Gather round everyone and let me tell you a story. It was a dark and muggy night. The kind of night that makes one sweat like the source of all bacon. As it happened, it was the first Sunday night of Daylight Savings, and all was NOT quiet throughout the house. Or street. Whatever. Our heroine, a writer and soon-to-be #1 bestselling author of the greatest most awesomnest zombie monster book ever written (but Im getting ahead of myself ;) ) was lying in bed, frustrated with her allergy sinuses and flannel pajamas. The ungodly heat had disturbed her from a rather strange dream about a bear and a polka dot tutu, and she dismissed the odd music fading into silence as the remnants of said dream. But then she heard a very odd, and much too familiar sound. The sound of shuffling footsteps out in the street. A sound not unlike the fearsome converts make in her latest novel when they lumber about uncoordina... uncoordinatedly... with a distinct lack of coordination looking for their next meal. A chill settled deep in her bones, almost deep enough to make her pull the thick comforter back up over her huddling form. Should she get up and check it out? Should she pull out her handy dandy crossbow? Should she call for help? She sat up in bed, intent to peek through the blinds, but the fear of being spotted rooted her in place. What if she ended up calling down the wrath of flesh-eating monster upon her own head? No, no, her cowardly conscience whispered. Best not do that. Much safer to let the threat pass, and let someone else take the first fall. She laid head back down on the pillow and closed her eyes, listening and waiting for to those awful footsteps to move farther off and fade into silence. Only they didnt... O.o
Posted on: Mon, 10 Mar 2014 15:52:17 +0000
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