manangatang
Günther was slain in the catacombs
- Moderator
- #1
Hello everybody.
Given the SFA is such a supportive and welcoming community, I felt I might share a passage from my upcoming romantic novel in which the main protagonist, Sophie, navigates a troubled and sometimes tormented relationship with her one true love.
Please feel free to provide feedback if you wish*
Sadly, it is not a pictorial novel (nor a comic-book), so fair warning to those of you who do not like to read.
(* I probably won't read or take into your consideration your feedback as I already have a lucrative publishing deal lined up)
CHAPTER 5:
Sophie sighed as she sat on the chaise lounge. A ceramic mug of chamomile tea was cupped in her hands, her hands shaped like a beggar whose reward would be spiritual answers rather than the surplus coins of strangers.
As she gazed through the window of her bedroom, framed by the gentle shimmer of curtains encouraged to movement by a lazy easterly wind, she let her mind go to the place she needed it to go. What WAS it about him that made her so attracted to him? Why did she seem to be spending each passing hour – without exception – with her thoughts turned to him?
Of course his physique and general mien could not be questioned. The dark-skinned man evoked all the sense of a well-reigned beast. His aura shone of sophistication but also an emotional depth beyond reckoning, save for much more intimate exploration.
True, his upbringing clearly contributed to the magnetism. His father had been a proud Lithuanian resistance fighter, staving off Soviet occupation to the extent that a home-made uniform and meagre rations would allow. His life was ostensibly spent in the woodlands around Vilnius, fighting where the opportunity arose. He spent days sometimes positioned in a large Spruce (spPicea abies). Watching and waiting.
His mother was an academic in her own right. But left alone and tasked with raising he and his albino half-sister, her days were spent toiling endlessly to keep her family alive and to sew uniforms for the resistance. This was no mean feat in a time and place where natural resources were limited and oppression from the Soviet forces led to rationing.
It was that patience, constraint and deep resolve that Sophie was now drawn to in him, of that there was no doubt. But there was something else – something she couldn’t define. A mystery hidden in her own inner soul that she had no key to unlock. Why him? Why now?
Just the image of his face made her feel rudderless – tossed helplessly on a squeamish sea of emotion and lust. Raw lust.
She found herself twirling her blonde tresses subconsciously as she heard him approach; his feet tramping purposefully on the crushed stone of her driveway. The breeze seemed to drop away at the mere suggestion of his presence, like so many of her own trifles and cares.
As he approached her, his words and their conversation being hollow to the point of being diversionary, she could feel the heat rising within her. His embrace felt like an electric blanket turned to the highest setting; almost painful in its impact on her senses.
As their clothes fell like leaves on a restless autumnal day, gradually but with a distinct end-point, Sophie’s mind began to swim. While their bodies entwined around each other in the throes of love-making, her thoughts began to race at an immeasurable pace, through corridors and passageways she had yet to explore.
Just as their love-making reached its peak, she found a singular moment of clarity. It was as though all of her self-searching had culminated in a single answer. A single reason she was in love (yes, she admitted it) with this lusty Eastern European man.
The reason itself was a full explosion of the senses. A smell of high-end cigars mixed with cologne. A shiver to the touch. A warm and deep voice that shimmered as a song yet to be sung. A taste of a cinnamon kiss. And in her mind’s eye a silken fabric, shimmering in the dazzling light of a chandelier.
Sophie’s vision was of Pedro himself, the protagonist of her most fulfilling yet devastating relationship. It was of an exquisite eye patch. Of a Mill Park factory floor.
It was Pedro she loved. And she had filled her emotional and physical void with the best version of Pedro she could find.
And it was then that Sophie knew that she must go to him. Her Apollo, ruler of the nine muses. She quickly wrapped herself in her nightgown and slipped silently away into the night.
Given the SFA is such a supportive and welcoming community, I felt I might share a passage from my upcoming romantic novel in which the main protagonist, Sophie, navigates a troubled and sometimes tormented relationship with her one true love.
Please feel free to provide feedback if you wish*
Sadly, it is not a pictorial novel (nor a comic-book), so fair warning to those of you who do not like to read.
(* I probably won't read or take into your consideration your feedback as I already have a lucrative publishing deal lined up)
CHAPTER 5:
Sophie sighed as she sat on the chaise lounge. A ceramic mug of chamomile tea was cupped in her hands, her hands shaped like a beggar whose reward would be spiritual answers rather than the surplus coins of strangers.
As she gazed through the window of her bedroom, framed by the gentle shimmer of curtains encouraged to movement by a lazy easterly wind, she let her mind go to the place she needed it to go. What WAS it about him that made her so attracted to him? Why did she seem to be spending each passing hour – without exception – with her thoughts turned to him?
Of course his physique and general mien could not be questioned. The dark-skinned man evoked all the sense of a well-reigned beast. His aura shone of sophistication but also an emotional depth beyond reckoning, save for much more intimate exploration.
True, his upbringing clearly contributed to the magnetism. His father had been a proud Lithuanian resistance fighter, staving off Soviet occupation to the extent that a home-made uniform and meagre rations would allow. His life was ostensibly spent in the woodlands around Vilnius, fighting where the opportunity arose. He spent days sometimes positioned in a large Spruce (spPicea abies). Watching and waiting.
His mother was an academic in her own right. But left alone and tasked with raising he and his albino half-sister, her days were spent toiling endlessly to keep her family alive and to sew uniforms for the resistance. This was no mean feat in a time and place where natural resources were limited and oppression from the Soviet forces led to rationing.
It was that patience, constraint and deep resolve that Sophie was now drawn to in him, of that there was no doubt. But there was something else – something she couldn’t define. A mystery hidden in her own inner soul that she had no key to unlock. Why him? Why now?
Just the image of his face made her feel rudderless – tossed helplessly on a squeamish sea of emotion and lust. Raw lust.
She found herself twirling her blonde tresses subconsciously as she heard him approach; his feet tramping purposefully on the crushed stone of her driveway. The breeze seemed to drop away at the mere suggestion of his presence, like so many of her own trifles and cares.
As he approached her, his words and their conversation being hollow to the point of being diversionary, she could feel the heat rising within her. His embrace felt like an electric blanket turned to the highest setting; almost painful in its impact on her senses.
As their clothes fell like leaves on a restless autumnal day, gradually but with a distinct end-point, Sophie’s mind began to swim. While their bodies entwined around each other in the throes of love-making, her thoughts began to race at an immeasurable pace, through corridors and passageways she had yet to explore.
Just as their love-making reached its peak, she found a singular moment of clarity. It was as though all of her self-searching had culminated in a single answer. A single reason she was in love (yes, she admitted it) with this lusty Eastern European man.
The reason itself was a full explosion of the senses. A smell of high-end cigars mixed with cologne. A shiver to the touch. A warm and deep voice that shimmered as a song yet to be sung. A taste of a cinnamon kiss. And in her mind’s eye a silken fabric, shimmering in the dazzling light of a chandelier.
Sophie’s vision was of Pedro himself, the protagonist of her most fulfilling yet devastating relationship. It was of an exquisite eye patch. Of a Mill Park factory floor.
It was Pedro she loved. And she had filled her emotional and physical void with the best version of Pedro she could find.
And it was then that Sophie knew that she must go to him. Her Apollo, ruler of the nine muses. She quickly wrapped herself in her nightgown and slipped silently away into the night.
