"Zombie Gras" is Underway

Well, I've finally gotten focused enough to begin my next novella in earnest.  Zombie Gras is about a third complete.  A prequel to Flesh Eaters, it should prove to be as depraved as my other works and will also contain parallels to Hurricane Katrina (my own personal apocalypse).

The final work may change, but here is a piece from what I have of Zombie Gras so far:

           I was here in New Orleans when the infection began to spread.  It was during Mardi Gras, which made things rather confusing.   Throngs of people, costumed and inebriated, create a surreal environment to begin with.  Combine that with a zombie outbreak, and you have a recipe for utter madness.

            This was before cities all became colorless, barren landscapes that looked the same.  New Orleans still had character; it was a city filled with street performers,  music, and revelry that consistently bordered upon joyful debauchery.  Visitors typically left the city knowing that they had had a great time, but any recollection beyond that tended to be hazy.  And this was amplified one hundred fold during Mardi Gras.

            It was evening, and my girlfriend and I were at the Endymion parade.  The crowds along the streets of mid-city were elaborately costumed and in good spirits.  There was a chill in the air, but alcohol was keeping us all warm and contented. 

            Adrienne, my girlfriend, in her hand-crafted green pixie costume, returned from retrieving another beer from the ice chest and lay her hand on my elbow, pulling me down so that she could speak into my ear.  Music and the gleeful screams of the crowd made hearing one another all but impossible.  I couldn't make out what she was saying to me, but I nodded and smiled, feeling comfortable and fuzzy from the alcohol. 

            Another colorful and ornate float was proceeding down the street, and I stepped up to the curb to wave my hands and shout "Throw me something, Mister!" along with everyone else.  I knew full well that I had absolutely no use for beads, doubloons, or plastic cups, but I was swept up in the ritual nonetheless.

            Out of the corner of my eye, I saw some commotion occurring across the street.  It looked like it was probably a scuffle; a crowd of people had encircled the pair, ineffectually throwing arms in to try to pull them apart.  Perhaps a fight had broken out over beads, or some man had demanded a glimpse of tits from another man's wife. 

            The float, with a blue gargoyle mounted to its front, passed in front of me, obscuring my view of the other side of the street.  We all whooped and hollered to its masked riders. 

            After it had passed, I took a swig of beer and lazily returned my gaze to the other side of the street, expecting to find the disturbance resolved.

            But when I looked again, things had become much worse.  Several people appeared to be covered in blood, and it looked as though a man at the center of the disturbance was being repeatedly bitten by several of the people around him.  Moreover, each of his limbs was being pulled by a different crazed looking individual; he looked as if he might be literally torn apart at any moment.  

            Dumbfounded, I dropped my beer and shook Adrienne's shoulder, trying to get her attention.

            My eyes still locked on the spectacle happening across the street, I noticed that additional violent conflicts were beginning to crop up in pockets around the initial scuffle.

            Maybe the alcohol played a part in it, but a terrible, warm tingling sensation washed over my entire body as it dawned on me that whatever this was wasn't an isolated incident.  It was beginning to spread, and Adrienne and I might be in danger.

            My eyes still trained on the mayhem unfolding across the street, I leaned down to Adrienne.

            "We need to go." I said into her ear. 

            "What?  Why?" she asked, confused.

            I nodded my head toward the escalating turmoil and then took her hand, leading her through the crowd.

            We began to make our way back to the car.  About a block from the parade route, we saw a woman kneeling down on the sidewalk with a child.

            "Are you okay?" Adrienne called out as we approached.

            The woman lifted her head and turned to face us.  There was blood all over her face, and chunks of gore were caked on her chin and neck.  Behind her, the child's body lay gutted.  It was difficult to be sure in that split second as the adrenaline began to pump through me, but I think the little girl's ribs were visible.  A gleam of bone protruded from a bloody pool of entrails where the child's midsection should have been.

            That was the moment when I realized there could no longer be any chance of misinterpretation.  We were at a turning point, a horrible, life defining moment -- and it was very clear that things were well and truly fucked.

            "Oh, shit." Adrienne said.

            And then we were running.  We ran to the car and got out of there as fast as we could.

Excerpt from Subliminal Debris (working title)

Chapter 1: Loose Ends

            Veronica was vacuuming the living room when, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a speck of something on the wall next to the bookshelf. 

            Turning off the vacuum cleaner, Veronica grabbed her dust rag.  Moving closer, she saw that it looked like thread.

            "Yes, it's definitely thread," she thought, giving the bookshelf a perfunctory wipe.  Then she reached over and brushed the thread away with the rag.

