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hombre_hompson

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Posts posted by hombre_hompson

  1. I've been strictly keeping to doing the stages in order, and not allowing myself to move on without completing a stage first. With the vast choice on offer from the outset it seemed like this would be the best way for my brain to cope with it. Needless to say, progress has been slow.

    Has anyone else done this? Are the levels in the correct difficulty curve order, or are some of the early levels potentially some of the hardest in the game? With all this freedom to pick and choose am I missing the point?

  2. Well this has finally started to click. If anyone is still struggling I'd advise to stick with it - smashing a lone enemy into a wall with a volley of 100 missiles is one of the most wasteful yet satisfying things I've done in a long time.

    Working through Treasures Best strictly in order. Currently on stage 13 (wide samurai), must have tried that bastard at least 30 times but I'm enjoying it now which is making the difference. The guide Tim Spoons It posted really helped make things clear.

    Blu3Flame - I've experimented with the direct EX, but find that my EX attack is basically my 'panic button', so I need it to clear an area to give me breathing space. No doubt I'll need the direct EX on some of the more one-on-one levels.

    I'm struggling with the FastBots at the mo - any advice for these?

  3. Just finished the tutorial. Managed it without ever fully understanding what I'm actually doing. God knows how I'm going to cope with the real levels.

    Reassured by this thread that it all eventually falls into place. Just hope I have the patience to get that far.

  4. Hombre: l like your writing but I find it quite detached. I wonder why you put certain phrases in italic???

    Yeah, it's all fairly clinical and precise so I can see why you might find it a bit detached. For stories like this one it's a deliberate style, very little time spent on characters or descriptions. I rarely give characters a name, and when I do describe them it's non-descriptive e.g a normal-haired girl, which is something I like to do. I'm not very good at the more descriptive stuff, and it helps with the word count, which is why I've grown into this style. I think it works for stories like this one, but hopefully some of my other entries have had a bit more warmth when needed.

    The italics is just a lazy form of emphasis, due to the reasons above. Probably use them too much. :(

  5. Mr Cochese - Sci-fi isn't really my thing, but this made me smile.

    Danster - Quite a difficult, almost claustrophobic read, but I guess that was the point, to share the frustrations of the main character. Good stuff.

    Pocket Frenzy - I read it as the 'monster' being a vacuum cleaner, with the voice being that of a small child. Still not sure I'm right. Another difficult read, maybe the language was a little too far removed. Interesting experiment though, and good to read something a bit different

    Jolly - Well written as always, now with added humour. Excellent.

    Faerie - Glad you carried on from last month. Don't know the reference, but this had a nice dream like quality to it.

    Shame to have so few entries this month, but I enjoyed reading what we had. My runner up was Faerie, but my vote goes to Jolly.

  6. Finally completed the last four sections - turned out to be an exercise in frustration more than anything else. I can't see myself replaying many of the levels again.

    The purity of the first game seems to have been lost, with less occasions where I've simply concentrated on the music and followed a beat. Most of the time is spent worrying whether the next swipe will constitute as a valid one. The music doesn't seem as tightly integrated into the games, but maybe that's because my attentions are so focused on the physical demands of the stylus. Instead of the harder levels become more intricate, they simply become faster, and combined with the swiping it becomes a test of patience more than anything.

    Also the remixes aren't as good - in RT the mini-games always felt like they were almost designed with the remixes in mind, in this it seems like they play out to some fairly inconsequential soundtrack. Plus it has some fairly cheap memory tricks (the ninth remix being a particular culprit).

    It's a shame as I think some of the individual music tracks are brilliant, it's funnier than the original, and it still has that certain charm of RT. Just nothing on the scale of the bouncy-man-in-space I'm afraid.

  7. The mannequin spots him immediately.

    A few seconds later he returns the favour.

    It hides in one of the larger tents behind an Edwardian pedestal desk, catching the corner of his eye. Like any experienced dealer, he decides on his final offer before entering the stall.

    There is always a deal to be done.

    The antiques fair isn’t what it used to be - something to do with eBay he reckons. Gone are the days of touching before you buy, now you compare prices amongst websites advertised on flyers. The dealers barely make a living, more profit to be made in scrap than the current sale prices. The stalls don’t make money at the fairs, and the buyers don’t turn up without the stalls, all contributing to the inevitable decline of the market.

