'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 19

Re: Solutions

I don’t think the world needs another blog entry bemoaning 2020 and 2021, so I’m going to skip right past to the part where I try to make some sort of writing plan for 2022. Throughout 2021, I had three things in my head—one of which solidified because it’s already underway—and the other two still feel insubstantial, despite having been working on them for ages. And, at the end of the year, I decided on a potential fourth.

So, in the interest of concretizing the plan, here we go.

Cover art by the brilliant Inkspiral Design.Thing the First: “Hope Echoes” (my contribution to the three-novellas anthology Three Left Turns to Nowhere).

This is the “already underway” project, and the only contracted thing I managed to complete last year. Coming from Bold Strokes Books in 2022, Three Left Turns to Nowhere is a trio of queer YA novellas from Jeffrey Ricker, J. Marshall Freeman, and myself, all centred around a particular town, Hopewell Ontario, which seems to have snared our protagonists for reasons they might not realize at first. My own contribution to this one, “Hope Echoes,” is a mystery of a sort, where my protagonist Fielding tries to get a long-lost love letter from one young woman to another, despite having no idea how many years might have passed, or—for that matter—if anyone involved still lives in the town, or still lives at all.

When I say this is already underway, I mean it, too. It hits shelves in February. That’s only a month from now. You can pre-order directly from Bold Strokes Books’s webstore at that link above.

These writers are fantastic. They solved my plot snarl in about four minutes.Thing the Second: “Felix Navidad” (my proximity-romance queer holiday novella, rounding out the Bittersweets Club friends)

I’ve been working on this novella for over a year, and I struggled and struggled until I finally had a breakthrough with a writers retreat alongside many members of the Toronto Romance Writers, and I cannot tell you how happy I am to finally feel like I can get this one put together. With a little luck, I’ll have it drafted soon, and then I can pitch it to my publisher. This one puts Felix front-and-centre, the guy from “Village Fool” with the poor impulse control, and picks up a few Christmases later, when he’s taking some time for a vacation rather than working through the holiday, but ends up somewhere very unexpected, with company, and having a little bit of holiday magic doing some last-minute winter matchmaking. Timeline wise, if they like it, I’ve no idea when it would hit the shelves—it’s likely I’m too late for Holiday 2022, but you never know.

Art from the fantastic Micah Draws!Thing the Third: Triad Magic (my third urban paranormal fantasy novel)

When I blew out my wrist—or, rather, my loveable dog did—I learned the hard way I can’t do anywhere near what I used to, and the pandemic sure didn’t speed up recovery (I cannot recommend virtual physiotherapy). But. I’m at the point now where I understand what my new normal is, and I believe 2022 could be the year where I step back into the Triad world and try to get that partially completed novel in motion again, toward a finished state. Triad Blood and Triad Soul do stand alone, but the plan was always to round them out with Triad Magic to complete the threads that weren’t book-specific. This one feels the most tenuous, honestly—my pace has reduced so much and I’m so nervous about it feeling like a slog rather than a joy. And—in the interest of honesty—given the diminishing returns of sales in series writing, it’s not exactly something my publisher has been asking for, even if I do have some amazing readers who still ask me for more of the Triad boys.

The Handmade Holidays trees designed by Inkspiral Design for the second-edition ebook.Thing the Fourth: a queer holiday collection (putting together all my queer retellings with a half-dozen or so new stories and releasing a collection)

This came up after I posted this year’s holiday queer re-telling, The Future in Flame, and multiple people reached out to ask me if I’d considered releasing a collection thereof. I have seven stories now, and that’s around half a collection, so if I added more, I could very well do a release, couldn’t I? As I so often need a mid-week change of plan when I’m working on a large project—which Triad Magic would be—this might be just the right thing to give me that sense of ongoing accomplishment. So. Queer holiday story collection for 2022? Perhaps.

So, that’s my tentative planning for the writing life. I’m also thinking this might be the year I try—again—to keep an eye on open calls for submission, but I’m not going to make that a stated goal. I’ve not been entering contests or writing for open calls since the wrist injury, but like I said before, I’m starting to feel like I’ve got a handle on it (that’s not a challenge to the universe, in case the universe is listening). There are a lot of other things going on in the non-writing, real-world life, and so I’m trying to set goals that can handle a few other major moving parts. I still have so many other things I’d also like to write, but I don’t want to set myself up for failure.

I hope 2022 brings you good things. And I hope any resolutions you set feel like solutions, rather than uphill climbs.

The Future in Flame

Every December 14th for the past six (six!) years, I’ve re-written a holiday story through a queer lens, retelling it as a way to retroactively tell stories to my younger self that include people like me. The first year, I wrote “Dolph,” (a retelling of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer). Then I wrote “Frost,” (a retelling of Frosty the Snow-Man), “Reflection,” (a retelling of “The Snow Queen”), “The Five Crowns and Colonel’s Sabre,” (a retelling of “The Nutcracker and Mouse King”), “The Doors of Penlyon” (a retelling of “The Christmas Hirelings”), and “A Day or Two Ago” (a retelling of “Jingle Bells”).

This gets harder and harder, in part because I’m running out of Christmas stories I know (or can think of ways to play with), but this year, my Husband said “you should do ‘The Little Match Girl.'” My reply, “But that’s so depressing!” was met with one of his raised-eyebrow looks that says so much, but I believe was meant to infer a reminder of the whole point of me doing these: to queer it up a notch and triumphantly so. It’s a re-telling. I get to change these stories. Seven times, now.

So. Here’s “The Future in Flame.” If you’ve read “Reflection” you’ll note a small cameo. Given I’m all about linking up short fiction, I imagine exactly none of you are surprised.

The Future in Flame

The first time I saw the future in flame, I was still a young boy. Old enough to help my mother in the kitchen with the simplest tasks—decidedly not old enough to be trusted with anything complicated, given how easily my mind wandered—I was often tasked the stirring, or the peeling, or (a particular favourite) arranging the cutlery around our table. 

We had a large fireplace, and I would often sit in front of it with whatever task had been given to me, which on that day was to peel potatoes, and allow the heat to wash over me while I worked. I often made a game of it—trying to get the whole peel off in a single, thin curl—and considered some of the tales I’d heard of how young women might toss the peel over their shoulder and it would land and arrange itself into a symbol denoting the man they were to wed.

Somewhere between those thoughts—the act of throwing a peel, the notion of prophecy, the confusing unreliable concept ‘the future’ seemed to me—the fire snapped, and I looked up and saw.

As though the flames themselves were a window, the edges rimed with smoke instead of frost, I regarded two men, one a pale skinned man, lean and tall and barely possessing a beard (though what little appeared around his chin and upper lip was well-shaped), and the other a burlier, stockier sort, with bronze-brown skin, and an enviable beard. They seemed to live somewhere grand—behind them, I saw an odd room, with a large table covered in a snow-white cloth, laid out with many table settings, and lit with so many candles and… 

Were the two men dancing?

With each other? 

Despite their surroundings, neither dressed fine, but rather in what appeared to be work clothes—heavy aprons over plain shirts and breeches—and, yes, they were dancing. I watched as the burlier of the two spun the taller, leaner man, and for the first time, his features came into clear view through the odd window-effect of the fire in the fireplace and…

I gasped, and with a flare of heat, the fire was once again just a fire.

“Everything all right, pet?” My mother, in the kitchen, must have heard me.

“Yes,” I said, with an instinct I couldn’t quite name to hold what had just happened close to my own, now rapidly-tripping heart.  

The man in the fireplace had my eyebrow. The eyebrow I’d split open a winter ago after a fall on slick ice cut my forehead and split the hair over my left eye, never to rejoin. The white mark of the scar was the first thing people noticed in me now. My father said it granted me a rough character. My brothers were less polite about it, though I secretly believed my eldest brother reluctantly thought it made me look quite dashing, like one of the heroes in the tales of adventure he enjoyed.

