude’s trying. This is… just… pitiful.

I make a kind of half-hearted gesture with my free hand toward the passenger seat where Topher is reclining, smiling, fiddling with the simple crystal pendant he always wears, the one tied loosely around his graceful neck with a cheap leather thong.

As if remembering he’s not driving himself, Topher finally looks over and chuckles.

I’m pitiful? he barks, leaning back against the passenger seat door to get a better look. I’m pitiful? What do you call… that?

The way he’s eyeing me up and down, from toenails to earlobes, I’m assuming that is my costume.

You know, what there is of it.

I’m supposed to be a French maid, I say, sliding my little feather duster out from the cup holder in the door panel and waving it, wand-like, in the air for emphasis.

"Since