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Six Sentence Sunday #28

Hey, fellow Sixers! Long time no snippet. But here are six sentences from a new project, the first in a series of short, episodic novelettes following up on Didier and Caroly, from my novel Curio. Hoping to release this first story (currently untitled) in the summer. Thanks to everyone who shared kind words with me about the characters—your requests for more have not gone unheeded! Enjoy.

She fascinates me, Caroly. Her body, long and pale as winter, her rich, smooth voice softening the edges of that charming, homely accent. She arrived on my doorstep a virgin, a blank canvas, at once terrified and eager to be transformed. At first so cautious, yet never once has she dismissed any lovers’ game I’ve proposed. Every position and activity is a new delicacy to her, each sampled and many deemed worthy of ordering again and again…and my pleasure to be the man to serve her. At times she closes herself up, cold and tight as a mussel, but once you coax her open, she will let you swallow her whole.

Thanks for stopping by! Don’t forget to go check out all the other Six Sentence Sunday excerpts this week.

Six Sentence Sunday #26

Hey, fellow Sixers! Here are six sentences from a nearly-done novella, for an anthology project I’m working on with some friends, on the theme of “strangers on a train.” The hero and heroine of my story, Thank You For Riding, are already cursorily acquainted, and they’ve run into one another on the last subway train of the evening. The heroine just got dumped, and is finding the hero’s friendly flirtations a welcome ego-boost.

She studied his five o’clock shadow, thinking idly how nice he’d look with shaving cream all over his face—that open face with its easy smile, temporarily stern to keep from getting nicked…chest bare, towel knotted at his waist, the squeak of his palm across the glass as he cleared the fog from the mirror…

Here, let me help you with that…and how do you like your eggs, by the way? Call in sick to work and have sex with you all day? Oh Mark, I really mustn’t…but I will. Paint my front hall wearing nothing but your mangy work pants, you say? Excuse me while I orgasm.

Thanks for stopping by! Don’t forget to go check out all the other Six Sentence Sunday excerpts this week.

From a work-in-progress…

Early forties, I suspected he was, with a stern, knowing face, strong in brow and nose, the sleepy eyes of a careless philanderer. The soft lips of a saint. His hair was thick and lush, begging to be stroked, rich brown with premature silver flames streaking from his temples, white salting his otherwise dark stubble. His irises were pale green as verdigris, celadon-on-porcelain, and they cut like shards, deep and ragged.

When I’d been eighteen, Rikhart Besso had come to my college as a visiting artist. Ceramicist. He sat in on random classes and faked interest—poorly—in our freshman pottery assignments. It was clear to us all that his real investment was in our glaze lab. And rightfully so, as it was the envy of many a rival art school.

He stopped before me, those sharp green eyes narrowing. “I know you, don’t I?”

“Yes, you do.”

“Did we sleep together?” he asked, crossing his arms.

I felt my eyebrows rise with derision. “If we did, I must have found it as forgettable as you did.”

“Then we haven’t slept together,” he concluded, his meaning obnoxiously plain. If we’d fucked, I’d surely recall each masterful stroke of his hands, tongue, cock, and be missing each to this very day. Mourning them. He might be a Rikhart in his native Johannesburg, a Richard had he been born Stateside, but one thing was certain—he was a dick at his core, a dick of global proportions.

“I was a student in Chicago when you were a visiting artist in the ceramics department.” I told him the year.

“Ah.” He stared at me a long moment. “Two-pound teapots with rather inelegant spouts?” His accent was slippery, my ears at times expecting Australian inflections, other times British, sometimes Swedish or German, vowels always zigging when I anticipated a zag.

I kept my expression cool. “For a while, yes. Your contempt would’ve been more useful six years ago, back when I was your student. Though I managed just fine without it, believe it or not.”

“I’ll choose to believe it.”

“Wow. Thanks.”