I'm sorry for my face.

(Photo taken from here)

"...put together the ideal team of (fictional) people we'd prefer to run with in case a zombie apocalypse happens.

The rules of our little game are pretty simple. Simply put together a team with one character from comics, one from TV, one from movies, one from cartoons/anime, one from video games and one from any form of fiction you pick."

Unfortunately, I wasn't able to meet the deadline for the post (it's now up, by the way) but I thought it'd be fun to do it anyway. Also, I thought about doing a sketch of each memeber of my team but I got lazy. Yeah I know, a lot of should-have-beens. I suck.

Anyway. Meet my Zombie Annihilation Squad, after the cut!

Every day, we wake up and struggle to escape mediocrity. We hold on to that sliver of hope that this day will be better than yesterday, that we'd be able to accomplish something extraordinary. Something we can share proudly to people.

It's an innate longing not many seem to acknowledge or even recognize but it's there.

It's always there.

It could be a single memory; a long forgotten strand on the endless knot that is time. It could be a familiar scent, a muted but recognizable glare, a lingering touch.

It's 3am. Everything was quiet except for the slight hum of an electric fan's motor.

He took a drag of his menthol cigarette, the long, icy trail of smoke slightly burning in his throat. He wondered how he ever got into smoking these. He used to like lights. The ones that taste like ordinary paper. Distracted, he contemplated on why he started smoking anyway.

He doesn't remember.

He dismissed the thought, took one last puff, and extinguished the stick on his overflowed white ceramic ashtray. He looked at it in disgust. He always forgets to empty the damn thing until it's too late. The bits of ash scattered around it was proof enough. A testament to his lethargy, his indifference.

He hated the feeling.