Zombie Romance

Over at Smart Bitches, Trashy Books, there is a little contest going on.

The rules are simple:

1. Use the random generator to create the title of your blockbuster screenplay.
2. In 25 words or less, pitch your screenplay.

Oh, you have 24 hours and it is really weird paranormal romance. I entered, yes I did. Here are the others I came up with that were too fun not to share.

Natural Born Charmer with Talking Cabbages

Samuel, the first male witch in millennia, can’t control his blooming powers. Can Andra save him from the talking cabbages he keeps zapping into existence?

Dreaming of you with Loquacious Sirens

Trey loves Lisa. The only problem - she never shuts up and lures unsuspecting sailors to their watery graves. Can he make it work?

Persuasion with Suspicious Carbuncles

Weird things happen when Sandra receives a mysterious ruby. Will Milo steal her heart or the gemstone before midnight strikes and its powers are unlocked?

Dream Man with Hormonal Pixies

Marcus is Lila’s fantasy man – but her fantasy never included cranky pixies or cantankerous elves. Can their love overcome the mythical madness and mayhem?

Here is the one I entered:

Something Wonderful with Massage Therapist Poltergeists

Willow, a werewolf, never gave love a thought until she sprained her back. Can she trust her heart and pained muscles to a dead man?


So, if you think you can do it head on over to Smart Bitches, Trashy Books and give it a shot. 25 words or less is harder than it sounds!!!

Polished shoes

I meet many people in my line of work, and yesterday I met a man that inspired me. His appearance struck me so much that I couldn’t stop making up stories about him in my head.

The man, I didn’t ask his name, was in his mid-50’s I would guess. Balding on top, his curly black hair reached his shoulders in the back. He wore a nice suit, but it was tailored to a man smaller than him. The front gaped between the buttons, and the pants were a full three inches too short. His shirt collar was ragged from being pressed too many times, and the shirt itself was a shade somewhere between pink and tan.

Socks showed plainly under the hem of his trousers, and they were mismatched. One was a navy blue, the other a pale gray.

His shoes caught my attention. The black loafers he wore were polished to a mirror shine. The soles were dark black, and not one scuff mark could be found on them.

I wondered where this man called home, if he had a home. I imagined him sitting in a smoke filled bar, because the scent of whiskey laced his breath. I speculated on a family long gone and a loneliness that haunted his soul.

When I got in bed last night, his image troubled me and I began to describe him to my drowsy husband. When I told him about the man’s shoes, he stopped me.

“He must have been military.” The words rumbled out in rough sleepiness.

Then, in my mind, I saw him. Polishing his boots, putting on a uniform and fighting for what he believed in. Seconds later, I saw him coming home to a wife and small children who couldn’t understand why daddy had nightmares. The wife couldn’t comprehend the horrors he refused to share with her. Then I saw her pack the kids in the car, look at him one last time and drive away to her mother’s.

The last image that raced through my mind was of his tears, his endless shoe polishing, and his retreat into a bottle.

All this from his shoes.