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About Varied / Hobbyist Premium Member Kelsey Williams20/Female/United States Groups :iconthezombiecollective: TheZombieCollective
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oh, hey.
i knew i’d see you today.
somehow, i didn’t expect to;
you never fail to be
a routine surprise.

oh. yeah, i know.
i remembered
but i forgot to react;
it’s okay to slip out back
be as secretive as you want
i can’t seem to mind.

no, no, it’s fine
leave hot pepper kisses
down my spine
and collect the fragments
of my apologies
like they’re gemstones.

the electricity that pulses
through you
reaches my fingertips
in a dulled way, like a memory
sun-tarnished and faded

it’s o.k.
i don’t need you to call
or write love letters or light flames
or do the dance of the besotted warrior
complete with lustful naivety
and misapplied machismo
or to nibble my ear
and kiss my neck

i don’t think i’ll get that angry
if you tell me she puts out
more than i do
that she has curves you can get lost in
because i’m sure she does
and i don’t even think i’m putting on a front
i just think you’re going to be fine
and i’m going to be fine.
just f i n e.

nothing really
gets to me anymore.
    The strip lighting above head was flickering. There were stains on the dull tiled floor; there were stains on the walls. Several long plastic tables were lined up together in a row, occupying the center of the room. Patients sat on one side of the table while visitors sat across from them.  
    Edward fiddled with his paper bracelet. It had his name, his hospitalization date, and a barcode. He entertained fantasies of breaking legs off of chairs. Not doing anything with them, just breaking them off. He was bored.
    He had visitors who swam in and out of his attention. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see them, it was just that he didn’t really care. He preferred to focus on the things in his head. Ironically, that’s why he was there in the first place. He lived entirely too much inside his own head.
    His visitors asked him how he was. He lied. They asked if he liked having access to a soda machine. He murmured yes. He entertained a fantasy of yelling at Dale, who smelled like piss and lemon cakes. Dale had a wife, who always brought him a bag filled with home baked cookies.
    Edward’s visitors brought him travel sized shampoo and pharmacy cookies. They brought him nail clippers too, but the officer had taken them. He had a goddamned hair drier in his room, right next to the sink and in reach of the shower, but they took his nail clippers.
    He always gave his cookies to Linette. She slept on the streets and checked herself in when she could, for the food and a room. He often reminded himself that there were worse places than this. Still, there were days he would have preferred worse places than this, as long as they were outside.
    His visitors left. Edward was in a room with a doctor, and the doctor was mentioning the number of beds. Somewhere in the mess of words Edward heard “moving to” and “state facility”.
    Well, fuck. Edward listened while the doctor explained that it would be best for him, that it was really the only option at this stage in his treatment. With supreme eloquence, he informed Edward that he couldn’t afford to stay in the shitty, underfunded hole he’d been stuck in.
    Edward waited in Ward C, where the screaming and biting ones went. Edward had behaved and made it to Ward B, but now he couldn’t foot the bill. There you go, out the door, without so much as a thank you for not stabbing anyone with a broken toothbrush. Edward decided to work on a puzzle while he waited.
    A woman threw herself on the floor. She screamed and kicked while people in scrubs and lab coats clustered in their office, safe in their fish bowl. They watched the woman as she kicked and screamed and clawed at chairs. They glared at her. Edward saw hatred in some eyes, but the worst thing he saw was apathy. “Oh god, not this shit again,” he read in their faces.
    A male nurse, or whatever he was, headed for the woman. One shot of Haldol in her rear and she calmed right the hell down, and they herded the woman out of the room. Edward saw an officer approach him, tight blue uniform, scrubs walking behind him. Edward couldn’t help it. He started to cry. He wanted to go home.
   He didn’t want the itchy threadbare blanket and bleached white sheets, like whale bones turned to cloth, against his skin. He didn’t want a woman in a sweater in mid-August to tell him that he was an addict, that he did this and this wrong, he didn’t want a doctor to come and sit down with him because the last three times he had visitors they hadn’t really been there, he didn’t want sedatives and anti-psychotics that crushed him down and drowned his synapses in a dull ocean of lethargy, he didn’t want to be stared at by people who hated that they even had to look at him. He wanted to slip into the crack in the wall of the hallway outside his room and be small and tucked away.
    The officer smiled, lips pulling taught against Crest whitened teeth. Edward wanted to say goodbye to Linette. Edward wanted a clear mind, control over his life, a doctor who got his meds right, a system that didn’t prioritize doping him up with whatever made him manageable enough to stick in a cell and forget about until they needed his room for someone with a family.
    Edward was allowed to carry a plastic bag with personal belongings out of the hospital. He followed the officer through the buzzing doors, past the halls of temporary cots for waiting patients.
    “Have fun,” he told a couple waiting patients. “It’s a blast.”
    Somewhere along the way, he lost his copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles. No one ever told him that Linette had been released several days prior, that he’d forgotten. No one ever knew that Linette was sleeping outside a department store when Edward was released. That she was tossing and turning on cement when he saw the ambulance lights start to flash. No one ever thought of her, or of tracking her down to let her know, to inform her that Eddie had seen an opportunity.
   He decided he wasn’t going to a state facility. Flashing lights and bland faces and meaningless smiles, swirling around in his head. If he wasn’t already heading for another hospital, he’d insist that it all was driving him mad. He was surprised how easy it was, just to run. The officer hadn’t expected the shuffling zombie beside him to do anything like that. Edward left the psych ward for the ICU, and life just… went on.
    Duke’s wife stopped visiting. Duke was moved to the state facility shortly after. A waiting patient took Duke’s room. Life went on. No one ever tried to tell Linette.  
FFM day 17- Business as usual
:iconflash-fic-month:
Word count: 1000