    Yesterday he sold what he could to the professionals and shop owners. Today it is the general public – plenty of people, not enough buyers. After a quiet morning he decided to pack up everything into the van and head home, but not before wandering the stalls for one last time.

    Most of the stuff on sale is junk - junk that one day will be worth something to someone, but still junk all the same. The place stinks of memories, endless house clearances and heirlooms that speak with fading voices. Everything looks like it could be haunted or cursed. Everything looks so early Stephen King.

    The mannequin definitely falls into this category - dressed in a faded Victorian bodice, with eyes stitched shut and a cloth mouth fraying at the edges. Its expression says low profit margin, yet it radiates warmth, a quirkiness that might appeal to a collector.

    It is almost certainly cursed, and if that is the case, it has certainly picked him out.

    Horror fiction, his only companion during the slow off-season months, has taught him how these things work. Once something like this has you, no matter how consciously aware of it you are, you still reluctantly concede and move with it, the paradox of knowing that you know whilst at the same time knowing that it doesn’t matter. No use fighting it, best to submit to the inevitable.

    Whether he wants to or not he moves closer, intrigued by the price tag that undervalues the item by quite some margin. The damage could be the reason, visible just above the neckline of the bodice, and as he teases at the material

    Blink

    He is in a thin corridor with no doors. A thin alcove is set into the wall, and in it stands a thin girl. The air is like stale bread, the visibility like a dirty lens. It feels like a long time ago, yet he can hear The Future Sound of London playing from a distant source. The girl looks mid-twenties, normal-haired with pale skin and homeless features.

    He goes to examine her.

    Above her cropped top are fifty seven marks cut into her breastbone. Scores. Notches. A tally, neatly arranged in bunches of five like a prison cell engraving. The first few marks have faded to scar, white vertical lines resembling the bite of a rodent. From left to right the marks steadily become fresher, bruising making the count indistinguishable in places. The most recent marks are small crimson slits, cut with such precision that they barely bleed.

    Below her left shoulder is a Stanley knife, hanging from the ceiling by a frayed piece of string, slowly rotating back and forth. It all seems so horribly obvious, and as he wonders who she is, she speaks without moving.

    I am the number fifty seven.

    He immediately struggles to parse what he has heard. Not fifty seven. Not even number fifty seven, indicating that she is perhaps one of many others, but the number fifty seven, like she is the constant, the universal truth and its perpetual existence.

    With no other option he goes to touch her, but as he does so her mouth splits open with a spasm, unfolding into his face

    Blink

    He is back in the tent.

    Small changes make it feel as though time has passed. It’s more overcast than it was a second ago. A bad taste has found his mouth. The smell of furniture polish, a smell that he loved so much as a child, is now unpleasant and unwelcome. The thing that resembles a mannequin is now cold to the touch. Cold, but not entirely unpleasant.

    Still touching the bodice he teases it down a little more to reveal small notches across the breastbone, crudely scorn into the material. He counts them whilst his head is still clear enough to do so.

    There are fifty six of them. He feels the imbalance, the misalignment, the sense of every law and theory disproving before him, a constant that is currently another.

    The universe doesn't get much more broken than that.

    This is the reason to touch before you buy, to understand what you’re dealing with, to confirm what you’re getting into. He knows the rules, knows he will purchase it despite his dealers instinct, knows he is chosen to put things right. You don’t run or dispose of an object like this – it always reappears in the most unlikely of circumstances, haunting you until you can satisfy its hunger.

    He must take it away and increment, restore whatever needs to be restored, in whatever way is required. Maybe then he can return it here, try to catch the corner of someone else’s eye before the antiques fair disappears forever. Will he be the unlucky one, the last count, unable to pass it on?

    The music always stops on someone.

    A voice speaks, and for a moment the mannequin splits open once more, but it is only the stall owner, asking if he's interested in making an offer. Despite his sky becoming more overcast by the minute, he considers haggling.

    There is always a deal to be done.

  8. He wakes with a start. The mug is there as always, but the message this morning reads like some terrible urban legend.

    Your wife is dead it says.

    Housebound since the accident, his mornings now follow a similar, comforting routine. He always finds a slate mug at his bedside. He always reads the chalk message from his wife. He always pictures her writing it before leaving for work, being careful not to wake him, her smile anticipating his.

