E A Carter: Curating Life, Love and the Wonder of Being

Author of award-winning epic alternate historical fiction, sci-fi, and high fantasy love stories.

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Soren made me feel so special; when he paid attention to me it was like basking in sunshine. He made me feel like the most beautiful girl in the world just by winking at me. I could understand why all the girls would hang out at the bar trying to talk to him once the band had played. Everyone wanted to be part of his world. I used to get real jealous of the other girls, especially if they were prettier than me, but Soren was good at being nice to them without making me feel bad, which made me love him even more cause I knew I was the best of them all, I was the one Soren wanted. Being his girl was like winning Miss Universe or something. And he let everyone know I was his girl. He made sure I was always by his side and if anyone tried to make me look bad, he was real good at letting them know they were nobody compared to me. He would just grab my head and kiss me like there was no tomorrow. When the kiss was done no one doubted who Soren loved. He was rock and roll and the way he treated his lady made women want him even more. Yeah, he knew what he was doing. But I wasn’t complaining. (continued in comments) Make It Happen (unpublished work) ______________________________________ #badboy #taintedlove #rockchick #shattereddreams #almostfamous #eacarter #workinprogress https://www.instagram.com/p/CCbX6FpAvzK/?igshid=aqlre2tj2t3l

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'For the ones who love... Even when it would be easier not to.' This is the dedication I wrote in an unfinished book on the life of Tanu-Hepa, twice-crowned Queen of Hatti, a real historical person doomed to love a man who would never return her love...her tale is both beautiful and tragic. We come across Tanu-Hepa in The Lost Valor of Love and she remains in the series until the end of The Call of Eternity. The as yet unfinished book is about her early years before Istara's arrival when she was swept up from obscurity to become Hatti's queen after the empire suffered a vicious plague and it was decreed that this was caused by the king refusing to take a new queen for many years after her death. Tanu-Hepa was married at the age of 19 to Hatti's king, a man decades older than she - and the father of Prince Muwatallis, the man she truly loved, who was the same age as she. A tricky and complex situation arises upon the king's death which causes her to become the wife of Muwatallis and crowned queen a second time, a move that at once gave her everything...and nothing... It is a tragic, brutal tale no author could resist. I am especially drawn to her because she never lost her grace and dignity, and in the end it was her step-son Urhi-Teshub who rescued her from her banishment and reinstated her powers as regent queen of Hatti. #historycomestolife #historicalwomen #queen #love #wip #unrequitedlove https://www.instagram.com/p/CCZRL4RAasM/?igshid=1bnsyiibcodqg

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#foryou on #internationalkissingday What can be more beautiful than a kiss? The meeting of two hearts, the twining of souls. And from The Rise of the Goddess... Her consort set aside his platter and tossed his napkin on top of it. Its starched white folds slid into the bloody gravy of his unfinished venison and bled death. He rose, the gold-embossed panels on his leather tunic and kilt catching in the brazier's firelight. Meresamun lowered her eyes to her cup, to her unfinished wine. The weight of his gaze fell on her, dense as an ashlar. "Come with me." Cold. The command of a god. He lowered his hand to her. The markings on his arm seethed, discordant, unsettled. She met his look. His impaled her, harsh, enigmatic, unreadable. Meresamun set aside her wine and touched her fingers to his. He pulled her to him, capturing her against the hardened panels of his gilded tunic. His eyes moved over her face, came to a halt on her mouth. A flicker of torment sliced through his features. He caught her chin, held her still as he brushed his lips against hers, tender, reverent, tasting of red wine, rare meat, torment and longing. His grip tightened and his kiss deepened, fierce, possessive, the violence of his passion consuming her, robbing her of her senses. He tore himself free. She swayed, overcome by his unexpected ardor. His hand found hers, warm, strong. He turned and led her across the firelit suite, the heavy golden panels of his kilt clacking, quiet. Before the closed doors, he cut her a dark look. "Though I have resisted this decision and may one day come to regret it," he said, “I find I can deny you nothing. Not even this." He hauled the door open. A cold draft swept in from the corridor. The flames of the braziers snapped back at it. Another flicker of anguish sheared through his carnelian eyes. “You shall have your wish.” Meresamun caught her breath. 𝘡𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘶. #kiss #passion #love #fantasy #writersofig #theriseofthegoddess #eacarter https://www.instagram.com/p/CCWE9RrgoNd/?igshid=zzred6ub3aui