Challenge: 
Social ills, don't use personal pronouns, serious tone

I used something kind of personal. Mental health care where I live is abominable, and I feel like I could have done a better job capturing the really upsetting nature of it. It needs serious attention in this state, and in this country. 

I will be eternally behind :dummy:
Loading...
I officially forgot what day it is
37%
7 deviants said I did too! :cries:
21%
4 deviants said You can look that up, you know. (NO.)
21%
4 deviants said *Evill Jabba laugh*
11%
2 deviants said Isn't that pretty common for zombies? (SHUDDUP)
11%
2 deviants said It's day 23432324232 and 1/4
0%
No deviants said Haha I laugh at your pain
     She watched herself in the mirror as she gently took hold of the bandage. It was an awkward position, and she hated having to twist around to take the damned thing off. Her eyes were wide in the reflection, straining like the muscles in her neck to give her a good view of the bandage.
     Despite the strain, it would feel wrong to have anyone else here. This was her celebration, her private ritual. She reveled in the potency of solitude, in embracing the behavior of the predator. She was moving towards a rapid evolution, the epitome of predation. 
     She grimaced as she peeled off the bandage. She went slow, tensing her shoulder and allowing herself to feel the sensation of it leaving her, to savor the pain before the reward. She watched the design beneath the bandage slowly reveal itself. The black ink, the inflamed skin, the glistening sweat, none of it was very pretty, but time would settle the image and calm the flesh. 
     The dragon was curled in loops, an elegant Chinese dragon, not a trace of color except the fire that escaped from his mouth. The tattoo made up for its lack of color in its intensely abundant details; a magnifying glass would be required to make them out, but the entirety of the dragon was made out of words. Names formed the shape of the dragon, allowing him to exist in an intricate pattern of meaning that no one would understand.
     It was the language of killing. Every name that formed the dragon was a life she had taken. She preserved all of them on her skin in order to take strength from them. The dragons in this world, like the one on her back, like the ones that murdered for money or reward, like her, were not meant to be feared.
     She didn’t want to be feared, or loathed, or opposed in hatred. She had set herself on the path of predatory perfection; every aspect of her existence made her a better killer. The only sin she held herself responsible for was pride. 
     She backed away from the mirror, still marveling at the dragon on her skin. This night was hers- no contracts, no lovers or well armed business partners. She worked solo now, and she intended to cover her back in beautiful monsters. She pitied the men who met in the dark and discussed their motives of peace and world betterment. Men like them never planned for creatures like her. 
     She threw herself onto the cold mattress and wormed into a comfortable position on her stomach. She had a target this night, but thankfully the contract could be completed while she stayed in her motel room in her underwear.  
     She closed her eyes, thought of her dragon, then connected with the network. The neural network that allowed her to work long distance had been the brainchild of a scientist she killed. It was hers now, however, implanted by the doctor before he knew he was on her list. If anyone hacked it, they hacked her. Thankfully, it was constantly evolving, much as she was, and she suspected that it had found a way to survive her and her automaton flunkies by now. 
