Friday, September 30, 2016

Flash Fiction: Before the Storm


Before the Storm

Do you know what whirlwinds are? Yes, you do. Remember our romance? That was a whirlwind. You rushed into my life pushing off everyone and everything that had made up my life before you. I was a force to reckon with, you said. And you said that a lot. As compliments sometimes, but at other times I heard an accusation in the slight quivering of your voice. You were the calm to my storm, anchoring me to you. To the rest of the world. You feared I would blow away in my own storm. That I’d be reduced to a shipwreck if a captain didn’t take the helm.
You were that captain. O Captain! My Captain! You said often that I was either worth of a hurricane or a calm. Nothing in between would do for me. All I knew was rampage and all you understood was serenity. Opposites attract and I guess that’s what held us together. But not for long you see. We each ran through the other’s life leaving a storm-scattered raft adrift, detritus trailing us in our wake. We left each other parched and famished. And broken at the seams. Wounded yet healed. Burning and freezing. Merely held together with the debris that swirled around us. But never judging.
Then our fearful trip was done. Hurricanes, though capable of generating surges, typically weaken rapidly when cut off from their primary energy source. Did you know that? You must have. You had to. What else defines your walking out? Of taking away my wind? I was a little too much for you, was I? Why didn’t you engulf the storm within the eye?
I tried. I willed us to fuse. You be the hurricane and I the calm. Did that chase you away? The force with which I came? I remember, you had to prise me apart, one limb after another. Accept it, the hurricane never scared you. You were the calm that the storm feared. You were the eye that deflated the hurricane.
You were ….. I was ….. We were ….. Before the storm ….  

© Jonali Karmakar

Thursday, September 29, 2016

Flash Fiction: Open Challenge


Open Challenge


Instant death. That’s what I’ve been craving since the hour I’ve been forced into my solitary confinement. It’s a dank room with a single boarded up window and no ventilation. I haven’t had the fortune of seeing the sun for days. What wouldn’t I do for just a sliver of sunshine! There’s no light even. The bulb holder is empty for all I know.

I’m not particularly allergic to dust, having spent most of my life in wilderness, but this dusty room has rendered me wheezy. Maybe it’s because I haven’t had anything to eat since a long time. There was some food upon my arrival but that was that. It seems my captors have all but forgotten about me. I had expected instant execution upon capture or at least by sunrise. But it has been days now. I don’t know how long exactly. You lose count of the minutes and hours once you’ve been shoved into a prison fashioned out of meshed iron. All I know is that my insides are screaming in agony and I’m trying hard to not claw at my parched throat. Survival is neither a necessity nor a desire at this juncture. All I crave for is oblivion. Or food and drink. Whichever I’m offered first.

I’m ashamed of my groveling thoughts. Never in my entire life have I been rendered so pathetic a creature like now. Death or food! I laugh insanely at the two oddities I wish for. My weakened brain can all but think about the basic animal instincts of hunger and existential crisis. So much for evolution and whatnot!

It seems I am the sole occupant here in this prison. I had tried to create a ruckus and draw the attention of my captors initially. That was a huge mistake. I had hoped for execution but these people were in a mood to torture me. They threw boiling water at me. I squirmed and ran to the edge for cover. I had avoided the majority part of this inhuman treatment but couldn’t avoid getting scalded some. Now I’ve blisters on my back.

The man who had attacked me had chuckled at my pitiful whimper. He was a sadist no doubt. Before leaving, he had tried to hit me with a cane. Ironically, the meshed design of the prison had stopped any harm to come to me. I had tried to laugh at him but managed only to squeak out a single syllable. He mistook it for a groan and left in a hurry.

Since then no one has come to visit me. I think they want me to die of hunger and thirst. Have these people grown a conscience or what? If I died on my own, my death wouldn’t be on them. Not literally anyway. Some humans are superstitious like that. I won’t give them that satisfaction. No Sir, not I. I’ll fight till the end and remain alive. I’ll force them to kill me in cold blood. I want them to look me in the eye when they murder me. I’ll haunt them as long as possible. My family will avenge my death. They’ll make sure that these people have a very difficult life.

It’s war. It’s us against them. And I’ll leave an indelible mark. I’ve clawed the carpet and gnawed the wood that was sticking inside my cell. Come on humans, show me what you’re made of. You are but a few and we can match you four to one any given day.

