From the Zombie Roleplay a while back.

Kim sighed. There wasn't any time for these petty needs. She nodded and followed the girl eagerly, ready to blow this Popsicle stand.

"You said that this happened in Japan? How long ago did it start?" The more she could learn about this...situation, the better. If that's what you could call it...

At the next level of the apartment complex, the song "Mary Jane" by Tom Petty was blaring through the open door of an apartment. A girl screamed and stumbled out of the place, very disheveled and fearful. Her eyes were stricken with horror at the sight of whatever was out of view of Kim and her newfound comrade. Kim stepped forward, gripping the rod. A zombie stumbled out and lurched for the girl. In a strong swoop, Kim's curtain rod collided with the zombie's skull, making an awful cracking sound. The zombie seemed to move, so she slammed him one more time, this time crushing it's skull between the rod and the brick wall of the apartments. He drooped down to the floor, lifeless. She was breathing hard, disbelief of her actions coursing though her mind. She shook her head, pushing the thoughts away and forced her eyes onto the terrified girl who still stared straight ahead.

"He...he attacked me as soon as I came home...we were in a fight this morning but..I-I don't..." The girl managed through short, terrified breaths. She began to tremble heavily and Kim turned to Mura.

"Here, watch for other zombies while I check her." Kim knelt down and grabbed the girl's arms. She pulled them where she could see them, seeing a bit of blood but no marks or signs of being bitten. "Listen to me," she said, shaking the girl a bit. "Look at me now or you'll end up like him." The girl tore her eyes away from the dead body and turned them to Kim. "What this is...it's a war. We're still living and it's our job to keep going forth. If not, we'll end up dead, kill off our families and friends. Do you want that?! Answer me!" Kim slapped the girl to bring her attention.

"No..what can I do?" The girl said, wiping her tears away.

"You're going to go into that apartment and grab a weapon. Anything, I don't care. Kill Bill here has a sword, I've got one gun and a curtain rod."

"That's a nice curtain rod..." The girl stated. Fear still haunted her eyes, but she nodded. "Okay, I can do that..." Her voice was soft.

"Mura, where's your apartment? I'm going to keep with this girl while she gets something if you want to go ahead. If not, wait with us, alright?" Kim turned her attention to the girl. "What's your name, anyways?"

"Lily," she said as she rose to her feet.

"Alright, Lily, you're good. We can do this."

Chapters one and two of my story idea.

Bear with me, dearies, this is a bit long. This is always possible to change, but this was what I originally wrote quite some time ago.

Chapter One

When my mother married the very handsome, well known and rich proprietor, Clemént, the kingdom's citizens were flabbergasted. While my mother, a pretty jewel born amongst an undesirable pound of coal, was loved and befriended by every person she knew, she was plagued by her past "sins". Also known as I, Constantine Desiree Estelle.

When my mother was fourteen, she met her betrothed, a gorgeous man who was heir to a prestigious man that tailored the royal. He was kind and loving, something unusual for arranged marriages. Alas, my mother was not content. Her dark blue eyes longed for a spark and she was determined to unearth it.

She escaped a night on the town with the poor boy, using the large festival to separate herself from him and fled to the docks where the cutlass men and erotic dancers played. She stood confidently amongst the older women that drank a sweet spirit, talked of erotic scenes, and flashed their legs and chests to the hardened men whom gathered a few yards away. It was here she met the foreign, stunning and mysterious Vincent Wycleff. His eye lingered upon her body, her beauty, her youthfulness. He asked her hand in a dance and she complied, following her to the festival dance. He held her close and let his hand slide lower than her mid back, sending tingles up her spine. She paid no mind to the few people  that recognized her and cast dark looks, no, for her complete mind was on this stranger, this man whose hands didn't shake when he pulled her close or brushed a chocolate curl out of her face. This man who leaned down, who made her dizzy with pleasure, this man who's lips feverishly moved over hers, who caused gasps and shock, this man who's lips moved down her neck with grace, who captured her heart, this man who made love like no other, who angered a soon-to-be husband who demanded another betrothed who wasn't "damaged goods."

This man who would love her until his ship undocked and he climbed aboard, leaving behind a broken heart and an unborn child.

My mother remained poor, heartbroken, and shunned until I was about seven. By then, I’d grown old enough to watch myself at home, so she took up an occupation as a midwife. She helped people every now and then, receiving money if she did an acceptable or outstanding job, remaining pretty unknown. That is, until she saved a life of a very young girl. The girl had grown sick and was plagued with fever following the birth of her child, but my mother nursed her back to health. No one thought it possible, so it wasn’t surprising that she became a rejoiced household name. Because of this, my mother got a better paying midwife job for the upper-class and we moved into a small home with a solid roof and a fireplace for the freezing winters. One of her clients even paid for her to be schooled in some of the newer medicinal practices. She regained her modesty, atoned for her sins.

But scars don't go away so simply, and people could still see it. Especially when the scar is in flesh and blood; when the scar is me.

Chapter Two

I spent the rainy day indoors, a lady taking my measurements and scribbling them down into her book, rattling off about how she could make my chest less revealing in the style of dress my mother wanted me to wear at the handfasting ceremony. She cursed about how my hips were already shaping even though I was only fifteen and whined about how nothing would match my fiery red hair. I cursed back, in my mind, trying to keep my promise to mother which indicated that I do not go off at the dresser people. Just as the lady tailor was about to get a small dagger to the throat, Eric, my mother's closest friend, sauntered in to whisk me off to hair styling. The lady tailor wrote me off and I followed behind Eric upstairs.

"Thank you for saving that poor woman."

"My dear Constantine, I wouldn't have minded her death but your mother would be crushed to see you hanged on her wedding day," he spoke, his voice smooth and cool like ice. Eric was the only person, besides my mother, that I allowed to call me by my first name. Otherwise, I went by Desireé, which my mother's stupid betrothed couldn't seem to understand.

