So you're a freshman now.  New territory, new faces, and new sense of purpose, right? I didn't think so then, either.  It'll be the same classmates you've had since grade school, clustered with a few you've never seen in your life, huddled into classrooms to backtrack the same shit for the first nine weeks.

I don't want to warn you about the importance of grades.  No need.  Without any real studying or effort, I was in the top 25 of my class, so just coast like we always do and you'll be fine.

I could tell you the successes of business, like who to buy stock from, but money won't change the fact that there's a more pressing issue.

Yeah, THAT thing.  That thing we dealt with for years, it seems.  Let's deal with that, and now instead of later.  Literally everything, physical and emotional, will be resolved in what took me about an hour to fix.  Drugs can help but aren't necessary, at least not for me.

I know neither of us want to talk about that, so moving on (so long as you get on it ASAP).

We are truly terrible on judging character in people.  Ditch that kid with a temper; he gives nothing in return. And play with Fire.  You'll know what that means.  It's a damn shame I didn't learn the truth of that until just a few years ago. 

Other than that, you're on your own.  Consider those points; your life will be exponentially more enjoyable.

In the last couple weeks, I've received a few messages from other users.  Needless to say, I haven't been able to respond yet.  My computer is down for the count right now and my phone doesn't play well with the site (between fake words being created and not being able to open inbox, it's just a bad time to try).

So to my legions of fans (all four or five of you), I will be around, but I probably won't be able to contribute an awful lot until I fix this mess first.  I'll be doing much more reading than writing for a little while.

It occurred to me that I've been on here for a couple months now and, now that I'm contributing more, I haven't even casually introduced myself.

Here goes...

My name is Chris.  I am a father of three, a husband of one, and a self proclaimed "low to mid level bard."  To explain briefly, bards, especially in the Dungeons and Dragons universe, excel in manipulating emotions through their art of choice, whether it be song and dance, competency in musical arts, or storytelling.  I can't sing (aside from the growly stuff), dance, play an instrument, or draw, so storytelling is my weapon.  Through writing and reading, especially here, I am learning new ways to hone my skills to horrify, inspire, disgust, and otherwise entertain readers and fellow writers.  

There's also a very, VERY slim chance (read: I'm not, but the resemblance is uncanny) that I'm a distant relative to Howard Lovecraft, but that's a tale for another time.

What got me into reading and writing?  Much like many twenty something's in my area, I was drawn to the softcore "horror" of RL Stine in my youth.  Fantasy/horror remained the genre of choice as I wandered the endless world of published fiction, but my ten year old mind was enthralled by the art on the cover of a book I spotted at the library.  The title, author, and meaning of the words inside were all beyond me at the time, but fate ensured we would meet again in adulthood.

*skipping the awkward teen years and fast forwarding to 2011*

A stranger offers me a book to pass the time.  Unknowingly, he created a lifetime fan of the writer.

The book? Abarat.  The author? Clive Barker.  After quickly consuming this story (along with book two and the recently released book three), his legacy came clear to me.  The insatiable hunt began.

One day, recently, I was reading about progress on book four online and came across the crippling news that Clive wasn't doing well.  In fact, he was quite ill.  I can't explain, but I think the realization that my muse was only human was the catalyst for deciding to learn to write in a serious manner.  My oldest son asks about him often, referring to him as my buddy, and inquires if he is going to come visit.  My five year old is more excited about the extremely unlikely prospect than I am.  

I intend to continue learning and improving my own style.  I think everybody who writes would love to meet or exceed the abilities of their idol; in my case, it's a longshot, but not unattainable. 

P.S. my wife's favorite movies growing up were notably Candyman and Nightbreed.  She wasn't aware they were his works (nor did I, until we were married). And that book that troubled me in my youth? It's called Weaveworld.  I have two copies now.  Oddly enough, the story begins with a man obsessed with the art drawn on a carpet (the specific cover I saw/now own features that art).  CRAZY! Lol

Dear Reader/Raider,

By the time that you come across my book that I intentionally arranged to be within immediate sight, opened specifically to this page, I will probably be gone.

