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.
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.
“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!