WHO ME, WORRIED?

Hell, yes I’m worried. In the days before the Orange Man, I used to worry about little things. At the time I considered my worries worth worrying about.  I used to worry about not worrying—like if I didn’t pay attention to my cares and anxieties they would grow like sea monkeys and surround me. Now, I can’t even remember what I had to worry about.

The other day I got my worry box out to see what it was I worried about. What were my fears in the pre-DT era? I can tell you they were absurdly small things. I won’t bore you with my paltry scraps of paper stuffed in that box. I wrote them down and put them in the box because it made me feel better—like I’d passed my worries on. I put my trust in the infinite wisdom of the Universe. I knew that things would sort themselves out. I could relax.

Right now, I need a box the size of a refrigerator for all my concerns. I’m considering clearing out the coat closet and turning it into the worry box. I’ll write my worries on scraps of paper, open the door, and throw them into the deep recesses of the closet. Then I got to thinking about the closet. Is that where I’m going to have to live for the next four years, hiding behind my anxieties and waiting, endlessly waiting, for that knock on the door and the storm troopers to take me away?

There are so many things, big things, to worry about that I can’t sleep. Every dystopian scenario from books and movies run through my head. I try to come up with contingency plans but can’t. I have never in my life felt so overwhelmed that I couldn’t come up with a Plan A, Plan B and Plan C. I am a planner. I used to think that I could handle any emergency with reasonable calmness, to look at it with a clarity that allowed me to function well in a crisis. I don’t have a plan for a post-dystopian DT world.

I don’t even know where to begin. I have a passport and a Rand McNally road atlas. Will I be able to stay in my homeland? Will I know when to cut my losses and run? Where in the world can I go? Where is the port in the storm? What about my elderly parents will they be safe or will they get scooped up too because they are guilty by association. If we all run how will they get their medications? What do we do about our houses, our children’s education, our bank accounts?

In the comfort of pre-DT, we couldn’t see why people didn’t run away from the brutality of dictators. Why didn’t they just leave everything behind and get the hell out while the getting was good? Because most of them couldn’t.  I like to think I’ll be able to run when the times comes, but will I? Will I wait it out and hope that reasonable, kind, people will keep us safe, will not allow us to be interned into harsh camps where we’ll get the gayness beat out of us, starved, sick, our humanity dropping away because it’s about survival of the fittest now. Will we have the fortitude to hang on and pray that one day the madness will end and we’ll be set free?

The only answer I have is—I don’t know. So I let my worry consume me and I wait for a day that may never come again. A day when I sleep without nightmares and I don’t worry when I wake.

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What Do Zombies Eat?

Written by Saxon Bennett and Layce Gardner

People always ask us where our ideas come from. I usually answer that our books are born in our kitchen. I don’t know why the kitchen. Perhaps it’s the nurturing idea of food, perhaps it’s the smells, the tastes… Honestly, I really have no idea. All I know is that the kitchen is where most of our books are born.

Just like our newest book. We gave birth one day while Layce was cooking.

I was setting the table when I suddenly announced, “I have an idea.”

“Do I want to know?” Layce poured more batter in the pan. We were having one of my favorite dinners—pancakes. Layce makes great pancakes.

“We need to take a break from romantic comedy—try something new for a bit. Stretch our legs,” I said.

“What do you want to write about—zombies?” she said jokingly.

“That’s a great idea!”

“But I thought you said you already had an idea?” Layce said.

“My idea was about writing something new and different—I just didn’t know what. But now I know. We’ll write a story about zombies.  Only we’ll make them lesbians.”

“And we can have these bad ass women fighting them,” Layce said.

“There’ll be lots of danger, and remember all the contingency plans I have for an apocalypse? We can use those ideas. These women will be really smart and resourceful.”

“Why are we making the zombies lesbian?” Layce asked.

“I thought you’d never ask. The zombies attack the vajayjay, not the brains…”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, that’ll be the funny part,” I said.

“I like it,” Layce said sounding less uncertain..

“You do?”

Layce handed me a short stack of pancakes on a plate. “We’ll call it ‘Attack of the Lesbian Zombies.’ Like it’s a B-movie. It’s a satire on all things zombie. And it’ll be a trilogy.”

“Now you’re talking,” I said, smearing butter over my pancakes.

“I’d read it.”

“I would, too.”

And that’s how our latest book “Attack of the Lesbian Zombies” was born. Right in our kitchen, over pancakes. If you rush out and purchase the book right now, you will also receive a short stack of Layce’s famous pancakes.*

Attack of the Lesbian Zombies is a five-part episodic saga. You can read it in parts—for only 99 cents each— or you can download the entire book (parts 1-5).

And if you subscribe to Kindle Unlimited, you can read the entire book for FREE!

* This is not true. We ate all the pancakes.