So, I did a thing.

In July of 2024, a casual conversation curdled into a compulsion, and I started writing. I call Bitter Passion Fruit my first novel, but let’s be honest I’m not entirely sure what it is. It’s a shapeshifter, and I expect it to continue morphing in these upcoming months.

The Premise

Bitter Passion Fruit is an autofiction-esque erotic thriller about two Caribbean expatriates building a new life far from home. A passionate workplace affair sparks between them, but the female lead remains deeply apprehensive. She uses his reputation as a player to keep him at a distance, but this is merely an excuse. The truth is, she is hiding from him, from everyone. She is running from a past that is now poised to return and haunt them both.

It’s not my first attempt at writing, but it is my first attempt at venturing into an uncomfortable, somewhat autobiographical zone, centering on a love affair that was, at the time, slowly churning. I started in late August 2024 with one thought in mind: to create a spicy novel masquerading as an attempt to bleed my thoughts dry about a certain situation and person. Perhaps it was also a bit of revenge, to show case that I knew he was a deceitful person and he wasn’t fooling the ultimate deceiver.

The original draft was a mere six chapters. By October 2024, it bloated to ten. By December 2024, when I finally thought I’d nailed it, the whole thing had ballooned to 50,000 words. So, I gifted it to the person who’d challenged me to write in the first place: the main male character in this story, Killian. Of course, this is not his real name.

He liked it.

He claimed to have read it on his lunch hour, insisting my 50,000 word count was a mere snack for a voracious reader like him. I figured he was biased and perhaps has an inflated ego, seeing as he was one of the main characters. But the ultimate goal was… specific. When you author an erotic thriller, the one thing you want is for a reader to be turned on by at least one of the crafty, intimate acts detailed in the book.

Goal achieved. He said it turned him on.

His feedback was… illuminating but minimal. He suggested it could be longer, should have more drama, and perhaps include “one instance of anal sex.” Then he questioned the narrative framing: “Why do I seem like the bad guy in this story?”

So, in January 2025, I went back to the drawing board. The result is 25 chapters and about 100,000 words. Yes, the story in this book is complete, but it ended up begging for a sequel. (Turns out, I couldn’t find a graceful way to include that requested… ahem … plot point without it feeling like a tacked-on encore. The anal sex.)

Below are the first 1,500 words of Chapter One. I designed it to prepare the reader for a strange journey. You’ll also find my mock-ups for the cover art. Don’t judge me, I’m still working all this out!

These covers are a direct descendant of the steamy, dramatic novels I devoured as a child. Was I too young? Absolutely. But “Go read a book!” is a classic Caribbean parent directive, and I was just an overachiever. They didn’t tell me what book to read, a book is a book!

Chapter One

KILLIAN WATCHES IN SILENCE, his eyes wide with a mix of horror and disbelief. The desperate sounds trigger something in me, forcing the darkness to the surface once again. As I stab and hack away, a tide of primal satisfaction swallows me, pulling me deeper into darkness. My actions transcend logic and border on insanity and mingles with an unnatural amount of relief and liberation. For the first time, the weight of fear and shame lifts, replaced by untamed energy. And with that energy, a dark memory comes forth, like a throbbing wound in the fabric of my subconscious. I could still feel the phantom weight on my chest and the phantom hands around my neck, and there I was, hiding under that passion fruit tree again.

I was twelve, on the cusp of turning thirteen, visiting relatives in another village that Friday evening before my birthday. Their home was tucked away at the end of a secluded winding lane. This lane snaked past their front yard, merging into sugarcane hills, then vanished into mountains we were warned never to cross. I planned to spend the evening celebrating indoors, but as it was only 6:13 p.m., and restlessness took hold of me. I wanted to go out!

My older cousin and her friends were at a restaurant down on Old Road. This was another place we weren’t to venture alone after dark. The lane had already dissolved into shadows by then, but something propelled me out anyway, first for the company, then for the roti I’d promised to bring back to my aunt and much younger cousin.

The lane stretched before me; its uneven surface lit by the pale glow of a crescent moon accented by a half dozen tungsten lampposts. My Bata flip-flops echoed softly as they crunched on the gravelly lane, making the only sound in the stillness. I glanced back at the house once, observing its windows warm with light, before turning my gaze forward. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and jasmine, underpinned by the sickening sweetness of mamey apples rotting as the air cooled. At midnight, that sweetness turns suffocating, as if the fruits themselves were exhaling their last breath.

My mind began to wander as I walked, but halfway through my journey, I paused beneath a lamppost. Standing there, I studied how the light filtered through a dense mesh of passion fruit vines. It formed a living tapestry, an ecosystem woven between the vines, the post, and a sugar apple tree sheltered in its embrace. Transfixed, I stood there holding my reusable plastic bag. That’s when the need to pick passion fruits arose. As I harvested, I smiled excitedly over my find in a way that only a child could understand. The bag meant for my food now bulged with perfectly rounded golden passion fruits destined to be turned into a sweet and tangy drink to savor later.

*And sometimes, the AI just does what it wants. No matter how specific you are with the description, you get… this. The clothing choice is all wrong, so this mock-up is officially retired.*

But as I reached for the thirteenth fruit, a noise interrupted the stillness. I heard sharp footsteps crunching on the graveled path behind me. My hand stopped mid-air as I looked towards the sound. Voices followed indistinctly but very urgent, like boys arguing on a distant playground. My pulse quickened, causing a cold wave of panic to surge through me. Without thinking, I dove into the dense foliage, allowing the vines to swallow me whole. Crouching low, my knees pressing into the earth while clutching the bag of fruits tightly to my chest.