            Except that it was still there.  The thread appeared to be adhered to the wall.

            Sighing, Veronica dropped the dust rag on top of the top row of books and reached out to remove it by hand. 

            She tried to pick it off, but the thread resisted.

            "That's strange." Veronica thought.  It seemed to be solidly stuck to the wall.  Had someone super-glued  it there? 

            It was a piece of black thread, maybe two inches long, and its end was adhered to the wall. Grasping its end between her fingers, Veronica pulled determinedly.  However, as she pulled, instead of coming away from the wall, the thread just seemed to grow longer. 

            It was like pulling a loose thread on an old sweater, Veronica thought.   You never get to its end; instead, the garment just keeps unraveling.

            Except, of course, walls aren't supposed to unravel.  But this had become too weird for Veronica to stop; her curiosity was piqued.  She kept pulling.  Soon several feet of the thread dangled from the wall.

            On tip-toe, for she was short in stature, Veronica leaned in as closely as possible, until her nose was almost touching the wall, peering intently at the area where the thread appeared to be attached.  Upon examination, she could just make out that the wall around this mysterious thread seemed to be beginning to unravel.

            Veronica leaned back.  How could that be? A split in the seam of the wall?

            She resumed tugging on the thread with renewed vigor.

Survivor's Thanksgiving

I missed this when it was published this weekend, but better late than never...

Making the Best of the Zombie Apocalypse was featured Sunday on the What's in Our Lunchboxes? blog.  Check out the apocalyptic bento lunch and accompanying book review here:  http://www.ourlunchbags.com/2012/11/making-best-of-zombie-apocalypse-review.html#.UJqM2MVG9vE

Dynamic Genetix Short Story - Now Free!

Amazon has finally relinquished Dynamic Genetix from its KDP Select clutches.   It is now available for free at https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/248421  :)

Just a snippet from what I wrote today...

The ergonomic guillotine is a triumph of modern design, although concern for the posture of its users seems a bit misplaced.

Milestones

               I'm turning forty.  How the hell did that happen?

               At forty, I thought I would weigh less and earn more.  I'd hoped that I would have children and own a home.     

               The thing about a life is that you only get one of them.  I've tried to live my life with that in mind, but I just seem to wind up forever starting over.  I think when I turn sixty, I'll still be resolving to get my life started.

               Goddamned milestone birthdays.

Random Piece from Subliminal Debris (working title)

            In her dreams, Lyla always ran on all fours.

            What did it say about her that she could sit at a desk all day, pay a mortgage, embrace monogamy, and aspire to 2.5 children, but in her subconscious, she was clearly still an animal?

            Lyla suspected that all of the trappings of civilization were just that -- trappings.  Underneath, man was still as primal as he once was.

            She contemplated the primal nature of man as she navigated the frozen food aisles of the grocery store.  The absurdity of this was not lost upon her.  She would have been hard pressed to think of a more sterile activity; the teeth had been thoroughly pulled out of the process of food acquisition.  But man was still a predator.  A carnivore is still a carnivore even if he distances himself from the kill of the animal by buying its meat wrapped up in neat little packages. 

            One could cloak a nasty truth in pretty finery -- fine clothes, face powder, perfume.  But putting a ball gown on a rhinoceros doesn't make it any less a rhinoceros. 

            If an animal denies its instincts long enough, will they simply go away?

            Evidently not, Lyla thought.  After all, at night, she walked like a gorilla, and she ran like a wolf.

5 Minute Fiction Challenge

I'll be guest judging Nicole Wolverton's 5 Minute Fiction Contest this week.  The winner of the competition will receive an e-copy of Daydreams of Seppuku.  The contest begins at 8:30 EST tonight.  :)  For more information, check out the following link: http://nicolewolverton.com/

Mortal Ink - short story part 2

            Mortal Ink (part 2)

Alisha Adkins, 2012

The brothers froze the upper half of one man and the lower half of the other.  The following morning, they set to work on the remaining halves;  Michael began with an upper body and Matthew started with a lower. 

            Initially, drawing and inking went smoothly for the brothers.  The tattoos they created on that first day were works of rare beauty, for they had found that applying vibrant ink to dead skin created colors that popped brilliantly against grey flesh.  However, by that evening, they had already begun to experience some complications due to the deceased nature of their clients.

            "The bleed is different."  Michael noted with some frustration.

            The ink was developing an increasing large spread area when applied to the dead skin, making precision difficult to achieve.

