Undead Reflections In a Jaundiced Eye - by KB Cutter

Hi, all. I'm KevaD, author and member of ERAuthors.
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.

Here's a quick look at this wonderful author's work:

Blurb:

An undead infestation can be a real killjoy. For a group of misfit weekend bikers holed up in roadside dive, this is the understatement of the century.  One of them, a jaded misanthrope, examines her life as civilization crumbles.  Will true love finally pierce the cynical veil shrouding her heart before the zombie horde devours her flesh?

Excerpt:

Chapter One

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.

Fuck.

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.

Love?

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.

I grimaced.

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.

Here's where to find KB Cutter:

Buy Link

Web Site

Dead Kitties Don't Purr

 

Today the curtain rises on Act Two of Lesbians vs Zombies: The Musical Revue.  This piece is called Dead Kitties Don't Purr.

Blurb:

People who take their shots and do as they're told have nothing to fear. Right?

The Rabies Z epidemic began and ended in Miami this past summer, didn't it? And that guy my daddy saw at the Jacksonville airport last week was just having an epileptic fit. No cause for alarm. Epilepsy always causes an eighteen-hour hazmat shutdown at a major airport.

So while my twin tours to flog her newest album, here I am, Camie Invisible, parked at this nice, safe college—as far as I can get from the infection and still pay in-state tuition. Only now, my studies have become focused on the fascinating Risa Ruiz. And she has eyes for me.

Isn't this the perfect time for the zombies to show up?

Excerpt:

The dorm's safety rules echoed in the back of my head. Never leave campus with someone you've just met. If you see anyone walking strangely, having convulsions, or standing too still, run as fast as you can to where the people are. Never approach anyone lying down, or anyone sitting in the wrong place. Stay on well-lit streets. Let someone know where you're going, who you're with, and when you'll be back. Keep a phone on you at all times, and never turn it off.

And I, the careful one, the most timid freshman in the quietest dorm on campus, didn't give a shit.
I had my hand on the top edge of Risa Ruiz's gauzy skirt, feeling her flank muscles stretch and contract.

We reached another corner and turned into one of those dark cul-de-sacs that don't even rate a single working streetlamp. I blinked, trying to see.

She pulled me off the sidewalk.

I wondered for half a second, but then a bicycle whispered by.

She was paying attention—something I should be doing, as well. But there we were, off the sidewalk, away from the streetlights and headlights, and the crickets rasped as if giving coded messages, only all the messages overlapped and competed with one another, and the moonlight glittered on Risa's pectoral of claws and fangs while it shimmered on the swirling lace below.

"I want to kiss you," I said, my voice a stranger's. I swallowed, waiting for her to laugh at me, to push me away.

Instead, she pulled me closer, hip-first, and tilted her head. "What's stopping you?"

I reached up and gathered fistfuls of that hair, cool and warm at the same time, and I pulled her face down into reach, and I touched her lips with mine. And there it had to end, because I'd never opened my mouth to a kiss without wanting to gag.

But there it didn't end. She cupped my head in her hands, opened her mouth, and gently sucked my bottom lip between hers. My pulse pounded in my lips, in my temples, in my breasts where they nestled against hers. For what seemed a long time, she played with my bottom lip, licking it, then licking inside it.

She tasted of popcorn, or maybe that was me, and she smelled of something deep, woody, and rich—sandalwood or cedar, or both, or something I'd never encountered before. I desperately wanted to wash in whatever soap made her smell like that.

She pulled back, disengaging my trembling fists from her hair. "You're not used to this, are you?"

My skin shrank against my face. "I'm sorry."

At least I hadn't gagged on her. Hadn't had the first inclination to gag, come to think of it.

She brushed a kiss over my cheekbone. "Don't be. Don't be nervous, either. And whatever you do, don't hesitate to tell me to slow down if I take this too fast."

Dead Kitties Don't Purr

Writing is a Passion by R. Renee Vickers

Saying that writing is a passion seems like a pretty obvious statement, doesn’t it. But, it’s something that everyone considering writing as an occupation should consider.

“Editors and publishers agree that the odds of being published are only 1-2%. That is, they only accept, and publish, one or two out of every hundred manuscripts they receive.” (http://www.fiction-writers-mentor.com/odds-of-being-published.html)

With the chances of becoming published being only slightly better than winning the lottery, most people aspiring for such a career focus solely becoming accepted. Writing about something you’re familiar with or passionate about will certainly increase your odds of writing worthwhile material, but it does not increase your chances of getting past the dreaded rejection pile. To increase your chances of acceptance, researching what works for the market or niche you’re looking to break into and having a lot of luck are essential.

