I write love stories and paranormal romances that have bite. They're not sweet stories—the kind that make you roll your eyes. Instead, lust and danger are bedfellows. No, I promise I won't write the kind of story where the hero applies moisturiser every morning and the heroine has trouble making herself coffee because she's that in love with him. The stories I write are full of conflict. Try out the one below and see what you think.
In our makeshift corner room, just metres away from Martin Place Square, I told Signa she would find me when she took her last breath, so she closed her eyes and pushed a smile across her face.
Everything about her, from the way her hips curved to her legs, to the way her soft breasts often bulged in my hands, she made me want to press against her now and run a single finger down her throat, until I heard her whimper my name. But I couldn't. Not now. Not out here.
Closing my eyes too, I pressed my ear to my open hand. That way, the loud pings and lights of the pedestrian crossing almost vanished.
Cold liquid had washed the bitter tablets down. Since I wanted to arrive before she did, I raised the bottle to my lips again.
‘Hold me, Tane,’ she whispered.
‘Shh.’ I rose in the sleeping bag to kiss her brow, acknowledging silently the business suit laughing, walking past and holding hands with another suit as they talked about their Bali trip.
I flopped beside Signa, flat on my back. Squeezing my eyes shut, I turned over so that the chill from the pavers seeped through my sleeping bag to cool my front.
Pound, pound, pound. The sound of death took me; the sound of my heart blared because it finally rested. Grey turned to black, and the street pavers no longer made me shiver.
When the inky colour of death stood stagnant before me, I resigned myself to the fact that our rightful place had no need of light.
Signa had not arrived yet; I was pretty sure. I waited, knowing she might be distraught when she got here.
Flash. Blinding white light. It burst onto the black canvas like a spotlight in the night. It didn't fade.
‘Tane?’ Her voice, pure but tremulous, struck the darkness like a whip.
‘Signa?’ I called. Though, neither of us had breath or an actual voice.
‘Tane. What is this place?’
‘We're home, Signa. This is my home.’
‘Home,’ she repeated. Her light drew closer; I felt her warmth melt the chill within. She seeped, poured and wound nearer, as though she were the sun caressing the horizon in the morning.
I drew closer to her light too, engulfing her, surrounding her, until I parted her soul like the folds of a white curtain, using my own grey hands. She sighed when I entered her sweet smelling soul of spicy lavender.
‘Mmm,’ I murmured, as I pulsed and rocked within her.
‘Tane,’ she whispered. Her warmth tempered the chill. The dark was no longer dark. She’d made it so blisteringly bright.
Yet, even so, I could see speckles of light, like stars. I shook, though I was no longer cold. ‘There's no more cold, bitter street. Only this, Signa. Only this.’ I kissed her from within.
Her being swelled; I felt it as we grew hot.
‘We're home, Tane. I never want this to stop.’
‘It won't. We made it, home.’
The girls live by their hearts; the guys are obsession worthy, and the ghouls are deliciously creepy.
Why not take a minute to curl up and sigh with a good romance. Relax and have fun. Work is over. We deserve to relax.
If you're anything like me, when you've had a chance to relax and chill, the need to run—sometimes babbling and sometimes screaming—will pass. You can strangle your son later because he stuffed his socks down behind the lounge cushions. For now, the world of love, magic, darkness and light rules.
Greg looks over at Maree, who is unconscious in the car. When he closes his eyes and opens them again, everything changes. Flash fiction: Soul mates continues ...
When Jo discovers her teenage crush, Wade Scott, has been exhibiting some strange behaviour, she knows she should never have left him. Short story: The devil inside continues ...
We get enough reality in our everyday lives. While there is a time for nonfiction, fantasy and paranormal romances transport you into a world that belongs to you and no-one else. When you read love stories in the context of events that could never happen, you create and imagine the fantasy and sprinkle it with your own reality.
These love stories encourage you to find yourself in the exotic embrace of characters who may or may not be real. The hearts of witches,
ghosts, werewolves and vampires will clash, and you'll be reminded what romance is like.
Aussie romances are full of lion-hearted women who chase adventure. They might be beautiful, or they might not be. Whatever they look like, they understand deformity and difference are shunned by the outside world, yet this is what excites them. Yep, reading a paranormal love story is equivalent to having wine and chocolate: dark, rich and naughty.
Even if you're on a crowded train, it’s easy to connect with the hero and heroine when you're reading a great romance. The characters don't judge us. Hell, they'll tell us everything they know about themselves, even the bits they're not sure about. Love it.
Love is a difficult human process to describe. To write romance, we also write about other human emotions like pride, fear, grief and obsession. We write about primal urges. So if you also write, you might identify with my own journey to read and write about love.