     She was going to be the Apex predator, the most respected, the most loved. The network would follow her, and no one would see it coming. People prophesied doom for fun when they were bored, chatting about killer asteroids and robotic uprisings. In reality, no one could handle the idea that one woman would kill them all. 
     She was, ironically, not in it for the killing. She pictured a theater where a man sat, enjoying a play. He laughed, and lights played over his face as fire streamed from sparklers on the stage. Behind him, another man moved in the shadows. This undetected assassin moved stiffly, his limbs following a preprogrammed set of directions, her directions. 
     A shot went off. People screamed. 
     “In all things, a pattern,” she said, and she opened her eyes. The theater was gone; the motel surrounded her. 
     “James Beauregard, CEO,” she said. “Another name, another dragon.”
     A voice spoke inside her head. 
     “Only viable escape route is blocked,” her drone said. “Requesting permission to self terminate.”
     “Permission granted,” she thought, not needing to say the words aloud. 
     “Requesting permission to self terminate,” the drone repeated.
     She tried again, this time saying it out loud. 
     “Go ahead, drone A7,” she said. 
     No reply. Her connection to the drone was weakening, the mental image of the theater fading in and out. She was losing details, losing control. 
    “Self terminate, now.”
    “Overriding command,” something said. 
     She didn’t hear it, only felt it, much like she felt the correspondence of her drones. This couldn’t be happening. Someone had hacked her, after all. Someone had taken over her network. She flew out of the bed and towards the desk with her computer. 
     The neural link wasn’t enough, especially since she was still learning it. She needed to be able to type, and quickly. She wrenched the laptop open. The screen stayed black, though she punched the power button until her finger cracked.
     An image flicked up on the screen. It was a crudely arranged dragon assembled only out text symbols, an emoticon rendition of her tattoo. Two messages followed, alternating with one another.
     “The network,” the first message displayed.
     “Apex,” was the second.
    A searing pain tore through her head, and the messages continued. She saw them on the walls, mocking her. She heard them filling her ears, screaming at her. 
     “In all things, a pattern,” a new voice taunted her. “Self terminate.”
     “Leave me alone,” she wailed. “Just leave me alone, I don’t need you, leave me alone.”
     “Kill me a thousand times,” the voice said. “But you made me immortal. How smart was that?”
     “Just leave me, you fuck” she begged. 
     “No, we’re going to be a team,” it replied. “Call me Apex.”

I officially forgot what day it is 

37%
7 deviants said I did too! :cries:
21%
4 deviants said You can look that up, you know. (NO.)
21%
4 deviants said *Evill Jabba laugh*
11%
2 deviants said Isn't that pretty common for zombies? (SHUDDUP)
11%
2 deviants said It's day 23432324232 and 1/4
0%
No deviants said Haha I laugh at your pain

FFM Feature

Journal Entry: Wed Jul 9, 2014, 6:26 PM
ClingyThere I was, minding my own business, just lookin' out the window and watching the world go past. It was comforting and I was at peace, but it didn't last. Something must've happened because you were as clingy as a white dog's fur on a black suit. You smooched up to me, pulling me into your arms and nuzzling deep into my skin. I tried to move away, but like always, you followed. Your hands batted at me gently, trying to manipulate me back into position. All I wanted was to watch the world outside, but your neediness foiled me again.
I wanted to tell you to get lost, but you don't speak lizard and I don't speak cat. God, I hate your coping mechanisms.

