Protesting the New Normal (#newrelease #antitrump #erotica @MoveOn)

This is a political post.

Normally I try to avoid politics and controversial religion on my blog. I am a strong believer in every individual’s right to his or her own opinion, as long as no one tries to foist that opinion on me. Live and let live has always been my motto. Plus I recognize that despite the appeal of painting the world in black and white, almost every issue actually involves shades of gray.

Normally, I’d just title this post “New Release”.

However, things these days are not normal.

The United States is about to swear in a president whose main claim to fame is his ability to insult other people in 140 characters. I’m not going to bore you by listing all his objectionable traits. If you share my views, you are already far too familiar with his vile behavior. If you’re one of the people responsible for today’s historic and, to me, horrifying event—well, you’ve probably given up reading already. Unless of course you’re preparing to leave me some comment full of invective, in the manner approved by your candidate.

Anyway, the day after the election results were announced, Alessia Brio, the founder and guiding light of the charitable erotica imprint Coming Together, sent out a call for submissions. Coming Together: Moving On is an anthology of fiction and poetry on themes made painfully salient by the presidential campaign and its aftermath: civil rights, equality, LGBTQ rights, tolerance, charity, sexual assault, politics, voting rights, immigration... You get the idea.

It's out today...Inauguration Day.

All proceeds from the book benefit MoveOn.org , a civic and political action group which has been at the forefront of efforts to resist the president-elect’s dangerous agenda and nominees, and his un-presidential behavior.

I’ve got a story in the book. I know many of the contributors. We’re donating our work for free, fighting our despair, because we want to do something to improve the situation.

It might not be much. But each of us can make a small difference, writing, and then living, our principles. 

 

Here’s the table of contents:

Introduction by Alessia Brio

Passion's Pull by Corbin A Grace

Hypocrites by Alyssa Turner

When There Are No Words by Sonni De Soto

The Help by Sonni De Soto

Kayla's Birthday Present by Ashlyn Chase

The Stoning by Michael Swanson

Checklist by B.K. Bilicki

Divided We Fall by Lisabet Sarai

For Their Own Good by Lola White

We Desire Many Things by Skilja Peregrinarius

The Aisle Of Lesbos by Allison Wonderland

A Healthy Passion by Mary Winter

Moving On by Kally Jo Surbeck

My story, “Divided We Fall”, is set in a near-future Los Angeles in which different ethnic groups have been confined to their ghettos and encouraged to wage war on one another.

Here’s a bit to give you the flavor.

***

There are no walls. Just IEDs, trip-wire bombs and snipers. We've learned a few things from the jihadis.

The Santa Anas whip at the white rag attached to my broom handle as I cross Vermont. No-man's land. Black hair tangles in my eyes, obscuring my vision. I should chop it all off, maybe even shave my head. That would be safer. Would look scarier, too. Pathetic how vanity survives, even in the most desperate situations.

Afternoon shadows stripe the broken pavement. The only vehicles visible are burned-out skeletons, picked clean by scavengers from both barrios. I dart from one to the next, keeping a good distance away from the blackened hulks while still trying to use them for cover as I approach the Niggertown gate. Any one of them could be booby-trapped, though that would break the unwritten rules that have allowed us Viets to co-exist with the niggers. So far at least.

I don't want to be here. I've got no confidence my truce flag will buy me any kind of safety. But what can I do? My little brother's disappeared, last seen headed toward the black ghetto. We searched every corner of Viet Village. Unless he's deliberately hiding―not likely given his age and his usual good behavior― he must have wandered outside the bounds.

The many kinds of harm he might meet scroll through my mind like credits for some old movie. I force myself to slow down as I approach the West Century intersection, the only un-mined street leading east into Niggertown. Gripping my flag in one hand, I raise the other high to show I'm unarmed. It's true, aside from the switchblade hidden my boot. I don't step out of the abandoned grocery my family calls home without that knife.

When I sleep, it hangs from cord around my neck, nestled between my breasts. Older Brother calls me Blade-Heart. He thinks it's a joke, but his nickname suits me. I might ask Uncle Pham to tattoo it on my bicep.

"Freeze, bitch."

I'm expecting the challenge, but still, my stomach does a queasy flip. I remain motionless, as instructed, keeping both hands visible. A tall, lean figure steps out from behind some pollution-rusted shrubbery in front of a ruined apartment building. He carries his Kalashnikov like it's another limb, one which he points directly at me. Funny how there's never enough food, but no problem getting guns.

