Ocean Beach has a lot of very cool stuff on it for beach happy collectors like myself (if you’ve read my blog over the last few years, you’ll know I’m a bit obsessive when it comes to collecting beach glass and shells), but one of the coolest things is the sporadic appearance of the King Phillip, a clipper ship that was wrecked at high tide off of Ocean Beach in 1878.
According to the news articles I found, it appears every 20 years or so. Since I moved up five years ago, the remains have poked up during low tide three of those five years, most recently this December. The first two times we only saw one end of it (not sure if it was the bow or the stern or the ??? I’m not up on my nautical terms), but yesterday morning both ends of the ship were poking out. It’s kind of like finding dinosaur bones…
And you’d think I’d have remembered to post this on the actual day of the event…
Anyway, my new zombie apocalypse/romance, Ashley Drake, Zombie Hunter (Book One: A Plague on All Houses) has been released as an eBook and I thought I’d share an excerpt. Warning: Not for the faint of heart!
“Mmmm, baby, you smell so good.”
I giggled as Matt nuzzled against me.He did this thing where he pretended to be a dog and sniffed up and down my neck and shoulders. It tickled and he sounded like a Saint Bernard with asthma. Disgusting and cute at the same time.
Pushing him away, I ignored Matt’s pout, pulling my sweater back down and jeans back up, just in case there were any passerby’s wandering the woods behind campus after dark.Not too likely, especially when the weather was chilly and overcast, plus the grove of redwoods where we’d spread our blanket was pretty much private, but you never know who might be attracted to the light from Matt’s battery-powered lantern.
“Pass the champagne, ‘kay?”
Matt sulked a little, but filled one of the little flutes (glass, not plastic) he’d brought with some Italian bubbly. “It’s Prosecco, not champagne, Ash. It’s only champagne—”
“—if it comes from Champagne,” I finished for him. “I know, I know.” It’s what I get for dating a wine snob-in-training. I usually don’t complain ’cause it means I get to taste some wicked good stuff when most people my age are still working their way through White Zins of the World.
Matt decided he’d sulked long enough (I swear, he had a timer for his mood swings) and smiled at me. “Like the picnic, Ash?”
I nodded. How could I not? I mean, how many college guys took the time to pack full-on picnics? We’re not talking a bucket of KFC and a six-pack. Nope, roast chicken, bread, brie, and bubbly. Bread knife, cutting board, and cloth napkins.
Yeah, Matt had ulterior motives (he was a college boy, after all), but I’d rather be seduced with sparkling wine than Pabst Blue Ribbon.
I took another sip and used my other hand to hide a delicate little belch that bubbled out of nowhere. Bubbly burp, I thought, and started giggling.
Whoa, tipsy much? I probably should have had more of the chicken and bread before diving straight into the alcohol. I’m a cheap date. So sue me.
Matt didn’t mind. “What’s so funny?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. Good thing ’cause I couldn’t stop giggling now that I’d started. Matt started nuzzling my neck again, making low growling noises that vibrated pleasantly against the sensitive skin, both tickling me and turning me on. One thing led to another and we were soon happily in Stage One of making out (i.e. hands groping under clothing, bra pushed up but still fastened, no actual disrobing, lots of hip and groin action).
So at first I thought it was Matt when I heard a weird, low, moaning sound. I mean, yes, he was moaning things like “Oh, baby, you turn me on,” and “I swear, you make me hard.” But this noise was weird enough to finally break through my lust and alcohol haze.
I stopped in mid-kiss. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Matt continued stroking my hips, insinuating his hand between my thighs, stroking me through the denim. I squirmed with pleasure even as my ears strained to pick up that moaning noise again.
Nothing except the cracking of ancient redwood branches.
Giving a mental shrug, I turned my attention back to Matt, specifically the bulge beneath his jeans. I teased him, rubbing one hand along the outline of his erection while nibbling gently on his neck in a way I knew he liked. His free hand caressed my breasts, first one, and then the other, thumb softly flicking against the nipples, a move guaranteed to drive me wild.We were both moaning with desire at this point, all panting eagerness to take things to the next level … when suddenly his hand squeezed my left breast way too hard.
“Ow! That hurt, you jerk!” I smacked him on the shoulder, hard.
“Huh?” Matt lifted his mouth from my earlobe. “What the hell did you do that for?”
The hand squeezed again, nails digging in this time. A rattling moan sounded close to my ear. The ear not next to Matt’s mouth. I smelled something rank.
