Sep 8, 2014


In that undead frame of mind,

Part I - Won't Win

He sat on his haunches, caught off guard by that impossible sound, tensing in the silence for confirmation.   There was no way, no way anyone would stumble into that place, it was too deserted out here.

Then he was running, a too human scream ringing in his ears as he sprinted from his position in the scrub to the back fence where it folded in on itself, the rusted iron sheets blending like sand dunes against the dying landscape.  Breath hitching he knew he didn't have enough ammo to be able to fend off the infestation inside, cursing his sudden conscience.  

Glancing over his shoulder he couldn't spot any Crawlers, meaning they were already dining in.  Wiping the sweat from his brow and griping the crossbow tightly he made another dash, hitting a concrete wall at full speed he pushed his toes into the whitewash, reaching for the lip of the rooftop and heaving himself up.  Slowly approaching the skylight he did a quick take before dropping into the old refrigerator room.  Edging his way to the steel doors he pulled a key from the shelf and unchained the door, making sure his movements had not been detected yet.  Slipping through the kitchen he stared down the corridor at a feeding frenzy, the demons devouring their own.   Except they didn't tend towards cannibalism, their hunger didn't work like that.  Frowning he saw the shattered skull between the writhing bodies as they clawed at it, desperate for something it had possessed.  Pressing himself against the corridor wall he stopped, heavy breathing echoed behind him.  Spinning around he just about wasted a shaft on an air vent.

"I miss you Petey"

Had insanity finally hit him?  Before he knew it he was kicking in the vent and pulling himself through, choking on putrid air as it flowed from wherever he was headed.  Stumbling on blood slicked tiles he hurriedly tied a cloth around his face, years of desolation and this bathroom had developed its own rotting atmosphere.   This was the one room he had never bothered to search during his expeditions, the door had always been boarded, and there was enough of a reason for it.  Ducking into the shadow of a cubicle he stared at the rats swarming just a few feet away, a fresh trail of blood leading into the cubicle closest to the door, and the Crawlers.  

Chewing on his lip he listened out for any sound of breathing, debating whether to try calling out, was there even anyone here or was he risking his life for a corpse!   If he made any move they would be on him like leeches.   Checking his belt he grabbed a fistful of shafts, swung out and fired.  Muscle memory took over before sense could as he shot with each step, keeping a steady movement forward without taking his eyes off each head that fell until his hand was emptied.   Kicking open the barely hinged door he struggled to avoid the terror that was holed up inside.  

Lifting a girl into his arms he leapt over the build up of rancid bodies at the door and tore through the glassless entry of the decrepit diner.  He didn't stop until he was sure the only thing wrapping around his legs were the lifeless grasses that littered the area.  Collapsing in the twilight he laid the girl down and pulled off the kerchief, taking in a breath of fresh air.  It was time to wipe that place from his address book as the images stained his thoughts, and his shirt.  The girl had practically been swimming in blood.

A thought shot through his heart like a knife.  Inspecting her limbs he pulled her trouser leg up, clenching his jaw as bile burned the back of his throat.  

It was all a waste.  

He stared at her pale face, she would most likely die of blood loss before fever actually hit.  Wilfully contemplating his last shaft he held up the bow, ready to end this misery now and move on.

kind mercy or bitter reality?
from sjp.

Aug 18, 2014

Won't Win

I had a bad night last week,
*Language warning

You won't win.

Those words echo through my head and I know they're right.

I won't win.

It always comes down to the same thing.

So I unlock the door, the worn metal slippery between my fingers as I unhook the latch and let the weathered wood swing open.

The piercing gold of the sun drenched horizon filters through the grime covered windows, blinding me with its glory as I hear them moan, the shattered glass and debris shifting under their crooked steps as they crawl for me.

I wait for a sob but my face feels as bone dry as the desert surrounding this condemned place, this is the end but I'm so exhausted I just let it come, limb by gruesome limb they drag themselves forward with frenzy.

There's no point in resistance, when you end up so blind-sighted by grief and rage you may as well be one of them.

Bony fingers dig into my ankle, startling my shuddering body that something almost like fear shoots through me; followed by a pain so ragged and drawn out I think I'm being amputated by the blunt end of a hammer.  The scream that cries from my lungs is like sweet release for the both of us, the thing gazing up at me, a bit of me hanging from its teeth.

And its like its laughing at me, like this has always been their plan, to drive down civilisation with oppression and futility until we lay on our back with some rosemary by our side.

Those filthy fucking eyes were laughing at me.

Fuck this.

My head swam as I tore my boot from its feeble grip and kicked its rotting skull in until I had erased the triumph from its flesh.  I wiped furiously at my shirt, trying to rid my hands of the gore that had stained every crease, its like I mauled a blood bank as part of my morning routine.  Stooping for my broken bat a racking cough cracks through my chest, throwing me against the lavatory walls.

