I had an idea for an original story. I had been going to write a zombie apocalypse story, but frankly, I realized that has been done, and, more importantly, done BETTER than I can do it. I still want to write it, but it would probably be for my family, not for publication. Then, while hiding in the bathroom doing nothing recently, I had an idea.
I could not tell you how I arrived at this idea if you paid me, but apparently I was thinking about something that started bothering me just this year at Easter. When Jesus rises from the dead, he still has his wounds - the holes in his hand, we know about from poor, maligned Doubting Thomas, but presumably also the hole in his side. You know, the one that PIERCED HIS HEART? The FATAL wound?
How the heck is Jesus alive if he still bears a mortal wound?!
The answer is simple: He isn't. He's a zombie.
I used to get kind of mad at people who made jokes about Zombie Jesus Day, thinking "No! He's not a zombie, he's resurrected! He's alive!" But he won't be for long, if he's still got a hole in his heart. Explain THAT, New Testament!
Thence arose the idea that Jesus was raised from the dead not by God, who despises the undead, but by an evil necromancer interfering in God's New Testament. That's our central conflict, and our hero has to solve it by going back in time to battle the necromancer and free Jesus in order to save the souls of all humanity. Ta-da!
There's more to it than that, but I'm not sure it's a good idea to blog the entire plot of a story I want to sell for actual money. It might not have been the best idea to go for something so controversial as Zombie Jesus for my first story, but I'll tell you one thing, it's never been done. It's an original idea and it will definitely stand out and stick in editors' memories.
As long as I can get someone interested enough to be willing to help me edit it to the point that they are comfortable publishing it, I'm golden - and I don't mind editing it until it's pablum. I still have my original version and I can self-publish that if I want to, or just share it with my friends and family. I trust the editors to tell me what the general readership wants. I also don't want fundies showing up on my doorstep and shooting me dead.
I wrote the first draft of the first chapter, and my plan is to release it for free to everyone in order to help gather interest (lots of authors do that so I think it's an accepted procedure). Here it is, since I think later on someone (me) might be amused by reading it:
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Lazarus (working title), Chapter 1, Draft 1
"Lazarus, we've been over this," Rob, the court-appointed psychiatrist, was beginning to lose his veneer of patience. "If you don't take your Clozapine, you won't get better."
"I do take my Clozapine." Laz shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair, the chains of his handcuffs clinking over its plastic armrests. The chair was too small for his massive fame, and his left buttcheek was falling asleep. Would it kill them to put a cushion on these things? Just a folded-up towel would be an improvement.
"Lazarus, I'm hurt," the psychiatrist said with a reproving look. "I thought we were past this. I know you're not telling me the truth."
"I am. I do take my pills. I take them, and throw them in the toilet." Laz grinned, and the greenish flourescent lights of the prison's therapy room glinted off his broken front teeth.
Rob leaned forward, his brow creasing with fatherly concern. "Lazarus. Laz. Please, work with me here. If I can't tell the wardens you're taking your medication, they'll start administering it via syringe."
Laz's normally ruddy skin paled visibly, but his voice was steady, his tone light. "Oh, I don't know. It might be a fun blast from the past. Getting shot up with shit that scrambles my brain." He tugged at his handcuffs again, unconsciously trying to hide the wealth of track marks on his meaty arms.
"It won't scramble your brain, Laz. It'll help you straighten it out again." Rob leaned back in his chair and smiled encouragingly at him. "I can see this topic is distressing you. Let's take a deep breath. In... Out... There you go. Let's talk about something else before our time is up. Have you had any episodes since last week?"
Laz grinned again. "Met any new demons, you mean? Nah. Not since week before last. The red Choronzonite down the hall is still there, though."
Rob winced. "Lazarus. Manuela is just a disturbed man. Please don't tell the other inmates he is a demon. We don't need any of them getting excited and trying to kill the poor man. Remember what we talked about?"
Laz sighed and recited in monotone, "Demons are a metaphorical representation of the baser sides of human nature. They are not real. They are a myth. When I see a demon, I am to tell my wardens immediately and I am to drink my special calming tea."
"Well done. You have an excellent memory. How about-" Rob broke off with a hiss of pain as the therapy room's door swung open and pinched the end of his barbed tail.
"Oh, sorry, Mr. Wallace, didn't mean to catch your coat in the door," apologized the warden standing in the door.
"Is that what it looks like to you?" Laz laughed. "The end of his coat? Ha! Good, one, Rob."
"Laz, please." Rob curled the tail into his lap and checked it for damage, its small scales rasping against the thicker ones that coated his thighs. He flicked out the end of his long, forked tongue a few times, nervously tasting the air. The door must have pinched him pretty hard, Laz thought. Good. Smarmy bastard.
