So after contests my family went out to lunch and a movie and at the bookstore I got this cutesy little 'Writer's Toolbox.' I spun the wheels and got the skeleton of this story. Liz who revies books wears a disguise and battles the barista at Starbucks all while trying to be wild and free. =)
The gun's leather strap dug inter her shoulder, her wild, red hair streaked behind her like a cape and the silver moonlight soaked her freckled face as her bare feet ran across the muddy grass making a soft squishing noise in the cool, still air. It was the zombie apocalypse and she was Rebecca, warrior of the people and keeper of the peace...at least for that one glorious night.
An hour ago she had been Liz, the rebel and a week ago she had been Liz, the book critic for her high school paper. She knew a leopard can't change its spots, or its freckles, but she knew a leopard could forget about their spots and pretend not to have any for one night.
One week ago it all started because of the barista at Starbucks...
Liz always drank cocoa instead of coffee every week while she sat in a cozy leather chair each day after school, reading. One day she was skimming a copy of 'How to Survive the Zombie Apocalypse' to review for the Weekly Buzz. Moronic readers of the paper with the school's cartoon mascot of a bee on the front always requested dumb books. As Liz flipped through the torn pages of the library's copy she felt an unfamiliar thrill; she found herself smiling and drinking in every delicious and hilarious word.
"So are you going?" said the cute barista as he leaned against the marble counter with a crooked grin on his face. He had eyes the color of dark chocolate and light, lemon blond hair. She was marveling at the contrast when his sarcastic voice brought her out of her trance. He had this voice that made it sound like he was always telling a joke and the world just wasn't witty enough to understand the humor in what lay beyond those dark chocolate eyes.
"You know," he looked around and although there was no one else there he leaned closer and whispered. Liz couldn't help but lean in too. "The zombie night, you're going, right?"
Zombie night was an urban legend of massive proportions. Outcasts from near and far would travel to Liz's small town to experience one night acting out the zombie apocalypse and escape their ordinary lives once a year. If you had experienced zombie night you were sworn to secrecy, Liz assumed, because nobody on the outside could find zombie night's annually moving location. Maybe that is why the outsiders who created zombie night did it, for once they were on the inside and everyone else was on the outside. People always tried to find it, crash it, make it a youtube sensation or just try to solve the mysterious puzzle that was zombie night.
Liz's heart sped up. This was her chance to change her freckles, even if only for one night. She knew though, that if she admitted to not being in on zombie night the barista would clamp up. She had to pretend like she was in on it. "Oh yeah, this will be a great year. I hope the weather cooperates." The barista's eyes narrowed, Liz had hesitated too long or he had caught the slight quiver in her voice. He opened his mouth to speak but the jingling of bells signaled a customer and he shut it. An old man wearing a brown jacket walked in with a cane that made loud, slow thunking on the tiled floor.
Liz stuffed her keys, book, receipt and change frantically into her purse. She threw her half empty cup in the trash. And walked out into the tiny parking lot. She turned in a circle, unsure of what to do next. Out of the three cars in the six car lot one was hers and one of the other two had to be the barista's. She figured the old beat up wooden paneled car with a picture of two blond haired, blue eyed children holding Easter baskets next to a delighted old woman taped on the dashboard belonged to the elderly gentlemen. Liz sat on the hood of the other car to wait.
She bit her nails. The old man left, pulling out surprisingly fast. The wind blew her hair. She pulled up her hood. She paced. She watched as a girl with a long brown ponytail and a nametag that read "Hi! I'm Jessica!" click clacked in heels through the lot gracefully and into the Starbucks.
Finally the barista came out jingling his keys and whistling. It wasn't until he was a foot or two away that he looked up and noticed her. He swore under his breath.
"Fine, we'll talk," he relinquished. She nodded.
"but inside the car," he said watching her face closely for hesitation. He was hoping to scare her; he was probably three years older and much bigger than her. She studied his face and decided it was all talk, and he wouldn't hurt her...right? They got in the car.
The gun's leather strap dug inter her shoulder, her wild, red hair streaked behind her like a cape and the silver moonlight soaked her freckled face as her bare feet ran across the muddy grass making a soft squishing noise in the cool, still air. It was the zombie apocalypse and she was Rebecca, warrior of the people and keeper of the peace...at least for that one glorious night.
An hour ago she had been Liz, the rebel and a week ago she had been Liz, the book critic for her high school paper. She knew a leopard can't change its spots, or its freckles, but she knew a leopard could forget about their spots and pretend not to have any for one night.
One week ago it all started because of the barista at Starbucks...
Liz always drank cocoa instead of coffee every week while she sat in a cozy leather chair each day after school, reading. One day she was skimming a copy of 'How to Survive the Zombie Apocalypse' to review for the Weekly Buzz. Moronic readers of the paper with the school's cartoon mascot of a bee on the front always requested dumb books. As Liz flipped through the torn pages of the library's copy she felt an unfamiliar thrill; she found herself smiling and drinking in every delicious and hilarious word.
"So are you going?" said the cute barista as he leaned against the marble counter with a crooked grin on his face. He had eyes the color of dark chocolate and light, lemon blond hair. She was marveling at the contrast when his sarcastic voice brought her out of her trance. He had this voice that made it sound like he was always telling a joke and the world just wasn't witty enough to understand the humor in what lay beyond those dark chocolate eyes.
"You know," he looked around and although there was no one else there he leaned closer and whispered. Liz couldn't help but lean in too. "The zombie night, you're going, right?"
Zombie night was an urban legend of massive proportions. Outcasts from near and far would travel to Liz's small town to experience one night acting out the zombie apocalypse and escape their ordinary lives once a year. If you had experienced zombie night you were sworn to secrecy, Liz assumed, because nobody on the outside could find zombie night's annually moving location. Maybe that is why the outsiders who created zombie night did it, for once they were on the inside and everyone else was on the outside. People always tried to find it, crash it, make it a youtube sensation or just try to solve the mysterious puzzle that was zombie night.
Liz's heart sped up. This was her chance to change her freckles, even if only for one night. She knew though, that if she admitted to not being in on zombie night the barista would clamp up. She had to pretend like she was in on it. "Oh yeah, this will be a great year. I hope the weather cooperates." The barista's eyes narrowed, Liz had hesitated too long or he had caught the slight quiver in her voice. He opened his mouth to speak but the jingling of bells signaled a customer and he shut it. An old man wearing a brown jacket walked in with a cane that made loud, slow thunking on the tiled floor.
Liz stuffed her keys, book, receipt and change frantically into her purse. She threw her half empty cup in the trash. And walked out into the tiny parking lot. She turned in a circle, unsure of what to do next. Out of the three cars in the six car lot one was hers and one of the other two had to be the barista's. She figured the old beat up wooden paneled car with a picture of two blond haired, blue eyed children holding Easter baskets next to a delighted old woman taped on the dashboard belonged to the elderly gentlemen. Liz sat on the hood of the other car to wait.
She bit her nails. The old man left, pulling out surprisingly fast. The wind blew her hair. She pulled up her hood. She paced. She watched as a girl with a long brown ponytail and a nametag that read "Hi! I'm Jessica!" click clacked in heels through the lot gracefully and into the Starbucks.
Finally the barista came out jingling his keys and whistling. It wasn't until he was a foot or two away that he looked up and noticed her. He swore under his breath.
"Fine, we'll talk," he relinquished. She nodded.
"but inside the car," he said watching her face closely for hesitation. He was hoping to scare her; he was probably three years older and much bigger than her. She studied his face and decided it was all talk, and he wouldn't hurt her...right? They got in the car.
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