“What the fuck? Get off me!” I shoved Matt off of me and rolled away from the moaning. The hand on my breast stayed there, accompanied by a nasty tearing noise, like the sound of a drumstick being ripped off a whole chicken.I looked down and gasped in grossed-out disbelief because the light of the lantern showed a groddy rotted hand clutching my 34-C, ragged nails digging into the flesh. Even worse, said hand was attached to an equally gross arm … and nothing else.
“Omigod, gross!”
“Jeez, babe, what is your damage?” Matt sat up, offended.
I didn’t have time to soothe his wounded male ego. I was too busy dislodging what looked like a cheap Halloween prop from my boob. It didn’t take much effort; the thing seemed to have lost all of its oomph.I lifted the lantern and found out why.
The top half of what was once a young woman squirmed on the mossy ground next to our blanket. Her torso trailed off into strings of intestines and other bits of unidentifiable ickiness. Chunks of flesh were missing from her face and neck. Two spooky, milky-white eyes stared at me above a bloody hole, chewed gristle sticking out where her nose used to be. Her mouth opened and closed hungrily as she used her remaining arm to pull herself onto the blanket towards me.
This was seriously effed up right here. I’d just been felt up by what looked to be a zombie and a female one at that. I choked back a definitely hysterical laugh as I wondered if this counted as a lesbian encounter.
I had to take my beloved car into the Santa Rosa Saturn dealership this morning so I was up at 6am and out the door before 7:00. It was cold, overcast and rainy with occasional flashes of bright blue sky between some pretty intimidating winter clouds (“Yeah, blue sky? You think you’re gonna hang out on our turf?! ). When I drove across the Golden Gate Bridge, I glanced to the left (the ocean side of the bridge) and spotted an entire rainbow arching from the middle of the bridge to the northern side, no breaks in the arch at all. It was hard to take my eyes off it, but since I didn’t want to end up as an ironic headline (“Woman drives car off GG Bridge while marveling at the beauty of a rainbow”), I paid attention (mostly) to the road in front of me. I did, however, as I broke into a rousing rendition of Look to the Rainbow as I noticed the northern end of the rainbow, which I could see vanishing into the ground, shifted as I drove (taking that elusive pot of gold with it, no doubt!), skittering over the landscape until it finally came to the entrance of a tunnel on Highway 1. The Rainbow Tunnel.
That’s right! After months of writing, whining and waiting, A Plague on All Houses, the first in my zombie hunter series, is coming out as an eBook with Ravenous Romance! It will eventually be coming out in paperback with … er … well, hopefully I’ll be able to let that particular cat out of the bag this week.
What I can share right now are the wonderful blurbs by some of my favorite authors. Thanks right off the bat to each and every one for taking the time to read and comment on Plague. I have first hand experience on just how challenging it can be to find the time to read someone else’s work when you’re in the middle of your own writing deadline hell, so I am truly honored and touched. The list isn’t complete yet either. 🙂 Anticipation for more blurby goodness … yes-s-s-s-s, my precious-s-s-s-s…
Ahem.
The blurbs:
“A PLAGUE ON ALL YOUR HOUSES is sexy, weird, creepy, over-the-top zombie goodness. Required reading for the deranged.” –Jonathan Maberry, NY Times bestselling author of PATIENT ZERO and MARVEL ZOMBIES RETURN
Spooks, scaries, and zombies, oh my! Treat yourself to Dana Fredsti’s A Plague on all Houses, a zombie romance (don’t worry, romance between humans, no one losing body parts in the midst of–romance!) Chills and thrills for that season when you’re looking for–chills and thrills!
Heather Graham, author of Hallowed Ground & The Flynn Brothers Trilogy
Dana Fredsti has created a world as familiar as our own back yard and populated it with recognizable people we care about … and zombies. But this isn’t just another zombie novel. It spans a spectrum of emotion and action that sets it above the rest. A PLAGUE ON ALL YOUR HOUSES will have you turning pages fast … and checking the locks on all the doors.
— Ray Garton, author of LIVE GIRLS and SEX AND VIOLENCE IN HOLLYWOOD
“As adorable an end of the world as you’re liable to get, Fredsti’s A PLAGUE ON ALL HOUSES is brisk, witty ultraviolent romantic gurlventure, full of zombie gore and pop culture know-how. It is, in a word, a hoot.”
