Images exploded from darkness and Defoe understood two things simultaneously: he’d been dead for centuries, and his greatest work had been affronted. The former was a trifling wonder, compared to the horror of the latter.
He twisted, hungry to escape his underground prison. Skeletal fingertips clawing, he peeled the casket. Frantic. Chomped through the last few feet once his head gained egress. Burst forth in zombie redux, chewing dirt.
His renowned imagination clobbered by Mr. Reaper, Defoe felt no poetic frisson for the rain-percussion on exposed ribcage, feeling naked without his wig. Only red-mist revenge in rotted brain.
He shambled across the appropriately misty Bunhill Field’s cemetery, dragging one putrefied stump. At the iron gate he cast about for bearings, using zombie sixth sense. Moaning, he limped by the deserted high-street. Lights dazzled the benighted vision of his one good eye dangling maggot-infested on his cheekbone.
He stopped at Waterstones, muddy hands clanking against the plate glass. Peered at the display illuminated by Christmas lights.
Here!
His fury erupted, flaming to his gullet. Crusoe: Redux Edition.
Rewritten?!
A brick through the window set off an alarm. He snatched a copy of the book and made zombie-shuffling haste, vengefully chomping pages as he went in pursuit of the publisher.
Sophie Bachard was born and bred in South London, UK, where she was raised as a feral child by stray dogs on a council housing estate. After losing the entire manuscript of her ten million word epic autobiography at sea, she now writes fiction to stay sane. Forthcoming and recent publications include Ballista, Brilliant Quarterly, Delivered anthology, Mouth full of bullets, Sein Und Werden, and The Written Word, among others.
Robinson Crusoe courtesy of Art.com
