Zombie Puss Green

Dear Agents, Editors, Media Contacts, and other employment offering individuals,

Please, don’t call me this week.

It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you, because really I do. I desperately want to tell you about my writing projects. I want to sell you on my engaging wit and my clever turn of a phrase and my unique voice – but therein lies the problem. As of approximately 6:00 last evening I am without voice. Avox. I am the Silent One.

Due to a rampant sinus infection, the best I can do is a sad little wheeze. If I want to get the attention of my boys I have to snap my fingers or clap my hands to first get them to look at me, whisper and pantomime my command (because we don’t “converse” when one of us can’t speak), then afix them with the Glare of Doom until they stop whining and go do what they’ve been told. It’s surprisingly effective. (Of course the Glare of Doom is a patented product only available to mothers and mean teachers, so you may be out of luck there.)

The worst part is not the inability to speak, though. It is the other sinus infection product, the stuff that has coated my throat and caused my vocal chords to seize up. Big, lovely, juicy chunks and blobs of zombie puss green mucus that I’ve been coughing up and blowing out of my nose. Blech! How do I know it’s zombie puss green? Because Cherie Priest explained zombie puss in great detail in Dreadnought, which I finished reading last night. It’s green, it gets crusty when it oozes to the surface and it stinks.

So this is fair warning to you all: keep your fingers away from my mouth.

And call me next week. I’m writing a biography on my life as a zombie and I think it’s going to be a best seller.

Sincerely Yours,

Jane Wells