"What you doin' here? This ain't your territory. You get your gook ass back 'cross the street before I kick it back!"

Though the guard talks tough, I can see he's young, maybe younger than I am. He fixes me with a belligerent glare and brandishes his weapon like he'd just as soon shoot me as not, but there's a softness to his mouth that lets me imagine him smiling. Using his left hand to draw an ugly blade from his belt, he strides in my direction.

He wears threadbare jeans and a faded camouflage shirt, open to the waist. The inky skin on his bare chest gleams with sweat, despite the brisk wind. The paler flesh of a scar slashes across his chest, just above his left nipple. That must have been a dire wound, close to fatal. He might be young, but he's no stranger to battle. None of us is, these days.

"You hear me, bitch?" he growls and jabs at me with his knife.

Instinct taking over, I shrink backward, then recover. He mustn't think I'm afraid. Straightening my spine, I raise my flag a bit higher.

"I claim the right of truce." I make my voice low, even, and respectful. But not subservient. "I'm looking for my three-year old brother. He wandered out of our territory earlier today. Someone said he might be in Niggertown."

"You better hope he's not." The guard gives me an evil grin. "Me and my boys just love a bit of barbecue."

I ignore his jibe. He's just trying to pull my chain. I hope. "Can I have a look around? Please?"

"Any gooks enterin' Niggertown got to pay the toll." His leer widens, his white teeth a shocking contrast to his soot-dark complexion.

****

If today’s events make you as sick as they make me, consider buying a copy of Coming Together: Moving On. Take a stand against the new normal. (And enjoy some great fiction, too.)

Amazon

Smashwords

Available at other booksellers soon.

Doing Good While Being Bad

By Alessia Brio

I find it rather mind boggling that I've been publishing Coming Together titles for almost six years. That's an Internet eternity! When I launched this labor of love, there was no Kindle, no Nook, no iPad. Smashwords and All Romance eBooks did not exist. The word "app" wasn't in our lexicon.

Publishing Coming Together coincides with my personal publishing odyssey. In fact, the former is directly responsible for the latter. While I have stories or poems in all but the single-author publications, I want to talk a bit today about why this endeavor means so much to me.

This is the inaugural post in a month-long celebration of Coming Together, generously coordinated and hosted by one of its staunchest supporters. For those who are not familiar with Coming Together, a little back story:

In the spring of 2005, a bunch of amateur writers from the Literotica Authors' Hangout forum decided to publish collections of their stories. Rather than mess with splitting proceeds a dozen or so ways, we chose to donate the revenue to charity. In the fall of 2006, Coming Together stretched beyond Literotica with a collection that resulted from an open call and was published by a small press.

It's just grown from there. We're an all volunteer effort. All the book proceeds are donated to charity. I like to think the contributing authors and poets are paid in karma. I've been told some consider it a badge of honor to be a part of the Coming Together family. That's very gratifying to me.

In addition to multi-author anthologies, we now also publish single-author collections and individual titles. We became an official "voluntary nonprofit association" along the way and now publish exclusively under the Coming Together label rather than that of a traditional publisher. Our focus is on ebooks, and we've never required exclusivity.

There have been peaks and slumps, of course. There have been days when I've wondered where I'd be if I'd focused all the time and energy I've poured into Coming Together on my individual success as an author, editor, and graphic artist. On those days, I remind myself that even though I'm not a wealthy or famous person, my life is bountiful. I wouldn't trade that spiritual bounty for any amount of money or fame.

I'm doing things I believe in with every fiber of my being. Not only do I believe in the rightness and the power of charity, I also believe in the rightness and the power of sex. Writing about sex, whether to educate or to arouse, brings it into the light where it belongs. Sex needs to be celebrated for the joyous, life-affirming, rowdy primal romp that it is. It is only when relegated to dark, forbidden places that sex becomes something shameful. Something that others—media, religion, politics, retail—can use to manipulate and control us.

Over the years, I've had the joy of donating thousands of dollars to dozens of charities. It's a serious rush, believe me. I've had the honor and pleasure of working with over 200 authors and poets, some "big names" and some not so well-known (yet), who've donated their words to my passion.

