Manuela Cardiga's Blog, page 74

Review for "Guilty Pleasures" by Manuela Cardiga

By LHamp "onecrazymom" (utah) -
This review is from: Guilty Pleasures (The Food andFornication Fables) (Kindle Edition)
How do I even start with this one? I LOVED it! What an interesting spin for a story. The banter between the characters was awesome. The sexual chemistry was hot hot hot! To put it in a nutshell, this book reads like a fine piece of pastry....LOL It is part exquisite cookbook, mixed in with a touch of self help and well written information for the man, about how to care for his woman and to finish it off, a hefty dose of sexy, proud, resilient, know it all therapist Lance.
Lance is currently working on his first book, a sexual how-not-to treat your woman. He is a practicing sex therapist by day, specializing in Awakenings. He helps to teach women find sexual fulfillment. That they are capable of finding and bringing pleasure back into their lives. What he is not expecting is to be propositioned by a very well to do woman. She has come to offer Lance a solution to his mounting debt. He just has to impregnate her daughter. Who is more concerned about running her private dining club, Guilty Pleasures. She does not date, she is in a relationship with her business and herself for the most part. She lives a very quiet life. Her mother wants Lance to shake her up a bit. He is very hesitant to take the offer and decides to check things out for himself. What he finds is an amazing woman, who under normal circumstances he would not have an attraction too. He soon finds himself employed by Millicent, under a false identity. And the web of deceit begins to spin. He never had any intentions of falling in love with her.
Millicent Deafly, owner of Guilty Pleasures. A very private, invite only dining club, that specializes in just that. Fulfilling your palate and stomach, with the most amazingly sinful, fatty foods. Clients were subject to medical and psychiatric evaluations before they were even allowed to make reservations. Anyone with medical issues or eating disorders, were not allowed. She has become fairly well know and has clients from all over the world. Her private life, is just that, private. Her mother drives her crazy and she tries to steer clear of her as much as possible. All the woman does is point out her flaws and make her feel like crap. Her father, has passed away and he was the one person she was closest too. She has had one relationship in the past, but has sworn off men for the most part. When Will Pecklise walks into her life. Slowly her walls begin to fall as she lets Will into her life.
The staff at Guilty Pleasures is crazy. Serge, the cook, a black Russian dwarf, with a wicked sense of humor and mad culinary skills to boot. He has lived a very rough life. But has now found happiness working for Millie. He is a surrogate father to Millie. He will do anything to protect her. And as the reader will find out, he had a very close relationship with her father. The banter between he and Will is nuts. I was laughing all the time. What I would give to be a helper in his kitchen. Just to smell and taste the creations that he cooks. You can't help but be hungry while reading this book. Throw in some crazy clients, with crazy wants and needs and cello player that cannot keep their hands to themselves and you have the mixing's of a very interesting story. That keeps you turning the page.
This is Manuela Cardiga's first novel and I think she did a great job, telling a unique story about finding ones self and the happiness that they deserve. We are not all perfect and through her characters we learn that it really doesn't matter what the person looks like, it is what is inside that matters most. In the end will Millicent and Lance be able to make their lives work together, in and out of the kitchen. Can Millie find it in her heart to forgive him for his betrayal? Will they find the happiness that they both so deserve? I look forward to the next book in this series. Job well done Manuela!


Look for "Guilty Pleasures - The Food and Fornication Fables" by Manuela Cardiga

TODAYGet it online or at a Bookstore near you! 
http://ph.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/books/detail/108
Or on Amazon, Barnes and Noble or Kobo

as as e-book or Paperback!http://www.amazon.com/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga/dp/1612131921/ref=sr_1_31?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1385422100&sr=1-31&keywords=The+Writers+Coffee+Shop

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga?store=allproducts&keyword=Guilty+Pleasures+Manuela+Cardiga
http://store.kobobooks.com/pt-PT/ebook/guilty-pleasures-17

TIBERIUS WAS HILARIOUS

Tiberius
Used to be
This hilarious
Stand up kinda guy.
I’m serious!

He only got peculiar
After Livia
Made him marry Julia.

You see,
She had a thing
(or was it a fling)
With this slave
From Nubia?

So Tiberius
Spoke to Valerius
And he got rid
Of the Nubian
Which roused
The famous
Julian temper
To unforeseen
Heights…

She really didn’t like
Being deprived
Of her nightly delights?

So Tiberius
Ran off to Capri
In hopes of being free
Of the spite of his wife,
And from such
Domestic strife
Does poor Rome’s
Plight derive.

