Letters from The Dead

A few days ago, I saw a call for submissions on one of the writer's message boards I frequent. It was for a new anthology that will be released by Library of The Living Dead Press (who, as regular readers of this blog will know, will also be featuring two of my stories in two editions of the upcoming Zombology series). I was very intrigued by the idea behind this book, as I thought it sounded like a pretty novel idea, and knew immediately that I wanted to be part of it.
The basic idea behind the book is this (taken from the publisher's website):

"You’re trapped and there’s no way out. There is a ravenous hoard of undead cannibals outside your door and their going to get in, sooner than later. You have to face the unavoidable truth that you’re not going to survive the zombie apocalypse, there is no escaping this time and no one is coming to rescue you. This is your last chance to tell your story, say your good byes, or confess your sins. Time is running out, so grab that pen and a piece of paper or scratch it into the wall with your useless car keys. How ever you’re going to do it, you need to do it fast. Start now before it’s to late, write your-- Letters From the Dead. "

How could I not want to be part of a collection like that??? So I sat down and pounded out a little 817 word flash entitled "Letter to My Unborn Daughter" and sent that puppy out. I really didn't do any editing or second drafts on this one. Quoting again from the publisher: "The true Letters From The Dead have more impact than a short story because they're written to simulate the real gut wrenching experience of the writer contemplating his or her own unavoidable death by being eaten alive." So I wanted my story to be as much stream-of-consciousness as possible.

I came home today to find an acceptance letter waiting in my inbox for me. Woohoo!!! I can't wait until I actually start receiving my contributor's copies of these books. There's something about holding an actual book in my hands that has my work in it that I can't explain . . . .