One
Thousand and One Nights
Ruth
Browne
ISBN: 9781622663316
Book
Description:
Sheri spends her days fighting
zombies and her nights chained to a wall, earning her every breath by telling
stories to her captor Aleksy—stories that make them both forget the ruined
world. Sheri could put up with the conditions—at least she knows her sister is
safe in the community Aleksy leads—until she realizes she’s falling for
him...even though he wants her dead.
When Aleksy allowed Sheri and her
sister into his compound, he didn’t know about the zombie bite on her back.
It's only a matter of time before she turns into one of the rising dead and
threatens their existence, but Aleksy has a secret need for Sheri and her
stories. For everyone’s safety, he chains her to his bedroom wall, hoping for
just one more day. But how long will the community allow Aleksy to ignore his
own rule: always kill the infected. Always.
Fairytales, Zombies and Romantic
BDSM
Hello, hello. I'm the author of
One Thousand and One Nights, soon to be published by the Ever After line of
Entangled. I live in South Africa, which is a country, and I write and review
fiction while studying law.
1001 Nights adapts and retells
the story of Scheherazade, the mythical Persian queen who escaped beheading at
the hands of her jilted, homicidal husband Shahryar (in Persian, “king”) by
telling him bedtime stories. In his original form, Shahryar inspires about as
much empathy as Ted Bundy. Surrounded by man-eating corpses, protecting his own
tiny island of the living, Aleksy (in Greek/Polish, “defender of mankind”) was
my attempt to salvage the King from his misogynistic past. He hates and fears
his Scheherazade, Sheri, because she's tainted by a zombie-bite, but still
human. The feeling of just subsisting from day to day translates well to an
updated version: Aleksy tries to keep going in a world that's betrayed him, and
Sheri lives with the constant fear of death and undeath.
I first called it One Thousand
and One Corpses, but the publisher wanted more romance, less out-and-out
horror. I also gave it a subtitle, Sheri and the King, which probably tells you
more about my upbringing on Broadway musicals than you wanted to know. I
balance that out with a zombie obsession that gave me chills all the way
through Max Brooks' World War Z. In fact, I'd pay to watch a zombie musical,
preferably written and directed by Richard O'Brien. It'd take about twenty
years for a decent production to find its way to Cape Town, South Africa, but
I'll fund the Kickstarter campaign and wait.
Doing research for this story was
a pleasure. I read the tales of Sinbad, explored the different translations and
took a closer look at some traditional fairytales. These stories and their
Disney reboots cause me equal amounts of delight and righteous anger.
Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, The Little Mermaid: if there's any
message there, it's that women should be hetero, beautiful and probably silent.
Even better, asleep. One of my favourites is Beauty and the Beast, which tells
the story of a spoilt daydreamer, imprisoned and blackmailed until she falls in
love with her abuser. I'm writing the BDSM version right now. It's empowering.
At least a Belle who reads the Marquis de Sade and dreams about whippings wants
everything she gets.
Sure, I'm a feminist. I believe
in “the radical notion that women are people”, in the words of Cheris Kramarae.
I had some interesting discussions with my editors on this point, especially as
regards Sheri and her boundless enthusiasm for sex. I adore the erotica written
by Remittance Girl, who takes a similar approach to liberated female sexuality
as Greta Christina, a fantastic atheist blogger and sex writer. I wanted my
story to reflect these concerns of mine, and I'd welcome any comments on this
subject.
Excerpt:
"He had meant to go
straight to the basin to wash, but instead he stood watching the woman sleep. Did
she dream? The coppery hair covering her face likely concealed shallow
fever-dreams of blood and slaughter, but the arm curled defensively around her
head made her seem vulnerable—a captive no older than her teenaged sister. Rays
from the sun reached in through the window, and where they touched her skin a
blush rose to the surface, pulsing as though kindled from within. Her
dressing-gown had fallen open. Aleksy’s eye was held by the way her breasts
pushed against the severe under wiring of her bra.
On her, it didn't look
pre-packaged. The charcoal-grey cups matched the high waisted briefs she wore;
the cotton bunched a little where one thigh had slipped over the other. Only
when her finger twitched and she resettled her head on her arm did he find the
self-discipline to shut his eyes and turn away."
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