Something I just wrote

So I play this game, called Urban Dead.  It's a fun little time waster, and I have a character in a group modeled after a police department.  The game is based in a city combating a zombie epidemic.  Survivors get killed, rise as zombies, and can be brought back to life as survivors again.  Meaning death has little meaning beyond some frustration at having to wait for somebody to revive you.

Anyway, the group I am in started a challenge.  A weekly 'drabble', or short work of 100 words or less, based on the game, and a single line, or statement.

This week's theme was "Death be not proud", a line from John Donne's poem of the same name.  Go read Donne, by the way, he's brilliant.

This was my entry:

Cold.

Cold and wet.

The sticky-sweet smell of candied apples gone rotten in the sun.

Hunger, like a lion in your belly, growling it’s discontent through your every nerve. It drives you forward, shambling steps and awkward momentum.

Searching, always searching. No grave, with the warm embrace of the earth around you. No weeping widows or frightened children. No friends to laugh and cry at tales of your acts, or silent mistresses hoping not to be noticed in the pew farthest back.

Only the gnawing, overpowering need to devour.

Death was a time for grief, once. Solemn.

No longer.