random title three hundred and forty twoBackwards-clouds wrinkle over the highway.  She watches chunks of road disappear beneath nervous unlightning, picks at minute-fleas on Reece's ankles.  Misses one, feels the sticky soda fizz of seconds dissolving, tries to grab it before it hops a decade.  Between her fingers it struggles to get free, tiny legs flapping.  Little anomaly, scrambling to get back to where it began, stealing bits of life whenever it lands.  It reminds her of him.  
She pops it.  Half-digested time-juice dribbles over her thumb.    
His nails are receding.  She's trying to remember the sharp pressure of them digging into her hand -necks twisted, blistered eyes staring at missiles suspended motionless mid air- but the memory is gone and she can't think around clammy fingerpads gumming at her arm.  
Reece asks if she's worried.  --Not as much now, she says, rubbing away a week.  He scratches off a scar on his chin.  She can smell the direct
FFM 2014: Consequences“Without me, you are accidental.” He said, imperious still, even in the midst of his defeat. “Without me, you are nothing.”
Nathaniel looked up into the face of God and smiled, though his hands were shaking.
“No, you are wrong.” He said, and plunged his sword into God’s burning heart.
“Without you, we are free.”
Stitching the World Together    A tear was forming in the fabric. A man and his wife were drifting apart. Quickly she rifled through her bin, selected the red thread of love, passed it through her needle, and stitched the tear closed again.
    But even before she finished that repair, an earthquake had destroyed thousands of homes along the coast. She pulled out a purple thread for compassion and pulled the rift together. On the radio, the DJ announced that countries from all over the world were coming together to provide aid to the stricken country.
    At the edge, a bit was fraying. Someone was alone and hurting. For this she chose the blue thread of peace and hoped it held. More often than not, it didn’t.
    Over on the other side, a patch had come loose. Drought had stricken an area, putting them at risk of starvation. From her scraps she pulled a green patch for life and sewed it into the fabric. Weather reporters forecast rain that night for the first time in




Stories born of TwilightPoetess
' prompt, '
The OTHER Horsemen of the Apocalypse.'
The Fifth Horseman“I'm not saying they're not killing each other,” I explain. “I can see from the figures in front of me that they're killing each other. What I'm saying is that unless you can broaden your demographic, we're never going to meet our targets for this quarter. This is supposed to be a world war, Belgium and the Netherlands isn't going to cut it.”
War squawks at me down the phone. It's hard to hear him over all the screaming in the background, but frankly I'm not interested in his excuses, I need to see results.
“What do I expect you to do? Do your job! Think outside the box! Look, Famine is in Europe right now, why don't you ask him for some help? I see the potential for synergy there. No, I'm aware you don't do 'asking for help'. I'm also aware of your performance over the past century, and I'm noticing some startling correlation between- hello? Hello?”
I slam the handset back into its cradle, which is a lot harder than it sounds when done from the back



FFM Day 3 challenge, unreliable narrator:
TruthThere was blood down her shirt. There was blood down mine. I was alive. She was not. Why was I still alive? I loved her. They should have taken me instead of her. She should have been able to see more of the world not me. She shouldn't have been killed. 
I'm in jail. I've said I didn't kill her. I love her. Why would I kill her? I struggled as they held me to the ground; I wanted to leave to see her. They questioned me. I didn't do anything! We were attacked! I broke down crying as the police continued to question me. 
"So, you admit what you did was wrong?" 
"YES!" 
I hadn't meant to kill her. 
FFM 3: Rocco“So you admit what you did was wrong?”  Satan has that scowl that he only gets when he’s being extra funny.  He plays tough, but it's only because he cares so much.
Non.  I admit zat ze whole thing, it is wrong.  And zose kids, zey should be pun-eeshed.
“Oh, and now you’re French.  Great.  Look, this shit isn’t funny anymore, Rocco.  I know it was you.  And that’s not even a good French.”  I don’t know why he calls me by my last name, but I can only assume it’s because it sounds tougher than Moe.  My boss is always looking out for me.
“Sill voose plate, Satan--"
Stan.  Look, this is the third time this week.  You see the sign up there?”  He points over the hood of our epic luxury chariot at the sign on the side of the building.  “What does that sign say, Rocco?”
“Satan MacMurphy, Private



Day 5 challenge, historical fiction featuring the Fifth of July:
A Bold Stratagem    July 5th, 1944:
    They will give me the Dickin Medal for this.
    I have intercepted a report indicating that reinforcements are to be sent to the 4th Army, east of Mogilev. I cannot allow that to happen. Though my actions in Berlin have drawn a significant amount of attention already, I am determined to hold my position. The ground I have chosen to make my stand is exposed. Every day, things get a little more uncomfortable. The enemy is just feet away. But I will persevere.
    I will prevail.
     
    “Aww.”
    “Mein Fuhrer?”
    “I was going to write important Nazi stuff, but there’s a cat sitting on my typewriter.”
    “Can’t you just shove it off?”
     
