The night was dark and stormy as the writer pounded stories on the keyboard. They were terrifying tales told with care and patience by the expert weaver of dreams with a doctorate in both philosophy and medicine.
Lightning raged. The thunder rolled in the distance. The two-story home in the deep woods was quiet but for the slapping of this man’s fingertips on the letters. Letters that made up the sentences that turn hair white and stop a grown man’s heart with fear.
People like to play with the word, but Truman Ramsey doesn’t play with words. He weaves and molds them into intricacies too complex for most mere humans to comprehend.
He writes alone.
Without his mommy.
There is no comfort here.
Thunder rolls again. The storm grows outside of the home with two graves in the woods out back. The gravestones illuminate with the flash of lighting so anyone nearby could read them clearly if they were present for this nightmare.
His bloody fingers slap the keyboard as the thunder crashes and the power goes out. The writer couldn’t care less. He pauses, carefully plugs the computer into his backup battery, and continues tirelessly pounding away.
What dream will he weave?
What is the logline for this story?
Truman grins at no one as sweat pours down his face and into his bushy black beard. He has typed for weeks. No bathroom breaks. Just diaper changes and a zombie story that breaks every rule.
A hound howls.
A doggie urinates on the rain-soaked grass with no hydrant in sight.
A man pisses.
A girl flowers into a woman.
Weird things happen by the second on this horrifying night.
What is this man writing about?
Zombies like you’ve ever read before. His life is draining from his flesh as the bloody fingers turn to mushy meat…meat with a purpose. The hound howls outside, and the writer howls with it. Tonight will be legendary. There are only a thousand words left to go until the much deserved mental ejaculation that comes with meeting his monthly word count.
For your enjoyment.