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How far would you go for love? What would you sacrifice? Everything? Your life? I ease my way along the grotty, damp corridor towards the rickety wooden door of Blue's apartment. It took ten long, brutal days of scouring drone images of the lanes and alleys to find her building, Akron's photographic memory of my memories giving us the only lead we had. Even though I don't remember doing it, I had looked out Blue's window. Opposite her apartment, a particular gargoyle perched on the ruins of a nearby chapel. Ten long, soul-crushing days spent searching for a gargoyle. Akron was stubborn, though, and found it in the dead of the night—terminating an exhausting search through the endless wreckage of a dying city. And now here I am, in her deserted building, dressed in full combat gear, passing the once-familiar scrawls of faded graffiti plastered over the breeze block wall: 'Fuck the GC'; 'God help us'; 'Let it end'. The images awaken memories of before, when I was myself—when I walked with her to her apartment, burning with anticipation, my heart aching with love. Even after everything I have learned about her, it still does. More than ever. Blue. Now I can only love her in silence. The one she loved is dead. Who I have become is no one to her. I can never tell her the truth—tell her I am still alive, like this. It would break her heart to see what I have become. No longer a man, but something other—a machine made for killing. (continued in comments) #icassandra #dystopianfiction #writersofinstagram #writersofig #inyoureyes #love #forbiddenlove #london #eacarter https://www.instagram.com/p/CCT1oYSDe4d/?igshid=1nb5p2axkcpqk

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Who wants a new story? A romantic worlds crossing adventure sound good? Thought so... 'Elise,' he says. My name on his lips sends a pleasing tingle through me. He tilts his head toward me, in a manner of deference that makes me think of the middle ages. 'Thank you for this. You have good taste.' I blush and hate myself for it. 'It's just a Malbec,' I say, and turn away to look at the painting on the wall I never liked with more interest than it deserves. Silence falls and stretches. I hear him swallow his wine. I say nothing because I don't know what else to say. I can't really wrap my mind around what's happening, so I choose to ignore it. 'Would you like to know my name?' I do, but I shrug, nonchalant, as if I don't care either way. I sip again, and keep my back to him, the memory of the flinty grey of his eyes tormenting me. I will not fall for the crazy guy from another world. I will not. 'High Magus Commander Thalin.' A rustle of leather. I assume he is bowing. Of course. I refuse to look. Wait. A commander? Wow. No. Stop. His name sounds like the capital of Estonia. Tallinn. I like it. Too much. Silence falls but it is not uncomfortable. I sense the distance growing between us as he retreats into his thoughts. Another quiet swallow of wine. He exhales, a heavy thing. I bring my wine to my lips and drink most of it. The smooth caress of the Malbec swirls through my blood, dulls the hard edges of my thoughts. I keep my attention on the painting, vomited up by some celebrity Swedish artist my ex admired. It's stupid and pretentious. I can't stand it. I want it out. Now. I put my wine glass aside and heft the atrocity off the wall. A faint outline of its existence remains, a rectangle of pristine white paint, untouched by the heat of the sun, or the chill of the stars. Its existence offends me. It glares back at me, a moment in time preserved from the day when he hung it there all those years ago. When we were happy. When it was a lie. (continued in comments) #wip #newwork #romantic #mage #adventure #love #modern #magic #fantasy #thinkers_and_writers #writersofinstagram https://www.instagram.com/p/CCRYbQDAo0j/?igshid=gs8xowg5exr1

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In these dark times, have you found your key, or are you still searching? Writers...how has 2020 affected your writing? Have you found new creativity despite the chaos? #segoviaamil #hell #she #heaven #key #poetry #typography #bnw #seed #beautifulwords https://www.instagram.com/p/CCMA1wNgHh6/?igshid=1sun7vpb7jjdh

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Love is what drives us. What destroys us. What heals us. To live for love, for the hope of love is the most courageous act of all. #theriseofthegoddess #eacarter #love #nighttimethoughts #thinkers_and_writers #transcendence https://www.instagram.com/p/CBWQLBaAXos/?igshid=2dkjpq8cc79n

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When I was growing up I always read the 'Gold Medal' books and hoped one day I would write a book that would win a Gold Medal...It took a long time, but here it is! The Lost Valor of Love with its Gold Medal for Adult Fiction from The Wishing Shelf Independent Book Awards. https://www.instagram.com/p/B_fbCzag4FR/?igshid=2vldmixm78se

