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Entry tags:
..I don't even know.
Child's essay for class for Thanksgiving.
...no, really. Just. Um. {} are my additions
What I Am Thankful For {by Child}
On thanksgiving I had said I was thankful for my loving mother. I was thankful for my three cousins {Niece, Niece Two, and Nephew}. But last I am thankful for my whole family and this glorious country of America.
free right
It was a cold Dec 7, 2012. In a post-apocalyptic world, dead bodies had lined the streets in black body bags. Cars were abandoned. I was in the middle of 100s of infected people with a bomb. But let me back up to when it all started. At midnight on January 1, 2012, a mass zombie outbreak had happened because a mutated meteor had hit the earth. The people in {unknown word} had died but kept walking to be {unknown word}
****
Child: What do you think?
Me: So it's genetic, huh?
Child: *bemused*
He's gone to type and finish it.
So. Apparently, destroying the world in fiction is like, a gene or something. Or maybe it was too much Torchwood?
*bewildered*
ETA: Second draft is lingering lovingly on the details of the rotting corpses. I may never sleep again.
ETA 2: Holy God, he thinks he's writing a children's book.
...no, really. Just. Um. {} are my additions
What I Am Thankful For {by Child}
On thanksgiving I had said I was thankful for my loving mother. I was thankful for my three cousins {Niece, Niece Two, and Nephew}. But last I am thankful for my whole family and this glorious country of America.
It was a cold Dec 7, 2012. In a post-apocalyptic world, dead bodies had lined the streets in black body bags. Cars were abandoned. I was in the middle of 100s of infected people with a bomb. But let me back up to when it all started. At midnight on January 1, 2012, a mass zombie outbreak had happened because a mutated meteor had hit the earth. The people in {unknown word} had died but kept walking to be {unknown word}
****
Child: What do you think?
Me: So it's genetic, huh?
Child: *bemused*
He's gone to type and finish it.
So. Apparently, destroying the world in fiction is like, a gene or something. Or maybe it was too much Torchwood?
*bewildered*
ETA: Second draft is lingering lovingly on the details of the rotting corpses. I may never sleep again.
ETA 2: Holy God, he thinks he's writing a children's book.
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