    The bedside message is the first thing he sees every morning, his first waking memory, his first conscious thought, a powerful watermark for the rest of the day that leaves him anticipating the next. It feels like a leftover part of his dreams. He sees it in every blink. It is as comforting as it is essential to his routine.

    The messages began with simple notes of affection - pet names and get well wishes. Soon they evolved into simple activities, designed to help his time inside pass by - Sky Plus codes, point-busting recipes, phone numbers to television competitions, hand drawn Sudoku grids, the first and subsequent moves in a noughts and crosses game, knock-knock jokes, treasure maps to items hidden downstairs, moral dilemmas, inventive swearwords, outrageous shock websites like Celebrity Unconscious and Face Bangers, forty three mornings to relay the lyrics of her favourite song - Moonlight Shadow by Mike Oldfield.

    Over time the messages have become more inventive, more enlightening. Yesterday the message was simply surprise, and it was ten restless minutes of speculation before he discovered that the mug was full of confetti, tipping it over himself like a honeymoon suite. No matter what the content - playful, sincere, or obscure, he always recognises the messages as hers. They always share her tone, speak with her voice.

    The message this morning shares none of these qualities. The handwriting is so unfamiliar it takes him several routine-disrupting moments to adjust. It reads less like

    Your wife is dead

    and more like

    YOU'Re WIFE IS DEAD!!

    Sitting up he half expects a grinning loon to be stood at his bedside - dressed in his wife's underwear and armed with a rusty scalpel. His best-case side tries to convince himself that it's a joke, but deep down he knows the humour isn't her style, the falsifying of the handwriting is too much effort, the shock factor is inappropriate for his delicate condition.

    His best-case side has to concede defeat - the writing is simply wrong. It is handwriting that doesn't belong in this house. It is the handwriting of a clown.

    His routine falls to pieces. For the first time in twelve months he is unsure how his day will end. Exposed and unsteady, he listens to the house for any tell-tale whispers, any unfamiliar creaks or strains. He mentally assesses all the possible hiding places, wondering if the visitor has already found his favourite. He knows this house better than he knows himself, and as he makes his way downstairs, he repeats this to himself over and over. He has no plan or weapon, only the mug hanging from his forefinger, the faint hope that its terrible message somehow has the power to repel its creator.

    Slowly and methodically he works his way through every room, noting every unfinished decoration, every uneven surface, every frayed piece of carpet, every corner not a right angle. The features that now make up his landscape, all now unfamiliar when faced with the threat of company.

    He descends the lower flight of stairs, feeling under his feet the seventh step that slopes slightly to the right, stepping over the third that creaks when under the weight of both feet. Reaching the kitchen diner he pauses, an unidentifiable part of him warning of danger, a new sixth sense revealing itself.

    He swings open the door, briefly registering the sight before him, before continuing towards the kitchen.

    The room is full of mugs.

    Every one of them carries one of the chalk written messages. They line the window sill and dining room table, they stack against corners like student beer piles, they cover the floor like an army. The messages shout out like static, the soft hand of his wife everywhere, a torrent of hope and humour and originality. They all form as a chorus, engulfing him, lyrics singing to him as he

    ...the trees that whisper in the evening...

    carefully tip-toes to the kitchen, not wanting to brush against the dust, not wanting to erase. Another message is pinned to the fridge, written in that unwelcome hand, and for a moment he is unsure whether to panic or to be thankful for its purpose.

    The message reads ORDEr MORe CHALk!!!

    For the smallest of split seconds he recognises the writing as his own - the writing of his true self, written in a rare moment of clarity. He compares it with the mug, still unable to reconcile its purpose, and for a moment

    ...Sing a song of sorrow and grieving...

    the moment passes, and he is back in routine. Like every other morning, he finds a place for the mug in amongst the others. Unlike every other morning, this was a desperate wake-up call that has gone unnoticed, his attempt to reach himself all but lost.

    Morning sun begins to fill the room, highlighting the chalk dust that floats in the air. He looks out and wonders what outside will be like, wonders when he'll be ready, but even his best-case knows that he will remain where he is, trying to retain the memories that are as delicate as the chalk dust they are written in.

    Best-case says he will stay here, trapped inside this house of mugs, wondering what he'll find written when he wakes up tomorrow.

  9. Gah. Looks like I won't get anything written this month. All of the ideas I had turned out to be only half-ideas, and time has caught up with me.

    I really must learn to pick words based on ideas I already have.