I hope you'll visit Lisabet's blog every day this month to "Share the Love" with some of Coming Together's many contributors. There will be sexy excerpts, prizes, and more each day. To sweeten the deal, I'm adding a Kindle Fire to the end-of-month giveaway. To be entered to win, visit this blog every day throughout the month of February, leave a comment on the day's post, AND share the post via Twitter, Google+ and/or Facebook using the tag #comingtogether. (See those handy little buttons at the bottom of each post? Use them!) A winner will be randomly chosen from those who've jumped through all those hoops.

While you're hoop-jumping, please add/like/friend us on your social networks: @Coming_Together on Twitter, +Coming Together on Google Plus, and erotic.anthology on Facebook. There is also a Coming Together group on Goodreads. I am hopeful that this month-long blog bash will spark activity on each network so that we can do many more kickass giveaways!

The excerpt I'm sharing is from my story "Butterfly." It appears in Coming Together: For the Cure, which benefits Susan G. Komen For the Cure. It is a first person narrative from the perspective of a woman who's undergone a radical mastectomy and is reclaiming her sense of self with an intricate tattoo. Deep stuff, indeed. Sex is powerful that way. Enjoy!

+++

Let me tell you about my last night with tits.

Carl took me to my favorite restaurant—Hibachi—for dinner, then we went back to my place with dessert from The Cheesecake Factory and a handful of DVDs. There were fresh flowers all over my condo when we got there. Wildflowers, just like that first bouquet. We watched "The Princess Bride" and "History of the World, Part I". We fed one another with our fingers, and I punctuated the evening with random fits of sobbing.

He didn't ask me what was wrong or expect me to explain my tears. He just held me and waited it out. When I stopped, he'd pick up where we left off. I told him about the surgery and how I'd opted not to have reconstruction. I told him how I'd never again experience the rush of having my nipples bitten, never again feel my clit throb from a mouth tugging my nipples to hardness.

I apologized for not marrying him, and he cried. We cried. I shouldn't have taken pleasure in that, but I did. It warmed me to know that after all these years, he still considers me his soul mate. His wife is a wonderful woman, and they are a terrific team. I've enjoyed the times they've invited me into their bed. But we both knew—all three of us knew, really—that their passion wasn't anywhere near what Carl and I shared.

The surgery would take everything, including my nipples. I'd been informed that I would only be able to feel pressure through the scars. No other sensation. I told him my plans for tattooing my chest, decorating myself in defiance. He raised an eyebrow but knew better than to question my decision.

Around midnight, Carl took my beer out of my hand, winked at me through his tears, and repeated the first words he ever said to me: "Show me your tits."

I laughed then, a hearty, healthy laugh. But, I also took off my shirt and removed my bra.

Carl adored my tits one last time. Wet with both his saliva and his tears, I savored the rasp of his tongue, and before I'd allowed myself to think, my long lost libido began to awaken. The currents of passion flooded through my veins, pooling in my sex. His teeth scraped and nipped, pulled and pinched.

He squeezed them together in his impatience to move from one nipple to the other, decreasing the distance to require only a slight turn of his head. If he hadn't done so, I would have. I looked down at my lover, noticing for the first time the thinning of his hair. So bittersweet the memories. I wondered where we'd be if I'd trusted him to be my everything; if I'd taken the plunge all those years ago instead of trying to cross all of life's Ts and dot all its Is. I swallowed the bile of regret and turned my attention back to Carl's mouth and the pleasure it was giving me.

In spite of myself, I felt that internal connection between my erogenous zones thrumming with anticipation. I reached for his belt buckle, and he twisted to one side to give me access. He spoke to my breasts, whispered, sang—and my body echoed his song.

When I pushed him off me, he stood and quickly shed his jeans. As I tucked my legs beneath me and knelt on the sofa, Carl whipped his T-shirt over his head and stepped toward me. His cock found its home between my tits, and I enveloped him with my body. Fresh tears dripped from my jaw, following the natural curve into my cleavage as he began to move.

I met his cock with my mouth on the apex of each thrust and grieved its withdrawal on the latter half of the cycle. I tasted salt—mine and his—and felt the prickly sensation of his pubic hair brushing against my nipples. He took me with him when he came—without either of us ever touching my sex.

In the afterglow, in that peaceful bliss where anything is possible, Carl reverently placed his hands on my tits, fingers spread and thumbs atop my sternum. At that moment, I saw the design you've brought to electric life for me, taking my shame and my pain and making it beautiful. At that moment, I saw my butterfly.

