|
You are only seeing a fraction of my work. If you want to see it all join my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/itsmetoo If you are already a supporter, go to the Table Of Contents on my Patreon and click the proper link to get the new password. |
Captioned Images Series: Zombie Apocalypse
Created: 10/31/2025
In the dim glow of a harvest moon, Jimmy sprinted through the abandoned streets of Willow Creek, his shoes pounding against cracked pavement. Behind him, the shuffling horde grew louder—zombies, but not the rotting, brain-hungry kind from old movies. These were something far weirder. They clutched bundles of shimmering leotards and sheer tights in their pale, claw-like hands, their own bodies squeezed into the garish outfits like undead aerobics instructors from a forgotten '80s video.
It had started at the old community theater. Jimmy had been scavenging for supplies when the first one lunged at him, its eyes vacant but determined, a pink spandex leotard stretched over its decaying frame. "Join us," it rasped in a voice like rustling nylon. He'd dodged it, but more emerged from the shadows, their tights whispering with each awkward step. The rumor in the survivor camps was true: these zombies didn't bite to infect. They dressed you. One slip into their cursed attire, and you'd become one of them—mindless, forever prancing in eternal, awkward dance routines.
Jimmy's lungs burned as he vaulted over a rusted car. The lead zombie, a former ballerina by the look of her graceful yet grotesque pirouette, was gaining ground. She waved a pair of black tights like a lasso, her leotard sparkling under the streetlights. "You'll look fabulous!" she groaned, her voice echoing with unnatural enthusiasm.
He darted into an alley, heart hammering. Trash cans clattered as he knocked them over, buying precious seconds. But the horde poured in after him—dozens now, carrying armloads of neon greens, polka-dotted pinks, and fishnet horrors. If they caught him, it was over. They'd pin him down, force his limbs into the tight fabric, and poof—Jimmy the survivor would become Jimmy the eternal dancer, shuffling in synchronized shame for eternity.
Spotting a fire escape, Jimmy leaped, grabbing the ladder and hauling himself up. The zombies clustered below, moaning and tossing leotards like confetti. One snagged his pant leg, tearing it, but he kicked free and climbed higher. From the rooftop, he watched them mill about, their outfits clashing horrendously in the moonlight.
Panting, Jimmy collapsed against a vent. He'd escaped—for now. But as the wind carried their distant chants of "One of us... stretchy and free," he knew the chase wasn't over. In this apocalypse, the real horror wasn't death. It was bad fashion.
Made with Ideogram Generator