"Sorry, Rob," he said out loud. "I'm just kidding with you. I know you're not a demon."
"I'm so glad," Rob said dryly and let his tail fall back to the scuffed tile floor, turning to the warden. "Now, what was so important that you had to interrupt our session, sir?"
"Time's up, Mr. Wallace. They shortened the sessions to half an hour. Budget cuts." The warden moved towards Laz, taking out a thick ring of keys. "I need you to leave, sir, before I unlock the cuffs. This is a very dangerous man."
"Half an hour? I'm a doctor! I need time to work! How am I supposed to do any good with only half an hour," Rob snarled, lips curling to display the points of hollow fangs as he stalked out. Laz felt his eyebrows rise. Apparently Rob was venomous. He should keep that in mind, when it was time to kill him.
"You don't really think I'm dangerous, do you, Allen?" Laz gave the warden his most charming smile, which really wasn't saying much, since smiling just made the scars, broken teeth, and crooked nose all the more visible.
Allen glared at him. "You're a goddamned mass murderer, Lazarus. If I were a judge, I'd give you the chair, and it'd be too good for you."
Allen pulled Laz's hands behind his back and slapped another pair of handcuffs onto his thick wrists before unlocking the ones that chained him to the chair. Then he pulled Laz to his feet by his collar and prodded him hard between the shoulder blades with the end of his nightstick, shoving him towards the door.
"Ow, Allen," Laz complained. "Use your words. Language seperates us from the animals, you know."
Allen grabbed the chain of his handcuffs and jerked it down and back, twisting Laz's shoulders painfully and pulling his head down to Allen's level. "Get. In. Your. Fucking. Cell," he growled into Laz's ear.
"See, that wasn't so hard," Laz said, and smiled at him again because it seemed to annoy him. "Even for you."
"Fuck you."
"You're not my type, Allen, but if your mother is available-"
"You shut your goddamned mouth!" Allen gave another hard jerk on the handcuffs, the steel cutting into the skin of Laz's wrists and drawing blood.
Well, that was probably enough for now, Laz decided. If he bruised up his wrists too badly, the cuffs wouldn't fit at all anymore, and they would just leave him confined to the cell until the swelling went down. 'One Size Fits All' generally meant 'This Will Be Too Small For You, Lazarus,' and handcuffs were no exceptions. He twisted his wrist, managed to wrap two fingers around the handcuff chain, and pulled it out of Allen's grip without apparent effort before sauntering briskly down the hall, up two flights of stairs and along a windowless corridor. He stopped at the door to his cell and waited patiently for Allen to catch up and unlock it.
The unlovely cell was as it had been a half hour ago: green walls, whitish floor, two narrow bunks, steel sink and toilet, single broken chair. His roommate was stretched out on his bunk, reading a naughty paperback for the umpteenth time. As the door clanged shut behind Laz, he looked up and grinned. "Hey, Laz. You kill Rob today?"
"Nah," Laz said. He backed up to the door and stuck his hands through the slot for Allen to unlock the cuffs. "Not today."
"Next time, then."
"Yeah."
"When you break out, you gonna take me with you, right?"
"Sure thing, Paulo."
"No talking about escapes," came Allen's voice through the heavy door.
"Sorry, Allen," Laz called back. "We'll talk about your mom instead."
"Fuck you." They could hear the jingling of his keys as he stomped away.
"He keeps saying that," Laz said to Paulo, "but I don't think he really means it."
"Tease." Paulo went back to his book while Laz went to the sink and ran cold water over his wrists. He dried them off and threw himself down on his bunk, which creaked dangerously under his weight. Paulo looked up again, his swarthy face vaguely curious. "Lazy?"
"That's a misnomer. What?"
"Is Rob really a demon?"
"Oh yes. Most definitely."
Long pause. "You sure you ain't crazy?"
Laz chuckled and started to sing. "Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe you're crazy. Maybe we're crazyyyyy..."
"Aw, Lazy, I hate Gnarls Barkley, and you sing like a damned crow."
"True." Laz settled a little lower into his bunk. "Seriously, though. I'm probably at least a little bit crazy, but not about this. Not about demons."
"Because this is the psych ward, I mean, they put us here because we crazy."
"Yeah, they think I'm a paranoid schitzophrenic. I'm not, though. I'm just surrounded by demons who want to kill me."
Paulo turned a page in his book before he spoke again. "You really murder all those people?"
"No."
Paulo looked up again. "Really? You framed?"
"No, I killed them. They just weren't people."
"Oh, right. They demons."
"Right."
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