Manuela Cardiga

I SAW GREAT CAESAR’S FOOT, NOW I’M DEAD,THE ISSUE IS MOOT

The crowd hushed
When Caligula blushed.

It was quite a feat,
You must admit,
To make Great Caesar
Red as a beet;
And all I did
Was exclaim:
“Hey little booties
You got ugly footies!”

That’s it. That’s all.
Old Claudius can
Fart melodious,
Agrippina
Can be a sinner,
Messalina…
Must I go on?

Really!
Is the issue germane?
The guy’s got ugly feet,
And a stupid nick-name!
Am I to blame?

I though I was
Being witty
But it looks like
I was flirting
With Hades…

So this is why,
This perfectly nice
Patrician Roman
With all the right
Cognomen
Is going to serve
As snack
For a pack
Of mangy cats.

Bye-Bye cruel world!
And since I am done
Let me proclaim:
“Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus
Germanicus Caligula’s a big
Fat ugly prat!”
Let’s see you get
Your revenge on that!

Manuela Cardiga

THE IDES OF MARCH

If I told him once
I told him
A thousand times:
Julius, don't go!
But would he listen?
NO! He HAD to go!

Him and that silly man
With the ear-fetish,
And that shifty-eyed
Wuss Brutus
Whimpering
About ambition
And sedition...
So he went!

And look what happened?
There's this great big rent
In his best toga!
And I'll never get that stain out!
I'll never forgive him for this!
Never!

Bad enough him going around
Slumming with that pole-dancer
In Alexandria?
Barging down the Nile...
Making a fool of himself
At his age, with his toupee...
EVERYONE knew
Why he wore the Laurels!

"It didn't mean a thing Calpurnia!
I'll NEVER spurn you!"
Then that cheap bit
Shows up in Rome...
Oh I have suffered,
I'll have you know!

Now that Antonius
Is groaning
And moaning
And fiddling with
Octavia's earlobe
And going on
About the dogs of war?
Damn them all!

I didn't want to marry
The dictator of the world,
I just wanted him
To stay home.

Manuela Cardiga

SOB STORY

Dire melancholia
Had me in its grip.

I promise you,
I swear it did!
I was moaning,
And sighing ,
And crying
Fit to keep
An ocean filled…

My nose was running,
My sorrow was deep,
My heart was shattered
And I could hardly sleep
For all that tossing
And all that turning?


It was just perfect.
I tell you, it was perfect.
As perfect a bout
Of unrequited love
With associated melancholia
As you could wish to see.

And then I caught a glimpse
Of myself in a mirror:
The tousled mane – PERFECT
The huge-eyed pain – AMAZING
The tremulous mouth – DIVINE

I looked that Drama
Straight in the eye
And sighed…
And that was when
Perfection died.

I should have cried
One perfect tear;
Allowed it to slide
Down my interestingly
Pale cheek?

Well I didn’t.
I’m so ever so sorry,
But I started to giggle.
Which goes to show
I’m either a heartless brat,
Or suffer from a lamentable
Shallowness of affect.

Manuela Cardiga

HOMESICK

Oh let me go home
To a quiet place
Where I need
Not hide
My face
When I cry.

Manuela Cardiga

MURDER IN D-MINOR

You could say I was at the end of my tether.
There wasn’t much left of me to salvage after a lifetime of blood, wet-work, cheating and theft. So at sixty-two, having spent a considerable chunk of my time in jail; and most of what I’d earned avoiding even more convictions, I’d decided to invest my skills and know-how in the straight world as a PI.

A reformed criminal turned Private Investigator - you would think the clients would stay away in droves, but surprisingly enough, I was a busy man indeed.
I was putting my life back together, bit by bit, until that fateful August night.

A mistake. A woman, of course, with me it was always a woman.
Other men, it was drink or gaming, or blood lust or drugs.
With me it was women.

Not necessarily beautiful women. Just a woman with that intangible something that moved me: a smile, a way of lifting a shoulder, the vulnerable curve of a neck. Once I nearly married a girl for her scent. The sweet scent of the curve of her throat...I can smell it even now. I loved that girl.

So that August night I was alone. Morry, my partner had already gone home, when someone buzzed. If you are picturing some sleazy PI hangout, think again. I'd done a lot of wet-work for high-rollers and I had a fifth floor, with a corner office, and a snazzy reception area - my daughter and some prancing prick in pink had painted it in these smarmy colours and hung some bloody expensive shit on the walls. She said you've got to dress for success, and the space says it best...
I even paid some woman to come align energies and chakras or some other good shit.