Remember, it’s Rats Vs Humans.

© Jonali Karmakar

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Flash Fiction: An Unwanted Guest


An Unwanted Guest

Sometimes there are things that are better lost. They may have been with us for ages but that doesn’t make them welcome guests. We’d definitely do better without their presence in our lives. These things aren’t hard to let go. What stops us from escaping them is their stubbornness at sticking around.

I’ve a friend. Well, calling him a friend isn’t appropriate because I never wanted to befriend him in the first place. We met every now and then but I tried to steer clear of him at every possible opportunity. For years, I successfully avoided him and enjoyed the fruits of his absence. But recently, after taking up a job as a freelancer, I noticed that I couldn’t lose him. He’d come visiting unannounced. He even dared to stay overnight. He was the reason why I was restless always. I couldn’t sleep at night. He’d sit beside me and stare at me non-stop. Not a word did he utter.

There was no running away from him. I felt trapped. My freedom, my independence was suffering because of him. I pleaded and I reasoned with him. Nothing. I bribed and I threatened. More silence. I took up a few hobbies just to keep myself more busy and indulged. I thought it would put an end to his presence in my life. The trick worked initially. But it wasn’t permanent.

One day he caught me in the act of a crime. I thought he’d be scared by my ruthlessness and run away. But boy, was I wrong! Believe me his silence had been better. It turned out he could talk more than I could take in. He’d babble day in and day out on the pretext of helping me hide my crime. He came up with absurd suggestions about dumping the body.

Okay, so I didn’t disclose my crime earlier. Sue me for that. I had murdered a girl. It was a necessity. I needed the money and it had seemed like a quick job. But then things got out of hand and I had no idea how to progress. My genius brain cooked up a solution. Murder. I acted upon my instincts and bam! I had a dead girl with a dead body to dispose off now. Now, don’t me wrong. Murder is okay. It’s easy even. What is difficult is the part that comes after the murder. Police work. Detectives. Media. Trial, probably. Guilt. The list just goes on and on. I had no idea what I was getting into when I committed the murder.
My friend chose just this moment to declare himself the house guest. He said he wouldn’t leave me now. He said he wanted to help. In his own way he was actually trying to help.
He came up with ideas but since I had no prior knowledge or experience, I found myself floundering. I couldn’t choose one option and leave the other for fear of making a mistake.
So now here I am months later still with a dead body to deal with. A crime to organize that has inadvertently been committed. And of course my unwanted guest — Mr. Writers’ Block — who, instead of completely obstructing my work, is throwing at me ideas, each one grander and unrealistic than the other.

© Jonali Karmakar

   

Book Review: Rau — The Great Love Story of Bajirao Mastani by N.S. Inamdar

Title: Rau — The Great Love Story of Bajirao Mastani by N.S. Inamdar
Author: N.S. Inamdar
Translator: Vikrant Pande
Publisher: Pan Macmillan India


Review:

If ‘Bajirao Mastani,’ the movie, was all about forbidden and failed love with two star crossed lovers acting out their well curated dialogues, N.S. Inamdar’s ‘Rau’ (the 1972 Marathi book on which Bhansali’s historical romance is loosely based) is more about how a warrior fights for his country, all the while trying to keep a different sort of a fight out of his domestic life. The grandeur of the big screen lacks in the black and white pages of the book but it’s the story itself that successfully creates a splendid treat for the book lovers.
Inamdar’s Rau is a much detailed version of the life and time of Shrimant Bajirao Peshwa. The Maratha ruler’s administration finds more focus in the book that his romance with his second wife Mastani. He is a willful and valiant soldier but at the same time he comes across as an affectionate individual. His character is flawed and there is nothing larger than life about him. Although he is quick tempered, he fights for what he believes in. He is equally passionate for his empire and the people that make up his life.
The novel also provides an insight into the Indian society during the 18th century. Credited with expanding the Maratha Empire, especially in the north, he was fabled to have never lost a single battle in his brief military career of 20 years. Allegedly, possibly the finest cavalry general ever produced by India. We see the orthodox Hindu Brahmin society of that time that did not object to the Peshwa’s having a concubine in addition to a wife but didn’t offer any acceptance to his marrying her on basis of her caste. Bajirao's brother Chimnaji Appa and their mother, Radhabai, also never accepted Mastani as one of their own. Many attempts were made to take her life, presumably by Chimnaji Appa; she survived with the help of Chhatrapati Shahu. It goes on to show the workings of the society and its narrow-mindedness.
This being a translation, not much can be gleaned about the writing style of the author. What I can say is that Vikrant Pande as a translator has done a good job. Nothing seems to have been lost in translation. The story has all the ingredients that make for a good reading experience. There is romance, history, politics, kings, and warriors. What can go wrong with these combinations? I’d recommend it to all those who enjoy historical romance.  