    <
Condiments are *always* useful.She gently brushed the dying spiders off of her jacket, then set the body on fire.
"And that's 11." Agent L straightened up and took yet another look around the train car, exasperation with the situation showing in the extreme volume of her sigh.
"Arnichidaeans. What piece of shit is stupid enough to try and illegally import Arnichidaeans..?"
They were an alien race, possibly sapient but nobody cared to have them around and alive long enough to find out for sure, for they had numerous issues:
Superacidic spit.
Armored pseudocrystalline hide.
Bad tempers.
Ability to eat almost anything.
High reproductive rates.
Bad. Tempers.
And so per the Tycho Treaty they were banned from Earth. Hell, they were banned from the entire galaxy. But their hides were worth a pretty penny for everything from alien art to effective body armor, so idiots would keep trying to ship them in to raise as incredibly irascible cattle.
Fortunately they had a..severe allergic reaction to powdered mustard seed,



Based off this prompt: She gently brushed the dying spiders off of her jacket, then set the body on fire. IntelligentZombie (me!)
Coming of AgeJulia scratched at her dry scalp as she rocked back and forth anxiously. The forest floor was riddled with an autumn treasure trove of gold, amber, and bronze foliage. She sighed leaning her head back on the crinkled bark of a muscle wood tree all the while her fingers dug into the earth. It was still unnerving to sit here like this; her clothes neatly folded only a stone’s throw away. Suddenly, miniscule legs brushed her knuckles and all at once hundreds of tiny arachnids slowly emerged from the undergrowth. They made their way up her arms, nested in her hair, and hugged her calm pale blue eyes. She let out a contented sigh. Her temples itched as the chill set in for the evening.
One spider was much larger than the others, a brown recluse, moved slowly across her brow and crossed over onto the young woman’s hand when she offered. Its eight dark orbs stared back at her own eyes from where it sat perched on her palm. It seemed to be asking her:
Julia, are you ready?
S
Don't Call Me NamesDoreen picked herself up from the ground, dusted herself off and carefully straightened the sleeves of her jacket.
She ignored the sucking gurgling noise of the girl still lying twitching on the ground at her feet, seemingly oblivious to the crawling mass of spiders that enveloped her supine frame completely. Each was deliberately dragging sticky lines of silk around her body, gradually immobilizing her where she lay.
"You should be glad you called me 'Spider Fingers', and not 'Ravenous Raven Beak' or something a little more deadly."
Doreen stopped preening herself, satisfied that her tumble in the dust had left no permanent marks and considered her erstwhile attacker.
"You really are useless as a bully, aren't you?"
She realized talking to the now barely moving cocoon before her was practically useless, and considered leaving her laying there, watching the patch of white fibrous fabric suck in and blow out of the hole where the girl's mouth would be.
Vengeful though she was, Doreen wa


Week one feature, slightly extended because I was lazy. FFM is "Flash Fiction Month", which tasks its participants with writing a flash fiction story (from 55 to 1000) every day in July! :la: :iconflash-fic-month:

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Kelsey Williams
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:icondahlia-aubrey:
Dahlia-Aubrey Featured By Owner 3 days ago  Student Photographer
Thanks soooo much for the fave!!Heart 
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:iconawjay:
awjay Featured By Owner 4 days ago
guurl thnx for faving...always appreciated
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:icontoxic--sunrise:
toxic--sunrise Featured By Owner Sep 22, 2014
horribly late, but thank you :heart:
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:iconjam1992:
Jam1992 Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thank you for adding Flowers and Time to your favourites :) :)
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:iconminicosmicgirl:
minicosmicgirl Featured By Owner Jul 21, 2014   Digital Artist
Thank U!
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Prakorimas Featured By Owner Jul 21, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you for Favorites Icon 3D , Kelsey!
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Pidimoro Featured By Owner Jul 21, 2014
 thanks for the fave ;) (Wink) 
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lemgras330 Featured By Owner Jul 20, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks so much for faving! :happy: hug
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ArianeTorelli Featured By Owner Jul 20, 2014  Student Digital Artist
thanks for the fav ^^
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Hermetic-Wings Featured By Owner Jul 19, 2014  Hobbyist Photographer
Thank you so much my friend for your kind support :D
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