They all worked with my father at his candle-making, all proud workers with colza, braiding wicks and crafting candles as near to smokeless as one could imagine. I would start there soon myself, perhaps as early as the new year. 

“Are you done peeling, then?” My mother had entered the room. She eyed me, and the slightest frown drew a line between her eyes. “You’re flushed. Have you been sitting too close to the fire?”

“No,” I said. I lifted the two bowls, one full of peelings, one full of newly bare potatoes. “I’m done.”

“Bring them in, then, pet,” she said.

I did, though I glanced back at the fire as I left. It remained a fire. Whatever window I had seen through, for the moment at least, had closed.

*

My moustache would never quite reach the hair that grew on my chin, and what fluff formed beneath my sideburns or along my jaw was best not spoken of, even in jest. But a moustache I did manage, and a tidied mark of hair beneath my mouth on my chin. It did little to compensate for a face most politely described “interesting” but I at least escaped the gangling awkwardness of my youth and found skill in my fingers and hands to work wax freely, as well as the more regular work of molds and dipping. 

My eldest brother left my father’s business to be a Runner—he’d always had a head for adventure and justice, and believed this his path to both—and while my middle brother was a decent, hard-working sort, he didn’t have the head for the numbers the way I did, nor any real joy in the work. 

That I would inherit the shop was a foregone conclusion to my whole family, alongside the unspoken promise that I would keep my remaining brother employed—and thus solvent—for his future as a husband and father. His inheritance was perhaps more practical than mine: the features from our parents blended in his face to something quite handsome, and so as he had a job, never drank to excess, and always smelled pleasant thanks to the waxes we shaped, he had a fair share of attention among the eligible women in the city and was soon engaged. 

Since it afforded me an anonymity to have a brother so handsome, I didn’t even begrudge it of him, as by this point, my nature the flames had shown me in that one encounter of my youth by the hearth was starting to assert itself in earnest.

As was my way with fire itself.

It began simply enough—burning a candle to check the efficacy of my tight braid of a self-trimming wick, my thoughts focused on how long it might burn—but as I watched the candle burn, the small flame seemed to open. One moment it was a bright flame, the next it was as though it didn’t exist, and in the space where the flame had been, and I saw my father’s face, his eyes closing, and a long, slow exhale that was not followed by another inhalation. 

The window was small—a candle’s flame—but I found I could move about the candle, so long as I kept my eyes on the spot where the flame should be, and through the window as one might look through a keyhole of a door, were one to keep their face at the hole as the door swung open. 

He was in bed, beside my mother, and there was snow on the windowsill, and his glasses on the dresser and… 

The window closed. I blinked a few times, trying to restore what strange opening I’d been able to peer through, but it had vanished, leaving only the bright flame, and a braided wick performing as it should.

As deaths go, a peaceful passing in slumber cannot likely be improved upon, and thanks to the candle’s warning, I had nearly three weeks’ time to say all the things a son might wish he’d said to a kind father but held off in other circumstances. 

After he passed, the business became mine, and in time, I took a room of my own while my middle brother and his new wife joined my mother in our family home, starting their family there.

In my room, no one questioned if I peered into the fire, and so it was I gained practice. 

*

The second time I saw the bearded dancing man was in a pub. I’d taken the habit of eating a meal out after closing the shop at the end of the week, rather than with my mother and my middle brother’s family, and on an evening that could have been any other evening in the city, I was greeted by those who knew me—many of whom owned shops along the same street as I, and who had first invited me to take up this weekly habit—and introduced to a new man, a carver and sculptor new to the city but already of some fame for his work. 

He would be opening a store two doors down from me, where the childless furniture maker was to retire.

Though his name was Atticus, a youthful nickname of Atlas had chased him into adulthood, and at a glance, I knew I was seeing him still before my first glimpse through the fireplace window of my youth. He was broad and had certainly earned his nickname, but his beard had not yet reached the magnificent state I recalled it having in my glimpse. 

It was a strange thing to see him, and to my surprise, I caught a similar shock in his own dark brown eyes. 

“It is good to meet you, Atlas, was it?” I said, to cover our awkwardness in the eyes of the other clerks and store owners.

“It was,” he said, recovering. His voice was softer than I’d thought to expect, and we shook—a rush of warmth ran down my arm, and what returned was cool and of a different nature entirely, though not uncomfortable. “You’re the chandler?”

“I am.” We let go. Both of us glancing down at our hands, as though the sensation of my warmth exchanged for that cool calm had been apparent to him as well.

That was the sum of our conversation that first night. I was too taken aback to have finally met this man I’d seen so many years ago in my fireplace, and he—I would later learn, on a pillow confession—had been similarly tongue-tied for a different, though similar, reason; Atlas, as a young orphan, had been accosted one day by a man as he passed what Atlas called “a shop of mirror, glass, and silver.”

The man took Atlas inside, and asked him to name—with only one word—what he sought, and the man would show him where he might find it. 

“Why would you help me?” Atlas had asked, intrinsically believing the man on a level he couldn’t explain. 

“Because you can help others,” the man said. “Your hands can bring life to what you make, I think.”

Atlas, who didn’t understand, only shook his head, but the man waved it off. “It will come,” the man said. “Now. Your word, Atticus?”

Given he hadn’t told the man his name, Atlas should have been scared. But he wasn’t. Instead, he said his word.

This man had repeated the word for Atlas—home—spoken over a flat, silver mirror, and Atlas had seen not a place in the glass placed before him, but a face.

Mine, as it turned out. 

My split eyebrow of particular note to him, Atlas had thereafter looked at every man’s eyebrows, wondering when he might find the person who, it seemed, could grant him a sense of home.

That first night, however, we did little more than glance at each other furtively, though I certainly dreamed of him that night, and the next, and the next. His beard, especially, favoured heavily in my thoughts, as I wondered at the texture it might have against my skin.

*

Three days later, I left my middle brother the reins of the store and brought a package of candles two doors down to the newly opened carver’s shop, which bore Atlas’s name on a beautifully smoothed wooden sign. Pushing open the door made a bell ring, and Atlas himself came out from the back room, wiping his hands on a rag, in an apron I’d seen before, though it currently looked less worn. 

“I brought you candles,” I said, feeling both foolish and excited to be in his store with him. “As a welcome gift.” The words landed clumsily, but at least my skill with wax outstripped my tongue. I handed him the package, and he opened it.

“Thank you,” he said, pulling one of the long tapers free and smiling at the colour, which went from the pure white at the wick to a deep golden brown at the base. 

Most of my stock and trade was made in simple and useful utility. But making candles as beautiful as they were useful brought me joy, even if they rarely sold beyond a wedding or during the holidays. 

“I have just the holder,” he said, and placed the candle back into the box with a reverence that made my skin shiver—ridiculous, as he had not touched me, after all, but there it was—and he stepped once more into the rear of the store. 

I took the moment to look around at his wares. He seemed to deal primarily in woods and stone, and the carved items were a mix of utility—walking sticks, stools, tables, candleholders—and beauty, such as frames and bowls and even some carved figurines, a few of which were dyed and painted, but most with the beauty of their own woodgrain left standing. 

He returned, and I turned from a bowl full of wooden soldier Christmas ornaments to see he’d brought out a flared candlestick carved of a dark wood, with carved designs of robins around the flared base, brushed with only the faintest of red dyes on their breasts. He once again picked up the candle, and placed it into the holder and—

Two things happened at once. 

The first was all of sensation; a flare of heat, much like when I shook Atlas’s hand in the pub, washed through me, though this time it was not a mere warmth but something akin to the heat of an open flame, and it lanced out from my chest, crossing the distance to where Atlas stood, no sooner gone than a responding coolness rushed forth from him that soothed my overheated skin in kind. 

The second, though, there would be no way to deny; the tapered candle lit, as sure as if a match had been held to it, and from its flame, golden shapes emerged and flitted through the room. By the time I recovered from the dual sensation of heat-and-cool, I could see the creatures that danced from surface to surface.