I myself hated it all, but I must admit it suited the sharp suits that paid Morry and I to trail their biz partners, secretaries, children and fourth or fifth wives.
Dull stuff. but profitable; and at my age, after spending 18 years in jail, and having lost more than I'd gained - and by my count I'd blown away millions - I needed to think about my future.

Some of my investments had paid off. A lot of important people owed me favours; and favours, my friends, can be worth more than money in the bank. I knew where a lot of skeletons were buried, and a few lively bodies too...so you could say I was drawing a pension of sorts. The customers came, referred by nameless debtors; and I did the work, and took the cash. It was fairly clean money. watching, mostly. It was ok. I slept nights. Until that night.

The man who buzzed carried a pretty hefty IOU, let me tell you, one I'd done my best to forget was still outstanding. I let him in. He was a sharp suit, like all the rest: grey suit, silk shirt, palest tie - hand painted - and narrow shoes that looked hand-made, and a face I hated at first sight.

He had a square-jawed, dimpled-chinned face; with wide brown candid eyes.
Nothing to dislike, right?
But something didn’t jibe. He looked like a lie
He was in his late fifties, maybe - a bit younger than me -but better kept. Firm fleshed, bronzed, grizzled full head of hair, sunny smile; even his handshake was just right. The correct pressure, exact timing, and left me with the sensation I’d touched slime.

"Mr. Markovitch? I'm Tad Smeadon."
I shivered. Markovitch was a ghost. A dead man. Buried and long gone.

"You've made mistake Mr. Smeadon. I'm George Warrick, my partner is Morris Brady. There is no-one called Markovitch here."

His smiled broadened, showing perfect square teeth. Natural too, not capped, the left incisor slightly bent.
"No mistake." he extended a tiny cloisonné box. I didn’t want to take it, touch the poisonous thing.

"A friend said you had a debt to repay, Mr. Markovitch, she said to give you this, that you knew what it was"

"Take it away!"

The happy eyes narrowed "I insist, Mr Markovitch, you must take it. It is proof of my identity. My credentials, you might say."

I took it, and so sealed my fate.
He walked past me into my office, sat on the chair, easy as you please.

"What do you want?"

He crossed his legs, shot his cuffs, and smiled. The fucker was enjoying this.

"I want someone dead"

"DEAD?" I took a deep breath, "I'm a private detective Mr. Smeadon, I don't kill people."

"Oh I think you do, in fact, I know you have. And I know," he gestured with beautifully manicured hands at the little box clutched tight in my hand, "I know you will kill again."

"Yes." I croaked it out, "Yes."

He withdrew from his pocket an envelope.
"The money, Mr. Markovitch. In Swiss francs." He laid it on my desk, "And here - here she is..." Another envelope.

"She? A woman? The hit is a woman?"

"Are you squeamish? From the story about that box, I’d hardly think so."

"No, I’m not. Just curious, is all." I drew out the picture: a bland woman. Bland was the first word that sprung to mind: neither young, nor old; thin or fat; pretty or ugly. She was just bland, dressed neatly but boringly. No pizzazz.

"Why," I asked him, "do you want her dead? Is she your wife?"
"My wife?" he reared back as if I’d slapped him "No! Not at all...I just want her dead, that's all. They told me you would ask no questions."

"I was curious, Mr. Smeadon, that's all."

I flipped the picture: Dorothea Sandoval.
Dorothea Sandoval was dead, or at least, as good as dead; when it came to wet-work there was no-one better than I. I rose to my feet and picked up the fat envelope with the money. I gave it back to Smeadon.

"Take this crap and get the fuck out. Tell her I'll do it and the slate is clean. Tell her this pays for all. Tell her anyone else comes to me from Dusseldorf is dead." I bared my teeth in Zoozi Markovitch's deadly grin "tell her I want someone to come..."

Smeadon stared at me for one long moment, took the envelope and left. I sank into my chair, my head in my hands.

As ugly as George Warrick's past was - and believe me, it was bad - it could not compare to who Zoozie Markovitch had been. I would dig a burial pit: Dorothea Sandoval would lie with Zoozie Markovitch. I would toss their dead, tumbled limbs into a nameless grave, bury them deep.