–Gina McQueen, author of OPPOSITE SEX and APOCALYPSE AS FOREPLAY
“Dana Fredsti’s ragtag band of movie-quoting Wild Cards makes A PLAGUE ON ALL HOUSES a delicious gore-filled zombie treat. Fredsti’s writing is razor sharp as her heroes fight off the horde while fighting their attraction for each other. Who will win? Ashley and Gabriel or the Undead outside their door?”
Stacey Graham – author of The Zombie Dating Guide [zombiedatingguide.com] and contributor in the anthologies Hungry For Your Love and The Undead That Saved Christmas.
“The Plague on All Houses is a fast-moving zombie tale that reads like a blast of energy. If you like zombie apocalypse stories, this is a must read!”
— Lois Gresh, New York Times Best-Selling Author of BLOOD AND ICE and ELDRITCH EVOLUTIONS
Psst… for those of you not in the know, Gina McQueen is rumored to be the female pen name for noted horror author John Skipp, a zombie aficionado in his own right. But it’s just a rumor. Right?
And just so you know what you’re getting into with this book (written under my own name instead of my erotic romance pen name Inara LaVey):
AshleyDrake is just a pretty northern California co-ed with a love/hate crush on the strong-jawed, golden-haired Gabriel, her frustratingly handsome T.A. But neither are what they appear to be. In the space of one day the world has gone topsy-turvy. A viral outbreak is bringing the dead to life. Ashley discovers strength and abilities she never dreamed she had when she becomes drawn into the struggle against the walking dead as part of an elite zombie hunting unit. Her new squad leader? Gabriel, who is shouldering more than a few secrets of his own. Between fighting with zombies and fighting with Gabriel, Ashley is about to learn the true meaning of drop-dead gorgeous. (A Plague on All Houses) is BUFFY meets THE WALKING DEAD with the sexiest zombie hunters alive – or undead…
Sharing a link to a review by a reader on Goodreads ’cause I’m following the good advice of my friends who tell me to focus on the positive! I dearly love this review…
…Don’t misquote the text or take it out of context, unless you really DO want to come across as either someone with an agenda or as someone wanting to be funny/clever at the expense of honest and objective reviewing. Most authors are realistic enough to accept that not everyone will like their work, but we do have the right to expect reviewers to be honest when ‘quoting’our work.
Sigh. Just re-read a negative review of one of my books (I have my masochist hat on tonight) and while I can handle the reviewer not getting a particular referential joke, having them basically make a quote up that doesn’t even come close to what I actually wrote other than the use of a particular word just annoys the hell out of me, and makes me wonder on what planet they thought this sort of misrepresentation is okay.
Point being, go ahead and tell me you hate my writing, but please don’t misquote me.
I’ve had two recent experiences with friends of mine that have made me very thoughtful. Both experiences were negative, with one being pretty heinous in terms of thoughtlessness, deliberate cluelessness, and lack of accountability. The other was more understandable, but still upsetting. I don’t really want to air my dirty laundry on the internet; at least not the specific colors and sizes. So I’ll call them Red Shirt and Blue Shirt.
And yes, I’m aware of the Star Trek reference to ‘red shirts.’ Just in case any of you were wondering.
So let’s start with Red Shirt. We were supposed to get together with a third friend down in San Diego. Red Shirt still lives there. I was traveling down from SF and the third friend (Pink Shirt?) flew in from across the country specifically for this get-together and another event the following evening. Plans were made via email. Again, I’m not gonna go into great detail. Suffice it to say Red Shirt made other plans and didn’t tell us until she picked up Pink Shirt at the airport and dropped her off at her hotel room (which she’d gotten to make our get-together more convenient; she has family in town she could have stayed with). I found out about Red Shirt’s desertion when I arrived at the hotel to meet my two friends for our evening. Pink Shirt and I had a good evening anyway … but we both were amazed in a ‘did she really do this?’ sort of way throughout the evening. What my cousin calls the “Wet Haddock in the Face” feeling. Which comes from the total shock you’d feel if someone walked up to you at random and smacked you in the face with a big old wet fish. You’re so shocked you can’t process it right away. Although honestly, if someone hit me in the face with a fish, I’d be taking that fish and beating them about the head and shoulders with it pretty damn quick! But you take my point.