Robins. Robins made entirely of light. 

I swallowed, and turned to Atlas, sure I would see recrimination or fear or—worst of all—fury in the man’s eyes, but instead, there was only wonder.

“I’ve seen you before,” I said. “When I was a child. A vision in an open flame.”

Atlas’s slow smile grew even as the robins made of light faded, their soft twit-tweets and the patter of their feet tapping around us quieter and quieter until, with a last glimmer, they were gone. 

His beard, I would learn that night, was indeed very soft against my skin.

*

Over evening meals and clandestine nights, we learned each other’s gifts, and now together it seemed both determined to grow. Finding the future in flame became almost second nature to me, and whatever thought I might have while I stared into fire steered the vision’s direction. But more than that, now I could bring the flame itself, and spark the life-giving heat elsewhere if I drew it from myself just so. When dipping or molding or braiding wicks, I found I could weave or shape purpose into the tapers.

This candle would bring hope. That candle would bring luck. Another, peace after loss. 

Atlas showed me his creations, small birds carved of wood especially, which he could close his large rough hands around, and then, when he opened his wonderful fingers, would simply fly away from his open palm, as alive and real as any bird hatched from an egg. 

“Do they come back?” I asked, one evening when we lay together in his bed, which was by need larger than mine, and in a small home above his shop. “Do they return to what they were, become wood again?”

“None I’ve ever seen,” he said. Birds, and mice, and anything tiny he could carve and hold inside his two closed hands he could bring to life. Fantastical things, too: elves and fairies, some of which would speak to him, and even stay and keep him company a while, before they felt a need to be elsewhere and would thank him for crafting them and granting them spirit before they’d head out to wherever they felt pulled to be—the woods, or an orphanage, or—he delighted in telling me of a pair of elves in particular, ones he’d carved from applewood—even a shoe-maker’s shop, but since we were together?

Even larger carvings held spirit in much the same way my candles now seemed to embody—things he couldn’t close his hands around, couldn’t bring completely to life, had qualities worked into them just the same.

A wash basin carved with mermaids cleaned away unearned shame as well as dirt. A walking stick with an eagle’s face lightened the step of its owner. Candlesticks decorated with suns and moons and stars brightened any candle they held—and were they one of mine, to near incandescence. 

Joy lived in us, and through it, our businesses prospered all the more. The understanding of our clientele did not reach conscious awareness as rather a thing felt at the back of one’s mind, I believe. Customers would speak to us of their lives, and we could gently suggest a candle or a carving best suited to lightening their sorrows, and on some level, the connection was made. 

When the Rooming House became available, my mother, middle-brother, and my eldest-brother all questioned how I could possibly run such a place and still maintain the Chandler Shop—even with Atlas also throwing his broad shoulders half into the joint venture—but I’d sent my gaze through the fireplace with my thoughts aligned with the needs of the business and found a pair of women, a cook and a former housemaid, both of whom were ready to retire from the grand house where they served—and, like Atlas and myself, secretly found their time together—and they would run the place, as well as live there, where they would have more freedom to be together than ever before. 

I cast my gaze through the flame-windows for those who would rent rooms as well, and it was not long before The Candle and Robin had the half-dozen rooms filled in name, if not in evening’s practice; a teacher and his dockworker friend; two seamstresses who worked both in a dressmaker’s shop and for the theatre’s costumes; and two medical students who would one day, the fire showed me, save many lives. 

We would often join them for meals, and one New Year’s Eve night, when the table was set and we’d arrived but not yet changed, I remarked upon the beauty of the table our cook had set, and the warmth that radiated from the great iron stove with shining brass fixtures. From upstairs we could hear the medical student playing his fiddle, and the seamstresses were singing, and Atlas pulled me in and danced me around the room.

I felt myself watching. It was a curious sensation, but not an unpleasant one, and then, as though through a new muscle once flexed a motion had been learned, I felt another pair of eyes, and ceased the dance.

“Someone…” I frowned, unsure. 

“What’s wrong?” Atlas said.

I couldn’t find words akin to the sensation of… A view? A glimpse? A gaze, but like my own, but different. Smaller. Certainly not a fireplace, and perhaps not even a candle. No, the window that had fallen upon me had been…

What had it been?

I realized. 

“I need a match,” I said.

*

I struck a match.

She had no shoes. 

Snow fell, a night full of cold and wind, and the girl wore no shoes.

It took every effort to turn my eyes away from her poor feet, to try and see where she was, where she might be going, but the window of a match was so narrow. 

The child wore an apron, and in the pockets…

Matches. Boxes of matches. She held them out to people as they passed, but they did exactly that: they passed. None so much as glanced down at her, and though she asked if they might need matches, they did not reply and—

The match burned out. 

The frustration of it left me at loose ends, and it was only Atlas’s hand upon my shoulder that stopped me from running out into the night to any and all streets, and—he knew, even if I in my state did not—to no avail. 

“Try the fireplace,” he said, and he had the right of it. I’d seen her now, with the fireplace, I could find her future, and so I sat, brought the child’s near-hopeless face, her cheeks so red, her head so cruelly bare as snow fell, her feet, her poor, poor feet, and turned to the fire…

The window opened.

At first, all the window offered was a corner formed by two houses. The frustration returned, but then, nearly lost in the corner, leaning against the wall, there sat the little girl with the once-red cheeks, her mouth oddly smiling, frozen to death. A pale sun rose, casting a wan light now onto the tiny figure. The body, stiff and cold, held a bundle of matches, the whole of which was almost burned.

“No!” 

I rose from the chair, stepping back, and the window closed. She was like me, this child. I knew it. I had felt her gaze on us just now, and this was to be her future?

No.

“Love?” Atlas took my shoulders in his strong hands, facing me, dark eyes holding my gaze and the gentle strength of him once again restored my thoughts.

“Sunlight,” I said. “There was sunlight on her body.” 

“You saw a death, then?” Atlas said, drawing me in to a tight embrace.

“Yes,” I said, allowing myself only one breath in his arms. “But the fire shows me the future.” I pulled away. “It is the present we need concern ourselves with now. Whoever is meant to care for her does not—a little girl, Atlas, a near-broken little girl, barefoot and no hat on a night like tonight—and I will not allow it.” I shook my head, once again losing the words I needed. “It… offends, love. It offends.”

“What do you need from me?” asked the man, and I had never loved him more than in that moment. 

“We need to find her,” I said. “But—”

My voice was stolen by the same sense of presence. “She’s looking again,” I said. “She is like me, she sees through the fire…” I turned around in a slow circle, until my gaze landed on the table, where the pure white cloth was spread, and the shining dinner service. Where soon Cook’s roast goose would steam gloriously, stuffed with apples and prunes…

I looked back through the small window her match made, and forced myself past attention on her frail little form, to the buildings behind her, but they might have been any building on any street, any corner…

The window closed again. I cried out, as near to physical pain was the helplessness I felt.

“You feel her?” Atlas said.

I could only nod. 

“Come,” he said, and took my hand.

*

In the back of his store, Atlas moved about with purpose, and I stood, shaking with worry. We’d dashed to the place, luckily only a few blocks from The Candle and Robin, but now we were here and I was once again idle while he had purpose, the urgency and fear had risen again. 

“Here,” Atlas said finally, placing the candleholder from the day of our first kiss on his workbench, the one with the robins. The one with the gold-hued candle I’d gifted him, still mostly intact. The one we’d named our rooming house for.

He wrapped his big hands around the base, covering the carvings of the robins, and nodded to me.

I exhaled, and with my exhalation, released every bit of the heat and flame inside me I could spare, my thought on one thing and one thing alone: that little girl selling matches in the street. 

The candle bloomed, the light flaring so brightly in the workshop it rivalled a summer sun, and I heard my love whispering, a soft request he repeated three times before he lifted his hands.

