Savannah

Darkness is welcoming as a blanket on a cold night, enveloping the city. Now is not the time to be caught, as the cries of the forgotten can already be heard. They remain hidden in the daylight, and the Sunshine Children knew it allowed them only a brief respite. The Sunshine Children took cover just as the last ray of the sunset evaporates. 

Lost to the daylight, the Forgotten rise and extract themselves from the cracks and crevices that once offered them shelter, no longer able to exist as day dwellers, and forced to recede into the night. 

Lost to all they knew, forgotten forever, and considered to be monsters, although they still look human. 

The sunshine children’s numbers decrease as the forgotten’s numbers increase, soon they will outnumber them. 

Savannah’s journey had begun long ago. How long exactly she couldn’t remember exactly as her memory of her past began to fade away with the wind it would seem. 

She vaguely recalled, following her friend Vincent through the maze at the Willows; a place where shrubs had grown so tall one couldn’t clearly know their position, once walking in. 

She chased him through to the other side, peeked out, and saw a group of five men. The way they were bobbing, she knew they were the (forgotten), a massive flu outbreak had mutated, or so her teacher told her, and began to change people into monsters overnight. They craved human brains, and then human flesh as brains were hard to come by. 

Doctors developed a vaccine for the flu, but it couldn’t help the thousands already infected. If bit by one of the forgotten, one became infected themselves, and became an eating machine capable of reducing the sunshine children's population.  

Turning to hide, Savannah stepped between two trees, and she saw Vincent, his head tilted toward the ground.

“Vincent,” Savannah whispered. “We must leave this place.” 

He looked up at her, but she couldn’t see his eyes as it had begun to get dark, too dark to be outside with the forgotten lurking so close. Suddenly he darted off, and she followed him through the maze of tall shrubs.  

Savannah began to feel frightened as Vincent seemed to be leading her in circles. Stopping as she heard the sound she dreaded, the sound nobody wanted close to them. Although the forgotten couldn't speak, they moaned horribly. One never knew if they did so for a reason or if they simply wanted to instill fear within them.

A light appeared from the other side of the shrubs, and she ran towards it. Vincent stood waiting for her, and five of the forgotten stood directly ahead of her. She tried to dart away, but Vincent stuck his foot out and she tripped, and she fell onto the ground.

“I’m so sorry Savannah,” Vincent whispered to her as he bit into the back of her neck.

She couldn’t remember anything for a long time afterward, couldn’t remember the pain after Vincent took the initial bite.

She remembered going home. She hobbled as all of the forgotten do, her yellow dress now blood stained. Putting a hand to her head, she felt her once straight blond hair knotted as if it were a rats nest. 

Her stomach began to rumble and tighten with what could only be described as incredible hunger, not for chocolate or potato chips, but flesh, human flesh. 

She knew exactly where to find it too. She stumbled home and quietly entered the apartment building she lived with her mother. She didn’t need to be buzzed in as the door stood ajar. Papers littered the hallway and stairs, and Savannah made her way up the steps carefully. Not a sound could be heard, and Savanna wondered if anyone remained.

The pain in her stomach moved her forward as she couldn't stand it anymore, and she couldn’t remember craving anything as much as this. 

Please be home, please don’t let me be too late. 

Reaching her apartment door, she glanced up at the door, focusing on the lock, and reaching into the pocket of her dress she pulled out a key. Pushing it into the lock, she turned it.

Click.

It sounded so loud and seemed to echo down the corridor, steps, and into the streets below. Savannah opened the door a crack and peered inside. Not seeing her mother she began to panic. 

Did she not wonder where I am or did she not care?

Looking around the apartment, she noticed it looked the same when last she saw it. The clean dishes were draining on the rack in the kitchen, and running her hand along the leather couch; she realized it's free of dust. 

Smiling, she padding across the wood floor, not making a sound. Her mother’s door stood open, and she lay on her side turned away from the door, her dark hair splayed across her pillow, used tissues surrounding her.

Savannah waited in anticipation, watching her mother’s body for a sign of movement. She held her breath, and her eyes locked into position. Waiting for any sign of life, and finally, she saw her mother take a deep breath.

Her stomach hurt so much that she could barely stand it, and she barely made it to the bed. Savannah crawled onto the bed, but her mother still didn’t move.  

“What are you waiting for Savannah?” Turning towards Savannah, her mother began to cry. “I’m so happy to see you baby, despite your condition. Does it hurt horribly.”

“My stomach hurts so bad mommy, please make it stop.”

Tears began to spill out of Fiona’s eyes. “I know you cannot cry so I will cry for you. I just want to know how bad it will hurt when you bite me?”