I would put an end this once and for all. George Warrick I had reformed, brought him into the straight world. In two month's time my daughter would give birth. I would stretch out my hand over a cradle and the finger my grandson gripped would be clean. No blood under the fingernail. I heaved myself out of that chair and
went home.

***
Next day I went looking for a dead woman. Dorothea Sandoval. The address scribbled under her name at the back of the photo indicated a flower shop in an average middle class neighborhood.

Made sense, everything about Dorothea screamed average, mediocre. And there she was. No luster to the woman: she moved behind that counter, neither brisk nor slow. I watched for a while from the café across the street. She arranged the flowers "just so", somehow failing to impart that singular grace that is the gift of an artistic eye and a deft hand. It astonished me she would be a target for violent death.

Nothing in her invited either violent hate or love; even I, found my initial revulsion at the thought of taking her life fade. There was nothing there for me to connect to. No passion, no beauty, nor ugliness, even. She was a blank woman shape with a name tag attached.

Yes, I could remove her, erase her name; nothing in her demanded response
She was simply not real enough for remorse.

After two days of watching I had her routine down pat. She left the flower shop at six, walked to the subway, stood on the curb, just a little too close. She walked into the second carriage always. Sat by the window, and nodded her head to the cadence of the train. Exactly 23 seconds before it pulled into her station, she would get up, make her way to the door and peer out at the flashing darkness, the leprous walls. What did she see out of those nondescript eyes? The train stopped: she'd get out, walk home, up the stairs and through her front door. And that was where Dorothea Sandoval ended for me. Through walls I could not see.

On the third day I decided to make contact
I walked into the shop and ordered some flowers. Roses, I told her, red.

"Black velvet?" her voice was extraordinary! It reverberated, thrummed in my chest as if she had reached in and strummed at my heart. I could listen to those words again and again "black velvet".

Her mouth shaped the words, I caught glimpses of her moist tongue moving, -"black velvet" - and that voice; that beautiful extraordinary voice...
She was extraordinary and all of her blandness now seemed the necessary foil, the setting for that jewel-deep beautiful voice.
Dorothea Sandoval was extraordinary, and I had to kill her.

***
You must understand about Dusseldorf. You must understand who and what I am, before you can understand why I must kill this extraordinary woman. Germany in the early fifties was chaos. My mother was sixteen when I was born. She’d been hiding out in Berlin somewhere, like a rat in the walls, she and half a dozen other Jewish children who had somehow escaped the drag-net, slipped under and discovered some way to survive in the very heart of that putrid Empire in the making.
Now anyone who tells you suffering refines, lies. It does not. It hardens and coarsens the human heart. As I said, my mother was sixteen when I was born, it was 1952. If you think sixteen was a sweet innocent age in that time and place, think again. She had been living on the streets since she was six, and kneeling in alleyways to earn a living since she was eight. Esther Marcovitch was a hardened vicious bitch; a casual killer and a whore. How I came to be, is, to this day, a mystery to me. There were many old women with dirty hands and bent coat-hangers in post-war Berlin, and many pregnant whores to keep them busy. I can only surmise that when my mother realized I was alive inside her, it was too late to take the expedient way out of her predicament.

She was a survivor, my mother. She would not have risked death so as not to give birth. So Esther Marcovitch, sixteen years old, grunted me out in some basement; pushed me out into the world in a rush of blood, and piss and amniotic water onto a pile of filthy rags. Her screams unheard, she tore at the cord binding us with dirty nails, severing the connection once and for all. Surprisingly, she did not kill or abandon me. It would have been easy. All she had to do was stagger away. The rats would have taken care of the evidence, and the next day nothing would have remained of me, and this story would not be told.

However, Esther Marcovitch struggled out onto the street holding me awkwardly, walked up to an American Military Policeman and started to weep. She lifted me in her arms, and begged for help, tears coursing down her cheeks.

That night, she slept snug and clean, stitched up and well fed for the first time in as long as she could remember. I was a good investment.
The Hospital that had taken her in looked through the fragmentary pre-war records for some relatives, anyone that could be traced, but to no avail. Esther Marcovitch was alone in the world, except for me, of course. She called me Zoozie. That is what is written in my birth certificate: Zoozie Marcovitch, father unknown.

By the time I was three we had moved to Dusseldorf, where she continued her career as a street whore with reasonable success. Her real talent, however, was death. She was a good killer: unencumbered by empathy, or any type of squeamishness, and there was no job she would not accept. The poor and derelict desire the death of their near-and-dear as passionately and as frequently as the rich; here was a business opportunity for a woman with a sharp blade, and Esther took it. She became the hit-woman of choice for the festering multitude of the destitute. She was cheap, and she was quick; and her skill brought us some material comfort.

