I adore anything different. Amber Green conceived the idea for this bizarre anthology of work, not having any idea what she was opening herself to.
A varied array of writers jumped at the opportunity to be a part of this collection.
Writing a story about lesbians, zombies, music, and college, isn't as easy as I thought it would be, but don't we all love a challenge?
My story, "The Zombie with Flowers in Her Hair" and Amber's "Dead Kitties Don't Purr" are already available.
There are plenty more works by several authors still to come.
My brief point is, don't be afraid to stretch yourself, to let your imagination take over and lead you where it will. You never know what you're capable of until you try.
KB Cutter's offering in the Lesbians vs Zombies: The Musical Revue anthology was released today by Noble Romance Publishing.
A Zombie Apocalypse can be a real buzz-kill.
The jolly Captain Morgan and I, best mates, we were; however, the buccaneer was playing mischief with my sea legs. I stood with said legs slightly apart, swaying as if the bar’s floor were the wooden deck planks of a pirate sloop.
I spotted my prize leaning against the jukebox, booted foot tapping in rhythm to George Thorogood’s raspy lament of "one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer." Her treasures, encased in snug tight blue jeans that accentuated the tantalizing curves of her ass, were mine for the plundering. Life was good, damn good at Red’s Roadside Tavern, until one of the locals burst through the door.
The first thing I noticed was his eyes. Aside from an unnervingly vacant stare, his irises bore the milky white of cataract-afflicted orbs. His mouth was a crooked maw of blackened gums and jagged teeth; hair matted to his skull, slick with sweat and rain.
At the time, we had no clue that he—it—was the infected, soon to be walking dead. None of us did.
Christ, who would have?
After a bemused second or so, I recognized him—it—as the boorishly drunken local that Reginald (Red to the local patrons, Reginald’s Roadside Tavern just doesn't have the same masculine ring to it) had tossed out shortly after we arrived. We, as in me, my current squeeze Sasha, my boss Cherry, and Zoey and Fipps.
I suppose we looked like weekend posers, clad in our black leather jackets with Ink Bitches emblazoned in crimson on our backs.
Shit, maybe we are. Or were . . . .
I could bullshit myself, say I ain't no weekend road warrior. I ran with the real deal way out west in Nevada, tending bar in a bikers' beer and shot dive, and dealing weed—which got me into my first and last knife fight with a meth-head. Bitch slashed me across the stomach. I have the war wound to prove it, thin red line just above my navel. Sasha dug it.
Said it was sexy as hell.
Heat flared in my loins. I envisioned Sasha's pink, serpentine flesh gingerly tracing the contours of my scar. I felt her hot, moist breath pebbling my skin while my fingers curled in her tousled locks, urging her lower. We should have stayed in our shabby little motel room, wearing out the ancient bedsprings, her face buried between my legs, my thighs quivering as she furiously lapped the engorged nub of my sex, coaxing my orgasm into her overworked mouth. I wanted to return the favor, raking my tongue over every inch of her undeniably feminine, voluptuous curves, my hands relishing the generous heft of her full, creamy breasts, my fingers tweaking her puckered nipples.
Sasha wouldn't have it. She wanted to get her drink on, which meant when we later tumbled onto the worn bed, she would beg me to use the strap-on dildo. I wasn't a big fan of the latex cock. Sure, I enjoyed the use of a vibrator on occasion, just not one fashioned after some porn star's massive tool. Sasha wasn't completely down with the sister hood.
She hung out with me to piss off her parents by dating a girl, let alone a black chick. Despite my cynical exterior, I thought I could make a go of it, nurture our physical relationship into something deeper, more profound.
Who the fuck was I kidding? Leonard Cohen said it best: Love is not a victory march, it’s a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah. Sasha's voice wasn't the whispered prayer I needed to hear in the dark. Nor was her flesh, pressed close to mine, the salvation that eluded me.