Panic will have completely taken over cities as the population is decimated by ranks of infected that multiply at a substantial rate. Just like everybody else in the world, I couldn’t contain my excitement at the possibility of this happening in reality. Between the multitude of films readily available, the infinite stockpile of games only a click or a game store away, and that popular show about the sheriff and his family trudging through the apocalypse, zombies were already everywhere. It’s too bad that I won’t be able to see much of it first hand.

I am the unsung story of the zombie apocalypse.

I am one of the first victims.

It's a shame that I couldn't properly prepare myself, under the circumstances. It all happened while I was stocking the shelves at my corner store market. Some jerk barged through the doors, reeking of alcohol and burning flesh. He looked panicked by how he scrambled to grab his wares (a bottle of alcohol and gauze dressings) before he collapsed on the sales floor. Reasonably, I assumed it was just a junkie, which wasn't uncommon for our town. Nonetheless, I approached the man to check on him. He was unresponsive, but still breathing.

As I walked away to call an ambulance, a cold hand grabbed my ankle. I felt teeth slice into my calf and pull away meat and skin alike. My leg poured warmth down my sock as I screamed, successfully pulling away from his grasp. Luckily, the cashier desk was close enough to crawl toward.

I hoisted myself up to a staggered stance from behind the desk and reached into the middle drawer.

My attacker had come to a stance and was approaching me, uttering a gutteral moan the entire way. Filtering through the stacks of paperwork and supplies in the drawer, I finally found my Glock 43 and turned it toward the him. I fired a round squarely into his chest, though you wouldn't know it from his unphased pace. A second round grazed just below his collarbone, but he had approached the desk opposite me, unharmed.

He crashed his hands down attempting to grab me. I slipped as I stepped backward and fired a third round into his forehead. The man slid from the table and collapsed to the floor.

Breathing heavily, hands shaking, I managed to a knee to look over the desk. It seemed only after that shot that the attacker ceased to move.

The wound in my calf started to feel like fire licking up and down my leg as I stood. I staggered to this place in my office to dress my calf with a discontinued shirt and a bottle of peroxide I kept in the office.

In the hours since the attack, I had locked the doors, as you will have noticed, and closed myself into the manager office.

I do not know how much time I have left.

I was really looking forward to surviving well into the outbreak, but I won't be needing anything in the store much longer. If you get here to loot early enough, you might be lucky and money will have some purpose. I even left a sticky note with the combination to the safe; have at it. I don't care anymore. I don't have a wife or children. My friends and I went our separate ways years ago.

But you don't care about any of that, do you? You're just here for the free stuff. Did you even come into the office to see if anyone was alive and needed help? I bet you didn't. And even if you did, once you saw the safe combination you used it and made your leave. I would wage the cash you stole from me that you took my gun, didn't you? I hope you did, and I hope I get my revenge.

Will I keep my senses once I am reduced to being one of the walking dead? I hope so. I long to see your eyes bulge as I pull you toward my open jaws. It would be beyond satisfying to hear your screams, to feel the moment my teeth break your skin. To feel the warmth you harbor inside as muscle tears from skin, sinew from bone. I crave to know what your life essence tastes like. If the gods are fair, this fate will come true. And I couldn't be any happier.

I look forward to eating you soon.

I enjoy writing, but I know some of my limits.  

Lately ive been (what's the literary equivalent of "doodling?") <---- whatever that is in various genres of storytelling.  Mostly to see what I do better with, but more importantly, to see what facets of writing that I enjoy the most.

Time will tell.  Either way, I get experience and brotherhood, in the process :)

I could stay here all day, I thought to myself as I waited next in line at the Starbucks inside Barnes and Noble.  Clutching a copy of Inferno in one hand and a wadded ten in the other, I opted out of anything caffienated and ordered a tall hot chocolate instead.  

"Could I also get a pumpkin scone, as well?" I asked the barista.  I don't even remember the total, aside from it being less than the ten I offered for her to "keep the change."  Money meant close to nothing today.  This was my first day off in weeks.  And it would be followed by an even more rare two additional days off for the holiday weekend.

As I walked with my treat (and drink) to the nearest table, I caught sight of the price tag of a chess board on display next to some action figures.  Had I taken a sip of my cocoa beforehand, it may have been spat onto the box.  Yeah, right, I thought to myself as I sat at the two person table.  

