Prose and Kaa

VP XVI Class & Instructors

Well, it’s the end of Viable Paradise. I don’t want to go home. I want to stay on Martha’s Vineyard forever with this group of people and I know that’s not realistic but I’m going to cover my eyes and ears and go LA LA LA LA LA LA and you can’t make me listen so there!

Really, though, what a fantastic week. What a great group of people. I cannot possibly begin to thank the instructors enough. Uncle Jim (James D. Macdonald), Debra Doyle, Patrick Nielsen Hayden, Teresa Nielsen Hayden, Sherwood Smith, Elizabeth Bear, Steven Gould, Steven Brust, and Scott Lynch. My head feels (pleasantly!) stuffed with all kinds of new stuff. Thank you all for pouring it in there. And tamping it down. And then cramming corks into my ears so it doesn’t all leak out.

And the staff. OMG, the staff. Bart, Chris, Pippen, Kate (even though she had to leave early), and most especially Mac. We wouldn’t have made it without you guys. And Mac, you made me like kale and collards. My God, woman. What have you done? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? :)

And my fellow classmates, pictured here (with some of the instructors), who made this week fun, exciting, exhausting, and illuminating, and allowed me to be a situational extrovert for a while. :)

I’ll give some more details when it’s not after 2 AM after a night of unwinding after a long week spent thinking and talking mostly about writing with other writers and I have to get up in less than five hours to get on a ferry to begin my trek home.

Also, I’m going to spend a lot of money on books over the next few days. :)

Originally published at WriteWright. You can comment here or there.

I’m almost afraid to type this for fear of jinxing it, but . . . I think it’s over!

The helicopters which have been flying over the whole area for hours started dropping something. Some sort of fog or smoke or something. We can’t see them in the dark, but we can sure hear them, and there’s a haze that settles down to the ground after they pass by. The jets may be doing something, too, for all we know. And the troop trucks have been increasing in number.

When I was a kid in rural Alabama, we used to have these trucks that would come through the neighborhoods in the summer and spray thick smoke out to kill mosquitos. I guess it worked. Who knows? My friends and I used to play in the smoke. Insecticide. It’s a wonder any of made it out of childhood alive.

My point in telling that is to say: I saw the troop trucks doing something similar earlier. Some sort of smoke or fog was coming out.

This all started maybe two hours ago. Some of the zombies broke through just before that and we had to blow a bunch of them away. They seemed to lose their will, then, and wandered off, some of them bleeding or missing body parts. That’s when we noticed all the military activity.

As I look out, now—we re-aimed some of the spotlights—all we see are corpses. Some of them occasionally twitch, but . . .

I THINK IT MIGHT BE OVER!

Not that any of us are going to get any sleep. We hope it’s true, but we’re not going to trust it 100% until the last body is cleaned up. That’s going to be a job and a half.

I just wonder if they’ll ever tell us what happened. Rumors are still flying. It’s amazing. Upwards of 30% of the human race may have died of some sort of zombie plague, but people are people, and rumors travel faster than light, I think.

Genetics experiments gone wrong. Medical research into nanomachines. A new species of virus. Biological warfare . . . It may take years before we actually know. I’m willing to bet the president—if he even made it through; there’s a rumor Joe Biden and quite a few others didn’t—knows.

But for now, who cares? We’re all going to get together down in the restaurant in a short bit and just . . . blow off some steam. The soldiers have been going door to door, from what it sounds like. Well, when they get here, they’re going to find civilized people behaving like humans.

We made it. We MADE it! Hot damn!

Zombie Apocalypse 2012

This post is part of Zombie Apocalypse 2012, a multi-blog fictional account of a zombie uprising. Thanks for reading!

You may also follow the button link to read other equally fictional Zombie Apocalypse 2012 blog entries by other writers, or join in and tell your own zombie apocalypse stories!

Originally published at WriteWright. You can comment here or there.

After getting some sleep, we have all spent the entire rest of the day gearing up for tonight. The zombies are likely to attack with renewed vigor. The hotel is on a generator, and they don’t want us wasting power on things like laptops, but I had to update lest you think I’m dead or a zombie. I’m not, and I don’t intend to be.

Barricades are in place. All the broken doors and windows are boarded up. We had to scavenge some lumber from other structures, but we got it done. I have blisters on my hands, and those blisters have blisters. Ow.

We eventually let the wounded people out to help, but someone keeps a constant eye on them. If one of them turns on us, we’ll have no choice. Putting them down would be kind.

Got my axe. Bring it, zombies.

Zombie Apocalypse 2012

This post is part of Zombie Apocalypse 2012, a multi-blog fictional account of a zombie uprising. Stay tuned for more posts!

You may also follow the button link to read other equally fictional Zombie Apocalypse 2012 blog entries by other writers, or join in and tell your own zombie apocalypse stories!

Originally published at WriteWright. You can comment here or there.

I finally got a few minutes to update. First of all, we’re all still OK, although a couple of people have minor wounds. We have them . . . segregated. Just in case. The Inn is pretty defensible once we boarded up the doors and windows.