“You will only feel the first bite, after that you won’t ever feel again. When you awaken, the only pain you will feel is hunger, and it will make you do things that you never thought you could. You won’t care how you have to do it or who you do it to, but you must feed.” 

“I’m your mother, and I cannot let my baby starve, feed on me.”

Not waiting another moment as they seemed endless to Savannah, she bit into her mother’s head. 

She knew she shouldn‘t think this, as this is her mother, but her brains tasted so GOOD! 

Obsession of the dead

Hameed strolled through the stone pathway, rounding every twist and turn with ease, and without worry.

Makito's streets are still made of stone, one of the reasons it still exists today. High walls surround the pathway, and a metal grate covers the top. 

Glancing up Hameed saw the full moon overhead, steaming light down to him. Faces begin to block out the light, and already he hears their cries. He knew there was no way they could get inside because the grate is checked carefully every morning. 

Makito made plans well in the future, before the virus spread here. Hameed himself helped to make careful plans, but when his friend Felicity became sick, things took a strange turn. He didn't feel repulsion. Pure lust consumed him, and he visited her every night to satisfy his sick cravings, and believe me (there were many). 

Their growing love blossomed, and he felt alive, more alive than he had in years. She never tried to bite him, and her moist lip's and tongue pleasured him in ways he had never dreamed possible before.

Her father became enraged when he discovered their sick union, and while Hameed left the security of the gated community of Makito - her father waited with a pack of zombies. Not like the others, they were bent of destroying what happiness any zombie found, and poor Felicity's face became unglued (Hameed had worked so hard to restore her) and her skull began to be exposed.

Hameed had been beside himself with sorrow to see his beloved so disfigured that he sought out a surgeon to restore her, but when her eye ball popped out, it became pointless really. The last time he saw her sad face, she was walking towards Cliff's Bluff. 

Being chased by the zombies became a nightly ritual for him now as a door opened inside of him that couldn't be so easily closed. He searched every night for a fresh zombie. One who wouldn't bite, one who liked his sick obsession. He was cast out of  Makito (as you could well imagine), but he knew the way in, and he hid on the pathway every night. 

There's a price on Hameed's head, and as you can well imagine, that means more to zombie than anything. Forget about the money, they'd eat his brains for free.

You know you're screwed when??

That walk in the park seemed like a great idea at the time, but looking across the glistening grass, you're not so sure anymore.

Four shadows come into view, and you wonder. Why are they staring at you, do they know you or are they hungry?

Not being able to tell a friend from foe is a problem for you, and you're overly cautious.

From across the park it's hard to tell, and you begin to feel uneasy (you know it's not the Indian food). 


Stepping back, you observe the following things.

1. The figures always seem to stay in the shadows (strange as one would think that would be the last place you'd want to be).

2. It's early evening and should you even be outside at this hour (memories of your mother come to mind).

3. As you walk the group seems to keep in step with you (still keeping to the shadows).

4. Your friends that accompanied you have all left (cowards).

5. Your dog begins to growl until the group growls back (he runs off like a little bitch).

6. You hasten your pace, and the group begins sprinting toward you (dammit this sucks).

7. You run down an alley, though an open door, and into the back of store, climbing down a ladder. You now find yourself in the sewer (still you can hear the pounding of feet, right above you).

8. Wading into the sewer you find yourself surrounded with decaying corpses, and suddenly you notice they begin to open  their eyes. (that feeling is coming back).

9. You are walking through the water trying to escape, when suddenly you look above you see the zombies pressed against the glass, trying to claw their way in, (but you're not ready to give up yet).

10. By the time you reach the end of the tunnel you're wading in, you realize with certainty (you are totally screwed)!


IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING OR AM I RIGHT NOW WATCHING AN EPISODE OF THE WALKING DEAD.

Coming Soon

Let me say, I haven't been writing my novel, "The Bone Extractor," for over a year to have it make its way into a slush pile (after six months of waiting). I know someone who found an agent, and after a year of waiting, she told him she couldn't find anyone who would even read it.


This is 2011, and there are other options. I want my novels to be read. Research is a great thing, and I have recently read some informative blogs with opinions about self publishing. Did I lose you?


There are many authors, both traditionally published or newbies that have moderate success selling Kindle, and ebooks on Amazon. Some are putting ebooks on Amazon, once the rights have reverted back to them, and doing very well. I have heard authors that have busted their asses going to book signings that their publishers wouldn't pay for. To have an official book signing at a bookstore a publisher, must pay the bookstore $50 coop fee. Later the same author put ebooks on Amazon and made even more money without having to bust his ass (something us writers need as we sit on it all day writing).