            "Compensate.  Adjust for it.  Adapt to accommodate the media, brother -- it's a dynamic canvas."

            Michael sighed.  "That's a nice way to say it's getting more and more rotten."

            "Mmmhmm." Matthew agreed, scratching his beard.  "But there must be suffering for art."

            "Absolutely, brother.  But nobody said the suffering had to be the artists'." Michael said with a smile.

            In all, it took three days for the pair to complete the work on their respective halves.  The works of both siblings were beautifully intricate, belying the siblings' artistic maturation.   Each had adorned his half in his own unique style.  Matthew had tattooed elaborate, interlaced abstract patterns around the legs of his client body.  Michael had drawn detailed mythological figures, depicting gods of death and passage to the afterlife. 

            "You tattooed coins on his eyelids?" Matthew asked, surveying his brother's work.

            Michael nodded, unable to conceal a little smile of pride in his work.

            "Nice touch!" he said approvingly.

            Michael felt that this body, rife with symbolism, could now comfortably pass out of the world of the living.  He was very pleased.

            "Expression is paramount." he said.

            "It's really a shame that we can't display our masterpieces." Matthew lamented, running his fingers over the designs he had etched into his own client body.

            "I do feel that this piece is worthy of framing." Michael concurred wistfully.

            Struck with an idea, Matthew bounded into the back room and returned with his camera.

            "Artist's pride will be our downfall, of course." he said, as he began to frame a shot.

            "Oh, that's perfect! " Michael exclaimed, naturally picking up his brother's train of thought.  "As long as they are close ups, nobody has to know the tats are on dead people.  We can put the photographs all along that wall." he suggested, gesturing.

            Matthew was already beginning to shoot details of his own work.  "Such a shame.  I did some really elaborate patterns there. " he muttered to himself as he adjusted his shot to exclude some areas that were growing off-color.

            After he had taken a few dozen photos, he moved over to his brother.

            "Photograph the less decayed bits." Michael instructed.  "Zoom out as much as you can there -- lose the rotting details.  That bit is too green and slimy." he said, pointing.

            Once they were done, they set out the other halves to thaw.  They were disappointed by the length of time it took for these portions of the bodies to grow malleable.  Time was ticking away, delaying their grand opening.  The gore had all been cleaned away, the equipment was arranged, the photos of their work were hung, but the doors had to remain closed while there were partial bodies resting in their client chairs.  They were determined to finish their flesh masterpieces.  It had become a rite of passage.

            When the two remaining halves were mostly thawed, they made their next disheartening discovery.  Both halves were littered with patches of freezer burn, rendering large portions of skin too unsightly to use.  Once they began to work on the bodies, they also found that the consistency of the flesh had been changed by freezing.  The skin no longer adhered well to the muscle it cloaked and was more flimsy and fragile.  Even gently applying a needle to it invariably was producing tears.

            "Damned rancid skin, tearing as I ink..." Michael grumbled as he worked. 

            "It is delicate work, that's for sure." Matthew said.  "It requires a gentle hand.  I must say though, we are going to come away from this experience more skilled than any regular old tattoo artists of the living."

            Michael chuckled.  "We ought to open a tattoo shop just for the dead... We could call it After Images." 

            " Post-Mortem Ink." Matthew suggested.

            "Afterlife-Ready Designs?"

            "Ah, pipedreams, brother." Matthew sighed.

            "If only this were ancient Egypt, I bet we could actually market the idea." Michael said.  "I have always loved tattoos as an art form because the art becomes part of self-concept, a piece of the tableau of a person's life journey.  But now I'm beginning to think that preparing men for their final journeys may be the highest form of art of all."

            "It does indeed take special skill, an artistic vision and a steady, careful hand to send men to their makers adorned with a message."

            "Even bloating as they are now -- they may be growing ripe, but they are rife with symbolism." Michael murmured, the eyes of the big man growing wet from emotion.

            "And the dead are really ideal clients -- they don't move or whine or complain. "  Matthew pointed out.

            "Or even bleed."

            "Yes.  If only there was money in this..."

            Then the brothers fell into silence. 

            They worked carefully upon their masterpieces until they were complete, then photographed for display the areas that looked least necrotic  and disposed of the bodies.  After spending the next couple of days on efforts to freshen the air in the shop, they opened their doors. 

            But it was as if inking the dead had tainted their dreams.  Matthew and Michael were finally creating their art for a living and working for themselves, but neither brother was able to find joy in achieving his former dream.  Each day, they inked the images their clients requested, secretly dissatisfied forevermore with the confines of living flesh.