does number of dead really matter?

Everyone has a voice, a way they speak, and express themselves. The same is true for writing. I’ve been working hard learning the technical aspects of writing, doing my literary calisthenics and I felt as if I were dead last in a marathon when suddenly and quite surprisingly I had a breakthrough.

I found my voice. I found Olivia’s voice. And nailing her voice is important because she is my main character. I knew her story, I knew she was faced with a choice- but I struggled with how to tell her story.

So now I am ready to introduce you to Olivia- and let her tell her own story. Once again, I am posting first drafts- I ask the jury to please disregard grammatical flaws and be lenient with my narrative summary. This is how I bang out first drafts.

What do you think Olivia, should we give them a taste?

“Let’s let them have it already!” Olivia said.

When do I get my life back? It’s not as if I’m dead. I’m just surrounded by them. Well not dead people, the undead, and more to the point my undead mother.

I’m talking about life with the undead.  Not zombies, although Mom can do a hilarious zombie imitation now. It’s full on B movie quality. She rolls her eyes up so they look stark white, she juts her chin out to the left allowing just the right amount of drool escape from her mouth, reaches her arms out and walks in her best Scooby Doo Zombie lurch you’ve ever seen.  Truth be told, the dead are a lively bunch, even if they are technically dead, or undead. I haven’t figured out the politically correct term.  Did I mention mom has let a few stray undead move in with us?

Does number of undead really matter? I doubt you even notice them mulling about. I didn’t until Mom. Now I see them everywhere. It’s like when you want a new pair of shoes and you think no one else has them and it’ll be totally cool to be the first one sporting a pair. Then you start seeing them everywhere. Or like that stupid doodlebug game where you punch the person next to you when you spot a 1970’s style VW bug.  You may never notice one of those classic cars before and suddenly your eyes spot beetles everywhere on the road.

It all started when my Mom refused to die. Flat out said she wouldn’t abandon me like my father did. So instead of going into the light like a normal mother would after being hit by a bus, my mother turned away from the light and brought her broken and mangled self back home.

That wasn’t a pretty sight to come home to, especially after a day of seventh grade mid terms.

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