We lived in an apartment near the river where she received her customers, both the men who more and more infrequently sought her out to fuck; and the women and men who knocked - hunched into their coats clutching money, or more often than not, modest treasures to trade for some-one’s death. I believe she drew some kind of pension for my sustenance, or some benefit must have accrued from my existence, or she would have discarded me.

I was often useful as a decoy, toddling up to some woman, distracting her; while Esther slid a stiletto into her rib-cage from behind. As I have said: the poor and the rich are all sentimental shits.

At eight it was demanded I start earning my keep. By then I had no less than six “brothers” and “sisters”, all whoring, thieving or learning to kill. Esther had taken in several war-orphans, and was running them from the apartment. She was becoming a mobster on a commendably modest scale. She was bright enough to feed on the scraps washed up from the tide of crime, and never ever poached on the big-fishes’ preserves. She was too small and mediocre to attract rivalry or Police attention, so she survived and thrived.

As I said, at eight I started earning my keep: first whoring, and stealing from the customers when I could; eventually killing. I won’t go into details. It was long ago, and there is no need to recollect, or resurrect the agony of those early years. Suffice it to say I hated her most passionately, that woman who was my mother.

At twelve I was a skilled operative, if we can call it that, and a very profitable one. At fifteen, I started free-lancing, branching out on my own.
It was a mistake. I got caught, of course. Esther was quite ruthless, and she imposed discipline with an iron hand. I was to regret my straying bitterly.

I had foolishly grown fond of a girl. Another orphan: Marguerite, she was called. We’d spend many hours hidden away sharing a bottle of harsh liquor and whatever comfort we could take from each other’s adolescent bodies. The usual happened, and Marguerite had given birth to a tiny scrap of pink, astonishingly resilient life. A girl. A tiny little girl. We loved her. In the midst of that horrendous, vicious life, something amazingly fragile somehow awoke in us a dormant tenderness, love, humanity; call it what you will. We called her Pearl.

One night I got home, and Esther called me in. She was sitting in her favourite arm-chair, with Pearl on her knee. Jaap, her “enforcer” was with her, and Elsa, and Horst. Marguerite was no-where to be seen.
“Zoozie…come here.” Her voice was sweet. Funny that such a poisonous creature had such a gentle tone. I came, of course. I never disobeyed Esther. Ever.
“Herr Heimlich tells me you did some small jobs on the East River. Some little things you didn’t share with me.”

I was young, I was fearful, yes; but infected with the cocksure arrogance of liquor and bravado.
“That’s right. I did.”

“Zoozie…You owe me your life. Everything. How am I to live with such ingratitude?” and she smiled.

I cannot tell you how that smile of hers terrified. She moved a hand, and Jaap dragged Marguerite in from the next room. She was alive. I remember she was alive when Jaap started. Then she wasn’t. It took a long time, and all the while, Esther sat with Pearl. Pearl was in her arms. When it was all done Esther got up, took my child, and walked to the next room, away from the blood.

I left, walked out. I was cold sober that night, as I had never been before. When I came back the house was dead quiet. I went from room to room. I started with Jaap, then Karl, Elsa, Horst, Rosa. Behind me I left a wash of blood. I left Esther for last.

Her room was empty. She wasn’t there. Neither was Pearl. There was a box on her dressing table. Cloisonné. Under it was a sheet of paper. It simply said: “Next time the box may not be empty. You owe me, you owe me a life.”

I ran that night. I left Dusseldorf behind, I left Zoozie Markovitch, too, or so I believed.I came to America to start a new life, and found my skills in high demand. My new life and my old life were in some ways similar; but now that I had straightened that out, the ghosts of Dusseldorf threatened to destroy it. The bitch in Dusseldorf still holds my daughter, my Pearl. I know her well enough not to risk disobedience ever again. And so, Dorothea Sandoval must die.

I got myself together, got myself organized. It was simple really; all I had to do was follow her home. She had a lamentable habit of standing too close to the curb, so all it took was one hard push. So I did it, and I went home, and if I wasn’t exactly at peace that night, well…It was a small price to pay for the rest of my life.

The next morning it was in the papers.
"Florist tragically killed in subway accident....memorial service..... donations welcomed in lieu of flowers, to be made out to the Children’s Choir in the name of Pearl Dorothea Sandoval."