The eight robins were creatures of brilliant, blazing gold, and they circled the room. Atlas held out his hands, and they landed. 

“Please,” he said, repeating his words for the fourth time. “Take us to her.” 

They flew from his palms into the store, trailing motes of golden-white light, their sharp twittering cries full of intent, shooting stars given wings and voices.

We followed.

One by one, the robins winked out, and as each vanished with a final, sad twitter, I ached with the realization the magic we shared might not be enough. We tromped through the snow, running until our breaths barely had chance to catch in our chest before we needed another, and another robin vanished, and another, swallowed up by the cold and the dark…

Until finally, the last, beautiful golden robin twittered once, and drove between two buildings, flaring once before vanishing entirely.

Please, I thought, aiming a prayer to where I was not sure, as I had no beliefs worth merit. I stumbled into the corner formed by the two buildings and…

There she was.

I saw her inhale, crumpled there in the snow, and with her exhalation she said, “Gran… take me with you…” and in her hand, a bundle of matches smouldered, on the edge of going out.

“No.” I cried the word, for her exhalation was not followed by another breath, and I could feel the very heat of her, the being of her, begin to flee…

I conjured the heat and flame I possessed and pressed it into the little body in the snow, and she breathed again.

“You’ve done it,” Atlas said beside me, but I shook my head.

“I am doing it,” I said. “What life she has is borrowed.” Knowledge I barely understood was slipping through my fingers even as I tried to grip it. “There is death here, a death I saw, a fate with nowhere to go, her light…” 

But still I fed the warmth in my heart toward her. I could grant her more moments. Minutes, perhaps. 

So I would.

“Hold onto her, love, as long as you can,” Atlas’s soft voice held hope, but I couldn’t look away from the child and maintain the flow of all that I had. “Just as long as you can,” he said, his voice now further ahead of me, and to my left. 

I longed to turn and see what he was doing—for the sounds were clear that my wonderful, gentle, bearded man was doing something—but as it was, the threads of heat and light I fed into the child were starting to dim, and I could feel a numbness and chill in my toes, my fingertips. 

I could not do this forever. Her life, the braided wick of it, was woven like any other I might have fashioned in my shop: self-trimming, and little left of it.

When shivers began, I risked a glance, as I knew time ran short. 

Beside me, Atlas had sculpted another girl from the snow and ice and frost itself. His gifted hands—now red and burning with the cold—had caught every curve of her, right down to the smile she bore from whatever last vision she’d glimpsed through her matches. 

“Now, my love,” he said.

I understood. He could not grant life to something so large, only things that fit between his palms, but this sculpture? This thing he’d made?

He’d sculpted it to never have life.

From the little match girl, I unbraided the wick. My hands moved in front of me, as though working with strands physical, not of spirit, but the method remained the same. Those strands I pulled to the left now, and entangled into the body my Atlas had made of ice and snow and frost instead.

Before my eyes, ice became bone, and snow flesh, and frost skin—but no life was there in her. 

In front of me, however, the weakest single breath. 

“Hurry,” I said, and Atlas pulled the girl into his arms, wrapping her in his coat, and leading the way back to The Candle and Robin as fast as we might run in our nearly broken state.

*

Not long into New Year’s Day I learned a little match-selling girl was found frozen in the corner of the two buildings. The next morning, from customers at my chandler shop, I heard the same refrain so often it might become a new carol to be sung every season: “She wanted to warm herself, poor thing.” Then, from my eldest brother the Runner I learned of her father, a cruel and angry man who showed little remorse and made the course we must set all the more clearer.

She recovered in the kitchen of The Candle and Robin, the warmest room in the building, under the care of the two gentle students of medicine, and with the hearty food of the Cook. We introduced her as our own: the niece of my Atlas, left orphaned, but now in our care, and though none of the eight under the roof of our rooming house believed us, they all did the courtesy of pretending. 

Indeed, one of the medical students procured for us the “proof” we needed of her birth. 

She believes she saw Heaven itself, and her grandmother—though she herself said her grandmother had never been so grand nor beautiful. 

She didn’t intend to see the future. That much, the people of the city had right. 

She’d only wanted to warm herself. 

We will keep her warm. Besides, it will take time, no doubt, to explain to her what she can do, though at least I’ve my own experiences to guide her. For, like me, I know the little match girl can see the future in flame, and like me, I believe she caught a glimpse through a match-flame window not of her late grandmother, but rather of someone she will herself one day be. 

And as for the “Heaven” she saw? 

Well.

I think her descriptions of tables and chairs and food and grand trees full of candles sounds much like the Christmases we celebrate here at the Candle and Robin. Heaven enough for me. 

And, I expect, a tradition she will continue long after I and my Atlas have gone. 

Canadian Christmas Romances, Final Day!

Hey again! It’s December 8th, so we’re hitting the end of the Canadian Christmas Romances Under $5 e-book promotion. If you missed my earlier noise, this promotion—which includes—”Handmade Holidays”—is dropping all sorts of awesome Canuck authors with their titles for you, all under $5, and all in once place for ease of browsing.

So, go check out Cathryn Fox, Jackie Lau, Elle Rush, Zoe York (and more!) all bringing you some of their holiday joy—today is the last day the link will be there.

The best traditions—and families—are often the ones you choose yourself.

A chosen family queer holiday “Little Village” novella romance.

Cover by the brilliant Inkspiral Design.

At nineteen, Nick is alone for the holidays and facing reality: this is how it will be from now on. Refusing to give up completely, Nick buys a Christmas tree, and then realizes he has no ornaments. A bare tree and an empty apartment aren’t a great start, but a visit from his friend Haruto is just the ticket to get him through this first, worst, Christmas. A box of candy canes and a hastily folded paper crane might not be the best ornaments, but it’s a place to start.

A year later, Nick has realized he’s not the only one with nowhere to go, and he hosts his first “Christmas for the Misfit Toys.” Haruto brings Nick an ornament for Nick’s tree, and a tradition—and a new family—is born. As years go by, Nick, Haruto, and their friends face love, betrayal, life, and death. Every ornament on Nick’s tree is another year, another story, and another chance at the one thing Nick has wanted since the start: someone who’d share more than the holidays with him.

Of course, Nick might have already missed his shot at the one, and it might be too late. Still, after fifteen Christmases, Nick is ready to risk it all for the best present yet.

“Handmade Holidays,” by ‘Nathan Burgoine

Check out “Handmade Holidays” and the other Canadian Christmas Holiday Romances Under $5 here!

Jingle Socks, Ornaments, and “Handmade Holidays”

Jingle all the way!

Many years ago, I owned a pair of super-tacky socks with a pattern of bells on them. Called “the Jingle Socks,” every year I’d pop them on, call it “donning my gay apparel” and then decorate my Christmas Tree. Alas, they died a few years ago—my husband would say something different than “alas,” probably something closer to “Oh thank the gods!”—and the sock part of the tradition fell by the wayside.

Until this year.

A wonderfully talented friend knitted new Jingle Socks for me, and they have real bells on them! So, I tugged them on this year before we started decorating the tree, and as you can see Max thought they were very, very interesting—this was worrisome, but he ended up behaving, thankfully. They go up to my calves, where they have points and even more bells, but it’s freezing so I’m still wearing jeans over them. Just trust me, they’re awesome.

Those of you who read “Handmade Holidays,” and those of you who’ve read my blogs over the years, will likely already know about my ornament tradition, but if you don’t know the story, I tend to re-tell it when the tree goes up, and today the tree went up, so here we go!

The brilliant trees Inkspiral Design put in the e-book version of “Handmade Holidays.”

Unlike Nick in “Handmade Holidays,” I didn’t get a Christmas Tree of my own right away. I waited until I was twenty-one, but when I did, I made the same silly mistake Nick makes at the start of the story: I bought a tree, but no ornaments. Like Nick, I decorated with candy canes that first year, but also a friend who did cross-stitch included a cross-stitched ornament in all her Christmas Cards, so I had one ornament to pop onto the tree. The next year, I had my plain, boring dollar-store white ornaments to fill up the tree alongside candy canes and lights—I still have a few of those white ornaments left—and that year, I’d tried to get into a university creative writing course and…

Trite and common my mouse ass.