About the Author:    

Born in a village in Maharashtra’s Satara district, N.S. Inamdar (1923–2002) was one of India’s foremost Marathi novelists, with a writing career spanning over five decades. He is the author of sixteen historical novels and an autobiography.

About the Translator:

Vikrant Pande has translated Ranjit Desai’s Raja Ravi Varma, Milind Bokil’s Shala and N.S. Inamdar’s Shahenshah. He has worked for over twenty-five years with various multinational companies and is currently heading TeamLease Skills University at Vadodara.

Buy Link:




* I received a review copy from the publisher in exchange for an honest review.
** Picture courtesy: Amazon.in 

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Flash Fiction: Modus Vivendi


Modus Vivendi

I stare at you and loath your presence. Your hair sticks out every which way and as you pant, you look hilarious. The perfect halo that used to be and that you never failed to flaunt has been replaced by wisps of limp strands. No amount of coaxing hides the shiny pate that is all too visible from afar. I’ve seen you combing them with military precision in the hopes of getting rid of the waves that only crest at the two sides leaving a smooth valley at the centre. That is actually your good hair day. Unfortunately, today is not one of those days.
My eyes glide over your flabby torso. Have you noticed how the roots of your chest-hair have started to go grey? I surmise you haven’t. You are vain enough even at this age to have undergone the rigorous ritual of removing those thick, curly body hair. And you’d have enlisted me for the job for I’m nothing to you but a domestic help.
You groan as you heave your bulky body from atop me. You’re done for today. Work accomplished. I can detect a triumphant smile on your face even in this semi-darkness. Now you’ll roll over on your side and snore. You never stopped to ask me if I was done. Not even in the initial days of our marriage. You’re too strung up to waste your words on a simpleton like me, isn’t it? Do you even take me as a human being? Oh you do. Three nights a week you consider me human enough to ride me like a rodeo-rider. Rest of the time I may well be a piece of furniture who doesn’t receive a single glance from the owner.
I stifle a sob that threatens to slip out of my parched throat. I extricate myself carefully from under you and tiptoe to the washroom. The queen-sized bed is dwarfed by your huge frame. You allow me but a sliver of a portion to lie on it. What you don’t know is that for several years now I do not share the rest of the night with you. You are so lost and so oblivious to my presence, that my absence doesn’t dawn on you. So be it.
Crawling on my haunches, I step out of our shared bedroom and venture into the luxury of the other room down the corridor. The door is ajar as usual. I step into the cool interior and smile. On the bed I run my eyes over the silhouette of a petite figure. I sit down on the crispy sheet and stroke her hair lovingly. She stirs a little and smiles in her sleep. What is she dreaming? I hope it’s something really good.
 I snuggle beside her and hold her in my arms. She smells of baby power and milk. I cuddle her some more before losing myself to sleep.

Our daughter is the only reason I bear with your tantrums. How else do you think I tolerate a bully like you? You’ve been the worst husband to me but you’ve been the best version of a father to our daughter. This is not a lifestyle that I’d have chosen for myself but for now the odds are against you. For now.  


