Read them and weep, people. I’m so winning that Kindle…
Entry one:
Zombie Porter Rockwell sniffed the air. The smell of singed hair slowly triggered the synapses in his decaying brain. He needed brains soon. But he had business to take care of first. He was on the trail of Cain, and this time, he was going to take the hairy wanderer out.
He jiggled the tank strapped to his chest. It sloshed reassuringly — still at least half full. His bulbous, unblinking eyes scanned the dessert. Cain had managed to survive P-Rock’s trap, but little did the large-footed fellow know that fire, which was his only weakness, was now portable. Zombie Porter sniffed the air again and fell into a jerky, but surprisingly fast lope. It was bbq time and [MORE]
Entry two:
The rain always made her sad. It reminded her of her grandmother. It also reminded her of her dead husband. And that cat she had had for two weeks in seventh grade. The rain was coming down in sheets now. It made her feel like the world was crying. She was crying too. But even though she was crying, she knew that she was not alone. The footprints in the sand were not hers. The battered violin that was her soul could still produce a beautiful tune in the master’s hands. So she decided to cheer herself up by firing up her Provo Craft cricut and breaking out her brand new six-inch by 13-inch Cuttlebug Cutting Mats. [MORE]
Entry three:
Truth was a complex, ever-evolving thing for an educated man like Walter C. Habermavinaseiggeridastraullard. Nuance was his watchword. Context his Title of Liberty. Which was why he spent so much time commenting on blogs.
Walter loved his fellow Saints with a pure love, but he also knew that too many of them were in danger of having their simplistic testimonies fall to pieces at the slightest breeze of opposition, the tiniest crack in the correlated shell. In short, they were in need of maturation, and it was up to him to be the sunshine, the water and the soil — not to mention also taking the role of the fertilizer, the pruner and the grafter. [MORE]
(Obviously these aren’t really my entries. Revealing the real ones would be against the rules. Also: you have two weeks to polish up your entries and get them in.)
A Motley Vision 
P-Rock. Snicker. Actually, I snickered throughout. Well done.
And, of course, you’ve decided to not enter the contest because you have been cowed by my mightiness. Right? Right?
.
I want to read the rest of #3.
“Cain had managed to survive Prufrock’s trap…”
That’s how I/ve always viewed T.s. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred P-Rock,” too! A trap!
(My Modern English Lit instructor probably wonders to this day why I bolted from the classroom, screaming in terror!)
I still roll my trousers. But I don’t peg them.
Can you barbecue brains? Hmmm… not sure how well researched this is…
And also, I’m wondering if Zombie Porter Rockwell is stumbling over the wasatch mountains during the time of his historic lifespan or if we’re in the 20th century now (he, having been preserved by his undead status). Because I don’t think barbecuing (traditionally a black-southern cultural thing) likely hit the valley until the turn of the 20th century at the very least.
Zombie Porter Rockwell transcends your mortal notions of time and space (and then carves them up with a Bowie knife).
Just emailed my (real) submission. You cowed me into only writing one instead of three. 😉
Success!