+++

BIO & LINKS:

Take one part Appalachian redneck, one part aging wet dream, and one part filthy-minded wordsmith. Mix well and serve with chocolate-covered cherries. There you have the one and only Alessia Brio. Alessia writes all colors and flavors of erotica, from heterosexual to ménage to same sex, and from twisted to humorous to deeply touching. She is also the driving force behind the Coming Together charity erotica series. Her work has earned her critical acclaim in the form of an EPIC eBook Award for Best Erotica (fine flickering hungers), two EPIC eBook Awards for Best Erotic Anthology (Coming Together: Against the Odds & Coming Together: Into the Light), two Next Generation Indie Book Awards for Erotica (Squeeze Play & Coming Together: For the Cure), and a Romantic Times Top Pick (Coming Together: For the Cure) in addition to a plethora of glowing online reviews.

The Internet is both her office and her playground. Her publications can be found via eroticanthology.com and purpleprosaic.com. Socially, you can catch her on Twitter and Facebook.

Peering Into the Heart

As I may have mentioned in other posts, I work with Alessia Brio on her Coming Together altruistic erotica project. Alessia has published more than a dozen anthologies of exceptional erotica and erotic romance, for the benefit of causes that range from AIDS research to conservation. Several of the books have won national awards. About a year ago, after contributing stories to a number of these anthologies, I agreed to serve as editor for a new Coming Together project, the “Coming Together Presents” series.

Each Coming Together Presents collection features the work of a single erotic author. At this point, we've released three volumes in the series: Coming Together Presents Remittance Girl, Coming Together Presents M. Christian, and most recently, Coming Together Presents C. Sanchez-Garcia. Remittance Girl's book benefits the ACLU. Sales of the M.Christian title support Planned Parenthood. C. Sanchez-Garcia has designated the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN) as beneficiary of proceeds from his collection.

Anyone who reads erotica will already be familiar with M. Christian and Remittance Girl, though their names may be not ring a bell for romance readers. C. Sanchez-Garcia, however, is relatively new to publishing. His work is wild, original, arousing and sometimes, deeply disturbing. He doesn't settle for easy solutions or comforting clichés. He digs deeper. Even his humorous work (and he can be extremely funny) does more than just skim the surface.

Garce's Coming Together book includes stories about a man who changes the course of time, a man who wakes up transformed into a woman, a man caring for his Alzheimer's-afflicted wife. One of his most unforgettable characters is a woman battered by her husband and tortured by a corrupt government. These aren't typical characters for either erotica or romance, but you will not forget them. C. Sanchez-Garcia peers into the hearts of his creations, bringing them to life on the page.

One of my favorite stories in the collection – one of the most deeply romantic – is “El Pimientero Mon Amor”. It's a tale about knowledge and sin, justice and memory, but most importantly, it is a love story. It just happens that one of the lovers is a young man barely out of his teens, the other a woman of the world, probably in her fifties. Before you protest that this scenario does not appeal, read the following excerpt:

We stood in the doorway of her bedroom. I don’t know what she was thinking. She was never more mysterious to me than in that long moment. For myself, I was frightened. Thrilled. A man with homemade glider wings standing on the edge of a cliff. I was never more alive. I took her shoulders and walked her in a little ways towards the bed, which seemed to loom ominously. I felt my courage rise as her resistance fell. Gently I pressed myself against her back, pushing the hard tip of my erection against her ass.

She did not resist or question me as my hands began to roam over the front of her clothes, feeling for the first time the strength of her nipple nubs pressing out against my pinching fingertips. A woman responding to me. Her body responding to me. My palms slipped under her breasts, my fingers holding them and hefting them within the confinement of the cloth, hinting at the thick weight of them. I lifted and dropped and lifted her breasts as I inhaled the scent of her hair.

"Gatito. If you do this thing, it will all change. We won’t be friends anymore."

I was so frightened. I was so excited. Like a man who has stepped out onto a stage in front of people to give a speech, and discovered he is naked. You have to go on.

"Is this really what you want?" she said, and placed her hot dry hands over mine, pulling them chastely down and holding them at her sides. "The bed is there. But we will be different when we leave it. Is it what you want?"

