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Snippet from ZIA The Teenage Zombie by Angela Scott

9/17/2014

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ZIA The Teenage Zombie & The Undead Diaries
By Angela Scott
(Coming 2015 - MG/YA)

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I push open the door to Mr. T’s room and hesitate before stepping inside. Since I’ve never taken wood shop before I’m rather alarmed at all the machines and tools that line the walls and various work benches. Gunner was right. I could lose more than my brain here.

I’m about to change my mind and walk away when Eli calls to me. "Zia, over here!"  He’s sitting near the back, his backpack tossed on the floor, and several bottles of chemicals on the table in front of him. He waves me over.

I didn’t even know he knew my name. Being only one of two zombies in the school, I should have figured he’d know. I start walking to where he sits, waiting for me. The entire wood shop is empty of people. Not even the teacher is here, which I find rather disturbing. Shouldn’t someone be monitoring our activity? What if Eli is about to blow up the place with his chemical concoction or tries to decapitate me? There are laws against both of those things, but it doesn’t stop some people from giving it a good try.

But we are left alone, and so I decide I best be careful.

"I’m not going to hurt you," he says. "I think I got it figured out."

I’m still not sure about this, especially when I see the sand paper lying next to everything else he has placed on the table. Sand paper can’t be good.

"You still got your finger?" He looks at me and I nod. I reach in my pocket and hand it over to him. Eli turns it over, studying it, before he sets it down. "Let me see your hand."

I’m rather embarrassed. I’ve been trying to hide it all day—self-conscious, I guess.

"It’s okay." He holds his hand out to me and I slowly slip my hand into his. He doesn’t freak. He doesn’t scream. He just looks at the knuckle where the finger snapped off and stares at the jagged bone. "Do you know how you did it?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I have no idea. It was attached one minute. The next you were handing it back to me."

"Interesting," he says while still holding my hand in his. He glances at me and smiles. "So you don’t feel any pain at all?"

"No, nothing."

"Then you need to be more careful."

I indicated my finger on the table. "Don’t I know it."

"Your hand’s really cold." He turns my hand first one way and then another.

"Sorry." I try to pull my hand from his, but he continues to hold it and doesn’t let go.

"It’s okay," he says. "It doesn’t bother me."

I ask the question that’s been on my mind all day. "Why are you doing this?"

He narrows his brows and looks at me as though I’ve asked an odd question. "I just thought I could help."

"That’s exactly what I mean. No one helps me. Not now anyway."

He’s still holding my hand. "I refuse to play school politic type games. I have nothing against vamps or werewolves"—he pauses and looks at me—"or zombies. But if anyone tries to bite me or suck my blood, I’ll have to kill them."

I nod. "Fair enough." I wouldn’t expect any less. It was only several months ago I carried a wooden stake, a machete, and small pistol loaded with silver bullets in my backpack. ‘Tis the way of the world now. Most everyone has some sort of concealed weapon on them, including preschool children.

Now, I’m on the other side hoping no one will use their weapons on me. I do my best to behave and follow the rules, all of them even if I don’t completely agree.

"For the epoxy to stick, I’ll have to sand down the two ends of the bones. They won’t match up and hold together otherwise, but I can have this fixed in no time."

I watch him fold the sandpaper lengthwise, grab my hand once again, and with as much gentleness he can afford to give me, he runs it across my exposed bone, being careful not to nick the remaining skin around it.

"You doing okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt." Vibrations run up the length of my arm, but that’s it. I feel no pain.

"Did you miss the bus?"

"Yeah, but that’s okay. If you can fix my finger, it will be worth it. My dad is still having a hard time with this whole me being a zombie thing."

"I can give you a ride home if you like?"

"That’s okay. I don’t want to put you out. You’re doing enough as it is and really, I can walk. It’s not far." My home is only a few miles from the school. If I’m lucky, don’t run into trouble and walk faster than my normal gait, I should be home a little after dark.

"And risk you losing another finger? No way. I’ll take you home."

"Eli, that’s nice and everything, but"—I hate even saying it—"I’ll stink up your car. It’s not an easy smell to get rid of either, so it’s better if I just walk."

"I have a motorcycle. The smell won’t even be a problem." He looks up and stops sanding my finger. "Besides, your smell isn’t that bad. Rory’s is much worse."

He picks up my finger and sands the bone. When he finishes, he sets it aside and begins to mix the powder and liquid compounds.

"This will set fast, so I’ve got to get it right the first time. You don’t want me gluing your finger on backwards."

A backward finger would be the least of my problems, but I don’t say so. He puts a bit of the goo on my finger, takes my hand once more, and presses the two pieces together.

"Isn’t Isabelle your sister or something?" he asks as he continues to hold my finger in place.

"She’s my step-sister. Why?"

He shakes his head. "No reason. I was just trying to connect the dots. I guess being step-sisters would explain why you’re pretty cool to talk to and she’s... not. No offense, but your step-sister thinks pretty highly of herself. A bit of a snob."

"No offense taken. I completely agree with you. Just imagine what it’s like living with her."

Eli laughs a little. "That’s okay. I’d rather not." He releases my hand. "Test that out. See what you think."

I bend my finger and move it around. It seems to be working just fine. Eli grabs my finger and gives it a tug. "Don’t toot."

"What?"

"Never mind," he says. "Bad joke. Looks like your finger is holding."

Eli did a great job. He even glued the skin around my finger into place and unless someone looks closely, no one could even tell.

"Thanks. I appreciate this."

"No problem. Just let me clean up here and then I’ll take you home."

Eli is the first human besides my parents to take any interest in me. It’s kind of strange and even though I’m not sure what to make of it, I like it. 

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Where Do Your Story Ideas Come From?

9/16/2014

1 Comment

 
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I was at a work luncheon yesterday afternoon, and I was telling several of my coworkers about my books, my new release in December, and my writing. The question came up, "How do you come up with your story ideas?"

I couldn't answer. The question stumped me.

It's like asking me how I make my heart beat or how I learned to breathe. My heart just does. My lungs just do.

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Why I'm Ignoring my Publishing Contract

9/9/2014

1 Comment

 
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So here's the thing: I have a contract for my work in progress, OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT, with my publisher Evolved Publishing. This is awesome. I have an idea. I have a deadline. AND my publisher wants to publish it. All I did was pitch the idea and they said okay. It's great to be at that point in my writing career that my publisher trusts me to produce a well-written novel just by idea alone. I've proved myself, and my publisher is giving me free-reign to create this book. The contract is signed. My deadline is February 2015 to have it completed. Plenty of time. Totally Awesome.
The problem is that even though I have an idea and a story concept, these characters aren't speaking to me quite yet. True, I'm only two chapters into the story and I haven't given it my full hearty-ho (Yeah, I have no idea what that word is either, but you get the gist, I hope). But when I'm being pulled in other directions by other characters in other works in progress, I know I'm in trouble.

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Pledge to Write ONE Page a Day in September 

9/1/2014

2 Comments

 
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Authors Publish posted this image on Facebook, and when I saw it pop up on my timeline I knew I just HAD to do this.

I'm pledging to do this. I am certain that a page a day is doable--even when I get home from a long day at work, I think I can kick out a page.

I have three projects tugging at my brain, so this should be easy, right? Let's hope so (nothing is always as easy as it seems).

But to take this goal on, will give me 30 new pages by the end of the month.

Sometimes, a person needs a goal to make the words and story come together. We need a nudge.

Here is my nudge.

If you need a nudge too, then join me. Make your pledge by clicking on the picture above and leaving a comment, or by leaving a comment here. Let's do this together.

Good luck.

Now get writing! :)
2 Comments

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