Manuela Cardiga

SPRING PLOWING

I want to be
The fallow earth
That welcomes
The thrust of iron
And opens itself
Languorous furrows
Of desire

I want to make you
Welcome rain
Summon thundering
Tearing clouds to spill
Raise eager palms
To cup and drink
Lick trickling drops
My treasure

I want to be fertile
Deep burrowing seed
Unfolding loamy loins
Convulsing to give birth
To moist pleasure.

EXCLUSIVE unpublished excerpt from "Guilty Pleasures" by Manuela Cardiga

She was asleep. She lay sprawled on the bed, under a thin red veil, her arms thrown out, legs parted: nude. The light threw rosy shadows on her flesh through the veil, deepening to shades of crimson in the hollows and deep crevices of her body. Her soft, deep breaths puffed out the silk over her face, first blurring, then accentuating her features as she inhaled. She made a soft noise, turning her head towards him. Lance knelt by the bed. He slid his cupped hand over her thigh, barely stirring the fine silk, tracing the long contours of her legs with his fingertips. He slid his fingers over her parted lips, the silk yielding, moistening, darkening with her saliva. He crouched over her, breathing her in. Delicately he licked at the wet silk over her mouth, felt her lips move in a sigh.He slid his mouth, barely skimming the veil, over the side of her neck, he brushed at her collarbones, her shoulders, leaving a dark moist kiss imprinted on the hollow of her throat. He caressed the satiny flesh along her sides, sliding his mouth along the sensitive under curve of her breast, watching her nipples swell under the veil. He moved his mouth in a concentric spiral, his touch teasingly light, flickered his tongue briefly at the nipple before dedicating himself to her other breast. She moaned, moving restlessly and raised her knees, arching her back as if inviting a lover. Lance suckled avidly at her nipples, feeling her tremble under him, gasping his name.“Hush, love, don’t move, don’t open your eyes…” Lance husked. He slid his mouth further down, nipping at the soft curves of her belly, delved at her navel, flickered downwards, felt her whole body thrum. “Shhhh…Hush…” He ignored the dark shadow between her legs, and licked at the soft, plump, flesh of her inner thighs, slowly nibbling his way ever upwards, hearing her pant, tense with expectation. He eased gentle fingers down into her cleft, brushing tense lips fleeting over her engorged flesh, slow butterfly touches. He felt her pelvis rising under his mouth, her veiled hands clasping at his head, pulling him closer. “If you move, I stop…” Her hands fell away with a soft cry. Lance continued his leisurely caresses, feeling the tension rising in her body to unbearable levels, he sat up slowly. She lay dead still on the bed, her nails sunk into the mattress, her body tight as a strung wire. Her ragged breath stirred her breasts, nipples erect, the silk over them a wet dark crimson from his mouth. A low moan escaped her. Her thighs trembled, the silk between them sodden from her arousal. He slid his body over hers, the slithering silk a maddening caress against his erection.
“Help me, my love …” He felt her hands close around him, as he grasped at the veil and pulled it up to her waist. She pulled him closer, arching her body, rubbing his cock against her wetness teasingly; rubbing his heated gland against her soaked cleft, positioning him at her slippery opening. He felt her thrust upwards, her heat encompassing him, scalding him. Her impossibly tight silken sheath was suckling at him, her softness cradling him. He was moving, mindlessly, artlessly; like a boy with his first woman; rising, calling her name, falling from some unimaginable height into darkness.


Look for "Guilty Pleasures - The Food and Fornication Fables" by Manuela Cardiga

TODAYGet it online or at a Bookstore near you! 



http://ph.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/books/detail/108


Or on Amazon, Barnes and Noble or Kobo

as as e-book or Paperback!http://www.amazon.com/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga/dp/1612131921/ref=sr_1_31?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1385422100&sr=1-31&keywords=The+Writers+Coffee+Shop

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga?store=allproducts&keyword=Guilty+Pleasures+Manuela+Cardiga
http://store.kobobooks.com/pt-PT/ebook/guilty-pleasures-17

Prison Break-Fast at Tiffany's by Manuela Cardiga

"Prison Break-Fast at Tiffany's - or How Contemporary Designer Status-Symbols and Street-Culture are Destroying Ethnic Diversity in the Prison System" is a tongue-in-cheek Flash-Play set in a Woman's Prison, where all the Prisoners are Shoe-fetishists and Fashion-Victims...except one. Cindy-Ella.



https://www.smashwords.com/books/view...