There was an attack last night while I was asleep. The screaming and gunshots woke me up, and I grabbed the axe and ran down the stairs to the first floor to find a scene out of pretty much every zombie movie you’ve ever seen. They were trying to get in the doors and windows. Luckily, we had them barricaded.

Some of the zombies had on military uniforms. So much for ‘airborne,’ I guess. The gas masks didn’t do them any good unless they had it before–Focus.

The military ones had weapons, but they weren’t using them. I guess whatever is causing this is affecting their ability to reason. They just . . . blindly attack anything that moves.

The zombies seem to prefer group attacks and darkness. Over the radio, we heard something about strong light seeming to hurt them. We’ve rigged up a few bright floodlights outside some of the upper-floor rooms. It seemed to help at least some.

They whip each other into a frenzy. One of our guys got scratched pretty bad when a zombie broke through one of the windows and managed to claw him, but a couple of us managed to hack the arm off the zombie with our axes.

These zombies aren’t movie zombies, though. They have blood. A lot of blood. A startling amount of blood. I didn’t faint. I didn’t throw up. But it was a close thing. I had to sit down with my head between my knees, and I don’t think I will EVER feel clean again. I can still feel it on me. All thick and hot and . . . GAH. The arm we hacked had a tattoo on it. “Mom.” Jesus. And the zombies just keep going. You can hack off limbs and they just keep coming until they lose enough blood that their hearts stop. But all the way to the end, they’re reaching . . . If it weren’t so horrifying, it would be hysterical, like that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. “It’s only a flesh wound!”

We’ve made it through the night, at least. Only a couple of waves of zombies managed to get through. I’m going to go help them re-board up the places they broke through, now. I’ll probably end up helping get rid of bodies and body parts, too.

We don’t know how long this will last, but if we have to, we’ll scavenge for lumber and better weaponry. It’s everyone for himself, now. Although there is safety—at least MORE safety—in numbers.

Don’t know how much I’ll be able to keep updating. You’re watching the TV if you have power, and listening the radio if you have batteries, just like we are, and so you’ll know at the same time we do.

Crap! Power just died. Need to submit this now before the backups all die. I’ll be back. I have to believe that.

Zombie Apocalypse 2012

This post is part of Zombie Apocalypse 2012, a multi-blog fictional account of a zombie uprising. Stay tuned for more posts!

You may also follow the button link to read other equally fictional Zombie Apocalypse 2012 blog entries by other writers, or join in and tell your own zombie apocalypse stories!

Originally published at WriteWright. You can comment here or there.

Jesus. I’m shaking. Something weird is going on.

There are a bunch of us sitting, huddled in little groups, typing on laptops or iPads or phones, or talking in hushed tones to each other in the waiting area of gate C-10. You know that annoying Airport TV channel they normally have going (at least in the Atlanta airport)? It’s not going. The place is so quiet it’s like the inside of a tomb. It’s just plain eerie. I can hear a baby crying several gates farther up the concourse. Every time they make an announcement over the PA, I jump. Everyone stops what they’re doing and holds their breath. They’re not even aware they’re doing it, if they’re anything like me. The tension is so thick, you could cut it with a knife. (Overused cliché; bad writer.) And there are a lot fewer people here than there would normally be. For Hartsfield-Jackson, this is practically deserted.

The wi-fi is spotty, so I don’t even know if this is going to post, but I’ll try anyway. Seems kind of silly, but writing calms my nerves.

I said last night that the drive in should be uneventful what with no one being on the roads this early. What I didn’t count on was that it would take me nearly twice as long to drive in.

There were a bunch of roadblocks. Looked like several exits were blocked off by emergency vehicles. Maybe even the army or national guard. Hard to tell in the dark, and there’s thick fog in patches to boot. So even what little traffic there was was backed up pretty bad at each of those exits. I kept having to lane shift and weave in and out, which I hate when other people do it. Of course on the one day I have to be somewhere by a certain time this would happen. I just want to get to my writers workshop!

My mother would tell me the entire world doesn’t exist for my convenience right about now, and to have patience. But she’s already on her vacation up in rural Arkansas. I’d call, but it’s too early, there.

Tried to call home to let my housemate know what’s up, but I can’t raise her on her cell. Keep getting that ‘circuits are busy’ message. Fuck.

Anyway, what has me shaking:

There was this wreck on I-85 south. Looked like an 18-wheeler hit several sedans. Thing was, there was no one around. The truck and smashed-up cars were there, hazards and lights on, and there were several ambulances with lights flashing, the back doors all hanging open. Well, more like ripped open. Just sitting there off the side of the road. Two police cars, their lights strobing, as well. Also empty. Sitting with doors ripped open. Broken glass was everywhere.

Passing cars were giving them a wide berth, but at about 10 mph, as usual in Atlanta. If you see a flashing light, you have to slow down no matter how fast you’re going — and I’m going off on a tangent. Focus, Gary, focus. I finally creeped past and saw a white sheet on the ground, stuck under one of the wheels of the ambulance and flapping in the breeze. It was hard to tell in the flashing lights while I was trying to pay attention to the road, but . . . it looked like it had a big blood stain on it.

