To Err on a Zee Thing

Our challenge was to...Write a story using as many words beginning with the letter z as possible.



Myrtle Siegman was mad. Not in a zany, dotty old aunt kind of way but rather a madness that comes from an irrational zealous belief. Convinced that she had masterminded the chad fiasco in Florida, after the accident with the hole punch, and was therefore solely responsible for the runaway victory by George W Bush. This was because the aliens wanted it to happen. With Bush in charge world domination was assured because Jesus was coming home! Whisked away by aliens 2000 years ago, to cover up the non-payment of a large grocery bill, he’d had enough and was on his way back.

Myrtle had communicated with the greys about the inaugural rally through Washington D.C. and the plan had been laid for zero hour, January 20th. Everyone knew that aliens understood messages if you just used first letters - why else would they call them U.F.O’s? Myrtle had decided to hold a message up for the aliens telling them where to meet. She’d worked hard on that the board - Please Rendezvous At Tower. Maybe with a bit more thought she wouldn’t have got arrested.

Zelda exhaled a long stream of Cuban cigar smoke and gazed at the picture of her sister being led away in handcuffs. Obviously taken with a zoom lens, it was like looking into the eyes of a zombie. This was all their parents fault.

Zelda’s family had never been normal. Their parents obsession with the letter Z (ok Myrtle had been a mistake) led to gardens filled with Zinnias, evening meals ending with sweet, heady zabaglione and the sponsorship of zebras in far away zoos. Brought up on a diet of Frank Zappa and Zen Buddhism philosophies their childhood reached a zenith of non-conformity.

Staring once more at the picture, Zelda recalled one year when convinced that like Ziggy, she wanted to play guitar, Myrtle’s attempts to procure one from her parents had amounted to a present of a zither. Absentmindedly Zelda flicked the lid of her zippo lighter, acrid petrol fumes mixed with the fog of cigar smoke and her face lit up briefly as she sucked on the zesty piquancy of a new cheroot.

A zephyr breeze entered her apartment. Twisting her cubic zirconium ring so as not to damage the intricately stitched zig zag pattern on her knitted house coat she pulled the zip up over her ample bosom which jostled together like two docked Zeppelins.

Glancing at the clock on the DVD she realised the end credits for the Mark of Zorro were rolling. Had she really been staring at that picture that long? Even allowing for the difference in time zones it was still too early to contact Bernie Shallotte, long time friend and now a Los Angeles PI. Originally working for New York’s finest till the accident with the cat, the zucchini and the coffee machine, Bernie’s involvement with the Zodiac case was legendary. If anyone could help get Myrtle out, Bernie could.