StephanieRose Bird

35 year old indie author of paranormal, fantasy, historical fiction/fantasy, and steamy romance. My characters are quirky and meddlesome, and I thrive on lavish and flowers descriptions.
When not writing I'm working in the medical field as a workers compensation specialist. I read, take walks, play video games, travel, binge-watch my favorite TV shows. I'm a collector of all things Paris/Eiffel Tower and survive thanks to coffee.

Award Category
Screenplay Award Category
An FBI agent teams with a goddess-in-disguise to hunt down her murderous son, Eros, before he tears out the hearts of every soulmate on the planet. A twist on the Greek Mythology tales you might be used to, set in current times, with mystery murders and charismatic characters.
Carnivorous Cupid
My Submission



Beating. Thumping. Thrashing. Pumping. He heard them all, knew which belonged to whom, and labeled them in the back of his mind for his personal knowledge.

He recognized them as they passed by, each pulsating at their own rhythms, as if communicating with him, or saying hello. He didn’t look at faces or dig his eyes into their souls to get to know someone; he looked at hearts. That’s how he identified each human he oversaw.

Now, he waited, concealed in the darkness of the late-night sky, his breathing leveled—steady yet anxious. He gripped his bow so tight his hands ached.

They should show up any minute.

His temples throbbed as strangers passed by, all oblivious to his dark figure hiding behind a dumpster. Rain drenched his black leather coat, and he shivered, droplets creeping under his clothes, rolling down his bare arms.

He kicked off the water from his boots and shook his head to free his hair of the weight. He smelled like a wet dog, but he didn't care.

They'll be here soon.

Skyscrapers surrounded the dingy dumpster and a gloomy navy blanket towered overhead, unleashing thick drops of rain. Puddles splashed as cars sped by, their loud rumbles awakening the crowds. People rushed to avoid getting wet, but most were unable to react fast enough. Drivers didn't seem to notice as they drove on, headed towards more passers-by to splash and soak.

He cackled, the bark of sound loud in the darkness.

Stupid humans.

He shifted to a crouching position, hoping to better hide from those passing him—no one could see him. Ever.

I can't be compromised or stopped.

Distant footsteps resonated in his skull, muffling every other sound around him. He perked up, keeping close to the ground.

That's them. They're near.

He pulled two arrows from the bag at his feet, and notched them. Blood dripped onto his shoes, making him frown; but he disregarded his disgust to focus on his upcoming task.

The footsteps grew louder, and the world around him became faint. The cars, the people, the rainfall; nothing affected him but the steps, like heartbeats. Faster, nearer, within reach.

Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

He lifted his bow, strung his fingers.

Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

He saw them at last. A man and a woman, walking in slow motion, their strides in rhythm with those in his head. Both wore raincoats and arrived from opposite ends of the street, oblivious to each other and to everything surrounding them. Lost in thought, likely hurrying to their destinations to dodge the rain.

He rose, and in the blink of an eye, he tugged the string, drew the arrows back, took a sharp breath, and released them as he puffed out his cheeks.

One embedded into the man's torso, knocking him back; the other charged into the woman's gut, hunching her over in pain.

He smiled.

The arrows disintegrated as they pierced the skin, disappearing in an eruption of black smoke that blanketed the two individuals. Within a few seconds, they regained their balance, shook their heads, and took in their surroundings.

When their eyes met, an invisible link established; like a thin, silver thread connecting them, drawing them to one another. They froze, mouths gaping, limbs straightening. They rolled their shoulders and marched up to each other, only stopping once their noses touched.

Satisfied, the archer slipped his weapon back into the bag on the ground, never taking his gaze off the scene.

It's time. Soulmates, unite.

The two humans emitted a low moan, an earth-rattling shriek. Others passed by them, ignoring them; no one paid attention to the couple stopped dead in the middle of the busy, rainy sidewalk. No one cared about the strangers and their sudden meeting, their purpose, their supernatural connection.

But they will all care soon.

The man ripped off the woman's raincoat in one fluid movement. The woman did the same to him, then tugged at his shirt, watching as buttons flew and fell to the pavement, in sync with the raindrops.

Still, not a single person passing by gave their extraordinary actions any attention.