© Jonali Karmakar

Spotlight: E.S. Ready

Title: Until Someday
Author: E.S. Ready


About the Book:

The year is 1927 and professional boxer Emmett Roane is losing his grip on reality. His career is faltering, memories of a lost love haunt him and the horrors of the Great War muddle his mind. Emmett’s past is hobbling his future, and no amount of booze or knockout blows can ease his painful memories. 
     Seeking solace in the place where he and his Anna had once been so happy, Emmett leaves Brooklyn for a few days alone in Newport at the gilded waterfront Hermann Hotel. During a fateful weekend as he tries to make peace with his ghosts, Emmett crosses paths with Maude Mable, a lively beauty with secrets of her own. But they soon learn the luxury hotel also hosts Luther Irvin, an opium-addicted mobster who is as violent as he is desperate.
     When Emmett and Maude discover Luther’s hideous plan to wage war on a rival gang, the pair is thrust into a deadly match of wits and force. His back against the ropes, Emmett finds his quest for self-restoration has become a mission of survival—for him, Maude and everyone at the Hermann. Can Emmett Roane, a fighter who desperately seeks an elusive peace, halt the embodiment of evil while finding a way to heal his own heart and mind?

 About the Author:




E.S. Ready graduated from the University of New Haven with a B.S. in Criminal Justice - Investigative Services. He enjoys reading and writing crime, action, adventure, mystery, and historical fiction. He currently resides in his Connecticut hometown with his family. E.S. is an old soul that is fond of mischief and living a good story as much as he likes telling one. Until Someday is his first novel.





Monday, September 26, 2016

Flash Fiction: Time Turner


Time-Turner

I twitched my nostril twice. First to my left and then to my right. Then with my right hand I pumped in the empty air. A jump. A tug. The portal had opened. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to drift in the psychedelic light. Tiny shapes fluttered around. Red. Blue. Black. Some rod shaped. A few ribbon like. My lips stretched to form a smile. The best part of the journey was coming. It was right at the corner.
Time stopped. Then it turned. Hesitated for a fraction of a second and began spooling backward. Too rapidly first but then with the laziness of a summer afternoon. I saw tiny windows with images moving behind the shutters. Experience had taught me that I could select any of these windows and enter it. Time played once I had stepped into the scene. I could walk around and relive the scene as it unfolded. Nobody could see me or hear me. I was a ghost, a figment. But I got to experience the time again just like the first time. Better perhaps for there was no suspense lurking at any of the bends.
I chose a window now. Durga puja. Shaptami. A Sunday, unfortunately. I didn’t like any of the five days of the puja to coincide with a Sunday. It meant huge loss in terms of home-made food. But that particular Sunday Shaptami had been different. Dad had returned from service after several months. Mom wanted to compensate for all the missed time. She got herself busy in the kitchen. It was her way of romancing Dad.
The present me smiled as the past me sneaked into the kitchen. I had been around ten then. All gangly and bones. I sniffed the aroma of Mutton Biriyani. Mom’s Sunday special. It hit my sensory organs and titillated my nose. I twitched my nostril twice. A touch. A tug. The portal was fast dissolving around me. Bright light.
“No you don’t. You don’t just march into my kitchen with your eyes screwed shut, sniffing the air like a dog and with those dirty shoes still on your feet,” I heard my Mom say as she screwed my ear mercilessly.
“But Ma, I’m hungry.”
“Clean yourself first and then sit down at the dining table. Wait like the others. And aren’t you ashamed of your behavior? You’re a father. When will you grow up for real?”
Within minutes I had washed and changed. I joined my son at the table.
“Sunday Mutton Biriyani,” my son beamed as the food was served.
“Nah! Time-turner,” I whispered as I dug into the warm comfort of spices.      


© Jonali Karmakar

Blog Tour: Memorable Gifts Series by Diane Thorne

MEMORABLE GIFTS

The erotic menage Memorable Gifts series by Diane Thorne includes two books: A Gift to Remember and Another Gift to Remember.
Get your copy of each on Amazon today!
synopsis

A Gift to Remember

One man. Two women. A birthday surprise he will never forget.
Carol has spent the last five years working as an assistant for her boss, Thomas Barrett. She enjoys her job, and is a good friend to his wife, Lynn. Every year Lynn asks Carol for assistance in obtaining a gift for Thomas’s birthday. With his big fortieth arriving in a week, Carol expects she’ll need to snoop around the office for Lynn. To Carol’s surprise, Lynn already has an idea for Thomas’s present, and it’s one he will never forget.
Lynn invites Carol to join her and Thomas in a menage a trois. Although shocked, Carol considers such a rare opportunity to broaden her sexuality. But if she joins her boss and his wife in the bedroom, will Carol be able to continue a relationship with them? Moreover, can she keep her job working for Thomas?