So, let’s say you’ve beaten the odds and landed a contract. You’ve celebrated with your friends and family and all those who supported you while you worked on your passion. Now it’s time to kick back and wait for the money to start rolling it. Right? Wrong. This is the point where your passion is really put to the test. Not only are there rounds of edits to do to get your book to market on time for its release, but there is also prerelease promotional and marketing work to do. With the modern author responsible for a large portion of promoting their publications, they sink a great deal of time working on blog posts, networking and connecting with readers both before and after release day. And, no you’re not paid for any of this. The fact is, you’re likely to be given a small stipend up front, but before you can see any royalties, you must make enough sales to pay your publisher back for the upfront payment.

To stay relevant post publication, you must write more and better material, which means spending a lot of time reading and researching. Growth in the craft is absolutely essential to keeping readers happy.

Ever hear of the saying “paying your dues”? That’s what authors say after they've gotten to a point where they're happy with the quality of their work. If this happens at all it could take months, years, or half a life time for an author to be able to stake this claim. When something takes this much work just for a chance at paying off, it couldn’t be possible without a strong passion for it.

And this is certainly my passion. I might have started with my book, Sly’s Surrender, but I knew full well that wasn’t going to satisfy my desire for this craft. I’ve been working diligently on other projects including a piece for Amber Green’s brainchild, Lesbians vs Zombies called Night at the M.U.T. That piece has been submitted and I’m waiting on word if it’s been picked up or not. If it is picked up it’ll be thrilling for me. There are so many fantastic authors in on this project that I would be quite honored to have my work in the mix with theirs. I’m also currently writing a piece for a project being headed by J.S. Wayne for his charity Writing Out Child Abuse (WOCA). The idea of having my words added to such a great cause is beyond worthwhile for me.

If you’re considering being a published author don’t get discouraged at the amount of work you find yourself in. Remember that this is your passion and no matter what, no matter where you go in this field, that as long as you keep feeding your desire to learn and grow in this craft, it’s all worth it.

Before I leave you today, I’d like to leave you with a video of a quote from the great Ira Glass that I feel sums up what this passion is all about. Thank you all for coming by and reading this today.

To find out more about R. Renee Vickers, visit her blog the Muse Ampoule

The Zombie with Flowers in Her Hair - by KevaD

My novella "The Zombie with Flowers in Her Hair" is now available from Noble Romance Publishing.

This book is the first release in the Lesbians vs Zombies: The Musical Revue anthology conceived by multi-published author Amber Green. The tales will range from comedy to horror to erotic to a little in-between.
So stay tuned for some wonderful stories by an eclectic gathering of authors.





Blurb:

The hardest part of being alone is realizing you are.

1969 was a busy year for the young woman nicknamed Isis. She graduated high school, engaged in a lesbian relationship, died, and rose from the dead as a pot-smoking, flesh-eating zombie in need of a good orgasm. Yet, in death she ended up as alone as she had in life. But when a beautiful zombie with flowers in her hair forgets her sweet butt on a toilet seat, Isis's undead life will never be the same. Nor will it be one she could ever have envisioned, even on the wildest acid trip. Because for Isis, her true reason for life lies in her death.
Excerpt:

                                                                                             Chapter One

“Nice ass," I said, and handed hers back to her. "You should carry Vaseline-coated covers with you in your bag. Next time, I might not be here to notice your cute little tush stuck to the toilet seat." I put on my best smile and slipped my blasé look into the pocket of my brown flannel shirt. "So, what was your name?"

"You-you know?" Uncomely lines creased her slick forehead, a feature in full view because she wore her dark brown hair parted in the middle and draped behind nicely rounded shoulders. Pert little tits jiggled under her ankle-length, egg-white linen dress.

Aside from the stutter, the undead creature's voice contained a musical interlude all its sexy own. The words strummed from her tongue, soft as a guitar played in a garden. A delicious-looking tongue, I might add. Not to mention the smooth, nearly perfect lips that parted for every rich note to pass between. I noticed. So did my clit. The unexpected throb hinted in that direction, anyway.

My nipples strained against the flannel. A wave of tightened muscles softly crept from one side of my vagina to the other.