Well. The prof told me my writing was “trite,” “common,” and a few other words I don’t remember as well, and I was kind of crushed. A friend bought me a little ornament of a mouse with a typewriter, just starting to type a letter to Santa, and inside the card he wrote the rest of the letter and the mouse was requesting a new creative writing professor. (Fun fact: that prof still only has one book published. I’ve published four novels, six novellas, one collection, and dozens of short stories. Just sayin’.) That ornament got the novella-treatment in “Handmade Holidays” as a the second ornament Haruto gives Nick, albeit in the fictional version, the mouse is ceramic and the paper has “Once Upon a Time” on it, rather than “Dear Santa.”

At that point, the tradition had begun. I collected an ornament every year—sometimes more—and every year, just like Nick, my tree had more reminders of how far I’d come. The tradition of it expanded—often I played the very same ornament game Nick and the rest of the Misfit Toys play in “Handmade Holidays”—and once I was in a position to go on holidays, I’d seek out ornaments whenever I traveled. After I met my future husband, I tucked a small glass frog ornament into his stocking on our first year together—prior to me, he’d only ever had themed trees—and we’d put up two trees: a themed tree for him, and my nostalgia tree. By the time we adopted our first Husky, Coach—that year we got a Husky ornament, naturally—there were so many ornaments about us that decorating the tree wasn’t a my nostalgia thing, but an our nostalgia thing, and given the dog’s bed took up the spot of a tree, we stopped putting up a themed tree all together.

Subtle. Understated. Elegant.

Given the last two years, we haven’t added any vacation ornaments—hello, pandemic!—but we did get a lovely snowflake last year which, upon a longer glance, one realizes is made up of “Fuck 2020!” in cursive (cursing cursive!) rotated to make the pattern. This year, however, we donned our masks after being double-vaxxed and hit the Christmas Shop in Merrickville, and found something truly special. I think we can all agree it’s the best thing that ever happened to a Christmas tree.

It’s the closest thing I’ve ever seen to the fictional “Rainbow Unicorn Kitten” ornament from “Handmade Holidays,” and when I saw it, I made a face that inspired my husband to just pick it off the shelf and walk to the counter with it. He’s a keeper, that guy.

So! That’s this year’s ornament, and the inspiration for where “Handmade Holidays” originally came from. If you put up a tree in your house, I’d love to know: is it a Nostalgia Tree, or a Themed Tree, or some other form (or combination thereof?) And if you haven’t checked out “Handmade Holidays” yet, I’m taking part in a “Canadian Christmas Romance Under $5” deal with a whole bunch of wonderful Canuck Authors, and you can see all the titles—”Handmade Holidays” included—at that link.

Also available in Audiobook!

At nineteen, Nick is alone for the holidays and facing reality: this is how it will be from now on. Refusing to give up completely, Nick buys a Christmas tree, and then realizes he has no ornaments. A bare tree and an empty apartment aren’t a great start, but a visit from his friend Haruto is just the ticket to get him through this first, worst, Christmas. A box of candy canes and a hastily folded paper crane might not be the best ornaments, but it’s a place to start.
A year later, Nick has realized he’s not the only one with nowhere to go, and he hosts his first “Christmas for the Misfit Toys.” Haruto brings Nick an ornament for Nick’s tree, and a tradition—and a new family—is born.
As years go by, Nick, Haruto, and their friends face love, betrayal, life, and death. Every ornament on Nick’s tree is another year, another story, and another chance at the one thing Nick has wanted since the start: someone who’d share more than the holidays with him.
Of course, Nick might have already missed his shot at the one, and it might be too late. Still, after fifteen Christmases, Nick is ready to risk it all for the best present yet.

“Handmade Holidays,” by ‘Nathan Burgoine

Handmade Holidays: Eighth Christmas

The wonderful cover of “Handmade Holidays” was done by the brilliant Inkspiral Design.

To celebrate “Handmade Holidays” being a part of the e-book Canadian Christmas Romances Under $5, I thought I’d take a moment today to revisit Nick and the gang for one of the missing years. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, my wee Christmas novella takes place over fifteen Christmases, but not every Christmas gets a chapter—a few get skipped.

A few years ago, I wrote the missing third year—where the most famous of all the ornaments was up for grabs—which was the first of those skipped years, where the five original Misfit Toys spent their last Christmas in Nick’s terrible, tiny bachelor pad.

“Eighth Christmas,” happens five years later, after Haruto has had to move home to take care of his ailing father, but comes back to the Misfit Toys party—this year being held at Fiona and Jenn’s.

So, if you’ve read “Handmade Holidays” before, I hope this revisit brings you a wee bit of joy—and please absolutely go check out all the titles in the Canadian Christmas Romances Under $5 deal, because I am in some spectacular company—and if you haven’t? Said link will also take you to where you can start your own trek through fifteen Christmases with Nick and the rest of the Misfit Toys.

Eighth Christmas

“Were we expecting Kevin to be so hunky?” Phoebe kept her voice pitched low enough to be heard only by Nick and Johnny, who were assembling peppermint cocktails in a series of tall glasses along Fiona and Jenn’s countertop in their kitchen. Phoebe looked amazing—as always—in a scarlet red turtleneck and a tartan skirt primarily in a deep forest green, and her dark eyes sparkled with humour.

“I am willing to admit when Ru said ‘farmer’ I did not imagine Mr. Eyes over there,” Johnny said. Matt’s handsome blond boyfriend wore a green sweater with repeating white snowflakes knitted into it, a style Nick still wasn’t sure if Johnny had intended as ironic or not.

Nick finished tucking candy canes into the glasses while Johnny poured, then glanced back out into the living room where Haruto and Kevin were sitting on the long corner couch beside Yumi and Janine, a couple Jenn had known since university, listening to Matt tell some story or other from the rocking chair, all three of them rapt and smiling.

“Mr. Eyes” definitely described Haruto’s boyfriend, Nick admitted. A stocky, wide-shouldered white guy, Kevin had medium brown hair, which he kept buzzed short and not long enough to style in any particular way, and an admittedly good chin, but dressed plainly—a grey Henley and jeans—all of which might have made him blend into unremarkable ‘guy next door’ territory except the whole package left Kevin’s eyes to steal the show.

Which they did.

The farmer in question had truly hazel eyes: the kind with an almost bronze ring around the pupil, and a deeper, greener colour around the edges. Kevin’s eyes delivered a mental face-slap the first time you noticed them, which had been—for Nick—less than twenty minutes ago when Haruto had introduced his boyfriend as they came through the door, both clearly still perky and upbeat despite the half-dozen hours they’d spent in a car driving down from Oneida to join the Misfit Toys party.

“I was already happy that Ru had found himself someone,” Pheobe said. “But now I’m thinking if the store falls through, I’m going to run away to the country and find me a strapping farm lad.”

Nick laughed, though part of him couldn’t help but feel Haruto’s couplehood as another reminder Nick had himself come alone—at least Pheobe was there alongside him in singledom. He transferred the minty cocktails to a serving tray. “The store isn’t going to fall through,” he said. “You’re doing amazing.”

“I am, aren’t I?” Phoebe said. Urbane Myth, her consignment shop in the Village, had managed solid numbers from the get-go, as far as Nick knew, in no small part because Phoebe’s market—queer fashion for queer bodies—was so underserved in general.

They’d just returned to the living room when Nick noticed Fiona and Jenn tiptoeing their way down the stairs. He hadn’t actually seen them yet, despite this being their home. Matt and Johnny had let him in, saying the hosts were trying to get their daughter, Melody, to settle down for the night.

