Wednesday, September 15, 2010

So I've been working on this book

Alright time for some Original Content. I've been working on this story for quite some time. Well actually I wrote a ton of it at once and haven't had the time to pick it back up. I haven't really proof-read it, but I'll post the intro. Let me know what you think and if you like it I'll continue to post parts of it (in order of course.) Some background on it, it's about a man named Alan who awakes one night to find out that the world has changed...and unfortunately it isn't at all for the better. Also there is no formatting besides basic grammar and such, so no whining there, I'm aware of it!

We…I, stand on the teetering edge of survival; existing, existing…no room for living. I gave all my goodbyes last night, lost all hope today. I’m farewelling life as I know it, and I’ve already killed too many people to count. Who knows how many times I’ve heard the report of a gun. When was the last time I drank fresh water, probably the last time I saw a face possessing colors other than the familiar grays, black, greens of rot beneath their skin, blossoming in and consuming my sanity. I remember…I remember children, and animals, love, passion. Faded, faded just like the pigment in their skin, like supplies, like hope. What now rings true and clear is the empty wind, whistling at me. Whistling, like when a friend whistles at a buddy who is about to get into some huge shit because his girlfriend found some bar-chick’s panties in his car. Wind whistling, whistling wind, whispering, “Buddy, you are in one major pile of shit.” But who has time to listen? No time to listen, you’ve got to make sure there is ammo in the gun, ammo in your pockets, shells buried in your clothing like seashells buried in the sand. But that’s just it isn’t it, buried in the sand, that’s what I am, buried in the sand! All I have to do is dig, and push, pull, scrape and I’ll get out. That is, if I don’t die of the cancer beforehand, the rotting flesh-hanging-on-bone cancer plaguing mother earth. Mother, my mother, walking around, she died two days ago, came home today. They hadn’t buried her yet so she must’ve been lying in her coffin in some room and the creatures had found her fresh corpse and had a feast. I’ve never been much for reunions, unfamiliar relatives in unfamiliar circumstances pretending to be familiar with every Uncle, Aunt, and Cousin. Reuniting with my mother, at least I knew she missed me; only incorrigible maternal love could drive a person to take four shells to the chest, while on fire, to only stop when hot metal exploded in her head like the dull thud of the champagne bottles opened at her viewing. Although…perhaps it wasn’t maternal love, perhaps it was the never ending, overriding need to feed. Like a baby drawn to its mother’s teat, so was she to my flesh. Who knew such a need existed, such an overpowering drive inhabited some small part of our craniums. I remember her moans, her screams, rotting vocal chords vibrating, tearing. Such dull eyes, I always admired her milky blue eyes, and here they were, misty and swollen, like one of those stress relieving key-chains of some animal with jelly inside of it and you squeeze it and its eyes bulged from its plastic skull. She was blind but she smelled me, just like I smelled her, long gone was her flowery perfume, replaced by the smell of wastes excreted by millions of bacteria slowly digesting every inch of her skin. She was naked, where there wasn’t caked on dirt caked on blood completed the painted on ensemble. Her left thigh had more bone than meat on it, making it so she limped to the point of almost falling over. She was cut everywhere, various bites she received before she resurrected, various chunks of flesh missing. I remember my eyes traveling from her feet to her lips, admiring the pearly luminescent skin, absolutely devoid of blood flow. I remember watching each bullet penetrate her torso: the first took out the right side of her pelvis, she didn’t notice save a grunt; the second blew through her left breast, but no blood came forth; the third hit the left side of her collarbone causing her neck to sink a little giving her that classic head tilted zombie look; the fourth hit her naval directly, ripping open her stomach, allowing thoroughly rotted intestine to spill out, dragged along next to her left leg. So much for reunions; I know I cried, was crying, cried the entire time, cried as I reloaded the gun and took aim between those misty blue eyes. The bullet hit dead on; obliterating the back of her skull, allowing the mush of what was once her brain to ooze out like some thick slushy from a gas station drink stand. I’ve been here two days, and it feels like an eternity. I’ve got to move, the ammo is running low and the undead are flowing strong, pouring out through the woods faster than they ran in when still alive, still hoping. They all ran in, as if the trees and dirt and shrubbery would act as some natural womb to keep them safe, to protect them from the evil that lived outside. But the evil lived inside too, in fact, that is where it was thought to have started. It didn’t make it to the news, it happened too rapidly for the talking heads to milk it for a week or two. The entire country went to sleep one night, half of the world went to sleep while the other half rose, rose with the dead.


  1. your posts keep getting better and better!

  2. A lot of aspiring writers these days. :o

    Any luck with the job search?


  3. Good luck on the book, writing is a thankless job until your published.

  4. How about an update about your book?

  5. Ha ha you got it, I'll post some more now