This is just a Demo. I want to give you all a short excerpt from my entry to hear your opinions, and gather some favorite topics, learn some suggestions and allowing me to check the waters per say. If this is illegal then I will understand locking this thread and using me as an example. If this flies through then I ask that you scrutinize and criticize with all due intentions of prejudice. Please do not disqualify me for doing this and instead completely obliterated this thread at the Moderator's discretion.

Mind you this is still what writers call, the Shitty First Draft.
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[Title]
Starring: Bill and his Fictional Wife, Zombie 1, Future Indian Taxi Driver Zombie 1, Some fodder, Jack "I want his last name to be Bauer, but can't because of Licenses" Leer
Morning
Again, for the eighth time this week, the broadcast is interrupted. Another person has disappeared or was kidnapped. Bill and Christine Finn are eating a breakfast of eggs and toast, the eggs laden with peppers and runny, toast with a dash of butter. Christine speaks first, “What do you think is going to happen once these kidnappings increase?” “I don’t know. Police will put all their effort into this and probably start a large scale investigation soon. Capital is having a fit.” Bill puts down his fork. “You know, yesterday, this new recruit to the mill, great kid and only been working for a month, didn’t show up yesterday. And he didn’t answer the phone when we called. Last night I saw his name on the list.” “Be careful, Bill.” “Don’t worry, Christine.” They kiss and Bill dons his old Marines jacket and pockets his keys, wallet and cellphone while Christine cleans up the plates. Before the TV is turned off, the Chief of Police is at a podium on stand making a formal declaration amidst a flurry of flash photography.
The shrill screech of the alarm causes ears to ring. The alarm was a message, as clear as crystal. Wake up. 6:00 AM. Jack Leer sluggishly pulls himself up with sheer force of will. Turning off the alarm was another thing. “Damned, gala.” The wine is still in his system and now needs to be drained. By the time the alarm shuts down on its own, Jack is already in the shower and cracking his neck. At twenty-five the lean valedictorian thought he would be the man enjoying immense riches by now, not slaving away under a TPS fanatic manager idiot.
Clean shaven and wearing the usual white collar dress shirt and black khakis, Jack checks his answering machine and prepares a cup of some extra strong brew of coffee. “Two cubes please,” he tells himself but pours in two bags of sugar and a tad bit of milk instead. “Bombs away,” and he drains it all quickly in several gulps. The answering machine: “Hey Jack. I have today off so I’ll be coming by later. Love and Hearts.” On the news more headlines regarding the kidnappings. “Shit, this is getting frickin annoying. Idiots can’t take care of themselves.” Jack grabs his keys, jacket, wallet and cellphone and locks the front door of his apartment behind him. This makes the number of people missing nine for the week. In total for the month: thirty.
In his old Ford, driving down the streets of the city Bill notices how empty the sidewalk is. Cars are packed as ever but no one is walking and everything is silent; not a single radio is on and no one is talking. Off in the distance, too far away to tell, screams are followed by sirens, the sounds and the tall buildings of glass seem to carry through and echo, resonate through the streets turning corners and twisting guts. The cowards have already fled the city leaving the dependent people alone to themselves and even more afraid. Just a crime wave everyone kept telling themselves. Every face said the same solemn message, “Shit, I wanna leave, forget this place. Damn it! What the frick?” Even Bill thinks so, in fact he has been looking at a place in the country, but dang it every real estate agent has up and ran away.
...[Removed for Spoilers and is a crappy, sliding ass on concrete, read]
At home Bill greets his wife. “Why are you back so soon?” “A pileup blocked the way and I felt like coming back.” “I’ll prepare some lemonade, alright? Sit down.” Instead of sitting down, Bill walks over to his locker. In it he takes out his old handgun and checks the magazine, all eight rounds. He puts on his belt and pouch with three more magazines. After a few seconds of looking at the black gun and remembering, vividly, how to shoot it and each time it was fired he holsters the weapon. A heavy feeling has come onto him and for a while breathing was difficult. “BILL! HELP!” At the front of the house, the door is busted and barely hanging off its hinges and stumbling to his wife was one of the neighborhood thugs wearing a hoodie and jeans. “Hey! Get out of my house!” Bill has the punk’s attention and when it turns to Bill, its chest is exposed and a large kitchen knife is sticking out. “Holy Shit! Hey son, take a seat. I’ll call the ambulance, don’t worry. Christine, pull yourself together and call for help.” His wife runs into the kitchen, and Bill takes a step towards the boy. It snarls at Bill and clamps its jaws....
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That's it. Please Comment.
A Comedy is also in the works. If you care at all. Its funny, and <whispers> has a magical Ram Horn.