If you're a writer, you want to spend your time writing.


Check out this blog, it's both informative and surprising. There are several guest bloggers too. Go here.




There are many people that think publishers are the only way to go, and I say good for you, (publishers make more money that way). Self publishing does not mean you have a black mark over your name either. Many authors that have self publish have agents contact them or publishers wishing to publish them, if that's what you want.


Bottom line is why pay someone to do something for you that you can do yourself. If you're a writer, and serious about writing, you should already have a Facebook account. If you don't have a blog start one, and write blogs frequently. Let people know who you are, who you really are. Write about your struggles or give them a story or two (who doesn't like that). Join writers groups and interact on them. Stay away from ones that are more of a clique ) if you're like me, I found some of them already.


Quality writing is a must, covers could be an issue, but most of the book covers I have seen are from stock photo sights. I'm more fortunate as I have a great artist to do my covers. 


The future is bright, and I feel more inspired to write now that I don't have to worry about what a publisher may like. This my path, feel free to find your own, and I wish all of my writer friends success in whatever avenue you choose. I'll be there to support you. 


My blog has over 200 followers, and who am I?? Follow me on Twitter. 
  

I have been nominated by MJ for the versatile blogger award

I have been nominated for the Versatile Blogger Award by MJ, for my unique, and zany zombie blog. (Her words not mine). Aww, you are too sweet MJ, and I'm glad someone is paying attention. The deal is I need to nominate others for this award, and tell you seven things about myself.


1. I'm as zany as it comes and could make a joke about anything. (Some have even called me crazy, I think they were joking).


2. I have seen dead people, (one minute they were alive and the next - gone) I have seen them dying, and that is the hardest part. 


3. I'm afraid of crazy people, schizophrenics especially, (even if they are on medication).


4. I read and comment on other peoples blogs or pages, but they rarely comment on mine. That makes me mad, (don't worry I have had my shots). 


5. I'm a mother of two children and I plan on molding them into sociopaths. (One plays games all day, and the other plans to move to Montana and live by herself in a log cabin. I don't know about you but I'm not going anywhere near Montana, I'm just sayin). 


6. I listen to other peoples problems all the time and I wish I had a magic wand I could wave and they would feel better, be healthier, and smile again. (I know life is not fairy tale land, but sometimes I wish it was. 


7. I'm hard to live with or without, and you may not always like what I say, but I'm real if nothing else.

My wife left me for Zombie Man

My wife ran off with Zombie Man and hasn't been seen since.  I knew when we saw him walk by; this might not be a good time be outside.


He nodded as he walked by, and my wife nearly swooned. He wore pink tights and a tight tank top, clinging to his muscled frame, and she couldn't look away.


What with the large letter Z on his chest you would think he thought he was some kind of superhero.


My wife told me he actually listens to her, (as if he can speak).


If he could speak more than a few words he'd tell her to shut up (I know I have to as she never quits yapping).


"Huh?" Is only encouragement for her to continue to keep talking.




Doesn't she realize he is wasting away? I hope he decomposes soon that'll teach her. I heard he lost an arm during a storm last night. I mean how long can this really last. If he thinks he's just dropping her back off over here, he can forget it.


What kind of sex life could they possibly have as I'm sure "that thing in his tights" rotted away long ago; with the way he smells. Kissing him would be repulsive as maggots must have formed there too.


No, I'm not being bitter, I'm glad she's gone, and I'm moving just in case she tries to come crawling back.


I should know because that's what happened to my last wife.

WARNING: BEWARE ZOMBIE MAN AS HE HAS BEEN STEALING WIVES ALL OVER TOWN. HE CAN BE FOUND SMACKING HIMSELF IN THE HEAD AS A CIRCLE OF WOMEN SURROUND HIM, YAPPING LIKE MAGPIES. THIS IS A GOOD DAY FOR HUMAN KIND AND A BAD DAY TO BE ZOMBIE MAN. 

Zombie Joe

Zombie Joe just moved into the house next door (there goes the neighborhood). We would have brought him a welcoming gift, but just our luck we were all out of brains.


He sits on his front steps of his dilapidated house with a forlorn, and sad look on his, now, green face. His yellow eyes lost in thought.


One could only imagine what horrors took place at the time of his death, and one never went close enough to find out.


At a distance he seemed like a nice enough fellow, but screams echoed from Zombie Joe's house nightly, becoming a reminder of how different (he truly is).


Two weeks after he moved in--it happened. Cats began to disappear from the neighborhood. Fluffy the neighborhood favorite went missing first.


