The Memorial Garden, a novella I wrote for Torquere, has been overshadowed more recently by my other books. The Erotica Readers and Writers Association has given it the attention it deserves with this nice little review.
Mar 082010
“In MEMORIAL GARDEN, Lauren Burka has created a world of decadence ruled by an empress who values her own pleasure far above the lives of her consorts. Full of erotic and ironic twists and turns, this story creates a tapestry of sensual surprises and forbidden pleasures.”
NYT best selling author Rebecca York
May 162009
My ebook novella, “The Memorial Garden,” is now available for sale at Torquere Books. Torquere has a very nice “pepper” rating scale so that readers can pick fiction that meets their comfort level, from sweet and mild to controversial and kinky. “The Memorial Garden” rated a jalapeño, not a habañero as I might have expected. Now I really want to read some of their habañero-rated fiction…
I’m including a surprisingly work-safe excerpt below.
* * *
Sofian opened another door. This room was not empty. A pile of clothes covered half the bed and spilled onto the floor. Empty bottles stood in ranks on the dresser. Where were the attendants? They always whisked away Sofian’s discarded clothing from his own room before it hit the ground. Though it was daylight, the curtains were drawn.
The pile of clothes on the bed moved and opened eyes the color of smoke from a dying fire.
Sofian fumbled with the door, which had jammed on a up-curled corner of rug. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be,” said the man on the bed, sleepily. “The doors don’t lock here, haven’t you noticed?” He lifted his head. Sofian recognized the man from the hall of sea statues. Untied, his pale hair spilled down his back like a broken fan.
“I’m Sofian.”
“I know.” Then, perhaps realizing his reply lacked courtesy, he added, “I’m Numair.”
His garments looked worn, and they hung loosely on his dissipated flesh. He smelled of alcohol-tainted sweat. There was a wasted beauty to him — Sofian imagined breaking himself on the man’s body, as if it was made of marble and barbed wire. Now that Numair wore no gloves, the dead mark was visible on his right hand. If he was a consort, why did he live in such squalor? If not, what was he doing here?
Light flooded the room, mercilessly illuminating the unswept corners, the undergarments spilling from open drawers, and the pile of dirty dishes on a chair. Numair winced and squeezed his eyes shut. Sofian looked down and saw the light radiating from the mark on his hand.
“I don’t understand.”
“She wants you.”
“What?”
“Go back to your room. That bitch Nibal will be looking for you.”
Sofian shut the door and ran back down the hallway, his guts twisting and mouth paper-dry.
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