Post by Stacy on Jun 13, 2010 22:35:20 GMT -5
So since it seems I may never actually get this srs bsns Sarah POV zombie story out on the blog...here is what I have so far. And yes, I'm thinking of making a new forum just for critiquing drafts, if anyone's interested. Guess I'll make a thread about that in the forum suggestions.
Anyway - can you tell this is Sarah yet? She is verbose and descriptive, with her swoops and swirls and sadness.
I saw two of them yesterday, out in the storm. A father and a daughter.
The man's Oxford shirt might have been white once. It clung to him, soaked to his chest by the rain. I could see the gaps. The hole where his heart had been.
The little girl was dressed in her Sunday best. I imagined her mother telling her to keep her clothes clean, to not get mud on her nice new Mary Janes or grass stains on her pretty blue dress.
The blue dress hung in tatters and the Mary Janes flapped against the pavement, the straps long since broken.
The father held the girl's bony fingers in his left hand. His wedding ring winked at me through folds of swollen gray flesh.
I prayed that the rain would cover my scent, that the thunder would drown out the sound of the blood rushing through my veins.
Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.
They stopped in front of Old Joe's Bistro and Saloon.
A week ago it had been a thriving business, full of warmth and life. Four days ago it had been a well-stocked shelter for a band of hardy survivors.
Two days ago it had been a bloodbath.
The girl looked up at her father. He dropped her hand.
I wondered if they had been caught at First Baptist. When the dead started walking the streets, hundreds of people had crammed into the little church. The white clapboard walls had strained with the pressure of the weeping and praying mass of humanity. It must have seemed like an all-you-can-eat buffet to the zombies.
The man shuffled to the doorway of the bistro, dragging his left leg over the shards of glass and bits of wood that littered the sidewalk.
Anyway - can you tell this is Sarah yet? She is verbose and descriptive, with her swoops and swirls and sadness.
I saw two of them yesterday, out in the storm. A father and a daughter.
The man's Oxford shirt might have been white once. It clung to him, soaked to his chest by the rain. I could see the gaps. The hole where his heart had been.
The little girl was dressed in her Sunday best. I imagined her mother telling her to keep her clothes clean, to not get mud on her nice new Mary Janes or grass stains on her pretty blue dress.
The blue dress hung in tatters and the Mary Janes flapped against the pavement, the straps long since broken.
The father held the girl's bony fingers in his left hand. His wedding ring winked at me through folds of swollen gray flesh.
I prayed that the rain would cover my scent, that the thunder would drown out the sound of the blood rushing through my veins.
Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.
They stopped in front of Old Joe's Bistro and Saloon.
A week ago it had been a thriving business, full of warmth and life. Four days ago it had been a well-stocked shelter for a band of hardy survivors.
Two days ago it had been a bloodbath.
The girl looked up at her father. He dropped her hand.
I wondered if they had been caught at First Baptist. When the dead started walking the streets, hundreds of people had crammed into the little church. The white clapboard walls had strained with the pressure of the weeping and praying mass of humanity. It must have seemed like an all-you-can-eat buffet to the zombies.
The man shuffled to the doorway of the bistro, dragging his left leg over the shards of glass and bits of wood that littered the sidewalk.