Creepy. Just fucking creepy. I normally listen to podcasts while driving to keep me sane, but I turned them off and tried to find something on the radio. Bunch of confusion, is what it sounded like. The normal music, but some strange news reports. Seems like there’s stuff going on all around Atlanta, but no one would just fucking come out and say what it was. Lots of speculation about terrorists, insurrection, invasion, FEMA . . . I had to quit listening when some of the more outlandish crap started to sound reasonable. This is why I hate talk radio.

And speaking of road blocks, wow. I thought I was going to have to give blood and urine samples just to get into the airport. They kept shining lights in my eyes and asking dumb questions like I’m some sort of criminal.

I tried asking what was going on once I got into the airport, but they weren’t talking either, although all the security people and gate employees were clustered in little groups, talking quietly, and looking worried. I’m guessing they don’t know any more than any of us do.

And there were helicopters darting everywhere. I can’t help but wonder if this is related to what went on in my neighborhood this morning.

I just hope there’s not some awful disease. Maybe those armored vehicles were the CDC.

[Edit: I had to pause because I got interrupted.]

I was talking with some other people in the waiting area. They saw some similar stuff on their way in, and they came in from other directions: both up and down 75, south on 85, and both east and west on 20.

Whatever the hell this is it’s

Boarding! Putting up laptop.

The CDC would shut it all down if it were a disease, right?

I’m glad I’ll be away from all this, but I would kind of like to know what’s going on.

Later!

Zombie Apocalypse 2012

This post is part of Zombie Apocalypse 2012, a multi-blog fictional account of a zombie uprising. Stay tuned for more posts!

You may also follow the button link to read other equally fictional Zombie Apocalypse 2012 blog entries by other writers, or join in and tell your own zombie apocalypse stories!

Originally published at WriteWright. You can comment here or there.

I’m forcing myself to go to bed as soon as I post this, even though I’m not the least bit sleepy, and probably too excited to sleep. Tomorrow is the Big Day™. I’ll get on a plane in the morning and fly to Boston, then bus to Woods Hole, then ferry over to Martha’s Vineyard for Viable Paradise. Can. Not. Wait.

I just hope I’ll sleep. The plane leaves at WayTooFreakingEarly:30, which means I have to get up at some unbelievable hour that I’ve heard tell of, but can’t recall seeing with my own eyes, just so I can get to the airport two hours before the flight because of TSA. I’ve checked my itinerary and the ferry schedule about 300 times since this morning, convinced it’ll change before my eyes and say something else this time. I was . . . not exactly present, mentally, at work.

At least the drive down to the airport will be easy at that hour. The only people up will be vampires and milkmen, one of which is mythical. And I think it’s milkmen.

Anyhoo, enough procrastination. Bed!

Wondering what the “Prologue:” is about? Stay tuned! All will become clear, soon. </cryptic>

Originally published at WriteWright. You can comment here or there.

When I was accepted to Viable Paradise, one of the many pieces of information available to us was a list of suggested reading recommended by the instructors. Unsurprisingly, the instructors’ own works featured prominently on this list.¹ Now, I knew who all of them are, but I had only ever read anything by Elizabeth Bear and Steven Gould before.

I quickly bought one of each instructors’ works for my Kindle. Or two in a couple of cases. I tried to pick first books in series or standalone novels when possible. I mean, I don’t know about you, but if I walked into, for instance, Raiders of the Lost Ark when Indy shoots the sword master with his gun, in no way could I make sense of the movie. I feel the same way about book series. Don’t ask me to start reading at book 5 and try to make sense of what’s going on. I need context.

You probably already know what happened based on the title of this post. There isn’t one dud in the lot. I have thoroughly enjoyed every single thing I’ve read, including the book of essays. Most of these are books I wouldn’t have given a second look at in the book store. Not because the cover art isn’t eye-catching or the authors not well-known enough or the blurb ineffective.

Because I simply have so many books on my to-read shelf that it groans audibly when I come into my library (read: my third guest bedroom) with new, unread books. I have three seven-foot sets of book shelves on one side of the room, piled floor to ceiling with books. The middle shelves of all three are loaded with the books on my "to-read" list. Those are also stuffed. Across the room, I have another tall shelf also stuffed with books (mostly hardback), many of them also unread. In my bedroom is another, small (only three feet tall) metal shelf stacked high with all unread books. In the office where I sit typing this post is another shelf, this one stacked with unread professional books (books on programming and the like; not all that fun to read).

And then there’s Kindle. I could write a whole post on that subject by itself.

With all those unread books calling out to me, I find it hard to convince myself to pick up books by unknown (to me) authors. But in this case, I was motivated by something else.

And now, I have to continue reading these new(-to-me) series, as well, because I have to know what happens.

Yep. I’m gonna need a bigger shelf. Or two. Or maybe three . . .

Originally published at WriteWright. You can comment here or there.