Another Gift to Remember

Fulfilling fantasies with two hot lovers is the best gift for any man.
Thomas Barrett has it all. He’s a part owner of a marketing firm with his best friend of twenty years, Andy. In addition to having a successful career, Thomas enjoys the love of two beautiful women: his wife, Lynn, and his assistant, Carol. He couldn’t be happier with life.
Tasked with finding a gift idea for Andy’s fortieth birthday, Thomas comes up with a perfect one. Not only will it please Andy, Thomas is certain his idea will provide great pleasure to Lynn and Carol. Thomas wants his favorite naughty women to bring Andy into their love nest. But will Lynn and Carol be willing to have sex with Thomas’s best friend? Better yet, can Andy maintain a working and sexual relationship with them?


another-gift-to-remember-evernightpublishing-2016-series-evernightbanner

giveaway
Enter for your chance to win a $5 Amazon gift card.
Giveaway runs the duration of the blog tour (September 26 - October 2). Good luck!

excerpt

Smiling, Lynn faced her husband. "Carol and I have agreed to express ourselves freely tonight. We want you to do the same. Anything is acceptable." Thomas's brows shot up. "What does that mean?" "It means we're not holding back, and neither should you," Carol said. She turned to face Lynn and placed her hand on the side of Lynn's face. Leaning toward her, Carol brought Lynn's mouth to meet hers. Lynn kissed her back and slid her tongue between Carol's lips. Heat swirled within Carol while her loins ached for attention. She clenched her thighs. Gently and tenderly, Carol played with Lynn's tongue but she held control of the urges steadily rising within her. The night was young and she wanted to take plenty of time to play later. She pried her mouth from Lynn's, then they both smiled and looked at Thomas. "If you want to kiss or touch Carol, then do it. I won't stop you, nor will I stop her," Lynn said. "If I want to kiss and touch Carol, I will."  

a-gift-to-remember-evernightpublishing-jayaheer2016-banner2

about the author 

Diane Thorne is an erotic romance writer living in Indiana. She writes in a variety of genres such as Contemporary, Fantasy, Urban Fantasy, Paranormal Erotic Romance and Menage a Trois. When she's not slaving away at her day job, she creates erotic adventures with hot and seductive men. Reader beware, she is not responsible for any titillation, increased temperatures, or hormonal stirrings. Blame her characters and read responsibly.


another-gift-to-remember-evernightpublishing-2016-vistaprint-mugs_panoramic-wraparound-2
Event organized by:
Logo_Name

Sunday, September 25, 2016

Flash Fiction: Sojourn


Sojourn

I have been walking for thirteen hours. When I had started out, it had been morning. Now it is dark. I can hear the crickets. Even the occasional howl of a lone wolf somewhere. The terrain has changed too. I don’t know where I am. Only that I’m standing on a deserted bridge with no sign of a living soul for miles around. I didn’t have any particular destination in mind when I left home. Just that I wanted to put some distance between me and the rest of the world. I’ve been letting that distance grow ever since.
How far have I come? Have I crossed an entire state? It’s dark and I can’t see any milestones close by. Not that it matters. There’s no return for me. There won’t ever be. I’m done with my life. That is if my life can be called a life to start with. It has been a pathetic excuse of some disjointed, hastily put years. No achievements to brag of, no friends to call my own. All I’ve been is a loser. But no more. I’m tired. I’m no longer in a mood to drag my sorry story for the entertainment of others. I quit. This is as far as I go.  
I grab the cold steel of the bridge and try to haul myself. I can’t. The railing is too high. Or maybe I’m too short. A shove from behind would have helped. Whom am I kidding? Isn’t this why I’m here in the first place? That I’m beyond any sort of help. I give another go. All I manage is to stumble on the ground. Great! Even death wouldn’t have me, is it?
I grope around in the dark to see if there’s something to stand upon. My fingers brush against something familiar. I pick it up to examine. A camera. Here in the wilderness! Doesn’t quite add up. I switch it on. The library is overflowing with photos of me.
Mesmerized, I keep flicking the photos. There’s a picture of baby me, moments after I was born. Mom and Dad are both holding me in their arms. She looks radiant. He is beaming. Oh you won’t be so happy with me soon, I whisper. The next one shows me in pigtails. There’s another girl in the picture who’s holding my hands. She was my bestie. The imperative word being ‘was.’ We don’t see eye to eye these days. Or is it that I’m the one who doesn’t see eye to eye with her? I’m no longer certain of anything. The anger and desperation that I’d been feeling have morphed into something else.
I keep scrolling through the photos. It’s like a documentation of my life thus far. There are hundreds of shots, each capturing some long forgotten moment. All happy ones. Each one of them genuine. I marvel how these lovely moments had gone unnoticed by me. But more than that I wonder whom the camera belongs. Certainly not to anybody I know.
I look around me carefully for the first time and feel scared. I don’t want to remember why I’m here in the middle of nowhere. I want to go back home. I want to belong. The darkness seems to be pressing down on me. I want the distance to vanish that I’ve put between the rest of the world and me.
“I want to leave. I’m ready to come home, Dad,” I whisper through the steel bars.
“You can take her home. She’s no longer a danger to herself,” I hear the doctor say.
I hear a click. Gentle hands guide me into the blinding sunlight.
“How long?” I croak.
“Six months, darling,” my Dad says.
“Don’t send me back here. I’ll be good, I promise.”
I don’t look back for a last glance at the cheerful faΓ§ade of the institution. I’ve spent too much time inside its bleak belly.