Folks began pointing fingers at poor Zombie Joe immediately, but I kindly reminded them Zombies are cannibals. 


Mrs. Baxter, who lived directly across the street, is to put it bluntly an animal hoarder (hardly one to talk). The majority even thought it fitting if some of her cats, did disappear, which happened the next day. Goldie her favorite went missing first, followed by Sylvester, and then boots. We all tried to calm her down, but she was inconsolable. 


Yesterday afternoon, we found her huddled under Zombie Joe's shrubs (not the smartest move), but she insisted that he had her beloved pets and no amount of talking would convince her otherwise.


We should of seen the writing on the wall, but what could we do. We almost stopped her too, but we didn't. It wasn't that we didn't like Mrs. Baxter; we just didn't like those damn cats. 


Two days went by and no sign of Zombie Joe or Mrs. Baxter. FInally, I drew the short straw and made my way to Zombie Joe's door. I paused to knock, when the door opened. I wished I could say there was a breeze that blew that door open, but I knew that wasn't what happened. Someone or (something) opened that door.


Walking into the middle of the living room, I saw a trail of blood leading to the kitchen. Most people would have lit outta there, but my curiosity drew me to follow that trail, where it led I had no idea, but I had to know. 


Zombie Joe laid in the middle of the floor, his right tightly around Mrs. Baxter's cat, Goldie. He lay severed from the waist; his intestines spilled onto the floor. 


Mrs. Baxter stood over him ranting. "You let my cat go now."


He pulled Goldie to his mouth and took a bit, and looking at Mrs. Baxter it was obvious he had bitten her too. Her hair stuck straight up, and her red painted lips, now directly under her nose. Her skin, already peeling back exposing her teeth.

Hissing could be heard all around me when I noticed--not only was Mrs. Baxter a Zombie, but all her cats too. The strangest part is that even though severed at the waist, he still had Goldie gripped firmly in his right hand.


Oh great, not only would we continue to have a zombie for a neighbor, but one that was hoarding cats too, not just any cats, but a horde of zombie cat's.


WARNING: DO NOT GO NEAR YOUR NEW ZOMBIE NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE AND CERTAINLY DON'T LET ANYONE ELSE EITHER. THERE ARE WORSE THINGS IN LIFE THAN A CAT HORDER, MUCH WORSE.

Six Days

It takes exactly six days to make a zombie, I should know.

Day one: a random stranger approaches you and bites you on the arm, and looking at it later it doesn't look bad at all.

Day two: your arm begins to throb, and you pour peroxide on the wound, believing it will work. (Who needs a doctor, not me).

Day three: your wound is beginning to fester and you wrap extra gauze on it before work. You hold it all day and a coworker notices while you're in the restroom. 

"Hey dude, what's wrong with you arm?"

"I was bitten in the park yesterday."

"Our park? You can't be serious, you went, there?" 


You show you festering, pungent wound, and he begins backing away from you. "Dude you been ZOmbified."

"What in the hell??" You begin panting like some kind of lost puppy that ran for hours. 


"Is there anything I can do? I mean come on dude, help me out here - I don't want to be a zombie. I have nearly twenty thousand in my 401 for Christ's sake, and Betty told me she's ready."

"I heard someone found a cure, but. . . I don't think you want to do that."

"Tell me what it is, I'm desperate here." You begin shaking you co-worker for emphasis.

"Dude you need to cut your arm off."

Walking away in disgust, you take the rest of the day off.

Day four: you search around your house for a knife, deciding instead to buy a hatchet. You'd use an ax, but how in the hell can you swing it hard enough, and (your doctor refused to do the deed). 

Day five: You can barely stand the pain, and it can't hurt more than it does now! Slapping your palm down on your picnic table, you brace and swing the hatchet downward - totally missing you arm altogether. You swing two more times before you finally hit you arm, and although painful, you continue to whack at your arm until it lies on the table in a bloody mass. You begin to smile wrapping up your stump, and go inside and watch television.

Day six: you stumble into work, even though you have a barely concealed stump where you arm once was. Looking into the mirror, you notice just who is looking back. You have black circles surrounding your eyes, and your lips have pulled back from you face. F*ck, you'll never score with Betty now, although you may eat her later. One thought comes to you, and you go back into the office and eat you coworker that ever suggested you cut your arm off in the first place!

WARNING: IF BITTEN BY A ZOMBIE, YOU CAN'T BE CURED, AND CHOPPING THE LIMB OFF WILL NOT CURE YOU. "CONSIDER YOURSELF ZOMBIFIED."