Damn. I hadn't been so turned on since Karen had been sucking my tits in the passenger seat of my VW and I'd accidentally kicked the gearshift into neutral. We hadn't noticed until the car rolled over the cliff. All that ear-shattering silence and the car's perpendicular attitude were hard to miss. And kind of broke the moment.

The rock quarry's water, sixty feet below, broke everything else.

Why the turtles ate Karen and not me . . . . Maybe it had to do with the cherry cough drops she always had in her mouth. I hadn't touched cherry cough drops since. Better safe than sorry, and all of those other clichés.

Or it could have been the THC, I suppose. I'd smoked a nickel bag of Columbian buds all on my own. Karen was a straight. Well, about drugs anyway.

"Uh, yeah," I chimed, my voice as pleasantly interested as I could manage. "The living don't leave their butts behind. Pull up your dress"--Oh hell yeah--"and let me see if I can figure out a way to reattach—"

"No, thanks, I can get it. Not the first time." She walked back to the toilet, a former utility closet, and closed the wooden door.

Huh? Not the first time? I'd glued Velcro to the corners of my mouth in order to switch lips. But I certainly had no clue how to attach anything else that fell off.

If I did, I'd have swapped out my tits, as my left was smaller than the right. Karen hadn't seemed to mind, but one of the boys I'd banged in high school had shared my imbalanced secret with an entire shop class. Unfortunately, I had taken the class motto of Under the Covers Doing Fine, We're the Class of '69 a tad too literally.

Word spread like a cold in the hallways. Come to think of it, after that's when Karen, my world literature substitute teacher, first offered to privately tutor me. I really couldn't have cared less about Siddhartha or Rasputin—I'd been promised a B if I filled the last slot for the class. But at her apartment, while we listened to Joni Mitchell's latest album Clouds on Karen's Marantz stereo, the copy of the Kama Sutra she showed me grabbed my full attention. Had to give her credit, she never made an actual physical move on me until the night of graduation. At the rock quarry.

Sure wish Dad had fixed that emergency brake.

Thing was, I awakened from the dead as horny as when we'd gone over the cliff, the taste of Karen's cherry-flavored lips on my tongue, the wild thrill of her mouth on my breasts, and her teeth nipping my nipples. And no idea how to get a living woman to finish the job Karen had started. I wanted to come under a woman's touch.

I'd briefly considered one of the male zombies I'd encountered, just to clean my mind of this constant state of near-orgasm. But somehow, I couldn't get turned on by the thought of a dismembered member stuck up me while the owner frantically tried to reclaim his detached manhood.

The sock-it-to-me girl in the john, however . . . .

With a sigh so heavy my shoulders sank, I turned to the sink and cranked on the cold water. She'd ignored my request for her life-name. Maybe she wasn't into women or experimentation. I cupped my hands under the flow and splashed water over my face.

Midnight Cowboy had, only a couple months ago, snagged the public's raw fascination with gay, oddball characters. That didn't mean Joe the bartender would bed Harry the lawyer anytime in the near future. The film had simply provided Harriet the opportunity to share heretofore unspoken fantasies with Josephine next door while they hung clothes on the line. Hidden desires to lick each other's clits probably didn't come up in the conversation.

Not the first time. The young woman's words crashed center stage.

"What do you mean, not the first time? And how can you stick your—?"

The door creaked open.

"All better." White and yellow camellia formed a band around her forehead and hair. I blinked. The vending machine on the wall dispensed condoms, not flowers. Where’d she have those hidden? She flipped the back of her hand against her incredibly straight tresses, sending several strands over her shoulder. Hazel eyes shone as if a light inside her beautiful face illuminated them. The skin on her neck glistened like silk under the lone fluorescent bulb. A pale shade of rose colored her cheeks.

Colored her cheeks?

I glanced in the small wall mirror at my own ashen features. How had she managed to put what looked like natural color in her cheeks? Oops. The charming smile was all wrong for the circumstances. I retrieved the blasé one from my shirt pocket and made the exchange.

A muted giggle trickled from her delicate mouth. A shiver of want rattled through me. I bit back an urge to tear the body-hugging dress off her and suckle what had to be a perfectly matched pair of tits. Tiny, but definitely mouthwatering. I swallowed hard.

She reached out a slender arm.

Wait a minute!

Her arms were bare, and sleek as a toddler's. My long-sleeved, flannel shirts hid the gray skin drapery hanging from my arms—same reason I wore denim bellbottoms even in the muggiest weather. I filled bowls with skin softener every night in order to soak my hands and disguise the wrinkles that never stayed away for as much as a day. Her hands were smooth, with manicured nails tipped in cobalt.