© Jonali Karmakar

  

Saturday, September 24, 2016

Flash Fiction: Friday The 13th


Friday the 13th

The chill invaded the very core of my existence. I blew raspy breath on my numb fingers, trying to get the blood flow. Stamping my feet was not enough to ward off the hungry tendrils of cold that threatened to slice open the thick denim that clad my limbs. My lungs shuddered with every labored inhalation. That I was unaccompanied only heightened the feeling of iciness.
Two mangled bodies lay in a pool of blood with a machete protruding out of one of the bodies. It was the girl, I decided. Her feet were bent at an odd angle. Her body suggested motion. The boy lay prone, several inches away from her. He had tried to get hold of the scared girl perhaps when his fingers had been chopped off. Their tattered clothes suggested struggle. An eerie glow from the loft overhead cast a gloomy and oft fluttering light on the duo.
“Like what you see?” asked a grave voice.
I turned around with a start and was face to face with the perpetrator. His eyes shone with excitement. I could see hunger in those twinkling orbs.
I nodded and clapped.
“I’ve never seen such a perfect art installation in my entire career as a curator. People do not exaggerate about your work,” I smiled as I handed him the first prize. “Can’t wait for you to come and showcase your talent in our gallery,” I added for good measure.
“I’m honored.”
“So am I. This indeed is the best of the lot. What do you call this particular installation?”
“Friday the 13th.”
I nodded before venturing to the next display.  


    

Friday, September 23, 2016

Flash Fiction: 100 Blog Posts


Blank Space


Pots clang. A crash. Perhaps a few plates from the crockery set just met their death. The aroma of burnt milk wafts and mingles with the fragrance of incense. Sandal? Mogra? Restless ululating of women. A sea of white fills the courtyard.

No words. Some sniffles. A void where there should have been music. Just a blank space, never to be filled. No waiting. Only absence.

Thud. The hands that held the crockery set moments ago now lay beside the porcelain shards. Silence. Frenzied feet scurry on the linoleum.

Impatient screech of siren. Blue flashes.

An announcement. Collective gasps from the sea of white.

A funeral and a birth. Auspicious?  Ominous?

Pots clang. A crash. Perhaps a few plates from the crockery set just met their death. The aroma of burnt milk wafts and mingles with the fragrance of incense. Sandal? Mogra? Restless gurgles of toddlers. A sea of pink fills the courtyard. Cakes dissected. Confetti rain.

Noise. Tinkling laughter. The void no longer blank.

Spotlight: AJ Adams


`*•.¸(`*•.¸(`*•.¸(`*•.¸¸.•*´)¸.•*´)¸.•*´)¸.•*´

••••••★★★AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT★★★••••••

¸.•*´(¸.•*´(¸.•*´(¸.•*´`*•.¸)`*•.¸)`*•.¸)`*•.¸


πŸ“–πŸ“– AJ ADAMSπŸ“–πŸ“–         

             
aj all.jpg
AJ Adams novels are all self-standing and although some feature the same families, you need not read them all - although it would be awesome if you did!

