Writer’s checkpoint

I sit though a lecture,
barely able to hear anything the flesh creature that used to be my
professor is saying. He holds a sharp piece of bone, that I assume used to
be a white board marker, and scraps it against a rectangle of that
kind of flesh inside of your cheek. Blood spills…

...I walk home instead of
taking the train, trying to avoid to encounter any more flesh
creatures then I have to. While passing by what used to be a path
through a flowering pasture of sunflowers that now are bones sticking
out of the fleshy ground, I stare at my feet. Instead of seeds and
petals a chunk of rotting meat sits upon each bone stalk. I decide
to stay on the sidewalk over taking the morbid shortcut.