My tongue was thick in my mouth as I tried to answer. I wasn’t even sure in my languidness and ferocious need if she had even spoken words or had entered my thoughts. I took my hands away from hers and she didn’t stop me as I reached up and began my fumbling descent, first the top button and then the next. I let my fingers answer. After I had undone the fifth button all the way to her belly, I slipped my hands inside her open shirt, palming the rolling softness of her warm ribs which rose and fell with her breath, fingering her navel, seeing her nude already with my fingers. I took the top of her shirt as she stood and allowed it, and tugged it fiercely open. The last button popped off and clicked off of the wall.

She raised her arms high above her head. I felt her shake once. There was a sniffle. "I didn’t mean for this to happen to you, gatito. Them, yes. I'm so old. Do you want to do this to me? And also to us? I will lose you if you do."

My hands were already gently drawing off her shirt. I tossed it across the room. I could hear the sound of my own animal breathing. She stood as she was with her back to me, in her bare feet with the thick loose skin of her bare back crossed only by her bra. “You won’t lose me,” I whispered. I pressed my face into her hair, hugging her tight to me. She was shivering.

The depth of emotion in this story can't help but touch you, regardless of how shocking you find the premise. C. Sanchez-Garcia proves that eroticism transcends age, that love can transform even an old woman into the object of intense desire.

If you're willing to have your assumptions challenged – if you're tired of reading the same stereotyped erotic stories – if you want to do something for women who have been abused – get yourself a copy of this book.

Editing

For the last day or two, I've put aside my own writing to work on another project that is dear to my heart: editing manuscripts for Coming Together Presents series.

Coming Together is the brain-child of Alessia Brio, who was my guest yesterday here at Beyond Romance. In the last few years, Alessia has assembled nearly a dozen collections of erotic stories and poetry, contributed by a wide range of authors. The proceeds from each volume support a different charity or cause. The literary quality of the series has been widely praised and several volumes have won industry awards. Personally, I've had the honor to contribute stories that supported breast cancer research, AIDS prevention, conservation, human rights, and recovery from the 2007 California wildfires.

Coming Together Presents is a new venture, single author collections rather than anthologies. Alessia asked me whether I'd be willing to edit the series, and I jumped at the chance to use my smut-mongering abilities for altruistic purposes. (I've edited two previous multi-author collections, as well as lots of non-fiction as part of my job, so I do have some qualifications.) The first three volumes will be out (in print and ebook) later this year.

So anyway, yesterday I was doing line edits for the first collection, by M. Christian (one of my favorite authors). I was fixing grammar errors, rewording awkward sentence structures, getting rid of repetitious words and constructions, and so on. I went whizzing along, feeling quite confident in my ability to see the problems in other authors' work.

All of a sudden it hit me. Why couldn't I do the same thing for my own writing? Sure, my editors usually tell me that my manuscripts are cleaner than average, but that doesn't stop me from using the same word ten times on a page. Or consistently using words like "forwards" when I should write "forward". Or losing the focus and writing something that is inconsistent with my current point of view (such as describing how my character looks when she's in the throes of a kiss with her eyes closed!) Or putting the "effect" before the "cause". ("She gave a startled scream. The door slammed shut.") Or any of the other typical mistakes or missteps that I make in my drafts.

I'm an excellent editor, but like most authors, I am somewhat blind to my own faults. Ask any author and she'll tell you the same thing--it's far easier to critique someone else's work than your own.

I'm extremely grateful for the fact that all three of the publishers I'm working with at the moment have exceptional editorial staff. Actually, that's one of the benefits of e-publishing. My first books were released in print by a New York publisher with a long history. This publisher hardly edited the books at all. I've found that my e-publishers are far more diligent and meticulous. Furthermore, the lines of communication are always open between the editor and author. If I disagree with my editor about some change, we can discuss the issue and work out a solution.

In the past, my husband edited some of my books. He also picked up on problems I couldn't see, and was brave enough to point them out. He doesn't really like either BDSM or gay romance, so these days I don't bother him much!

When I realize how much effort it takes to edit someone else's writing (even a skilled professional like M.Christian), I feel grateful for my own editors. It's a cooperative effort, of course. Most e-publishers pay their editors via royalties rather than a salary. So when my books sell well, my editors benefit too.

When I read books by other authors, however, it's difficult to take off my editor's hat. I really hate discovering that a book is full of grammar, spelling or formatting errors. That sort of shoddy editing makes me feel as though the author or the publisher or maybe both didn't really care about their readers.