The Degas Girl
Organized Crime. Dark Romance

Degas cover.jpgSerenity Bishop is a work of art. Her skin a canvas, decorated with the scars of her evil captor’s twisted abuse. But her tormentor, Angelo, is about to lose control.

Zachary Schiavelli is an art thief and forger. His handsome face is merely the mask that hides a cold, calculating man whose own childhood of abuse has honed him into a remorseless killing machine.

Zachary is about to take an intense disliking to Angelo.

In a violent tale of mob rule where violence begets violence, an unlikely alliance between two forces of nature is about to change the face of organized crime. When Serenity and Zachary collide, it’s an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, and everyone around them is about to get caught in the crossfire.

A complete novel with no cliffhangers.

A violent tale of mob rule and dark romance. Warning contains explicit scenes of dubious consent, graphic violence and sex. Adults only.



degas6.jpgHe wore jeans and a turquoise T-shirt. The colour made his eyes look blue instead of green. I wasn’t fooled by his looks and his gentle ways. This man had a will of iron, and by the way he looked at me, I could see he was just as determined to control me as Angelo. He just used his tongue instead of his fists.

I’d go along with it, because anything that kept me out of the hole meant I had a chance to escape. I’d pretend to be docile, and as soon as he fell asleep or took his eye off me, I’d make a run for it.

He looked me over, frowning slightly. Suddenly I wondered if he was changing his mind. Maybe he wasn’t going to let me eat. Maybe it was a game. Maybe he’d show me the food, and then tie me up and leave me to starve while he stuffed his face. I was trembling at the thought.
          
Beast
Fantasy, Dark Romance

beast cover.jpgHe stuck the knife in the ground and stripped off his leathers. The tunic came off, revealing a long, lean, muscled torso, covered in tattoos. Snakes ran up and down his arms, his pecs and his shoulders. A skull blazed on his chest.
Then he was pushing apart my legs, settling between my thighs, leaning over me. He smelled of smoke, leather and musk. It was terrifying, like being at the mercy of an animal.

Falsely accused, Wynne is determined to clear her name. However, a trip to petition the Steward at Brighthelme turns disastrous when the Beasts, fearsome warriors from the frozen north, raze the city. When Wynne is carried away, she’s determined to regain her freedom but Rune, her captor, has other ideas.

Beast is set in Prydain, an imaginary place that combines Anglo-Saxon England with Medieval England, the Teutonic Kingdom and the Viking Age. This story contains kidnapping, dubious consent and graphic violence, however, it is a love story rather than a dark romance. It is a standalone novel; no cliff-hangers.

Warning: This book contains explicit scenes of dubious consent, graphic violence and sex.


Helpless
A Belial MC novel

helpless cover.jpgFracas Macintyre has been in and out of trouble all her life but this time it’s worse than ever. In debt to a loan shark, she’s caught up in a war between the Alistairs, nicknamed The Irish Mob, and Belial’s Disciples, England’s nastiest MC. Kidnapped and at the mercy of Caden Winslow, Fracas is convinced that life is going to get very nasty indeed.

Caden Winslow is an ex soldier used to taking care of business. When an Alistair henchman steals his beloved Busa, he simply takes one of theirs hostage and expects a simple trade will solve the problem. However, Caden is about to be pulled into a war.

Warning: This book is a dark romance. It contains explicit scenes of dubious consent, graphic violence and sex. It is for adults only.



I opened the boot, and at the sight of the girl, Crush began grinning. “Hey, is that for me, too?”

“You can go fuck yourself!” The little tart blew up instantly. “You evil bastard, let me go!”

“Whoo! I like her!”

Crush is a man who enjoys performing to the stereotypical outlaw biker image. This time I could see he meant it, and so did the girl. She opened her mouth, spotted Crush’s cut and went very quiet.

“You can’t have her. She’s my collateral.” I pulled her towards me, snapped through her ankle ties with the box cutter and threw her over my shoulder. She muttered furiously, but she’d stopped fighting. I could feel her raise her head and look over the crowd of gathering Disciples. She shivered and went limp. I guess she didn’t like the look of the party.
Crush was still curious. “Collateral for what?”
“Alistair’s man took my Busa.”
“You’re shitting me!”