He yanked her dress over her head, leaving her in her intimates, and high boots up to her knees. He let her undo his belt and drop his pants to the wet ground, and as he stepped out of them, only his boxers and shoes remained.

Finally, a few curious glances came from shocked citizens and tourists. The archer could only imagine their thoughts; would these two end up uniting right there, in the street, in public? What were they doing?

He smirked.

It's time.

As onlookers halted, trespassing on the situation, the man and the woman reached out—and plunged their hands into each other's chests. A blinding flash of light consumed the area as witnesses tumbled to their knees, weakened by the overwhelming brightness.

Some ran, splashing in the rainwater; slipping, falling, struggling to escape as fast as possible without a second glance.

Those who dared to stay had no choice but to witness the final event. The culmination of the archer's efforts; when his targets removed their hands, holding each other's beating hearts—and both pulsating members still attached to their bodies by a few thin veins.

So began the screams. The fainting, the retching in a corner, the desperate attempts to shield eyes; but no one could evade the horror. No one could tear away.

The man and woman dropped to their knees and, to a chorus of yelps from their audience, they lifted the hearts to their mouths—and sunk their teeth in.

Crimson liquid splattered all over, drizzling into the small ponds of water, exploding all over the poor onlookers.

As they chomped, tearing through muscle tissue, the crunching sound echoed down the street, bouncing off the walls in the alley and the surrounding buildings. Deafening chewing rang in the archer's ears, squelching as tender chunks of heart projected from behind their lips and glazed the slick ground. The rainwater on the sidewalk reddened, thickening as a foul stench escaped the zone.

Though everyone around cowered, unable to pry their gazes away, filling with revulsion, the two continued; munching down on every meaty piece until nothing remained and juices coated their faces.

And the archer watched, a sickening grin on his face.

"Do you love your little humans now?" He snarled. "Come and get me, Mother. Come and confess your mistakes."

With a growl, he arched his spine.

Then, and only then, will this Cupid stop the carnage.

He heaved his bag over his shoulder and ambled down the opposite end of the alley, chuckling to himself.

Behind him, the man and woman had finished their feast. In unison, they released their final breaths as they tipped backwards, sloshing into puddles of water, blood, and flesh. Their hearts eaten, their bodies decaying—they were no more.

The passers-by ran in all directions, yelling for help, calling the police, begging the skies for mercy; but it was too late.

Don't fuck with Eros.


A woman lounged beside a man, lips pouting.

"So, agent. What's it like?"

He grabbed a lighter on the nightstand and flicked it, illuminating the end of his cigarette. It ignited, and nicotine entered his body as he inhaled. He blew out the smoke, relief filling his lungs.

The woman raised her eyebrows and dodged the vapors though she didn't seem bothered by them.

He sighed. "Being an FBI agent?" She nodded. "Constant traveling, reports and files, interrogations and drinking. Violence here and there. And lots of blood. That about sums it up."

She batted her thick-coated eyelashes, and swung her leg over his under the covers, rubbing her soft skin against him.

"Oh, come on, give me something good," she said, tracing along his arms with her fingertips.

Her bright red nail polish reminded him of the oozing blood he had seen earlier that day.

No, stop that! Get back in the mood!

He shivered. At this point, he would ask a woman to dress and leave, but he enjoyed this one's presence. He hadn't had such fun in a while, not when his mind was elsewhere.

He couldn't see himself requesting her to take off after such a passionate, exciting evening.

"What do you want to know?" He brought the cigarette to his mouth again. "How long I've been an agent? What my degree is? If I'm married and have children?" He blew more smoke out into the room.

It was a nice hotel—nicer than his usual. The FBI spoiled him for once—that, or he didn't read about the covered expenses for this case, and would have to fork out the money for this place on his own.

The wallpaper wasn't cracked, the carpet wasn't stained, and the bed didn't squeak while they played. There was a flat-screen TV, and a long list of channels to choose from, to keep entertained. Not that he'd have time to peruse them.

The lock on the door was functional, the curtains didn't have holes, weren't frayed, and didn't stink of smoke.

He felt bathed in luxury.

The woman nudged him and giggled, her voice making his extremities tingle. "No, not that. Play with me, agent. Tell me the dirty stuff. The shady hotels, the women, the crimes... that's what I want." Her tone, so husky, was the sexiest he'd ever heard.