Their words became clearer when I heard someone hissed, “What about the bet?” It was then my heart started pounding so loudly that I was convinced they could hear it. I held my breath, and every muscle in my body tensed as the footsteps got closer and the sound of crunching gravel grew louder.

Peering through the dense vegetation, I prayed they would walk by. But they didn’t; once they were closer, they stopped, and that’s when I could distinctly hear the tension in their voices and feel the strange energy they carried. One of the boys caught my eye, a vaguely familiar face. I racked my brain, trying to place him, and then it hit me. My brother had mentioned him before and even named him as a friend. He was one of his classmates, though I couldn’t remember his real name. What I did remember was his nickname: Bigz. Bigz and his crew were notorious loiterers who were involved in petty theft and vandalism, earning a reputation for delinquency. My mother often told my brother to avoid these ‘dunces,’ specifically Bigz.

The two other boys were strangers to me. Both seemed older and taller, with aggressive postures and voices that carried a dangerous edge. I was relieved to be hidden, even if the darkness and foliage were my only shields. At that age, I knew to steer clear of these boys. I learned the hard way, the summer before while walking home from my friend’s house one afternoon when a boy with the same demeanor tried to feel me up. Just as he was about to slip his hand down my shorts, I ran, and I never walked that way again, whether it was night or day.

As I watched Bigz try to break free, the older boys flanked him like predators. He sped up his steps to outpace them, but they reached out and grabbed his shoulders, slowing him down. Then in a low, menacing voice, one of them said, “Where do you think you’re going?” Then, the other boy started interrogating Bigz while holding him in place by the thick silver chain he wore around his neck. I could tell by Bigz’s body language that he was tense as he hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself smaller.

This one is definitely in the running. I wondered if the red nails were too much, but they’re perfect short, sharp, and exactly what my female lead would wear. (A win for AI!) The catch? This is a right hand, and the red string bracelet must be on the left. A quick fix, but a crucial one. My only other note? I prefer a messier passion fruit. After all, things get incredibly messy in this book and I mean that in every sense of the word.

Then, right in front of my hiding spot, one of the older boys shoved him. The force sent Bigz stumbling backward with arms flailing as he tried to regain balance. But before he could recover, the other boy lunged forward, and it was then I saw it, a knife, its blade catching the sickly yellow light of the lamppost. The glint of metal froze me in place, causing my heart to pound so loudly I was sure I would be discovered.

Bigz’s eyes widened, fear flashing across his face as he raised his hands in surrender. The boy with the knife stepped closer while raising his voice; the threat he carried in his tone was now unmistakable. I pressed myself deeper into the vines, my hands clutching the bag of passion fruits so tightly my knuckles turned white. I wanted to look away, to force myself to shut my eyes and pretend I wasn’t witnessing this, but I couldn’t.

I watched as Bigz’s chest rose and fell, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. By then, the boys were standing over him in a way that made their intentions clear to me. I felt a surge of helplessness, as a desperate urge to do something bubbled in me, but what could I do? I was just a child, hiding for my own safety.

Frozen, I melted into the dark like a nocturnal animal. Beneath me, the ground grew damper as every leaf and tendril on the vine cocooned me into its tangled ecosystem. Then, out of nowhere, the air grew thick and suffocating as the sickly-sweet smell of rotting fruits assaulted my senses while igniting a fear that both repelled and captivated me.

This cover is very much under consideration. It’s a silent synopsis: the red shoes hint at a past trauma, the couple presents a united front, the passion fruit is their shared world… and then, the knife.
*The only tweaks? The coloring might be a touch too dark and moody. I also need passion fruit centered so they’re standing on it together, and I’d prefer the knife shifted to the female’s side.*
*(A little hint of things to come.)*

I’d hoped that the boys would leave after they were done threatening Bigz, but that didn’t happen. What followed was a brutal attack that played out in a horrifying tableau. The struggle was chaotic and filled with a jumble of limbs and cries that seemed to go on forever. The boy with the knife was swift, and in a violent motion, he cut Bigz’s throat. The sound that came after was horrific; a mix of air escaping his neck, along with choking, gurgling noises, with blood spilling forth. It was agonizing to witness his desperate gasps, with each futile attempt to pull air into the deep, open gash in his throat hammering this experience into my memory. That horrendous sound, a whistling, wet, ragged hiss, instantly carried me back to my family’s farm as I watched livestock being slaughtered. The sound of his desperate attempts to breathe was burnt into my mind as a visceral reminder of the brutality of life.

Beyond the immediate danger I faced, the revelation that rang true was how animalistic we became when forced to die in that way. That sound, that desperate struggle, and the smell of rotting fruits took me to a place I couldn’t escape. Huddled in the dark, everything shattered as I felt the retreating footsteps of my innocence abandon me, splitting my entire life into two days: the day before I hid under that passion fruit tree and the day after.

…

I plan to scour Fiverr for a talented artist to help bring the perfect cover to life. We’ll go deep, analyzing the best colors to catch a reader’s eye. I’m naturally drawn to dark and moody, but sometimes it’s not about what I want, it’s about what works.

I know I want it to feel elegant, not trashy to counter act what is actually inside the pages. Maybe the answer is minimal and sleek? I’m still figuring it out.

Anyway, I’ll end my ramble here. If you’ve read this far, you clearly have some time to kill! I’d love to know what you think. Leave a comment below or email your feedback, thoughts, and cover preferences to: mauby.travel@gmail.com