The Bonus
A Zeta cartel novel
Organized Crime. Dark Romance

bonus cover.jpgChloe is a seasoned drug courier who finds herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Facing a lingering and painful death at the hands of the Zetas, Mexico’s most brutal cartel, she persuades their enforcer to claim her. Has Chloe made a huge mistake, or will her choice prove her salvation - and his?

Warning: This book contains explicit scenes of dubious consent, graphic violence and sex.



bonus4.jpg

Deliverance
Action, adventure, Organized Crime.
Dark Romance. BDSM

deliverance cover.jpgMac is all set for an undercover job when an old friend lands him with Pepper, a human trafficking victim of a Moroccan-Turkish crime syndicate. Unable to turn her away, Mac now has two missions: to infiltrate a terrorist training camp in the Sahara and to be a Master for Pepper.

Warning: contains graphic violence and sex.
Standalone novel, no cliffhangers







Songbird
A Zeta cartel novel
Organized Crime. Dark Romance. BDSM

When cartel boss Artursongbird cover.jpgo Vazquez discovers his girlfriend Gina is a DEA rat and his deputy Escamilla is staging a take-over, Arturo fixes his problems by killing everyone - except for Solitaire, Escamilla’s unwilling mistress. Solitaire is intelligent, tough, and shares Arturo’s interest in BDSM. Arturo falls head over heels but someone is leaking information - and the evidence point at Solitaire.


songbird6.jpg
“You’re the big boss.” She looked up at me and smiled. She was dressed in a cheap cotton shirt and jeans that should be on the burn pile, but that smile was pure gold. This girl had guts.

“I told JosΓ© he was a fool to try and cheat you,” she said. “I wasn’t part of it, and I don’t work for you. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
She’d heard about our policy protecting bystanders. Of course it doesn’t apply to anyone whose eyewitness testimony can put me in a courtroom. Well, try to put me in a courtroom. In Mexico nobody would dare accuse me, and I’ve enough resources in England to guarantee a police investigation would come to nothing, but it’s not my style to take chances. Solitaire would be going into the ground along with Escamilla.
“Mr Vazquez,” Solitaire gave me her best smile. “I don’t expect something for nothing.” She dropped her voice. “You’d like me,” she whispered. “I’ve heard about you. We’re the same.”
“Are we?”
“Yes, I can make you very happy.” She brushed my hand over her cheek and then kissed my palm. “I’m a very good girl,” she said quietly. “Unless you prefer a naughty one?”
She sucked my thumb, and I was instantly rock hard.

Dirty Dealings
A Zeta cartel novel
Organized Crime. Romance

dirty dealings cover.jpgI could’ve fucking strangled her. She knew it too because she stepped away quickly. “Touch me and I’ll have you!” she snarled.
“Bruja mala leche! What the fuck do you think you’re playing at! You can’t push me around!”
“Sure I can.” Her eyes were slate grey, the same colour as the sky, and just as cold. “I need help, and you’re going to give it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’ve got a situation. I need someone who isn’t afraid of murder and mayhem.”
I should have charmed her, offered to help and maybe it would have settled it, but I was too mad to even consider it. “Help you? Over my dead fucking body!”
She shrugged. “We can do it that way, too.” She took out her phone. “I’ll call you soon, hopefully within the hour. If you still refuse, I call Smith.” The eyes were hard. “I’d rather not shop you, because I hate that bastard, but I will if you make me.”
I gave her my number. I mean, I wanted to kill her, but in London they notice things like bodies in the street. Especially if you’re careless enough to do it in broad daylight next to a cop shop.

Quique is having a bad time. Back in Mexico his marriage has fallen apart and his wife has made him a laughing stock by cheating on him. Now he’s in London and finding himself out of his depth with a complex commercial deal. To make things worse, Natalia Truelove, a chef and pub manager, is blackmailing him. Quique is ready to commit murder and he’s pretty sure who his first victim will be.

Warning: Dirty Dealings contains strong adult language and themes as well as graphic violence and fully depicted love scenes.



WTMO author bio.jpg

I write cartel and crime romances, with twisted dark heroes and feminist arse kicking heroines.

My real name is Ellen Whyte. In my non-novel life I'm a syndicated author who has published roughly 3500 articles and 10 non-fiction books with publishers that include Pearson and Marshall Cavendish.


wTMO hostedby.jpg