nevillethurmond
05-Dec-2006, 01:35 PM
Hi All,
Hope you don't mind me posting part of a story I'm compiling called Storm of the Dead. I've posted this on a number of forums and writers groups and received some decent feedback. I'm going to put this online and have it illustrated, sort of graphic novel ‘stylee’.
If there are any talented artists out there interested in doing some illustrations, please let me know. I'm hoping to develop the story further online as the month’s progress (starting Jan Feb next year). If by change some kind publisher comes along and wants to take the site and put it into a genuine novel, then there'll be royalties for the artist (and me).
I guess I might as well be cheeky here and say if any budding film makers want to develop my script, please I'm all ears...
So, here we go - part one to set the scene. Interested in what you all think, suggested improvemtns etc.
Cheers,
Neville Thurmond (UK).
Storm of the Dead #1 (copyright me!)
I shivered as if someone had walked over my grave. It felt like an ice cube sliding down my spine. In reality, I was the one walking over graves, roaming around my local cemetery, at night, in torrential weather. I should have stayed indoors, but I had a duty to perform, the routine of taking my dog, Whiskey, for a walk when I came home from work. With the cemetery being close to where I lived, it was convenient and to be honest, the only place I could take him. I’d done this a thousand times before. As far as I was concerned, it was no big deal to walk through here when it was dark. Why feel nervous then? The living dead weren’t about to rise and munch on my flesh.
Calm down Neville!
The dog stopped to cock his leg against a headstone. My pocket torch shone down to reveal the name of the owner: ‘Samuel P. Don’. Drenched from the pounding rain, and deafened by the howling wind lashing the surrounding trees with ferocious intensity, my thoughts wandered repeatedly to a book, of all things. “You must read this,” I'd been told. “It’s just so weird.” Weird indeed! Amongst other things, there was an uncanny resemblance with what I’d read so far, compared to where I stood.
Stop it Neville, it’s not real, it’s just a story!
I pushed on, desperate for the dog to empty his bowels so I could scoop his poop and return home.
And then, without warning, the sky erupted.
A blinding flash of light was followed by an explosion of thunder.
The dog yelped.
I screamed obscenities.
The ground shook. I reeled. The dog tugged. The lead slipped from my grasp.
He bolted.
No!
As I struggled to see, he disappeared.
I yelled for him to stop, but the wind drowned out my voice. Images of demons lurking just beyond my sight raced through my brain.
Neville Thurmond, stop thinking about that damn book!
I set off in pursuit.
In my haste, I tripped, falling awkwardly and twisting my ankle in the process.
Damn it!
The torch flew from my grasp, its glow ceasing as it became lost in the overgrown brush.
Damn it!
I slowly eased myself up spitting mud and wet grass from my mouth before pressing on, frantically searching; my voice hoarse with shouting. The pain in my ankle was followed by the sensation of hot needles piercing my skin – I’d stumbled into a thorn bush. My face stung.
DAMN IT!
Wet, cold, cut, bruised and covered in something I hoped was just mud I dropped next to an old oak, head in my hands.
Moments later something warm and wet licked me - the dog!
Why you little…
I snatched his lead, deciding to return home instantly without further incident.
#
A few hours later having bathed, tending to my cuts and bruises before eating, I slumped my aching body onto the living room sofa.
Next time take him out when it’s dry.
As Whiskey slept peacefully in front of a blazing fire, I sipped from a fresh cup of tea. The storm intensified. I stood tentatively to check it out before picking up that cursed book. I looked at the blurb on the back. I always looked at the blurb on the back: “An unprecedented storm leads to a plague of biblical proportions. The dead are rising. Seeking refuge in a desolate cemetery, his trusty dog becomes the only hope of survival for …”
I paused, that word ‘trusty’, it always brought a smile to my face.
I glanced at the dog.
Yeah right! Help me, Obi Wan, you’re my only hope.
I gazed outside. Whiskey hardly stirred as my cup of tea crashed onto the hardwood floor.
What the…
A sunken face stared back at me. Decayed and rotten, strips of flesh hung from its cheek.
It can’t be!
Matted hair hung shoulder length, its eyes hollow.
It can’t be!
Fists raised, it pounded on the window.
A hairline crack snaked across the pane.
I didn’t move. I knew I had to, but I just stood there petrified. At that precise moment, I could only think of one thing, the blurb: “…his trusty dog becomes the only hope of survival for Neville Thurmond.”
I’d always laughed this off, same name and all that. It was coincidence, nothing more.
But now…
As the storm raged, the living dead spilled onto the streets.