I have no idea how long I sat at the table; my only clues came from the crumbles left on my napkin and my hot chocolate no longer living up to its name.  I was fully immersed in navigating Hell with Dante.  Only the din of an explosion behind me, followed closely by the eruption of the lobby windows and the deafening screams of patron and employee alike stood a chance at tugging me away.

A man had crashed through the window, toppling the display of figurines and crushing the $40 chess board in the process.  Groans were interjected with a variety of curses as the man, a well built man in his early forties, glanced up and noticed that I was the only soul either too petrified or too stupid to be running.

With a crooked smile, he nodded to me.  "Nailed that landing, huh? Like a cat."

Why do I feel like he seems so familiar?  I thought.

"A dead cat, maybe." The smirk ran from his face.

"I can get up without help," he replied. "Which is good, since it doesn't look like you were going to offer."  Bracing on a clenched fist, the man leaned to a side to lift himself to his feet.  He quickly removed his black blazer and tossed it aside onto the downed pile of merchandise.  It was then I noticed the markings covering his chest and arms.

"Harry," I uttered.

Harry D'Amour, the freelance private investigator/paranormal detective, ignored my discovery as the tattoos covering his torso, actually protective wards from various evils, began to singe just below the skin, indicating the presence of demon magic nearby.

"Yeah, yeah. Danger, Will Robinson.  You don't think I already know?!"   Harry brushed himself off as he reached to a concealed holster to his revolver.  "Look, kid, I don't know what memo you missed, but it's time to run.

"How are you here, and what the hell is going on?

Harry replied with only one word: Hell.  

With the bookstore vacant aside from the two of us, the horrifying din of a bell echoed through the shattered window.

"It can't be. Him too?" My blood froze as the PI nodded.

"You have about ten seconds to change your mind about sticking around." A second bell chime sang, this one louder and clearer. He turned back to me. "Okay, maybe five." 

"Probably zero!" I shouted as I pointed to the slowly approaching figure across the street.

"Fuck me," we declared in unison.

It was Him, alright. The films, though accurate, did no justice when compared to witnessing the horrors of his anatomy first hand.  Tall and very slender, the man wore a black robe concealing him completely from the neck down.  Even from the closing distance, several places where flesh and cloth were stitched together were apparent.  At his belt rested several various devices of torture.  Nausea came over me as a glimpse of his face became clear.

What at first looked like nails turned out to be metal spikes driven in a mapped pattern into his hairless skull.  Deep, sunken eyes were alike to bottomless pools when accented by the colorless, lifeless skin clutching tightly to the bone.

Harry wasted no time in firing two shots at the Hell Priest.  Both shots hit home, one in the shoulder and another in the lower abdomen.  

"Unless you happened to find something useful that Dante hid in that book, I suggest you do us both a favor and get the fuck out of here!

No replies could come to mind as I bolted to the back of the bookstore toward the employee entrance.  I overheard the  sarcastic retort "okay, thanks!" as I cleared the kiosk in the center of the building.

The Hell Priest, minimally damaged from his wounds, gave my exit (and my presence, most likely) no mind as he stepped through the broken window frame.

"No more of this, Harry D'Amour," the cenobite said as I pushed open the swinging doors and hurried to the exit.  

I fumbled for my keys as I raced to the car. Once inside, the car started with no trouble.  Lucky, I thought aloud as I sped from the nearly vacant parking lot, ignoring a red light as I navigated my way home.

My head swam with ideas.  Police? They won't be any help.  And obviously I don't have any demon hunter friends on speed dial.  What the hell should I do? Better yet, what CAN I do?  Maybe this is best left to an expert like Harry.  

As I pulled into the driveway, I quickly exited the car and, once inside the house, headed directly to the bathroom medicine cabinet. Forcing open a bottle of vicoden, I popped three into my mouth and journeyed to my bedroom. 

"Fuck days off," I said as I collapsed onto my pillow.  "Time  to sleep this one off."

And if I'm lucky, it'll all be over before I wake. Or I'll die peacefully in my sleep.

#fictioncomestolife

Note: technically I cheated. Harry D'Amour appears in several Clive Barker stories as well as a film.  His most recent entry is Scarlet Gospels, in which he and his team face off against Hell Priest (better known by his assigned alias Pinhead, from the Hellbound Heart/Hellraiser lore).  So I gave a two for one deal.