In the meantime, you can head here and listen to a couple of fellow Writer’s Inkers tales that have already been read.

Also, Stephanie had a fun zombie story go up over the weekend. Enjoy!

In writing news, I have been working on a new superhero story. I’m digging the beginning and may post an excerpt this week. It’s high time I wrote a story about a superhero who’s a bit of a jackass. I’m also drawing on some stories of friends’ experiences in Hollywood. Should be fun! It’s been way too long since I’ve actually finished something, so I really want this story to happen.

In the meantime, enjoy as I brutally devour Stephanie.

Most annoying, I missed out on seeing Moon this past weekend. Since Fort Worth is a cinematic wasteland, I’ll have to either drive to Dallas to see it or wait for the DVD.

At any rate, I’ve been kind plucking away at this zombie flash piece, but I’m not very happy with it. It needs to be more immediate and immerse the reader in what’s going on. It feels too much like a big info dump in these first few paragraphs, which in my opinion doesn’t work well for flash.

It’s going to be a very depressing story. My stuff is usually pretty light and fluffy. I almost feel bad for how dark this story will be. This is what happens when you write about zombies and it’s not a comedy, I suppose.

So here’s the first few paragraphs. I’ll be keeping some of this, but likely reworking it heavily to make it feel more like the reader is there in the house with them, rather than reading some account of it later.

Untitled Zombie Piece

Colton and Becci cowered in the bedroom when they heard the pounding and screaming at the front door, as though they were hiding from a traveling financial advisor and not a neighbor desperate to escape the living dead. The pounding ceased when the neighbor fled to the next house. Colton squeezed their pistol, never fired more than a handful of times at the range. Becci clutched Colton’s arm and wept.

They had not been outside since…whatever had happened had happened. Colton at one point started to say “apocalypse” but Becci hushed him with a glare. The news agencies had reported similar events all over the world – the dead rising from graves and morgues. Particularly disturbing footage, shot by a tourist with a hand-held camera, featured decaying corpses dragging themselves up the beaches of Maui. The dead were slow, moving slow enough for anyone even remotely fit to outrun them, but they never stopped.

Becci had spotted one first, shuffling down the sidewalk in front of their home. It had been a man once, and still wore the suit some loved one had buried him in. Most of the skin was gone. They watched it stagger past the house and decided it was time to go.

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Prompt: Write about a post-apocalyptic world (doesn’t have to be post-nuclear war – could be a world after the financial system collapsed, after a deadly plague, after the zombie apocalypse, etc.).

I went with a zombie story, pretty much. I’ve talked plenty about zombie stories in the past, so I’ll just post the clip and move on. I’m not sure ambassadors actually have any sort of power like this in real life. The idea of a civilian whose job is to help secure peace (presumably) forced to make the difficult decision of whether to wipe out an entire city (or country even) to which he’s been assigned struck me as a powerful one. About 500 words or so.

The Call

Henry Gold straightened his tie for the fifth time in as many minutes and avoiding looking directly out the window. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he could see the front gate and the people – or what had been people – piled up against the bars. Rotting arms thrust through the gaps, clawing at the air. Several marines stood back out of reach, rifles ready.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Henry said. “This was supposed to be a cushy job. I…I’m an actor.”

Colonel Howards stood at the door, his suit immaculate. Henry saw himself reflected in the officer’s sunglasses.

“I was his daughter’s favorite,” Henry said. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Yes, Mr. Ambassador,” Howards said. “I should note that the gates won’t hold long against the weight of the crowds, sir.”

Gold nodded. “All right, let him in.”

Howards pulled open the office door, admitting Dr. Cohen. Cohen had looked better. His hair was a mess, his glasses gone. Blood spattered his civilian clothes. His eyes wildly darted to each corner of the room as he limped inside. His hands shook as he laid a battered aid kit on the ambassador’s huge posh desk.

Gold cleared his throat and kept the desk between himself and the doctor. “Dr. Cohen.”

Cohen collapsed into a chair and held his head in his hands. “It’s over.”

Gold swallowed hard, felt his blood drain deep into his gut. “Did you make it to the governor’s mansion?”

Cohen shook his head. “On the way we met up with the last of the governor’s bodyguard. The mansion was overrun hours ago. Everyone dead. There’s no government left.”

Even Howards sagged at the doctor’s grim statement.

“We went to the hospital,” Cohen said. “That’s the last official holdout. What’s left of the army is there, led by some kid Lieutenant, while the doctors work on a vaccine, but…” He looked out the window, where the gates were visibly bowed from the weight of the dead. The marines had retreated out of sight, probably to the door to the main building. Gold spotted what appeared to be land mines sprinkling the courtyard.

“I think you know what to do, Mr. Gold,” said Col. Howards. He glanced to the courtyard, where the gates had finally given out. The dead began to shuffle across the grounds. Staccato pops announced the marines’ resistance, and walking corpses began to drop. The front line began tripping mines, and explosions tore through their ranks. Blood and body parts sprayed across the courtyard. Something splattered on the office window. Howards saluted. “I need to go coordinate our defense. You know what to do. We’ll buy you the time.”

The ambassador took a deep breath and lifted his phone receiver. He locked eyes with the doctor.

“They could still find a vaccine,” Cohen said, but even he didn’t sound convinced. “The hospital might hold out.” Gold grimaced.

“I’m an optimist, too, doc,” he said as he dialed. “At the moment, I’m just hoping the bunker beneath us will hold. It’s the only chance you and I have got left.”

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Which is really the key. Zombie stories allow for a lot of human interaction. Once your survivors have escaped the initial onslaught and barricaded up the building, what do they do? Do they turn on each other? Band together to survive? Split into factions and fight over supplies? To me, zombie stories are a great showcase for how terrible human beings can be to each other. Theoretically, I guess, you could use it as a showcase for how people can overcome even this, the worst calamity to befall humanity, but it usually doesn’t work out that way. Most people don’t handle stress well even in every day life, much less with monsters chasing you. I guess it all just depends on your view of humankind’s nature.

So for today’s sketch, the beginnings of a zombie story. Just a few hundred words.

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Jim slammed on the brakes. White knuckles wrenched free of the steering wheel. He stomped the road. Sally pushed the toppled pile of camping gear back into the passenger seats.

“No! No!” Jim waved his arms, beside himself with fury. “We only have so much gas! We don’t know when or if we’ll get more!” He pointed up the road, back the way they’d come, back toward Dallas. “If we stop, there are five million…five. Five. Fucking. Million. Things! Back there that will eat us alive! They will literally chew your skull open and feast on your-” he sputtered and had to pause a moment before continuing. “I think you can be a little hot!”

Sally looked down. A bead of sweat fell from pale hair.

“Is any of this making sense?” A pleading note crept into his voice.

Sally kept her gaze fixed on the gear shifter. “Yes,” she said quietly.

Jim pulled at his hair. He took a deep breath. He slipped back into the driver’s seat and they resumed their journey.

“I’m sorry,” Jim said after a while. He threaded their Accord between several broken down trucks, ignoring the slouching things trapped in the other vehicles. “I just. We can’t waste any gas.”

Sally sniffed and bent over her book. She’d been rereading the same paragraph for the past hour. “It’s okay,” she said. “With gas prices as they are nowadays we can’t afford it anyway.”

Despite himself, Jim snickered. He stifled the laugh, but then Sally giggled and he could contain it no longer. For the first time in the week since the outbreak, they lost themselves in laughter.

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