Can there be a happy ending for a zombie? Is such a thing possible? Will a Scary Codmother…er, Fairy Godmother, appear? Or is that just wishful thinking?

Dribble shuffled to the decaying entryway, looking out on the fallow countryside just beyond the doorstep. There had been a sound, he was sure of it. But no one came this way anymore. Couldn’t have been the sound he thought he had heard.

“Ears must be going now,” he said to himself, preparing to shuffle back to his tattered pallet where he spent the majority of his time laying among the detritus of his existence. It wasn’t much. Unlike the other zombies, Dribble never shed limbs or large chunks of himself.

The Master had noted that right away about Dribble. It was the reason he gave the zombie his name. For want of a better descriptive, Dribble…dribbled. Slowly, inexorably, he lost little bits of himself. Even now, he almost passed as a living person. In low light. Well, on a moonless night. Inside a deep cave.

His present state had taken so long to unfold that the other zombies had all wasted away to nothing. Literally nothing. Even the Master had long since expired, unwilling to use a posthumous reanimation spell to come back as one of his own creations. Dribble was truly alone.

Yet, he could have sworn he had heard the sound of hooves clattering just outside his door. Dribble sighed (very lightly, as zombies had little use for air and rarely had a good lungful for more voluble activities anyway) and turned back to look outside one more time. Sure enough, there was a broad sheet tacked to the old road-crossing signpost that noted that Oldberg was One Day Past the Oak Tree, and Grayvale was Follow the Creek for a While. At least that was what Dribble imagined the crude pictures carved in the wood were meant to convey.

Dribble was quite certain that he preferred honest letters and words to pictograms. It was hard to remember anything about Before, though he imagined he was a man of letters and words. He even had a book inside that he read at times. It was simple and without any of the large words he was sure he understood. Still, it was something to do to while away the time. And it was romantic.

Zombies have little opportunity for romance, as you can imagine. When there were other zombies around, Dribble would note a few who tried to regain the old magic they remembered as living beings, but it just wasn’t the same. Between the poor circulation that caused greatly reduced sensation in the extremities and the obvious fact that your partner had bits falling off…well, it just wasn’t romantic. Dribble had kept to himself, even then.

But there was a broad sheet out on the way marker. This was something unprecedented in his memory. Now, his recall was admittedly faulty after so long alone. Still, a broad sheet tacked up in such an out of the way place was surely very important.

Dribble sighed, ever so slightly, and shuffled out to read it.

Dribble shuffled as fast as he could back into the decaying structure he charitably called a house and went straight to his pallet. Next to it on a three legged night stand was his Book. Dribble opened it to the sole unblemished illustration, the scene where the Prince first lays eyes on Cinderella.

Dribble gazed at the image longingly before carefully closing the slender volume and placing it back on the night stand. He lay down on his pallet and closed his eyes, not to sleep–for zombies seldom sleep–but to dream about attending a royal ball.

Dreaming while awake, or in that state that passes for wakefulness in zombies, is a curious thing indeed. A zombie’s life seldom seems very real, so dreaming is almost the same. It was this way for Dribble as he watched the Prince and Cinderella dance about the ballroom.

Intricate frescos, separated by gilded timbers, adorned the domed ceiling. Along the walls, tall windows alternated with rich tapestries extolling the virtues and courage of the royals over the ages, and gleaming wall sconces bathed the room in rich light. The dance floor was made of rare hardwoods intricately inlaid in sweeping geometric patterns that some followed in their dance but the more adventurous flew across in dizzying arcs encompassing the entire dance floor.

It was that way with the Prince and Cinderella. They commanded that floor with their bold presentation and graceful steps. The crowd gave way to the enchanting couple and raptly watched their breathtaking display. The Prince dipped Cinderella impossibly low and brought her up in a spin that sent her across the dance floor. She went with the spin, extending the twirl until she was at the limit of the dance floor, immediately before one of the large picture windows. She planted her left foot to stop the spin in dramatic fashion–

CRACK!

The sound was sickening. The watchers gasped in horror as Cinderella’s left ankle bent at an impossible angle and the girl fell back toward the large window.

CRASH!

The window broke and rained shards down upon Cinderella, cutting her flesh but releasing no blood. Bits and pieces blackened and began falling off. Women shrieked and men pulled their wives and dates away from the horrible spectacle. Shouts began around the room. “Zombie, zombie!”

Cinderella shuddered and sobbed in shame. There was no pain, not for a zombie, at least not physically. The pain was inside where the audience could not see it. They did not care about the mental anguish of a zombie, they just wanted her gone.

Cinderella fled into the night, run-hobbling along as fast as she could manage. Just as she reached the bottom of the steps to the palace her ankle finally gave way. When the undead damsel was well away in her magicked coach there remained only a glass slipper…and the foot encased inside.

Dribble came to himself slowly, as if swimming up to the surface of an ocean from a very great depth. He remembered his waking dream with unwelcome clarity. Dribble knew who he wanted to be in that dream. He shuddered and sobbed, but could shed no tears.

Silly zombie, tears are for girls.