Jamming the lock into place I'm back at the start, and I can't avoid how weak I feel, my stomach turning at what state I might be in beneath my shredded trousers.  I don't know if its blood or phlegm that's choking me right now, all I know is, as I slide down next to a still warm corpse, that spike of fear is back. I'm glad I'm not alone in this.

I gently rest my head on its shoulder, staring at the brains that cover my bat.

"I miss you Petey".

Won't Win - Fractures
It turned to zombie fiction,
from sjp.

Aug 6, 2014











Craving the day I can smash out some #amwriting's.

I think I talk to my work laptop more than my family.

Got access to sun for thirty minutes today, is it summer yet?

I'm 73% sure it's Wednesday, an increase of 23% since seeing all the IWSG posts.

My constant insecurity is that responsibilities are preventing me from fully getting this thing off the ground, every time I make progress I get pulled aside.  Those are my choices though, but I keep looking to the future and waiting for when I can write again.

No facade,
Just sleepy.

Jul 22, 2014

Quest of the Artisan by Donna Hosie

THE CHILDREN OF CAMELOT series continues in...

Six months ago, seventeen-year-old Rustin Hall thought he knew what he wanted. Then he travelled back in time with his best friend, Mila, to the world of Camelot, knights and magic, and everything changed.

Now Rustin is the artisan, and he knows his future because it's written in the past.

But Rustin's plan to build the first temple for the Gorian druids is cut down like the trees he talks to when the Round Table reveals the name of the newest knight of Camelot: a name that carves fear and unrest into the other knights. With Mila now in danger, Rustin, along with his friends, James and Jalaya, goes on a quest to find her before a new malevolent evil gets there first. A necromancer is building an army of the dead, and they are coming for Arthur's daughter.

Rustin will join forces with a young would-be knight called Galahad, as his quest takes him into the very heart of the Arthurian legends he grew up reading. A quest that could be the end of the artisan's life, not just in Logres, but for good.

Due for release 2015.


Check out the first in the series!

Jul 20, 2014



Part I Daybreak
Part II - Vacant

The evening air began to cool her skin as it was ushered across the bare earth, a light breath compared to the humidity that seemed to be building the past few days.  She looked to where Channer stood, talking to some old woman, helping her set up chairs for prayer.  He had become surprisingly gaunt in the few days they had roamed the hills, searching for anything, as though the anxiety that shone like fever in his eyes was consuming him from the inside.  Or maybe everything was so empty and dark and heavy with sorrow she had forgotten what things used to be.

The bell for prayer clanged discordantly in the distance making her frown.  Staring back up the hill she threw her feet under her, scrambling up the slick grass towards the frantic crowd in time to hear a sharp crack as it tore through the silence of the valley, echoing like an old rifle before it was drowned out by screams.  People ran frantically, as she struggled to where she had last spotted Channer, almost collapsing as a wave of nausea hit her like lead.

-   -   -

A rosy pool soaked through the abdomen of the old woman's dress as she lay in shock, holding onto Channer as he desperately tried to save her, preparing to haul her into his arms and carry her from the open.

"Boy..." He froze in the face of her glassy eyed stare as she raised a hand painted scarlet. "It's time for prayer."  Chest heaving he couldn't process her words, she had been as sceptical of false hope as he had, her keen eyes assessing every person like a patient rather than committing to wishful thinking.  Propping her up against a dusted chair he watched her slump, those same hopeless tears he had seen too much of falling through his fingers as he brushed the dirt from her face, and saw through the growing fear how young she truly was.

Looking up he saw Madison, rooted to the ground with her eyes fixed on the dying woman, shaking with each bullet that ripped through the air.  Leaping up he grabbed her arm, ignoring her horror as she tried to pull away from his blood soaked hands, and dragging her to a sprint.  He wouldn't let her stop until the night was so deep and their legs so tired they were stumbling mindlessly across uprooted trees.  Eventually the adrenaline and fear wore off and and sense set in.

"We should rest Madi," he said hoarsely, his voice sounding too harsh after hours of silence.  She merely shook her head, pushing away his arms and stumbling forward.  Concerned he reached for her again, worry building as she began crying out in breathless gasps that seemed to rip from her lungs.  Again she pushed away, picking up pace as she tripped further into the woods until he pinned her down.  "Are you okay Madi? Talk to me!" he yelled as she continued to struggle, both brimming with frustration.

"Did they die like that?" she screamed. 

He let her go, taken aback, stuttering under the face of her anger.  "What?"

"How did they die Channer?" she accused, advancing upon him until she could see the whites of his eyes through the terrifying darkness.  "How did my family die?" she whispered.

cliff hanging is an extreme sport,
from sjp
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