Young Writers Club meets on Mondays after school in the library with Miss Colborne-Lilley
3.30 - 4.30
Winner of the Paul Westmoreland Competition October 2022
March 24th, 1997, a 14 year old boy by the name of Greg set out on a gloomy, unilluminated
Saturday morning at precisely 7 o’clock towards the provincial graveyard in which the pair of
his beloved parents lay. Today it dawned upon the seventh anniversary of the accident. He
slouched as he strolled in a way you would expect from a teenager, kicking and stepping on
gaggles of rocks and leaves when he walked past. The boy reached the jet-black gates,
holding his head down whilst walking along the crunching gravel path leading to the rather
remarkable memorial statues on the eastern section of the graveyard. Greg’s brain flickered
through faint and vague, yet heartwarming memories of the two. His father had possessed a
rather bulky stature along with a deep, demanding voice and a dominating presence which
seemed to arise whenever he was around. On the other hand, his mother was quite a
cheerful and charming woman with a height of roughly 5ft 9 inches and a hint of a Scottish
accent in her voice. As his mind awoke from its trance, he realised he had arrived at the two
tombs. He glanced up. The statues seemed to stare at him with sympathy.
Seven years prior to this, Ernald and Elizabeth Morgan (the parents) left young Greg, who
was seven at the time, in the hands of a family friend as they rushed into their Ford Focus,
revving up the engine and driving away at pace. Greg was told that they had supposedly
gone to run a couple of errands. He was never told much about their work and the subject
was always swiftly changed if brought up. The sky looked ominous and unforgiving as a
storm was brewing within the grey, murky clouds. He didn’t understand much at the time,
however the policeman that showed up a few hours later at the door after the parents’
departure helped him to piece things together. Yet again, he was fed lies straight to his face
and a propostuous story was conjured that said that the parents had gone on a surprise
holiday. Years went by and tattletale signs kept hinting at the parents’ death. Realisation and
discovery hit him long after the incident took place.
Fast forward to the present, Greg lives with his aunt, uncle and cousin. He suffers from
severe crippling depression but manages to keep himself fit as a hobby. School and ‘home’
is like hell to him and he does everything in his power to be alone. Despite being tall, fair
haired, having blue eyes, blonde hair and being quite good looking overall, he had no friends
nor girlfriend to seek aid from. His fellow household members weren’t very much of a helping
hand to Greg’s mental state. All they did was relentlessly argue and lounge infront of their
television, barely managing to walk their obese self to the fridge.
The thoughts and flashbacks slowly faded away, bringing Greg back to the pair of statues.
Even though he attended the site frequently, he was never able to bring himself to feel calm
as a constant sense of unease or being watched flocked him during his mourning. All of a
sudden, an abrupt snapping of a twig sent his head spinning in all directions. The morning
fog seemed to engulf him, obscuring his vision. Thuds of footsteps echoed all around him.
Subsequently, a pair of hands seized him and Greg’s instincts kicked in as he thrashed
about, using his physical superiority to his supremacy. Although not seeing his adversary’s
face, he could almost sense that there was something paranormal about them. The brawl
continued, Greg still facing away from his abductor as it had wrapped its green, withering
arms around his waist with an astonishingly tight grip. Drizzles of rain began to pour down
his sweaty cheek. His mind and pulse raced as he endured agonising clawing to his thighs.
The memories of his late parents yet again coursed through his mind and so did the
adrenaline throughout his veins. To attempt to defend himself, Greg managed to muster a
vicious blow with his elbow to his opponent’s stomach, causing it to lurch back and release
its vigorous grip from his waist.
The boy spun round and there before him was something straight out of a nightmare. Its
black scales looked as if they were patterns along the loathsome, green skin. Slender legs
and scrawny arms stuck out at inconvenient angles across its boney torso. Worst of all, the
being had a pair of heads, both resembling each of his parents. Their pale, lifeless eyes
gazed at Greg whilst he stood where he was, mortified and frozen with fear. He couldn’t
believe his eyes, his parents were in front of him but, inhuman and zombified? The duo of
mummified zombies simultaneously rasped a single word out through their gritted and
deteriorated sets of teeth: ‘BRAINS’.
The entity lunged at him, its claws flailing in the pouring rain. Swiftly dodging the blow,
Greg’s mind flicked back to horror and apocalypse films that he had watched in the past.
Allegedly, zombies’ weak spot tended to be the brain. So, all he had to do was get to and
destroy their brain or brains or whatever it had. In spite of the fact that he had a plan,
nervousness wasn’t obsolete and still posed a threat as panic slithered down his spine.
He broke into a sprint, bolting down miniature paths as they crunched beneath his feet. The
anomaly was close on his heels. Its jaw was snapping at his neck and it managed to slice a
diagonal line across his left shoulder using its claws. Bloodstains spread across his white
shirt, seemingly visible even in the morning rain. At last, a glimpse of hope arose as he
darted towards a shovel sticking out of the damp soil. The gravedigger must have left the
shovel out carelessly in the open, not knowing that his actions could potentially save a life.
Still charging forth, he wrenched the spade out of the wet earth, spewing mud everywhere.
As a last ditch effort, he turned on his pursuer and placed a devastating blow to the left head
of his mother. The tool sliced horizontally through the flesh, skull and brain, splitting it all in
half. The father howled and pounced on young Greg. The foe tore through skin and bone,
leaving Greg in excruciating pain. The spade was inches from the palm of his hand; it had
been dropped during the fall. His now frail fingers stretched for the metal handle as his life
depended on it. In his dying embers, the boy’s unstable fingers wrapped around the handle
and mercilessly penetrated the zombie’s green flesh for the last time.
It collapsed with almost no noise unlike its partner and Greg scrambled to his feet. He stood
over the body, blood dripping and covering the floor. His legs gave way and he fell to his
knees, shrieking violently into the air for one last time. Finally, his eyes drained of colour and
lulled into the back of his head. A thud sent birds squawking and running as his corpse fell to
the floor.
Greg Morgan gasped and awoke from his slumber, thinking it was just a nightmare he looked
at his calendar for the date: 24th of March, 1997...
Alan Year 7
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