Damn, I'm getting all biblical; my Gran would be proud. And it ain't a stretch to think of now as the End Times.
My relationship with Sasha pissed off Zoey. I knew Zoey had a thing for me. We never dated, just hung out one or two boozy nights. We worked together in Cherry's Ink, a tat parlor on the lower east side of Manhattan. An 'office' romance was out of the question. I thought we were both a bit possessive, and to be in tight quarters even longer hours wouldn't jibe with our dominant personalities. Although I would not mind being dominated by Zoey, she, possessed of a rock-hard bod and killer, cobalt gaze that sweeps over my body like blue fire . . . .
Shit, my mind is adrift, like an unmoored boat. I have to concentrate. Anchor my thoughts. I want to get all this down while I still have my faculties.
Back at Red's, back at the beginning, Cherry pissed off this lumbering mountain zombie before he turned. She, a goddamn professional shit-stirrer, forgot where she was. We weren't hanging in the East Village; this was North Bumfuck. I don't mean to paint every resident of Manor Falls in broad trailer-park strokes; however, this was not the most progressive part of the state.
Cherry thrived on agitation and intimidation. She stood five feet ten inches, well over six feet in heels. Statuesque, no doubt. Dressed in decidedly theatrical garb: black throat choker with a pewter iron cross dangling in the front, thigh-high glossy obsidian boots, and one eye done up like Malcolm McDowell's in A Clockwork Orange. She did more than just turn heads.
She sashayed to the bar where the hillbilly pre-zombie was nursing his draft, intermittently looking at the muted flat screen TV above Reginald’s gleaming, bald plate, and eyeing us with baleful glances.
I knew trouble was coming on 4-inch heels to good ole Bo Cooter. (I didn’t know the local yokel's name. Never will. So fuck it. He got a bastardized Dukes of Hazard moniker.)
I did nothing but sip my spiced rum and ginger ale, licking my lips as Sasha caught my eye. She put the bottle of Corona against her mouth, her pink flesh fluttering seductively over the rim. Maybe if I wasn’t engaged in mental masturbation, thinking decidedly debauched thoughts about where Sasha should put her tongue, I could have intervened. Perhaps things would have been different. Maybe I would not have had to thrust the blade of my knife into his right eye.
No. That’s not true. The beginning of the end would still be staggering forward with or without a reanimated Bo Cooter.
Cherry put her bottle of Heineken on the bar, ordered another, and engaged Bo in conversation. I knew it would lead to something unpleasant.
Jesus, the understatement of the fucking century.
I caught snippets of conversation. The word "freak" came out more than a few times from his bearded mouth. He and Cherry kept going back and forth. I was far more engaged in watching Sasha do downright taboo things to that bottleneck. Something did catch the attention of Zoey and Fipps, who dropped their intense debate over some geek neo- lit- pop culture babble/dissertation. And their silence caught my attention.
That’s when the pilsner glass broke and a beefy hand shoved Cherry. Her arms flailed for balance as she toppled over a bar stool. I let my glass drop to the floor and reached for my boot knife. Zoey and Fipps stood, hands balling into fists. Sasha sat motionless, her lips puckered in a suggestive pose over the rim of the bottle, her eyes wide.
Reginald must've sensed things were going south; his face became all lines and creases as my blade flashed into my hand.
Reggie threw up his skinny arms, quickly making his way from behind the bar. “Whoa! Hold up, folks. No fighting and no goddamn pig stickers in my place! Put that knife away!”
“Tell Bubba Bo to put down the broken glass," I said through clenched teeth. "Then we cool.”
“My name ain’t Bubba, you freak fuck!”
I hate bad drunks, especially narrow-minded, hillbilly, pork-rind eating, Natural Light swilling sister-fuckers. I remember being glad tornadoes sweep through trailer parks, to thin the fucking mobile home herd.
Shit. I’m sure the swarms of the undead were doing just that. I’m so angry, tired, confused, and in pain . . . .