What the hell? She had to be a zombie. Had to be. But if I hadn't seen her tush planted on the toilet seat with my own two eyes, I'd have sworn she'd never died.

"Close your mouth," she whispered.

I snapped my jaw shut. My teeth clicked together. Hadn't known it had fallen open. "H-how—?"

Damn. Confusion knotted my tongue. I held my breath and tightened my chest. Then I forced the question out in a rush of air. "How come you're so beautiful?"

Another marvelous giggle shot straight to my already-erect nipples. The dual points poked at the flannel, leaving no doubt of their location.

She stopped at the mirror and licked her little finger before dabbing at one of her pencil-thin eyebrows.

"What are your plans?" she asked, and then shot me a stony glance.

My back stiffened, and I scraped my fingers through my unruly, over-the-shoulders, brown hair. "I don't know. Usual, I guess."

"And that would be?"

What was with the interrogation? It wasn't like zombies had a lot on our minds. Eat, rest, eat, stagger around, eat some more, and eventually wither to nothing.

"Maybe smoke some pot later, if I can find a party somewhere that's got some decent smoke. Why? You looking for something to do?"

Are you? Huh? Please say yes. Because I could find lots to do with you.

"Has anyone ever said you resemble Janis Joplin?"

Her smile sent a shudder between my thighs.

"Yeah." I groaned and winced. "All the time. I don't consider it a compliment."

She stepped to me and placed the tip of her index finger on my hand. Then she traced her touch up the sleeve covering my arm and over my shoulder as she walked past me to the bathroom door. My stare followed her like some puppy about to be abandoned in an alley.

"I do," she said without looking back. "We made love once. She has a pleasing body, but I'll wager yours could please me even more. And one more thing. Do you really believe I went to all this trouble to bring you back just so you could smoke pot and eat raw meat?" She opened the door, and let it click closed behind her.

I was dead. Without a doubt, I was dead. But every nerve within me came screaming to life.

"What? You and Janis Joplin? You're a lesbian?" I blinked. "Janis is a lesbian?"

I bolted to the doorway and threw the door open. "And what's this you brought me back shit? Are you high or something?"

A soloist plucked a guitar. The lyrics of Leaving on a Jet Plane filled the smoke-clouded coffee house. Longhaired heads nodded in rhythm to the music. Every seat at every round table had an occupant. Barefooted men and women lined the walls.

But the zombie with flowers in her hair had vanished.

 Thank you so much for stopping by!

Writing Romance Isn’t Easy – by Tracey H Kitts

Years ago, I worked with someone who had a terrible opinion of romance novels. I know, shocking. Ha. Ha. He was one of the organizers of a Creative Writing Club and made the remark that he could make a living at writing if he could write romance. But, “Who the hell wants to write romance?” he said.

At the time I agreed that romance writing wasn’t for me, although I didn’t agree with his attitude. He went on to say how he felt romance was just “fluff and crap.”

As far as I know, his writing never made it outside of that Creative Writing Club. This could explain why years later (after we no longer worked together and I write romance for a living) he felt the need to write me a long-winded insult of a letter. In this letter he insulted romance again, along with my readers. He also misspelled the insults.

As much as it chaps my butt to admit it, there are more people like him out there. I’m sure some of the readers out there and many authors can relate. There are a ton of people who either think that writing romance is easy (fluff and crap) or that it’s just plain trash.

First of all, writing about anything (and doing it well) isn’t easy. No matter how much you enjoy it or how easily the words come to you, it’s still work. By the time you’ve edited and polished it a million times, you’ve put a heck of a lot of work into a book. Having someone call it crap is beyond insulting.

As I said before, at first I didn’t think writing romance was for me. I didn’t have anything against it. In fact, I have always enjoyed reading romance. I also loved horror and sci-fi and felt like (one of these days) when I started writing books, that would be where my interests remained. I was wrong. When I started writing my first book (a combination of horror and sci-fi for sure) romance sort of “took over.”

I can’t help it, I’m a sucker for a good love story.

Something else people may not realize is, it takes more than a creative (and dirty) mind to write sex scenes. It takes NERVE. Especially, if you choose to write under your own name. You have to learn to vocalize your most erotic thoughts, to give voice to what your characters really want to say. That can be both a liberating and a frightening experience.

No matter how much we might like to think otherwise, people will judge you by the words you put down on that page. So much more than your characters are laid bare when you write about sex. For anyone who doesn’t think that’s a challenge, I’ve got a suggestion for you.