“Okay, she’s asleep,” Fiona said. Her red hair had been recently shorn down in a side-swept undercut, and she had a light flush going on under her freckles.

“Never say that.” Jenn said, raising one finger, coming down the steps behind her. “You’ll jinx it.” She, too, looked like she’d had a recent visit to a salon—her shoulder-length blow-out was gorgeous, and the red lipstick she’d chosen was popping.

 “Look how fabulous you two are,” Nick said, pausing with the tray.

“Self-care day at the spa,” Fiona said, looping an arm around Jenn and receiving a kiss on the cheek from her in return. “We needed one.”

“Your hair is magnificent,” Haruto said, standing and throwing open his arms for Jenn, who practically raced over to grab him and hug him.

“Ru!” she said, letting him go after a long hug, then turning to Mr. Eyes—Kevin, Nick corrected himself—who’d risen hesitantly from the couch.

“You must be Kevin,” Jenn said. “It is so nice to meet you. I’m Jenn.”

Kevin offered a hand, but Jenn opened her arms, so he hugged her instead, a little flush rising up his neck.

“Sorry,” He said, once the hug ended. “Nice to meet you.”

“He’s shy,” Haruto said. “Which is perfect because it means I get to do most of the talking.”

“There’s a surprise,” Fiona said, grinning and taking her turn with the welcome hugs. “I’m Fiona, and I have all the dirt on him.” She aimed her thumb at Haruto, who snorted.

“And we have the cocktails,” Phoebe said, starting to hand out the drinks from Nick’s tray. In no time, everyone had one, and everyone had settled on the couches, the chairs, or—in Nick’s case—crosslegged on the floor beside Johnny, who was another floor-sitter like himself.

“Okay,” Matt said, clearly having barely restrained himself thus far. “Can we do the game now?” He pulled out his deck of cards.

“You’re adorable,” Johnny said, leaning over and sharing a quick kiss from the rocking chair.

“Did Ru warn you about this?” Nick said, aiming the question at Kevin.

“The ornament exchange?” Kevin said. The man had a laconic way of speaking, as though he’d never in his life been in a rush. “Yes.” He held up one hand, lifting fingers as he spoke. “We each get three shots, Fiona always brings something anti-Christmas, and there’s always a three-way fight over the best ornament between you, Fiona, and Matt.”

Nick tilted his head, feeling a little exposed, or at least ever-so-slightly uncomfortable. “Ouch,” he said, with a pointed look at Haruto.

Haruto shrugged. “Am I wrong?”

“He’s not wrong,” Fiona said. “We warned Yumi and Janine it can get ruthless.”

Yumi, who had the most delightful pair of felt reindeer antlers attached to her hairband, complete with silver bells, nodded. “It sounds like a nice tradition. I’m tempted to rip it off for our own holidays going forward.”

“I can see our mothers turning it into the world’s most polite, but secretly ruthless, one-upmanship,” Janine said, eyeing Yumi with a tiny smile. “So you know I’m down for it.”

Matt had already separated out one suit to hand everyone a card, which he did while Johnny gathered up all the little wrapped ornament packages and put them on Fiona and Jenn’s living room table. Nick watched, sipping his peppermint drink and wondering how much longer he needed to sip it before he could tuck it aside and have a coffee instead, and found his gaze drawn to Haruto, who was grinning at Kevin while Kevin watched Matt hand out cards to everyone.

Nick looked away to check his own—he’d gotten the King—and he turned it around. “I’m the King of Christmas,” he said, with a little smile. “I promise to rule over the holiday with warmth and cheer.”

“That’d be a first,” Haruto said, with a larger smile.

“You make it sound like I don’t like Christmas,” Nick said, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “How could anyone not like Christmas? It’s the most magical time of the year.”

That made Haruto—and Fiona—snort and laugh, and Nick couldn’t maintain the façade. He shook his head. “Okay. Fine. Off with your heads.”

Kevin, who’d been looking back and forth between the three, aimed those eyes of his at Haruto, one eyebrow rising.

“Between Nick and Fiona it’s a wonder the holiday spirit hasn’t been completely exorcised.”

“I have recovered my holiday spirit, thank you very much,” Fiona said, raising her peppermint drink.

“This is true,” Nick said. “She even does holiday crafts now.”

“Woah,” Haruto stared at Fiona in alarm. “Who are you? What have you done with Fiona?” Then he smiled. “And how long can you stay?”

“Draw a card,” Fiona said, turning to Matt and ignoring Haruto. “Before I throw him out.” She glanced back at Kevin. “You can stay, though.”

“Thanks,” he said, though he looked a little overwhelmed. Poor guy. They were a lot.

“First up is six,” Matt said, turning the card he’d drawn around for all to see.

“That’s me,” Phoebe said, leaning forward and snagging a simply wrapped little parcel from the pile. She opened it, revealing what looked to be a hand-carved rocking horse ornament, charming and simple.

“Oh, this is lovely,” she said.

“Kevin made it,” Haruto said, smiling at his boyfriend.

“It’s not that special,” Kevin said. “But Ru said y’all like handmade ornaments, so…” He shrugged, then dropped a kiss onto the top of Haruto’s head and Nick glanced down at his card again, trying not to let his smile completely vacate at the P.D.A. It wasn’t Kevin’s fault, or Haruto’s for that matter, it was just…

It was just what? 

Singlehood, he thought, taking another swig of the peppermint drink. Being single truly added extra fun at the holidays. Yeah. That’s it.

“King,” Matt said, and Nick got his smile back in place and dove into the gifts, unwrapping one of the packages and finding himself holding a beefcake lifeguard merman ornament.

“Oh,” Matt said, staring him down. “I think we have ourselves a winner.”

“Try it,” Nick said, matching him stare-for-stare. “You know this one wants to hang out with the leather merman on my tree.”

“See?” Haruto said, in a whisper meant to carry. “Told you.”

By the end of the game, the beefcake lifeguard merman ornament had been passed around the most, but ultimately Nick had triumphed—Matt maintained the game was rigged somehow, despite him being the one who’d controlled the cards the whole time—and he tucked the merman into his pocket as he slung on his jacket to go. He had to work at the bookstore very early in the morning—the joys of Christmas retail—and they all also didn’t want to impose too long on Fiona and Jenn, given Melody still tended to be up before the crack of dawn.

They all said their goodbyes in the entrance hall, and Nick pulled Haruto into a tight hug, squeezing him for a good long time before pulling back. “I’m so glad you could make it,” he said.

“I wish we had more time to hang out before we head back to Oneida,” Haruto said. They only planned staying two nights, so Ru could introduce Kevin to his mother and step-father, and there’d be no other time Nick wasn’t working, of course.

“We can do a Pickering meet-up after Christmas,” Nick said, waving it away.

“Can we give you a ride home?” Haruto said. “There’s room in Kevin’s truck.”

Of course Kevin drove a truck. Mr. Eyes aimed a polite nod-and-smile Nick’s way, but Nick shook his head. “It’s fine, Phoebe offered me a lift and I’m on her way.”

The woman in question was wrapping a beautiful white-and-gold shawl around her neck, likely one of her own design. “I’ve got him.”

“Speaking of the truck, I should move it,” Kevin said, ducking past them and stepping out through the door into the cold night.

“Kevin is nice,” Pheobe said, hugging Haruto. “And fills a Henley good.”

“We’re finding common ground,” Haruto said, turning a little red, but smiling. “I’m so glad you all like him.”

“I think we overwhelmed him a little,” Nick said. Truthfully, he thought Kevin had had a bit of an ‘in over his head’ look on his face most of the night, but he’d done pretty well, considering how odd the Misfit Toys were, Nick supposed. Maybe he was more outgoing one-on-one. Or maybe it was an opposites-attract sort of thing.

“It was just nice to be back with you all again,” Haruto said, wrapping his arms around Johnny, and then Matt, and then stepping back to let them step outside. “I miss you all like you wouldn’t believe.”

