Snippet Saturday!

Yeah, I know I'm hella late. I've been debating if I want to post something from the Ben&Janni story or the Zombie!fic. Have a piece of Zombie!fic:

An hour later, I'm sitting in the motor home and staring down a microscope at Mrs. Henderson's brain tissue in frustration. "There you are, you little bastard." This is what's killing my little girl, and I hate it with the visceral loathing of a man facing his own doom. It's not a virus or a bacteria, it's something I've never seen before, attacking nerve cells in clumps and turning them into something new and alien.

And I am wholly unequipped to do something about this.

Before I can take that thought to its logical conclusion, the motor home rocks. The windshield spiderwebs, then falls inward. I scoop up my reloaded shotguns and face the front of the coach as one of the neighbors tries to come in. "Haven't you people ever heard of knocking?" The gun roars, almost of its own volition, and the neighbor (oh, god, that was Greg, we just had a barbeque together less than two weeks ago) falls back onto the gravel with most of his skull gone. Fresh samples, my mind supplies hysterically even as his wife replaces him at the windshield, snarling and foaming.

I put her down too, but it takes two shots that I can ill afford.

Ears ringing, I check outside for any more neighbors gone zombie, but the cul-de-sac is quiet. Physical and emotional exhaustion weigh me down, and I sit in the driver's seat with my head on the steering wheel. "I can't do this," I whisper. "I can't."

No, honey, you can't. But you can't lay down and die either...

Snippet Saturday!

Yeah, I know I'm hella late. I've been debating if I want to post something from the Ben&Janni story or the Zombie!fic. Have a piece of Zombie!fic:

An hour later, I'm sitting in the motor home and staring down a microscope at Mrs. Henderson's brain tissue in frustration. "There you are, you little bastard." This is what's killing my little girl, and I hate it with the visceral loathing of a man facing his own doom. It's not a virus or a bacteria, it's something I've never seen before, attacking nerve cells in clumps and turning them into something new and alien.

And I am wholly unequipped to do something about this.

Before I can take that thought to its logical conclusion, the motor home rocks. The windshield spiderwebs, then falls inward. I scoop up my reloaded shotguns and face the front of the coach as one of the neighbors tries to come in. "Haven't you people ever heard of knocking?" The gun roars, almost of its own volition, and the neighbor (oh, god, that was Greg, we just had a barbeque together less than two weeks ago) falls back onto the gravel with most of his skull gone. Fresh samples, my mind supplies hysterically even as his wife replaces him at the windshield, snarling and foaming.

I put her down too, but it takes two shots that I can ill afford.

Ears ringing, I check outside for any more neighbors gone zombie, but the cul-de-sac is quiet. Physical and emotional exhaustion weigh me down, and I sit in the driver's seat with my head on the steering wheel. "I can't do this," I whisper. "I can't."

No, honey, you can't. But you can't lay down and die either...

Writer's Block: First and only

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Casablanca, Singin' in the Rain, and Gone With the Wind. If modern Hollyweird tries to remake them, it will just screw them up. NO TOUCHY. NOT THE MAMA.

Writer's Block: First and only

[Error: unknown template qotd]

Casablanca, Singin' in the Rain, and Gone With the Wind. If modern Hollyweird tries to remake them, it will just screw them up. NO TOUCHY. NOT THE MAMA.