So - lately I've been writing my dreams. Here's a good gory excerpt for you - ENJOY! ~Meg
But the zombies were becoming problematic. One was trapped behind a door adjacent to this room, and Meghan watched him warily through the glass. Another wandered in a circle in an alcove back and to the left (probably another tattoo station, but unused and so lacking a chair). This one became my onus: my eyes locked on him as my body heaved the now zippered black bag over toward that station. My job was to watch and ensure that he did not become violent, threaten human lives, or attempt to leave his alcove. It didn’t take long before he did all three of these. From the depths of my Mary Poppins-esque bag, I dredged up what appeared to be a steampunk alarm clock: brass, with bells and feet, heavy and about the diameter of a small melon. Using my strong limbs, I climbed him like a tree until he toppled, then I lay into him – into his skull – with the alarm clock. Arms rising up over my head, I brought the clock down on the back of his skull over and over. At first, there were no results, but my arms continued their repeated motion, never slaking. Heave up. Slam down. Heave up. Slam down. After what felt a marathon of blows, red seeped in to replace the tan gloom of the room. The red began between my zombie’s shoulder blades and moved its way up his neck toward the base of his skull. It wasn’t blood. It wasn’t physical red; it was a vision. My mind placed it in front of my eyes, but it was representative of the impact of my violent efforts: I was succeeding. Heave up. Slam down. Heave up. Slam Down. My arms continued as the red crept out, now covering the zombie’s entire head and moving down his torso. Finally, the back of his skull emitted a crack! The next blow brought both visible and audible results: his skull crunched and caved beneath my alarm clock. I must destroy the brain, I thought. So I did. Heave up. Slam down. Heave up. Slam down. My arms moved until bits of cottage cheesy brain clung to the face, the hands, the bells, the feet of the clock. Until what remained beneath me was no longer zombie head but pulp. Until I knew that the creature would not rise back up to its feet.