I have never been one to jump on the zombie bandwagon, but that doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes have a vision or two that would be perfect for writing a zombie book.
Today, for instance, I thought of how I would start my zombie book, if I were to write one. Thought it might be worth a post.
Granny was in denial. The atmosphere inside the house was that of Baby’s Breath freshly cut on the mantles and the floral bedcovers made up in summery repose, and the old radio like a broken record stuck on jazzy, previous-generation classics.
Outside, I carried my ax.
What unsettled me the most was where the Baby’s Breath came from. To my knowledge, Granny never left the cottage. This was why she was able to live in a state of ignorant bliss, believing the world went on as a quaint, cheery place, her impression sheltered within the illusion of her fool’s paradise.
As far as I knew, Granny thought my ax was for chopping wood. She had not so much as peered through the holes in the lace curtains since the day I holed us up and pulled them closed.
And yet, I didn’t pick the floral sprigs that were periodically replaced atop the mantles of the cottage. And that meant that sometime, Granny slipped out into the big wide world full of scary things, and came back unscathed while I was none the wiser.