He took another drag of his cigarette and kept his cool, unwilling to give in to her again just yet. "I don't stay in shady hotels. I stay in places like this." It wasn't like she would figure out the truth.

The woman shoved him again, seeing right through him.

"Okay, okay, fine. Dark, scary rooms with shadows that dance on the walls, creepy hallways, weird strangers walking down them at night... is that what you want?"

Her features lit up. The sheets barely covered her naked body, and he resisted the urge to jump her.

He almost cracked his cigarette from squeezing it too tight between his fingers. "Lots of women, like you. We meet in bars, we drink, we exchange glances. We don't talk, usually. You're lucky."

The woman feigned surprise. "Oh, little me? What a privilege. Tell me more." She propped herself up on her side, facing him.

The cover slipped and her breasts showed, almost warranting a gasp from him.

She's teasing me! That sly thing.

"More about the women? How we turn off the lights, slip out of our clothes, sneak under the blankets, and direct our hands to those special, secret places? Or did you want more about the shady hotel rooms and what they might contain?"

He hurried to finish his cigarette; her taunts had gotten the best of him, and he was ready for more.

She wagged her finger. "No, about the job, silly. The crime scenes. The investigations. The criminals. Excite me, agent, get me nice and scared!" The covers fell farther, revealing the rest of her upper body.

He gulped, unsure how long he could keep up with her ‘game’, and not lose his ability to think straight. He sensed a tightness below that he couldn't control, and consumed his cigarette far faster than he should, the nicotine swirling in his lungs, rendering him dizzy.

"I'm not at liberty to reveal such things, young lady," he whispered as he extinguished the cigarette in an ashtray, and turned to her.

She was a gorgeous woman. A classic beauty with big, scarlet hair, plumped, crimson lips, a fair and smooth complexion. Curves in the right places, and a deep, seductive voice he had been unable to resist when he met her in the bar hours before.

She frowned. "It's not like I'll tell anyone. I like the gruesome stories, okay? The weird shit. Gets me turned on, I don't know why." Her hand grazed his pectoral muscles, sending chills down his spine.

Beautiful, but strange.

She caught his attention earlier that evening, at the hotel bar. Sipping on a martini, looking his way, undressing him with every glance. He hadn't hesitated to approach her, and when he said he was a federal agent, her eyes sparked with lust.

Did she think he was joking? Role playing? Faking his job title to get laid?

Maybe she's an actress?

"I can't, though." He smiled as he caressed her face, memories of their rolling in the sheets preparing him for another round.

She pulled away. "It's just a game, Luke. You're not an agent, and I'm not a lonely housewife from the fifties," she said, looking over at her dress on the floor.

It wasn't a modern outfit, for sure. He realized now that she looked like she had walked straight out of an I Love Lucy episode.

Maybe she was roleplaying this entire time.

Who is this chick?

He cleared his throat. "The name is Lukus. And sorry, but I'm not playing. I am an FBI agent." He reached for his pants by the bed and yanked out his wallet, flashing her his official ID badge, gleaming in the gentle light from the bedside table.

She scoffed. "Well, shit." She tugged the covers up, concealing her milky skin.

He laughed. "What? Is that a turn off? Seriously?" His forehead scrunched, remembering how most of the time, his job was an instant attraction for women.

Was I not supposed to give out my actual identity?

She shook her head. "You'll get me in trouble." She slipped away, dropping onto the other side of the mattress. "You'll get me fired."

He looked at her in awe. "How and why would I do that?"

She reached for something on the ground, turning her back to him. She stood up, put her underwear on and marched to another spot where she’d dropped her bra. "I'm a prostitute, genius. You and I should not be seen together. I'm guessing you could lose your job too." She pulled her dress up along her perfect body and zipped it at the side.

There she was, the sexy lady he had plucked at the bar downstairs, just hours prior.

And she was a lady of the night, a forbidden fruit that would have cost him more than he could afford.

He smacked his hands to his temples.

Dammit. That explains a lot.

He shrugged, a sliver of anger racing through him. He understood how some needed to make ends meet—but he never mingled with women who got paid for sex. Never.

carnivorous cupid