"Oh, I would have died happy. Happy that I didn't have to see his pompous highness again." I really disliked Clemént. He was very superficial and obnoxious. I don't know what my mother saw in this preposterous excuse for a man. I glanced up at Eric, who's face had become stone. I knew he loved my mother dearly and probably always would. But, he was married, in debt, and no competition (inheritance, anyways) for Clemént. His debt, though, wasn't his, no, it was his gambling-obsessed father who gambled away his and Eric's life to the Simone family. Eric's wife was heir to such a debt repayment, forcing the two together, an unfortunate event for Eric. Eric is handsome--black hair that feathers out over his ears and neck, dark brown eyes, and a strong build--but his wife is plain ugly. She is as thin as a board with flat, lifeless brown hair, a painfully uneven skin tone, high cheekbones with a small mouth that has permanently curled down into a frown, unenthusiastic brown eyes, and absolutely no definition to her body. A waste of Eric's beauty, I think.

"You shouldn't say such things, Constantine." His stone face melted and he smiled at me. "You do know we have to fix up your hair today for tomorrow." My eyes narrowed into a harsh glare, causing him to laugh.

"You can't do that to me!" There's nothing in Europe I detested more than having to be still all night long. I couldn't sleep still, not with my head on the "perfection" pillow which was ultimately a raised podium with a soft cover over it that helped in preventing movement. I basically would be up all night.

"I'm sorry, but your hair doesn't work very well with the style Clemént chose." He paused, looking away from me.

"Eric?"

He glanced my direction.

"Can I ask you something?"

He looked at me for a moment, a quizzical look about his brow, before nodding.

"Does it hurt you? Seeing my mother getting ready to marry someone else?"
He stopped short. He turned away from me, his eyes finding some great interest in the rainy, empty street through the window. He said nothing, and for a few minutes all I could do was watch him. When my hand finally found its way to his arm, he turned back.

"We are going to be late for your appointment! Come now, let's put on your coat and head next door." And, with that, he returned to normal Eric, laughing and poking fun at me as I got tangled up in the cloak he'd retrieved for me.

Alas, as we headed back out into the dark, rainy night, I found myself searching for the Eric my mother fell in love with on the street so long ago.

Chapter Three

          I winced and groaned as the women held me back against the chair while the town’s greatest hairdresser pulled spokes through my thick and tangled hair. Erick knelt at my feet, saying comforting things as I crushed his hands in mine. He didn’t grimace or say anything about it if I was hurting him, which is another reason I love him. I wouldn’t be able to do that to my mother, for fear of hurting her.

            “No no no no no!! My stars, this one is quite the troublemaker!” She yanked out a tangle, making me bite my tongue. “I am pretty sure that this is a twig! My, do you still roll around in the dirt? You are a pig-girl?” She laughed, drawing a chuckle from the rest of the ladies. I gagged at the copper taste in my mouth, the bite drawing blood. I remained silent though, just sucking it up. My temper was rising.

            “No, pigs roll around in the mud, Annabelle! She must be a hog! Those live in the forests!” A woman to my left, pushing my shoulder back, snorted. That was it, I was going to—

            “Well, I must say, Annabelle, you’ve definitely put on some weight since I’ve seen you. Oh, my apologizes, that’s a bit of an understatement,” Eric said, face as serious as the Guillotine. The spokes stopped pulling through my hair, so I looked back to see her face as red as a tomato, clearly embarrassed. I turned back to Eric and smiled, to which he returned with a quick squeeze of my hand.

            The rest of the hair appointment was just Annabelle and me, Eric’s words giving me strength, I suppose, from the evil spoke stick. The other women had gone off to other appointments, not having to hold me down anymore. She hummed away, snipping and trimming the ends of my long hair, being much gentler than before.

            “I must say, I really am jealous of your mane.”

            “My hog’s mane?” I returned. She said nothing for a minute, just rubbed a scented soap into my hair.

            “No. I apologize. But, I really do like your hair. You should just care for it a little more. Before I put the ornaments into your hair, I’ll let you see how shiny it has become,” she promised. The strange scent made my nose itch continuously.

            “What is this retched smell you’ve thrust upon me?” I demanded.

            “It’s the scent of lilacs, dear. This shampoo will kill the lice in your hair.”

            “I don’t have lice!”

            “Well, if you did, it would. It can kill any lice eggs that are festering in this. Most people like the smell though, but it’s probably just you.” I could tell she was smiling by her voice, but I didn’t take it the wrong way. Annabelle is known for being very harsh, but not really meaning to be flat out rude. Half the time she doesn’t even realize it. “Here you are.”

            I took the little piece of polished glass and looked at myself. She was right; my hair settled up around my face and down against my shoulders and torso, very shiny and wavy. She’d made it part from the left side and styled it to swoop down over my brow.

            “What do you think, could I style Queen Elizabeth’s hair?” She asked. I smiled at my reflection, and at her heavy French accent. It made her sound so elegant, but I didn’t know if that was enough to get her into the Queen’s large castle. But, what did I know?

            “Next time I’m riding with her coach to The Globe Theatre, I’d be happy to refer you.” She snorted at this and took the mirror.

            “If you are going to mock me, I’ll just move along on your hair.” She was still smiling, so I knew she’d go easy on making this work.

Pirates!

Ah, well, good day to my followers, though I have so few :(
I'm beginning to work on an idea I'd come up with in my junior year of high school that I've finally decided to work on once more. I'll post the first two chapters in the next post. But, do you know how much research I must do?! Oh, so, so much but it's absolutely necessary, lest I sound very ignorant (though I am to the subject..) when describing my ships. Alas, I must continue the research..