Write down one of your most intimate experiences. I don’t mean with flowery prose and overly glamorous sentiment. I mean frank, honest language that people would actually use. This also means no clinical definitions. Make it sexy, but most of all, make it real. If you can do that, bravo. Now, how would you feel if everyone in the world could potentially read that little piece of yours? That’s what writing erotic romance feels like.

No, I’m not suggesting that every scene I’ve ever written is about me. Of course it isn’t. But, if you aren’t comfortable with talking about sex, you will never be able to write it convincingly. The same thing goes for love, which brings us back to the original topic of writing romance.

I think the man I mentioned above had (and to this day) still has no understanding of relationships. He seemed very much afraid to feel anything beyond contempt. If you’ve never experienced an emotion as life altering as love, how can you write about it? I suppose happy endings don’t appeal to everyone, but they sure as hell do to me.

You can find out more about Tracey at her website www.traceyhkitts.com

Her latest release is Frank and The Werewolf Tamer, an erotic paranormal romance, available exclusively on Amazon Kindle.

Purchase link: http://www.amazon.com/Frank-Werewolf-Tamer-ebook/dp/B006PU2JBW/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_7

31 Flavors - Deleted scene

Here's a scene from 31 Flavors that got excised with extreme prejudice and didn't make it into the final version. Leia made me take it out because she said Sidney would never have allowed this.
Leia Shaw is my co-author on 31 Flavors, a contemporary BDSM romance, and since this story is based heavily on a real person...I gave in.

By the way, up there is the cover featuring Leanna Velez, a friend of Leia's who is a body-builder, and, good friend that she is...she volunteered to be photographed in her underwear and tied up for our book.

But, here for your enjoyment is the uncut, cut scene! Sidney has just had a chuckle at Nick after a small accident, but she's still tied up to the kitchen tap.
This is very much Adults Only - 18 Plus
*****
“I’m sorry I laughed. You okay?”

“Honey.” He looks sideways at me. Somehow his expression conveys both dark seriousness and amusement. “You just earned yourself extra punishment.”

“Umm.” I did?

“How’s your hands?”

“Good.” He’s not letting me go? Excitement climbs a notch in my veins. I eye the spatula. Truly the flat blue end on it looks promising. I can’t help doing a tiny wiggle.

Confidence back in his stride, he goes to the fridge and with a rustle of plastic gets something.

“Nick! Whatever’s in there is for eating. Not…not.”

A flat grin plastered across his face, he returns and pokes me.

Cold!

“Stop! Nick!” I dodge, laughing, as best I can but the thing -- which turns out to be a cucumber -- gets applied to my belly and my breasts and then he holds me down and slips it along my cleft. “Nick!”

“Not for putting up inside your wet little pussy? Hmm? Stick out your ass.”

Before I can reply he steps away and smacks me with the spatula right on the crease of thigh and bottom.

“Ow!”

His hand gripping my hip also has the cucumber, but at least the vegetable has warmed up a bit. My giggling returns as he lays a series of fiery smacks all over my butt. There will be marks left, I’m sure. By the umpteenth smack I’m going hazy and I arch my back out and up some more, seeking that odd fusion of pain and pleasure that sits there waiting for me. I sigh.

A few more swats and he swipes his fingers along my folds, wiggles some inside, deep, then slips them out and in with my moisture.

“You’re soaked down here,” he says distantly, painting my skin with coolness. I don’t care at all, lost in a foggy land where all is right.

No more smacking. I lean on my forearms as he makes me move my stomach away from the counter. I feel him get down between my legs. There’s a thump as maybe his back hits the cupboard door then his broad hands are on my thighs, parting me. Heat engulfs my clit.

“Ohh.” I moan and push into his mouth, still with my elbows braced in the sink, with my butt hot and the strong beat of my pulse spreading throughout me. My flesh is infused with fire and lust and wet molten lava that seeks out my little clit. It pumps up, filling. Blood. Hotness. Delicious slippery tongue.

The cucumber probes at my entrance, then he pushes it up, up inside until I feel as if I’ll burst. A fridge and food thing inside me. I want to say no, but can’t, won’t. God. Too much. I’m filled to the very top.

The coldness wars inside with my warmth, making me more aware of precisely where he’s put it.