Had Red Shirt been up front (as in informing us her plans had changed) and had I been the only one involved, I would be a lot more understanding about her actions. After all, I was going to be in San Diego anyway and already was struggling to find time to see everyone I wanted to see. The perils of visiting one’s home town, plus find time to play tourist with Dave so he’d have a sense of being on vacation instead of tagging along with me in my efforts to see old friends. As is, I set aside the night in question and most of the next day to spend with Red Shirt and Pink Shirt. Pink Shirt, on the other hand, spent money on a plane ticket AND a hotel room for this get-together. I can’t even begin to understand in what universe Red Shirt thought it was okay to blow her off because something else came along. I really can’t. And especially to do it in such a gormless way.
Got an email from Red Shirt a few days later saying we’d have to make ‘better plans’ next time for getting together. I waited a few days, then nicely called her on it. And I do mean ‘nicely.’ I was honest, yes. But not mean and I did NOT once call her a ‘bastard person.’ I have not yet heard back.
Okay, Blue Shirt. Blue Shirt, a friend of both me and the bf (his friend first) used to live in SF, then married, had kids, moved out of town. Wahh! To the moving away part, not the rest. 🙂 She let us know a while back she’d be coming to town and to set aside an evening. So it went on the calendar with all possible evenings blocked off until we knew her schedule. Long story short, the visit was shortened and there would be no time for an evening visit and the trip was now being tailored for her kids. Which is totally understandable and yes, I really do understand that things change when a person has kids. So instead plans were made for a morning/early afternoon jaunt/lunch. Only problem is the plans were made without including me either in the communications sent regarding them or in the plans themselves. Yes, it was a work day and I do have a full time job. However… there wasn’t even a suggestion in said plans about finding out if I could take any time off at all to hang out. The invite was only extended to Dave. Which yes, hurt my feelings. Not in a wet haddock sort of way, but more in the way it used to feel as a child when you weren’t invited to a particular party. I voiced my feelings (again, nicely and with a sincere understanding of why the plans had changed, just wished I’d been included in the communication and plans so I could have at least met them for coffee or something) to both Blue Shirt and Dave, and that was pretty much it. Haven’t heard back from her either.
Now in the case of Red Shirt, I’m pretty much over it. It’s fairly obvious she’s not going to own up to her actions. Too bad because a simple apology and honest explanation would have, if not fixed things completely, at least put a temporary Band Aid on the wound and give the friendship a chance to heal. Ask most of my friends – it takes a lot to make me burn my bridges. But the more time that passes without hearing back from her, the thinner the spans on the bridge of this particular friendship become. No matter what happens to the bridge, I wish her nothing but the best. I just feel … kind of empty about the whole thing.
As far as Blue Shirt, this incident came on the heels of what happened with Red Shirt. And I was surprisingly hurt by it even though I immediately cut her a ton of slack. I mean, traveling with kids, plans changing, you can’t think of everything or everyone. I was hurt, yes, but my immediate assumption was it’d been an oversight, not a purposeful slight. Again, a quick note after the fact (we’re talking after the trip was over and the dust had settled) acknowledging my feelings would have gone a long way, especially since I’m fairly sure the sheer chaos of the trip was the reason for the way things played out. But since I’ve not heard back from Blue Shirt either, my mind starts going to dark places and thinking things like, “Well … maybe she really DIDN’T wanna see me. Maybe she deliberately didn’t include me in the emails or the plans.” You know, those sorts of things. Non-productive, paranoid and damaging. And believe me, I’m doing my best not to buy into those sorts of negative conclusions. But I’m still left with the uncomfortable notion that my feelings aren’t important enough to acknowledge. If this is the case… well, time to re-evaluate things, reset my expectations and my attachment to the friendship. And even if it’s not, I’m still left feeling kinda crappy about it.
Here’s the thing: I’ve screwed up plenty of times in relationships. Hurt feelings without meaning to and made stupid and/or thoughtless decisions due for any number of reasons (except for deliberate malice. I hate hurting feelings). And I’m sure I’ll do it again, even with the best of intentions. But the older I get, the more I realize the value of being up front rather than avoiding possible confrontation and the even more valuable lesson of acknowledging other peoples’ feelings even if I don’t always understand where they’re coming from or agree with the interpretation of circumstances that generated those feelings (I’m talking friends, family and work colleagues, not trolls online or random crazy people you might meet, btw).
I’m not even sure what the entire point of this post is other than these two incidents have been on my mind and I’m still dealing with my feelings and an accompanying depression to some degree. On the upside, yet more fodder for my writing. And that’s always a good thing. 🙂