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Love. We seek it despite knowing it's going to hurt us, perhaps even break us. Yet we are willing to face the pain it will bring because the alternative for most, is worse. To go to bed alone, to wake up alone, to eat alone, to watch a film alone. To shop alone. To travel alone. To watch a pair of cranes fly across the sky, alone. To drink. Alone. I am alone. So far, this is my choice. But it is not easy. I was left by my husband almost a year ago and divorced by him just over six months ago. It still hurts, even though he was cruel to me at the end of our marriage, and left me for (at the very least, the hopes of being with) another woman he had been pursuing for some time. At times I still want him to come back. At others, I shudder at the thought and am grateful to be free of him. Is it ironic I write of love, think of love, plan stories of love when I myself am essentially unloved and unwanted? They say to write what you know. What does this author know? Does she know of the love she writes? Yes and no. Long ago, in her London days, one in particular gave a glimpse into the depth of the love her characters have explored, which still dwells in the hidden corridors of her heart. She immortalised him as Ahmen, although only in appearance, the rest is fiction, although perhaps not the tumultuous, passionate, broken love Ahmen possesses for Meresamun. (continued in comments) ________________________________ #love #blogpost #bnwphotography #writers_and_thinkers #digitallove #lies #disposable #waiting https://www.instagram.com/p/B_Ul__bAlw4/?igshid=7vo1pk4rst6x

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I wake in a hospital gurney. This time no bright lights sear my vision. Instead, soft illumination slides up the plain white walls from a thin luminescent strip embedded along the edge of the grey slate floor. Apart from the gurney, no other furnishings grace the space. The door facing me is closed. To the right of the frame, a panel with several blue lights blink in sequence. I lift my hand, cautious, expecting restraints. Nothing. Disbelief, then relief slams through me. It is my hand. My own hand. I lift my other hand and clench both into fists, the movement familiar, invigorating. For a beat euphoria rules me, then like the wash of a polluted tide, nausea swarms over me and steals my joy. I spot a stainless steel container beside the gurney. A vile, blue-black liquid splatters the pristine container, slides down against its sides in ugly rivulets. Sickened by the sight of it, I heave and empty myself, gagging against its bitter, metallic taste. The door slides open. de Pommier's avatar walks in. I ease myself back onto the gurney, trembling, my guts strafed by agony. The acrid stink of my vomit fills the room, soaks my mouth. I want water. There is nothing. 'The worst is over,' de Pommier says. She stands just inside the door, her eyes move over me, critical, searching for flaws. A look of satisfaction touches the curve of her lips. 'Welcome back, Capitaine Ryan Maddox. For the next three months, you will remain with Vallis and be to her what you were before . . . and you will give her hope. Hope you and she will be together, forever, on Mars.' She cocks her head at me. I stifle a fresh wave of nausea. 'Of course, you won't. But when she realises that, it will be too late and she and the other evacuees will be on their way to Mars while the rest of us burn.' (continued in comments) _______________________________ #icassandra #eacarter #storytime #passion #forbiddenlove #dystopia #cyborg #bnwphotography #awardwinningauthor #wordporn #thesystem #storm #ultimatum https://www.instagram.com/p/B_DHcdVHuvo/?igshid=g6h1j5i57g4w

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#typography #blackandwhite #beautifulwords #wordporn #nothing #stories #writers_and_thinkers #oneday #mortality #whatcomesnext #whatwebecome #quotes https://www.instagram.com/p/B_CpnH8HexF/?igshid=bj6swevadg6k

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It began with the chase, persistent and light. She fell to his grace, his charm, and his might. He said he loved her but there was always a price Impossible rules that controlled her life He took her space, her air, her sight And imprisoned her in his realm of endless night Feasted on her love, her soul, her light. Gorged on her fear, her pain, her hope, Her plight. And when he was done. He told her the lie. It was she who was evil, and he the knight. #narcissist #narcissisticabuse #narcissistsurvivor #eacarter #noshame #survivor #healing #woman #empath #silentnomore #bnwphotography #poetry https://www.instagram.com/p/B-jn4b5H337/?igshid=11pbakgkn2zwo

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#gemmatroy #poetry #beautifulwords #wordporn #typography #light #sun #moon #dark #burn https://www.instagram.com/p/B-hocYbHTbh/?igshid=1p20zlzwm71vf

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'Instead of running from my fire, you pulled up a chair opened your favorite book and cozied up to the warmness of me.' Feral Kenyon @feralblacksheep #poetry #feralkenyon #beautifulwords #bnwmood #hands #bnwphotography #noiretblanc #love #lamour #kärlek #man #woman #eternallove #fire #book https://www.instagram.com/p/B-fS774HQtp/?igshid=wjst7746ou90

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#typography #bnw #eacarter #quotestagram #wonder #character #liveon #gone #mortality #magic #writers_and_thinkers #writersofinstagram #becauseofreading #awardwinningauthor https://www.instagram.com/p/B-Z_U5yn4pS/?igshid=1jgasis77kd90

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#sunset #desert #egypt #lostintime #mood #thoughts #Istara #Sethi #thecallofeternity #eternallove #love https://www.instagram.com/p/B-Yv19JHUc4/?igshid=90yx07t32ap3

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#quotes #victorhugo #beautiful #stars #night #soul #wordporn #typography #bnw #encouragement https://www.instagram.com/p/B-WKxNHnri9/?igshid=qspkmulon6fb