IN THE REALM OF THE RECENTLY ZOMBIFIED (aka Round Robin Horror Story Part 1 - Terey)

I used to love rainy Saturdays in late October when the oak and maple leaves plastered themselves to the bottoms of my Doctor (the store in Portland where I purchased them was very formal about the title) Martens (bright orange this year). Walking along the wet, tree-lined streets of Hallows Grove was my favorite thing to do almost any time, but there was something about the red-gold-yellow-brown of middle autumn that spoke to my deepest bits. Between the crisp air, the snap of the wind, the intermittent pelt of raindrips (yes, drips!, funneling down the back of my neck when my hood's down, in rivulets from my hair, dripping in sudden plops of cold onto my spine or wrists or throat...) - the taste of apples and wood smoke on the air and the sure knowledge that by stepping inside the pretty yellow-white glow behind any of the comfortably ill-kept Queen Anne's on either side of the street I'd be welcomed, toweled dry, handed tea, hot chocolate, cookies, scones or something yummy, a warm afghan and feel at home.

Naturally, as the cliche goes, that was then.

Have you ever had one of those days where your agent (or your editor) looks at you across a crowded gathering of horror writers and says - rather loudly - "Gee, I wish someone would send me something about zombies, sentient plants and steam punk because that's about the only thing I haven't read lately"? No? Well, maybe it's just me. Because honestly, that's where this all started. With my agent (we'll call her Laurie for no good reason) winking across a panel of speakers at my editor (who shall remain nameless for all sorts of excellent reasons) and then looking pointedly At Moi (just for the helluvit because That's What She Does), giving me that little private half-grin she's got when she's about to Get Me Into Trouble Big Time While Calling It Good For My Career and making the aforementioned statement to the room at large.

At which point I dropped my head into my hands knowing at once that:
1) not only had I just been "cursed" - so to speak - in the most loving manner possible by a master of the art, but
2) I had already been sold into slavery for said book, if not an entire series of same "sentient plant-zombie-steam punk" classics and this was the announcement that I would not turn down because
3) my damn creative juices were already working on the subject and churning out plot ideas so it was a no win situation for moi whether I'd ever before wanted to write about sentient-plant-zombies-in-steam-punk-land or not.

I stuck out the tip of my tongue and made a funny-grimacey rolly-eye face at Laurie and my nameless-but-laughing-her-butt-off editor while watching the visibly churning minds of the professional writers but amateur novelists in the room glom onto the pitched premise with greed and a tremendous lack of stealth. In a month there would be SPZSP queries and proposals thrown at Laurie by the dozens. I smiled a toothy smile at my erstwhile agent. She was bringing it on herself and I did not feel the least bit sorry for her.

I did feel something for myself however - especially about thirty minutes after the oblique announcement of my Sentient Plant Zombie Steam Punk contract. That was when I first met Fred and my entire life changed in the blink of- or rather make that the hiss of some steam escaping the heavy metal cover over the delivery tunnel below the horror conference hotel's kitchens, a little neon purple ooze that my Doctor Martens (red that time) slipped in when they'd never ever skidded out from under me over anything else, and an uncooked artichoke that landed in the same, and at the same time. Then before the artichoke or I could do anything, that huge metal yaw opened wide - toothily, I might add! - gulped big, and swallowed us and the neon ooze whole...

To Be Continued...