He grips my clit in teeth and swipes that tongue across the top. I bunch my fists and arch into him, thighs straining. His hand splays across my belly, while I strive and push toward Nick’s mouth and his wriggling tongue that’s found every nerve in my clit and wakened it. The cucumber goes in, out, adding its forceful pressure to my walls. I clamp down onto the chill hardness, quiver and shut my eyes, pull on the tap to create tension. I’m here, trapped, for him to pleasure.

In and out, lick, wriggle of wet tongue and then, I come, and goddamn come, hurtling into white space. My legs and tummy jerk as I moan at the exquisite explosion of my senses. I settle, slowly, falling almost into the sink with my head laying on my wrists. I pant and recover, listening to the slithery metal sounds of a zip undoing and then the shuffle of Nick shedding his clothes.

“Now,” he whispers huskily at my ear, his hands on my shoulders. “I get to perform.”
*****
Hmmm, I still think we should have kept this scene.
31 Flavors is due out on Valentine's Day as an ebook.

My website is http://www.carisilverwood.net/
Leia's website: http://www.leiashaw.com/

A Drabble - A Story in Exactly One Hundred Words - by KevaD

He sat on the stoop, his forehead on his folded arms atop jeans worn at the knees.

The cause of the fight blurred within the words she’d said between tears, the words he’d growled in return. Or was it the other way around? His truck waited on the gravel driveway, the keys in his pocket. A June bug pinged in the metal shade of the porch light. A mosquito drilled his bare shoulder.

When the punishing words ran dry, she'd told him to leave, so he did. But neither had said the cruelest word… goodbye.

He sat on the stoop.

Facing the New Year

"New" is a subtly threatening word.  Think of a new love, a new job, a new home.  Each offers tantalizing promises. Yet behind the paper mask of each promise, identified and inchoate alike, lurks the prospect of loss.

Perhaps the loss might be catastrophic.  Certainly any such loss will be more painful without the familiarity of the old to lend support.  Identifying something as "new" makes a cut in one's ties to the old, with whatever security its known patterns provided.

On the other hand, burdens often make the transit in distressingly familiar forms.

So why risk the new? Because a snail's shell does not spiral inward--only outward. And so we who live--this might be a definition for living--constantly step out into the unknown, and leave the old irrevocably behind us.

Here we are, if we're lucky, with a day or two to rest on the cusp of time and consider its passage, before we must plunge into the new year.  Do we spend it tying off the old threads, closing the doors gently?  Sorting our accounts for when future circumstances require some part of our doings to be scrutinized? Or might these slow hours be better spent in sketching out the events that we hope will be the bones of the coming year?

How many will be like me, mixing the two like a cook making Today Soup with the roots of yesterday and the bones of tomorrow?  I bought calendars, organizers, and a copy of TurboTax yesterday.  A couple of weeks ago, I arranged to join a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) cooperative as of this Wednesday.  This means receiving a weekly sack of fresh vegetables, some of which I've barely heard of before, and finding ways to eat them.  Honestly, my default recipe for winter vegetables is to chop them, oil them, sprinkle them with salt and pepper, and broil them.  Knowing that doesn't stop me from obsessively collecting the recipe cards at Publix.  Hey, I could dig those out, sort them by season.  Wouldn't that make a lovely procrastination project? But I have no time to procrastinate. 

Apart from improving the family diet, my plans for 2012 have focused on setting up for Lesbians vs Zombies: The Musical Revue.  (Yes, I'm still interested in submissions.)  The books will be released one per week from Noble Romance starting January 16.

Gulp...that's two weeks and two days.  I've gotten as much of a head start as I could: I'm learning about Twitter and advertising, and about how to maintain a blog--all new things to me.  Editing for the first story, KevaD's The Zombie With Flowers in Her Hair, is complete; the story lacks only formatting and a cover.  The second story, my Dead Kitties Don't Purr, is in another editor's hands. Primary edits for the third story, Undead Reflections in a Jaundiced Eye, have been sent to K.B. Cutter.  I should finish first edits on two more stories by tomorrow night.  Meanwhile, other stories are in various stages from incomplete drafts to contracted but as yet unedited.

For virtually all the authors involved, this project is a new beginning.  Those who've written lesbian romances have never considered zombie stories. Those who've handled zombies have never tried to write the lesbian point of view.  The prospects of failure, knowing it would be a very public failure, are intimidating.  But living means moving forward, even when that means leaving a comfortable rut. Moving forward means facing the new, stepping out to grasp and embrace it.  Even though we see the promises and know some of them mask losses, we move forward anyway. Because that's what living is. And because some of those promises will come true.