The book, Lucas, is done. The cover is done. All turned in and off to print. Very happy. A lot of work. Finally starting on a piece for Sideshow that's been on the back-burner for a while now. I'm firing up another book titled Jet-Boy Victory: Rocket Hero, for the second time. If the title doesn't make it obvious enough, it isn't a horror. I'm working with the extraordinarily talented Disa Wallander. Fleshing out some concepts for another book too. Damn. 
Grandma. The corpse. Maybe. Still meaty but not enough to keep her leathery skin from drooping all over her. Eye sockets sit sagging behind stained glasses secured by some other woman's string of pearls. They fell out, her eyes, or maybe removed. No telling. Neither would surprise. In the right proximity to Grandma you can actually smell them; her eye sockets. They have an odor like no other. Indescribable. Awkward and unpleasant. The grip it takes on the gag reflex doesn't choke because it's pungent but just because of knowing where it comes from.
She catches the silhouette of some behemoth to the side of her. Thick and strong, swollen, but somehow able to have gained on her. She steps into a cliché that snaps just above her ankle. She picks her face up out of the mud and forces a raspy scream, which in turn, is rudely interrupted by the end of a crutch knocking out three of her teeth.