  10. Ah yeah, cracking review, fella. I take it you've preordered the DS version?

    Ah yes, happy days.

    Will get it pre-ordered this weekend along with Bangai-o-Spirits. Feeling a slight sense of trepidation about it but sure it'll be great. Plenty of swishing the stylus back and forth I expect. Along with tap dancing animals.

  11. Can't believe I nearly missed a Rhythm Tengoku thread. I wrote a review ages ago where I pretty much declared it the best thing ever.

    The 'man jumping in space' level always brings a smile to my face, and the mad zooming in and out of the baseball level always makes me laugh.

    But the best bit? Level 6 remix. Still one of my fondest gaming moments.

  12. I think it's an -awful- choice of word but weirdly I'm having more ideas about this than any other so far, so maybe it's -brilliant-

    After the broad scope of last months word I wanted to choose something that appeared quite constraining, but actually has many meanings and uses once you dig into it.

    I hope people won't have problems with it.

  13. This month's word is: Green

    The rules.

    1. One thousand words or less. More barely any.

    2. The deadline for posting your stories and poems is the end of June, on the dot.

    3. The deadline for your votes is 9am on the 5th of July.

    4. Criticisms are welcome, but please keep it in the nature of the corner.

    5. Have a go - you don't have to use the word, it's just a guideline.

  14. After a slow start some great entries. Bit more time this month so some feedback. Not sure how good I am at this, so don't take it too seriously.

    Danster - Great dialog as always, a brave style that paid off. Good control over how the details of the story slowly emerged.

    Mercanari - I found it started a little awkardly, but it turned out to be strangely satisfying.

    Vic Viper - Also got a Banks Sci-fi vibe from this. Brilliant stuff. Loved how contrasting the snippets of text were.

    Jolly - Great idea as always, and extremely well written. Emotional ending, partly because it's such an emotional subject matter. Nearly my vote winner.

    Emir - I've struggled with this a bit. Read it a couple of times and am thinking it might be brilliance. Can't really describe my thoughts.

    MankeyMan - Good story. I wasn't sure about the motives of the character, but maybe that made it all the better.

    Broken Thumbs - Loved it. Tight style of writing and real tension.

    Concrete Donkey - Great idea. Maybe not as well written as some of your other stuff, makes me wonder if it was a bit rushed?

    Campfire Burning - Horribly haunting. Laughed at chicken-fried-chicken. Descriptions are brilliant as always.

    Lofarius - A nice snapshot from something bigger. A bit clumsy in places, but as a first attempt it's a great start.

    Johnj - Great example of how freedom can be found in the smallest of things and in the most mundane of places. Glad you decided to post it.

    So my vote? Special mentions to Jolly, Vic Viper, Campfire, Danster and Johnj, but despite potentially scuppering my chances of winning, it has to go to Broken Thumbs. Simply the best entry in a very strong month.

  15. With the exception of the real birds, it’s as silent as he remembers. It’s made the early start and three hour drive all the more worthwhile.

    This journey really began two months ago, hearing the birdsong radio station for the first time. Instead of the calming effect he’d expected, it only emphasised how much he missed the quiet, and the frustration this realisation subsequently brought. The more he listened to the digital birds, the more it highlighted how noisy his life had become - the perpetual drone of his urban surroundings. He felt trapped, crushed by a noise he had learnt to barely notice.

    Specifically, he began to think about his old newspaper round, and the silent countryside mornings it frequented. He used to walk the forty five minute route without encountering another single car or person. Such isolation felt like another world, a past that never really existed. A dream within a dream, a silent, still utopia that he assumed no longer existed.

    Until one evening, and birdsong.

    Alone on his wife’s side of the bed, the recordings finally triggered some form of release. Whether a simple mid-life distraction, a harmless reminisce, or a reluctance to shake off the past - it didn’t matter. It stirred him into action for the first time in months, bringing him here – stood outside the village newsagents at five in the morning, savouring the silence.

    He is going to walk his old paper round. His life coach whole heartedly recommends against it.

    He sets off briskly, hoping to remember the route as he goes. The main lane through the village has barely changed, and it’s the smallest details he recognises first – bronzed house numbers, latches on gates, wall mounted letter boxes. It could be twenty years ago. He can almost feel the weight of his old walkman, almost hear his first album.