So I am a bit nervous about the Coming Together series. I'm moderately confident of my editing abilities, but I really want to make a good impression.

I think I'll ask my husband to be a second pair of eyes...!

T-T-T-T-T-T-TOUCH ME…

By Alessia Brio (Guest Author)

First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.

~ Mahatma Gandhi

I hesitated with regard to writing yet another blog post about Publishing (with a capital P), publishing, epublishing, and self-publishing. You can’t spit without hitting one in the e-neighborhood these days, some with robust and often vitriolic discussions taking place in the comments. They’re all variations on the same theme: the antiquated business model struggles for survival in the face of changing market. (Yawn.) Adapt or perish. The End.

Yet it is the industry and those changes that currently occupy my attention as I strive to find my niche. (Niche being defined as that which enables me to indulge my creative impulses while simultaneously providing an income to feed my baser needs for food and shelter.) The resistance to change, especially within a system that was once profitable, is understandable. Corporations – like people – cling to what has been successful in the past. It’s safe and comfortable. Change is scary.

And, in the case of books, that level of safety is in the tangible. Tangible is comforting. It can be stroked, fondled, ogled. We can point to hoarded stuff and proclaim, “Behold, my bounty!” Not so easy to do with digital assets.

At one time in our not-so-distant past, the vast majority of business transactions involved an exchange of tangible goods: gold for land, livestock for slaves, cotton for woven cloth. Books.

We, both consumers and suppliers, do not quite know how to treat the intangible product, how to appreciate its value, how to stroke it. It's a relatively new concept in terms of civilization. It requires a level of trust and a shift in focus.

That started my wheels turning about money and the progression from a cash-only consumer base to one that is now predominantly credit/debit-based.

Money lenders have been around for a long time, so banking is nothing new. People were initially wary of storing assets in one physical location to protect them from theft.

Convenience won them over.

Yet, it took well over a millennia for the notion of the withdrawal of assets from a different physical location to catch on. Networks of financial institutions. Distributed assets. Distributed risks.

Convenience won them over.

With technological advances in communication, came the ability to rapidly confirm the availability of consumer assets and the introduction of the handwritten check. A modern IOU. It, too, was slow to gain acceptance. Yet it was still, in one sense, tangible.

Computers made cash transactions unnecessary. Even so, there was considerable consumer resistance to the use of credit cards. They were electronic. There was nothing to be fondled.

They were also easy… and fast. No delays while checks cleared. No waiting for payday.

Convenience won them over.

With the financial structure in place, the emergence of digital products was the next step in our electronic evolution. First, music. Vinyl cedes to magnetic tape which, in turn, cedes to compact disc. Still tangible, but stored on electronic media. And portable!

Convenience won them over.

Digital storage made it possible for consumers to own and enjoy movies in the comfort and privacy of their homes. The porn industry exploded. The Internet made it all available at the click of a mouse.

Convenience won them over.

Digital photography enabled folks to take virtually unlimited pictures without the expense of both film and developing and… waiting. Instant electronic gratification.

One by one our forms of recorded art and entertainment transitioned to the electronic as convenience and pragmatism replaced the ingrained need for a tangible thing.

Books are no exception. In time, the tangible book will cede to its digital form. The industry will conserve resources, reduce (if not eliminate) printing expenses, and repurpose vast amounts of physical storage space. And yet books will be more accessible than ever before.

The difference is that, this time around, consumers are demanding the shift rather than having it driven by the industry. Perhaps it’s due to my vantage, but in the past, it seemed to be the industry saying to the reluctant consumer: "Try this! You'll like it. It's nifty neat-o better than sliced bread yadda yadda." With ebooks and their related gadgetry, it's the consumers saying to a reluctant industry: "Make this! We want it. Now!"

It can't happen soon enough for me. If my work touches hearts and souls and libidos, I've achieved my goal. Having it packaged in an efficient, effective, environmentally-conscious fashion is just icing on my e-cake.

Happy New Year, y'all!

peace & passion,

~ Alessia

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BIO: Alessia Brio is in her element when she's creating. It doesn't matter if it's an erotic short story, a book's cover art, a new business, or a shower curtain. She has more ideas than time and often wishes for an army of minions to implement them to her exacting standards. Her latest endeavor is a self-publishing label entitled Purple Prosaic, but she is best known for her charity anthology series Coming Together.