“We’d believe,” Nick said, because he missed his Haruto just as much, and maybe hadn’t really allowed himself to feel just how much until tonight.

“Okay,” Haruto said, shaking his head. “I’m leaving before I cry.” He waved to Yumi and Janine, who were still half-way down the stairs to the entrance hall. “It was lovely to meet you,” he said.

“Likewise,” Yumi answered. “Let me know if you can make Mochitsuki next year.”

“Will do,” Haruto said, then turned his attention to Fiona and Jenn. “Goodbye, favourite ladies.”

They waved, and just like that, Haruto was gone.

Again.

Nick swallowed and said his own farewells, and by the time he and Phoebe got to her car, there was no sign of a farmer’s truck. He slid his hand into his pocket, gripping the beefcake lifeguard merman ornament. When he got home, he went straight to his tree and hung the ornament near the top, beside the other merman he’d gotten—the one in a leather harness and jacket—from a few years ago.

He should sleep, but he knew he wouldn’t. Instead, he flipped open his computer and fiddled with some story ideas, including one that always seemed to want his attention at this time of year, the one inspired by the ornament game they played.

When he finally went to bed, Nick left the tree lit, so he’d see it bright and merry when he woke up again for work.

You can find “Handmade Holidays” along with other wonderful Canadian Christmas holiday romances here!

Canadian Christmas Romances Under $5

Hey all! It’s December, and come December (or, often, earlier) I start hunting around for holiday romances to give me that dose of much needed winter cheer. If you’re like me, then it’s possible you’re looking for some holiday e-books for your e-reader, and as fortune would have it, I’m chuffed to be taking part alongside some amazing authors for a Canadian Christmas Romances Under $5 e-book deal with “Handmade Holidays.”

Cathryn Fox, Jackie Lau, Elle Rush, Zoe York (and more!) are bringing you some of their holiday joy, and so, for the next week or so, you’ll be hearing me chatter and cheer (and carol) about holiday romances—Canuck ones, no less—around these parts.

The best traditions—and families—are often the ones you choose yourself.

A chosen family queer holiday “Little Village” novella romance.

Cover by the brilliant Inkspiral Design.

At nineteen, Nick is alone for the holidays and facing reality: this is how it will be from now on. Refusing to give up completely, Nick buys a Christmas tree, and then realizes he has no ornaments. A bare tree and an empty apartment aren’t a great start, but a visit from his friend Haruto is just the ticket to get him through this first, worst, Christmas. A box of candy canes and a hastily folded paper crane might not be the best ornaments, but it’s a place to start.

A year later, Nick has realized he’s not the only one with nowhere to go, and he hosts his first “Christmas for the Misfit Toys.” Haruto brings Nick an ornament for Nick’s tree, and a tradition—and a new family—is born. As years go by, Nick, Haruto, and their friends face love, betrayal, life, and death. Every ornament on Nick’s tree is another year, another story, and another chance at the one thing Nick has wanted since the start: someone who’d share more than the holidays with him.

Of course, Nick might have already missed his shot at the one, and it might be too late. Still, after fifteen Christmases, Nick is ready to risk it all for the best present yet.

“Handmade Holidays,” by ‘Nathan Burgoine

Check out “Handmade Holidays” and the other Canadian Christmas Holiday Romances Under $5 here!

Handmade Holidays, now available in Audiobook

As always, brilliant cover design from the incredible Inkspiral Design.

It’s hopefully no surprise to anyone who pops by here how much I adore audiobooks. I listened to books heading to and from work, and I still listen to books while I walk the doggo. Beyond the convenience, the accessibility of audiobooks is important to me, so any chance I can take to put more audiobooks out there into the world is one I want to take.

Which brings me to today’s news—Handmade Holidays is available as an audiobook now! You can find the audiobook on Libro.fm, Kobo, Booktopia, Hoopla, and Audiobooks.com thus far, and it will be available elsewhere once the various files arrive and are approved (including Audible, for those who use Audible, which has been the slowest of the bunch). If you’re waiting for another preferred platform, this link will populate as those other platforms go life. It was important to me to go wide with the book on audio, especially since that makes it possible for Handmade Holidays to potentially end up in libraries if people request it.

The narrator for this book, Giancarlo Herrera, was fantastic, and I can’t wait for people to hear him. He did the thing I love to encounter so much when I’m listening to an audiobook: he performed it. Seriously, it felt like listening to a one-man-play, and every time he uploaded a new chapter file I dropped everything to listen. And, like, I already know how the story is going to turn out, given I wrote it, but I was still choking up in places and laughing out loud in places because those trained theatre people? They know how to do timing like nobody’s business, don’t they?

At nineteen, Nick is alone for the holidays and facing reality: this is how it will be from now on. Refusing to give up completely, Nick buys a Christmas tree, and then realizes he has no ornaments. A bare tree and an empty apartment aren’t a great start, but a visit from his friend Haruto is just the ticket to get him through this first, worst, Christmas. A box of candy canes and a hastily folded paper crane might not be the best ornaments, but it’s a place to start.

A year later, Nick has realized he’s not the only one with nowhere to go, and he hosts his first “Christmas for the Misfit Toys.” Haruto brings Nick an ornament for Nick’s tree, and a tradition—and a new family—is born.

As years go by, Nick, Haruto, and their friends face love, betrayal, life, and death. Every ornament on Nick’s tree is another year, another story, and another chance at the one thing Nick has wanted since the start: someone who’d share more than the holidays with him.

Of course, Nick might have already missed his shot at the one, and it might be too late. Still, after fifteen Christmases, Nick is ready to risk it all for the best present yet.

‘Nathan Burgoine, “Handmade Holidays“

October Flash Fiction Draw — “Dot Your I Love Yous”

Ta-da! Today is the second Monday of October, which means today is the deadline for the Flash Fiction Draw challenge that Jeffrey Ricker drew a week ago. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, you can catch up here, but the short version is he uses a deck of cards to randomly select three variables (in this case, romance as the genre, a farm field as the setting, and a fountain pen as the object) and anyone who wants to take part has a week to come up with a thousand-word flash fiction piece. I’m under the word count! I also didn’t go the spec-fic route this time, as a real diversion of the usual. And given it’s (Canadian) Thanksgiving and National Coming Out Day, I rolled those in there, too.

Thank you, Pixabay.Dot Your I Love Yous

Henry stood at the edge of the field, eyeing the waving corn, and took a deep breath. Farm air—with all the various scents, not all of which were particularly enjoyable—still felt familiar, tangled up in the whole notion of “home” in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever unknot entirely.

He was just about to take a walk into the field when his mother called his name. He pushed off from the fence and met her at on the porch, where she was holding two bags of groceries in paper bags and trying to open the front door at the same time.

He took a bag from her, and she gave him a single twist of her lips. In another home, it could have passed for a smile.

“Thanks,” she said. “There’s a postcard for you, too. From that friend of yours.”

And there it was. That friend.  

“Jacob?”

“Hm.” Another twist of the lips.

He helped her unload the groceries and after, she handed him the postcard from the inside pocket of her jacket.

“He’s in Hawai’i now,” his mother said. “Must be nice to gallivant around without any consideration for others.”

Count to three, Henry told himself. “He’s working there, I think.” He looked at the card, which showed a place called ‘The Waipio Valley Lookout.’ A gorgeous view of the ocean, with mountainous, vibrant green land jutting out almost to the very edge of the water, with only a thin strip of beach between.

“Wow,” he said, smiling. He could picture Jacob there. Easy.

“Your father will be back soon. Dinner in an hour,” his mother said, and then, in a less than subtle segue, she added, “I imagine that friend of yours isn’t heading home at all for the summer?”

“Scholarships only cover so much. He needs to work, and he’s doing manual labour mom, not taking a holiday.” Henry said, trying not to bristle.

“That’s not what that says,” she said.

Henry knew better than to engage. He picked up the pace, though, putting the last of the groceries away, then waved the postcard at her. “Thanks. I’m going to take a walk around the field.”