    Outside of his memories, he actually hears nothing. At this early hour nothing stirs, the air carbon neutral. This is the land of Post Office closures, of back in 5 mins, of perpetual Christmas morning. The first commuter won’t rise for another hour or so. It may be years before this lane hears the noise of a siren.

    Silence. It’s just what he came for.

    As he reaches the church corner he catches his breath, before turning onto the main riverbank, grand houses facing the valley below. It’s breathtaking, the view and the scent of morning bringing him to a halt. For a split second he is cars covered in blossom, distant farm vehicles rumbling, double history followed by double maths. A split second in which he considers moving back, packing it all in and buying one of the houses he adored so much as a child. Maybe taking on this paper round, continuing it until his finances or dignity demanded otherwise.

    Every front door has a new memory to savour. He passes a house where he received hand knitted gloves from a plain-haired lady wearing only her dressing gown, a scenario that over the following weeks grew into his first sexual fantasy. By the time he reaches the Dalkeith house he still hasn't seen any sign of life – no front room light or early morning dog walk. He stops once more, slightly short of breath, the walk as physically tiring as it is emotional. He’s perspiring now, and could do with a drink before the next uphill segment. He briefly considers knocking on the door of the dressing gown lady, wondering if she’d recognise him after all this time, if the lines on his face really did suggest a bad paper round.

    The hill feels tougher than ever, but he makes it to the top, sweating heavily. Nerves are starting to contribute, especially with the White House farm below. It’s the furthest point of the round – a small farmhouse at the end of a lane flanked by fields of rapeseed yellow. Away from the street lighting of the village, winter mornings would imagine every sort of horror waiting in these dark fields. Sometimes he would run all the way back up the lane, terrified by his own imagination.

    No chance of that now he thinks, his imagination and stamina lost with maturity. The fields rustle in the morning air, like something’s been awakened, something that’s been waiting for him all these years. Despite convincing himself that he’s convinced himself otherwise, he quickens his pace, reaching the farm with a racing pulse. With no delivery to make, he turns and heads straight back.

    A third of the way up, he struggles for breath.

    Two thirds of the way up, his heart is back in the first third.

    He stops to bend over, his rasping breaths punctuating the silence. Even though it’s daylight he’s scared. This is now a real, adult fear, but that still doesn’t stop his imagination now realising the horrors of the field, his childhood demons pouring out onto the deserted country lane whilst his adult health roots him to the spot. He wants to hurry even more, even though he knows it’s precisely the opposite of what he should be doing.

    Breathing becomes difficult, then impossible, and he falls to his knees, a third of the way from safety. All his hopes for this journey are now condensed into one simple goal - to make it to the top, even though it now feels like a goal too far.

    The top of the hill has become that impossible utopia.

    He slumps onto the tarmac. His hands go cold, and he regrets not bringing those gloves with him. All his wishes seemingly reverse – he is now desperate to see another person, another car, another anything. The real paper round will start in another hour. Maybe if he can hold out until then, maybe he won’t end up being tomorrow’s news.

    The noise he hears is deafening, his heart twittering a violent birdsong of its own making. The morning, with the exception of the real birds, is as silent as he remembers.

  16. Saw this tonight. Some minor spoilers below but it's all stuff thats already been mentioned.

    I thought the first half was quite strong. A nice sense of history and time having moved on, whole thing screamed 'new era' at you. It didn't feel like classic Indy as such, but it felt right for a modern day IJ film. And as many have said, the dust cloud shot was amazing.

    Unfortunately the second half was nowhere near as strong. Too many silly bits start start creeping in, the CGI gets dodgy, the plot virtually vanishes. The imagery also shows a complete lack of imagination - the ending was about as cliched as it could get.

    So good and bad. Enjoyed the experience, but suspect repeat viewings might only reinforce the bad.

  17. I think Stone in Focus appeared on a mutli-artist CD compilation at some point, too, I'm sure that's where my MP3 copy was sourced.

    Was hunting through my old CD collection the other day and stumbled across this.

    It's "Excursions in Ambience 3:The third dimension" on the Astralwerks label. Appears as "Track 19" by Aphex Twin, but I'm fairly sure at the time it was the only place Stone in Focus existed on CD.

  18. Couldn't get into it this month. Knowing how little time I'd have, I wrote and posted the first thing that came to mind, without it going through the usual protracted editing and re-write process. Subsequently I hated it, and only the fact that people might have already taken the time to read it stopped me from withdrawing it.

