I just wrote my first book, Catching Red Herring, a Fantastic Realism novella set on Southern Italy, mixing gastronomy, self search, kidnapping, white slaves, witches and permaculture. Writing this was a delicious challenge, since I am a professional writer, but in another language. English being my Second Language, I desperately need the services of a copy editor for proofreading. I also would like to pay a graphic designer for a handsome cover art. I am looking into self publishing, first as an eBook, and later have a limited print edition that will feature the work of creatives from the San Francisco art community as illustrations. So this money would cover these expenses. Please help me reach my goal, since with Kickstarter I either get all or nothing...
Here is a taste of the book - the Prologue:
She doesn’t recognize me. I tap ever so lightly at the foggy window glass hoping that only she, and not the others, will hear me. But Rori is too drunk in lust to notice me. Her silky, shiny red hair is disheveled. She has bruises all over her so-white arms. I see some henna tattoos, too, over the tops of her hands and feet. The little bustier she is wearing, made out of some kind of copper thread adorned with studs and pearls, sparkles in the dim light. She twists her body in a rhythmic manner, I’m not sure if led by delight or pain. Could be both. A translucent fabric covers her navel; some bloody scars mar her naked bottom. Grime covers the bedsheets and pillows. Though she is looking in my direction as I stare at her, she doesn’t see me.
Standing outside in the damp moss that covers this part of the ground, buried deep in the thicker side of these woods, I am barefoot as I always am when I find myself here. Tonight is unusually cold. A gush of wind lifts my hair, making me shiver as it strikes a sweaty spot on my neck. I rub my arms slowly, afraid that my shivering will attract unwanted attention.
She closes her eyes slowly, opens her mouth, and starts drooling. Afraid of letting her go and still hopeful of some—any—communication, I reluctantly move my eyes away from her face and down to her feet. Now I see a hairy, dark, masculine arm tickling her legs with a huge peacock’s feather, moving up and down them, slowly and teasingly. He stops at her navel and strokes lightly around it. Ecstatic, she tries to grab the feather with no success. The dirty sheet slides and I can see why: he has handcuffed her wrists to the bed frame.
Yet I still feel that there is no true will in her body rhythm; I can tell at a glance that, like a puppet, she is not in charge here. But not long ago, I watched similar scenes in which she fought the strings of the puppeteer. Has she given up? I’m afraid that she’s even started to enjoy it. I feel powerless, and my spine tingles with a sense of urgency and failure. I’m running out of time."
If you want to continue reading more, go to thatbraziliangirl.com !
- (57 days)