I know what happens!
To be continued...
Hope you don't mind me posting part of a story I'm compiling called Storm of the Dead. I've posted this on a number of forums and writers groups and received some decent feedback. I'm going to put this online and have it illustrated, sort of graphic novel ‘stylee’.
If there are any talented artists out there interested in doing some illustrations, please let me know. I'm hoping to develop the story further online as the month’s progress (starting Jan Feb next year). If by change some kind publisher comes along and wants to take the site and put it into a genuine novel, then there'll be royalties for the artist (and me).
I guess I might as well be cheeky here and say if any budding film makers want to develop my script, please I'm all ears...
So, here we go - part one to set the scene. Interested in what you all think, suggested improvemtns etc.
Cheers,
Neville Thurmond (UK).
Storm of the Dead #1 (copyright me!)
I shivered as if someone had walked over my grave. It felt like an ice cube sliding down my spine. In reality, I was the one walking over graves, roaming around my local cemetery, at night, in torrential weather. I should have stayed indoors, but I had a duty to perform, the routine of taking my dog, Whiskey, for a walk when I came home from work. With the cemetery being close to where I lived, it was convenient and to be honest, the only place I could take him. I’d done this a thousand times before. As far as I was concerned, it was no big deal to walk through here when it was dark. Why feel nervous then? The living dead weren’t about to rise and munch on my flesh.
Calm down Neville!
The dog stopped to cock his leg against a headstone. My pocket torch shone down to reveal the name of the owner: ‘Samuel P. Don’. Drenched from the pounding rain, and deafened by the howling wind lashing the surrounding trees with ferocious intensity, my thoughts wandered repeatedly to a book, of all things. “You must read this,” I'd been told. “It’s just so weird.” Weird indeed! Amongst other things, there was an uncanny resemblance with what I’d read so far, compared to where I stood.
Stop it Neville, it’s not real, it’s just a story!
I pushed on, desperate for the dog to empty his bowels so I could scoop his poop and return home.
And then, without warning, the sky erupted.
A blinding flash of light was followed by an explosion of thunder.
The dog yelped.
I screamed obscenities.
The ground shook. I reeled. The dog tugged. The lead slipped from my grasp.
He bolted.
No!
As I struggled to see, he disappeared.
I yelled for him to stop, but the wind drowned out my voice. Images of demons lurking just beyond my sight raced through my brain.
Neville Thurmond, stop thinking about that damn book!
I set off in pursuit.
In my haste, I tripped, falling awkwardly and twisting my ankle in the process.
Damn it!
The torch flew from my grasp, its glow ceasing as it became lost in the overgrown brush.
Damn it!
I slowly eased myself up spitting mud and wet grass from my mouth before pressing on, frantically searching; my voice hoarse with shouting. The pain in my ankle was followed by the sensation of hot needles piercing my skin – I’d stumbled into a thorn bush. My face stung.
DAMN IT!
Wet, cold, cut, bruised and covered in something I hoped was just mud I dropped next to an old oak, head in my hands.
Moments later something warm and wet licked me - the dog!
Why you little…
I snatched his lead, deciding to return home instantly without further incident.
#
A few hours later having bathed, tending to my cuts and bruises before eating, I slumped my aching body onto the living room sofa.
Next time take him out when it’s dry.
As Whiskey slept peacefully in front of a blazing fire, I sipped from a fresh cup of tea. The storm intensified. I stood tentatively to check it out before picking up that cursed book. I looked at the blurb on the back. I always looked at the blurb on the back: “An unprecedented storm leads to a plague of biblical proportions. The dead are rising. Seeking refuge in a desolate cemetery, his trusty dog becomes the only hope of survival for …”
I paused, that word ‘trusty’, it always brought a smile to my face.
I glanced at the dog.
Yeah right! Help me, Obi Wan, you’re my only hope.
I gazed outside. Whiskey hardly stirred as my cup of tea crashed onto the hardwood floor.
What the…
A sunken face stared back at me. Decayed and rotten, strips of flesh hung from its cheek.
It can’t be!
Matted hair hung shoulder length, its eyes hollow.
It can’t be!
Fists raised, it pounded on the window.
A hairline crack snaked across the pane.
I didn’t move. I knew I had to, but I just stood there petrified. At that precise moment, I could only think of one thing, the blurb: “…his trusty dog becomes the only hope of survival for Neville Thurmond.”
I’d always laughed this off, same name and all that. It was coincidence, nothing more.
But now…
As the storm raged, the living dead spilled onto the streets.
I know what happens!
To be continued...