I didn’t respond to the insult. I stood, my center of gravity low, my legs splayed. My eyes never wavered from the broken glass.
Reginald spoke, his voice flat, thin like his body. “Cherry, would did you say? C’mon. What started this mess?”
All eyes went to Cherry, sprawled ungraciously on the floor.
Except mine. Well, one of them. I thought it prudent to keep one booze-blurred eye on Sir Bo of Bumfuck.
Cherry put her finger to her mouth, one black polished nail resting on her lower lip. “Well, me and this big, burly man here were having a hearty debate and I asked him if he would like to climb my peak. He thought I said peaks, plural, meaning these majestic, snowy white twins" (which she emphasized by running her free hand over her ample cleavage) "but I actually meant . . . .” Her finger left her mouth, slowly trailing to the prominent bulge below, her finger making semi-circles over the crotch of her jeans.
Sick joke. Cherry was a he, was a she, was a chick with a dick.
She did have balls, big ones. I slid my knife back in my boot. If Bo wanted to cut Cherry—hell, she deserved it. I picked up my glass, which luckily had not shattered, and placed it on the nearest table.
“I’m steady, Red. Pig poker is back in the shed.”
He nodded, casting a glance at Bo. “Okay, my friend, put the glass on the bar. Cherry, apologize and it’s done.”
Cherry made sputtering noises. A hissy fit was not far behind.
Bo Cooter seethed. “Fuck that shit, Red. What kind of place you running, a fag joint? Fuck, this place was better when Proudman ran it. Man could sit, have a few beers, watch the game, and not play pocket-pool with some homo freakazoid. Fuck you and your gay-ass bar!”
Red/Reginald slapped Bo’s hand, knocking the glass from his grip. Being sloshed to the gills, the guy stumbled back from the force of the strike. Reginald's voice was low, with a hint of malevolence.
"Time to leave, my friend."
Bo Cooter muttered something unintelligible, turned, and stumbled out of the bar.
"Articulate chap, a rare thing in these parts," Cherry said, sarcasm dripping from each syllable.
Reginald cast a withering glance at her. "Keep the comments to yourself. You want to work your jaw in here, drink or get out. Remember, I live here. I have to see these people every day."
"Bully for you, Red. I'm buying, so start pouring."
An exasperated sigh escaped from Reginald's lips as he made his way behind the bar. Money talks; the bullshit don’t walk.
It gets hammered.
Zoey and Fipps bellied up. Sasha sauntered over to me, sat on my lap, and kissed me passionately, playful nibbling on my lower lip. I felt Zoey's gaze burn through Sash's back.
I returned the kiss, with less fervor.
Sasha wiggled her ass. She did not seem to mind my lackluster lip lock.
"What you did was so hot, babe. C'mon, let's join the others. Do some shots of tequila, and get back in the party mode."
I should have said yes to Sasha. Poured a few more drinks down her throat, and used all of my mojo to corral Zoey into a smoking little ménage. The mere notion of our bodies intertwined, mouths suckling, tongues lapping, flesh writhing, sighs evolving into guttural moans—those sensual thoughts left me damp with mounting desire.
It would be worth using the latex cock to fuck Sasha, despite my reservations.
Instead, I opted to stay put, cupping one of Sasha's ample breasts.
"Go on up, 'cause Cherry buying drinks is like an eclipse, a rare occurrence."
Sasha flashed me an impish grin and ground her ass one more time before jumping off my lap.
The images on the muted TV caught my attention. Schizophrenic pictures danced on the screen: some kind of mass disturbance, a riot. "Breaking News" flashed in bold text. The ticker tape scrawl raced underneath the pictures. I could barely read the information. Sighing in disgust, I wondered why I should care. Probably another 'Arab Spring' popping up in some desert country we had not yet bombed.
Let 'em kill each other. Kill them all.
I did not realize how prophetic my words would be.