Steven Ramirez

I recalled something I__ read a long time ago about Satan. When he appeared, it wouldn__ be as a demon but as an ordinary-looking guy with a convincing message of peace.

I was somewhere between angry and turned-on.

Creating characters is easy. It__ getting them to behave that__ the problem.

So here I am writing my zombie story and my lead character decides to betray me.

It__ amazing how fast you can write when there__ a gun to your head.

To write is to stand at the edge of a bottomless well, unafraid of falling in.

You can__ get the blood out.

Her voice was small and distant, like she__ already left the room.

During our time together in this place Holly didn__ outright avoid me or treat me rudely. But she wasn____ow do women like to put it? She wasn__ emotionally available to me.

__an__ you see what they are?_ I said. __hey__e all dead._

The people inside the gym didn__ stand a dead drunk__ chance.

I wanted to see the bullet coming, wanted to know the exact moment of my death.

I felt a lunatic__ laugh welling up inside me.

This guy was a humorless bag of nothing but.

His eyes were like two wafers of slate, grey and lifeless.

I knew then I was going to die in the street without ever seeing Holly again. All because I tried to help an old woman, proving for all eternity that no good deed goes unpunished.

When I lifted up the skin, a fat kidney worm dripping with gore raised its bald, blind head and glared at me.

For an instant I saw before me the young girl this used to be.