    My vote - Narcissus

  19. And why doesn't it have a nice mix of exercise routines? I was hoping you could, say, tell it you wanted a quick 20 minute varied workout and it would give you a routine to follow without you needing to keep quitting each exercise and going through the menu choices again. It's great fun but it could have been even better with a few tweaks here and there.

    This is the only problem I have with it so far. It knows my target, so why can't it recommend me a program to reach it? At the moment it feels like I'm randomly selecting things to do every day, and inevitably I end up picking favourites as opposed to the ones I might really need.

    Otherwise it's a great package, does exactly what you'd expect. I can see it being a short lived novelty for some people, but hopefully the cost will encourage people to stick with it

  20. Weight was ok but my age came out at +10, mainly due to me not quite being ready for the first fitness test. Hope to do better today.

    Really enjoying it. It has that something new feeling that Wii Sports had. Presentation is lovely. Had a quick go before my wife spent most of the night on the skiing - real potential for a full blown game there.

    Anecdotal sales evidence - Meadowhall in Sheffield was full of people struggling with heavy carrier bags.

  21. More zombie.

    So here it is. The last stand over a full English breakfast.

    This zombie is uncomfortable with labelling himself as such. He doesn’t remember his own name, and so for now he assumes it to be Brian, choosing deliberately against type. He pokes his fried egg with suspicion, not entirely comfortable with the meat on his plate, especially under the stare of the exposed flesh that sits opposite.

    As the windows begin to thud once more he jumps as much as he is able to. The mob outside has taken to using chairs, bats, and all manner of farming hardware to test the reinforced glass to its limit. Only Brian has noticed, the other two zombies currently pre-occupied, tugging at a piece of flesh. He thinks that it’s bacon, yet despite everything else he’s seen today, the fact that it might not be still fills him with disgust.

    That’s the problem, that he still feels anything.

    His two colleges flipped over sometime back, which makes him the last – still capable of rational thought, still susceptible to loneliness, still able to use a breakfast hotplate with his rotting arms. His self-awareness still clings on, enough for him to wish that it would topple over into the dry-rot that waits. The crude portrayal of human kind outside, with its recognisable strokes of anger and violence, still feels like his race, his fellow man. He can still make the obvious comparison between the decorum of breakfast, and the zombie-esque mob outside – slavering faces pushed against glass, screaming obscenities masked by guttural growls.

    Brian shakes his head. His gammon steak could do with some more pepper.

    Soon there will be nowhere to hide in this crowd of three. The safety of numbers has long since gone, swept aside by an ever decreasing population. In many ways he wishes the process would accelerate, the sweetness of feeling nothing when inevitably crushed underfoot and turned inside out, feeling no pain or indignity, no shame that his fellow kind should derive such pleasure from such desperate times. He wants to tell them these thoughts, but speech from his rotten mouth only produces a growl like the others, typecasting him forever, the last of his temporary race. By his reckoning, he should be celebrity.

    The window finally shatters and they pour in, hundreds of them. Hundreds. It’s a girl first, her denim hot pants clearly considered the most suitable attire for such an occasion. Others follow, moving with the speed and frenzy that a potential kill offers. A small part of Brian is still with them, still envious of why probability has chosen them over everyone else. He scratches his elbows, a comfort from his childhood, and sits up straight. These last moments haven’t all been blood and brains and splatter, more milk and two sugars, just how he’d wanted it. If a band were here now, he’s sure they’d still be playing.

    He carefully folds his knife and fork onto his plate, not finding extinction an excuse for bad manners.

    Fuck me he thinks, I thought we were supposed to be contagious.

    He stands, scanning the diner for an exit, hoping such a futile act finally gives him the time to degenerate beyond compassion. In the second it takes, he forgets his assumed name.

    Brian he thinks, choosing deliberately against type before the last stand finally begins, outsider verses outsiders. The nameless zombie moves across the diner, still fully aware it will do him no good.

    Shuffling will only get you so far.

  22. I have never in all my life seen so many people, i.e. two, complain about zombies. Look, just write what you like and call it Zombie and I'll be happy to write a post afterwards explaining why it's called Zombie and what you were trying to say with that title.

    Nah, I'm sure I'll think of something. Will do me some good to write outside of my usual comfort non-zombie zone.

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