“Dinner—”

“In an hour. I know.” He forced a smile, and was off.

Outside, he paused for a moment in his car, opening the glove compartment and pulling out a small box and then headed off to the cornfield.

He paused at his usual spot, mid-way down the path between the cornfields, where his father had put together a small shelter—a bench with a covered overhang—where he’d sit an eat on days when it was raining. Henry sat, pulled out the postcard, and read it.

Henry; Love Hawai’i. You were right: I don’t miss anything about university, really. You are probably thinking I’m barely working and also getting a tan—not like your farmer tan, a real one. Anyway, need to get my butt to the beach—I mean work! Can’t remember the last time I had to wait for a nice day. September is going to come too soon. Jacob.

As always, he’d scribbled and doodled little dots around the edge.

Henry sighed, pulling out the box from his pocket and opening it. Inside, the fountain pen Jacob had given him. As always, he enjoyed the weight of it in his hand, and couldn’t help but remember the night Jacob had passed it to him, just before they parted after Thanksgiving.

A Thanksgiving he’d spent at Jacob’s house, with his family, and had cemented Jacob’s status as “That Friend of Yours” in his parents’ vernacular the moment Henry had told them he wouldn’t be making the seven hour drive back home for the weekend in question.

It didn’t matter he’d come home for Christmas and New Year’s and every other holiday since. Nope. He’d be paying that debt off for the rest of the summer, too.

But man it had been worth it.

Henry eyed the postcard again, pulling out a small spiral notepad from his pocket, then started counting the dots around the edge of the postcard, starting in the bottom right and heading counter-clockwise, and noting on the notepad every time the style of the symbols on the postcard changed. Two dots. Four dots. Nine dots. Fourteen dots. By the time he got all the way around the postcard, he’d counted fifty-nine as the last time the dots changed.

Two, four, nine… Second word, fourth word, ninth word…

“Love,” he said, counting, “you.” He smiled. Aw. “Miss…” He flipped back and forth writing down the words that went with the numbers until he was done.

Love you. Miss you. Also your butt. Can’t wait for September.

Henry looked up at the fields of corn, waving now in the wind, and let the same wind steal away some of the wetness gathering in his eyes, even though he loved Jacob’s postcard. He still had time, but he really needed to get back to the house for dinner. He’d write his own postcard tomorrow, using the same system, and if he could, he’d work “That Friend of Yours” into it, just for kicks—that would make Jacob laugh.

It wasn’t perfect, their postcards, but what was? Henry’s parents always read them, and letters would draw too much attention, and Caleb had zero service where he was—Henry’s parents’ house being not much better. They had one more year left of school, and they’d both been saving every dime they could from their jobs; Henry coming home every summer to stay on the farm meant he had no rent to pay and could pick up the same summer job he’d had since he was a high school senior.

One more year. When they graduated, they could find a place. Find jobs. Start their lives.

Henry screwed the cap back on the fountain pen and tucked it back into the box, which snapped closed with such a satisfying thunk.

2021 Northern Hearts Conference

Hey all!

I’ll be speaking on September 18th at 10:00am—that’s this Saturday!—at the Toronto Romance Writers 2021 Northern Hearts Conference on a topic near and dear to my heart: interlinking your short fiction to build a greater whole out of standalone parts.

Here’s the panel title and description:

Short (and Sometimes Sweet) Shorter Fictions (and Romance) — Join ‘Nathan Burgoine (The Little Village novella series, Of Echoes Born) for a discussion of shorter fictions, with a lens on what shorter fictions are—and aren’t—and how to build an greater whole out of smaller pieces of prose while still allowing those stories to stand on their own.

Check out the full program, panel descriptions, and authory goodness here.

August Flash Fiction Draw — “Tintamarre”

Ta-da! Today is the second Monday of August, which means today is the deadline for the Flash Fiction Draw challenge that Jeffrey Ricker drew a week ago. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, you can catch up here, but the short version is he uses a deck of cards to randomly select three variables (in this case, historical as the genre, a marsh as the setting, and a pendant and necklace as the object) and anyone who wants to take part has a week to come up with a thousand-word flash fiction piece. I’m well over the word count limit here, and though I’d intended to trim, I’m on three days of headache and it’s been months since I took part in this prompt, so I decided to heck with it (much like Clark, who you’ll meet below). Historical is so not my bag, but when I looked up marshes in Canada, I found a place and point in time to explore, and then decided to go the spec-fic route anyway. I know, I know, you’re surprised.

Photo from Pixabay.Tintamarre

Thaddeus believed windy days were presents bestowed on people like him. The waves sent through the hay granted air itself physical form, dancing across the growing crops, and more importantly—at least to Thaddeus—blew the wretched insects away from exposed skin while he worked.

By the time he was done the work of the day, the sun drew low to the horizon, but the beautiful wind still kept him company, so Thaddeus decided on a walkabout before he returned to his family.

Climbing the slope, he walked atop the dike, glancing one way, then the other. To his left, “the largest hayfield in the world.” To his right, marshlands. Further still, Aulac, which might as well be on the other end of forever given how liekly he’d be invited to visit. His elder brothers vied for the opportunity more than he, and Thaddeus knew how unlikely he’d find success if he threw his own name into consideration with his father.

The wind’s endless rushing voice vied with the geese, losing ground as the number of birds settled the longer he walked. Between the two sounds, Thaddeus could lose his own thoughts, descending into breath and step and sensation. The low sun warmed his skin, and nothing else disturbed him.

The birds fell silent.

Thaddeus physically stumbled, as if the silence itself were given form before his feet. He turned to the birds, confused and alarmed in equal measure, and saw all their heads swivel at once.

They looked at him.

As far as his eye could see on the marsh, every black face was aimed in his direction. And deathly silent.

The wind did not feel like a companion offering pleasing susurrus now, but rather someone crying in alarm, too far away to understand clearly.

Still the birds stared.

A pressure grew in Thaddeus’s ears, and the sensation of release—they popped—came so swiftly as to be painful. He grimaced, raising his hands to his ears and opening and closing his mouth like a fish dragged into a boat to die.

“Shit!” The voice—not his nor geese nor wind—shocked Thaddeus, who whirled on the spot just in time to see a young man not much older than himself vanish over the side of the dike, skidding and slipping and, finally losing the battle to balance himself, falling. He hit the edge of the marsh with a sodden splash.

The chorus of geese began again in the distance. The wind rushed on.

Thaddeus crossed to where the man had fallen, leaning out. How had the man snuck up on him like that? And why was he here? Had he come to visit Thaddeus’s family farmlands?

“Hello?”

The man had managed to rise, but his clothes struck Thaddeus as strange: not their form, but their quality was off in some way he couldn’t quantify at a glance, certainly even moreso now they were also drenched with marsh water. The man’s hair, too, was curious: so uniformly short…

“Shit!” the man said again, looking up and pressing a hand to his chest, which left a handprint of mucky water on his shirt. After, he grinned. “Ah,” he said, as though something had been explained.

Thaddeus couldn’t imagine what, instead now caught by familiarity in the man’s face. “Do I know you?” Then Thaddeus remembered his manners. “Do you need help?”

“I’ll manage.” The stranger climbed up the side of the dike. “And no, I don’t think you do.” This latter he said with a chuckle. Once on level ground to each other atop the dike, he held out a passably clean hand. “Clark Lochhead.”

Thaddeus shook. “Thaddeus Clark.” He tilted his head. “We share a name.”

“We do.” Clark smiled, and Thaddeus was shocked at how perfectly formed the man’s teeth were. Had he ever seen a smile so bright? He didn’t think so.

“Where did you come from?” Thaddeus asked.

“Aulac,” Clark said, after a hesitation a breath too long.

“On foot?” Thaddeus didn’t bother to hide his skepticism.

Clark bit his bottom lip. “No. Not on foot.” He offered the smile again. Thaddeus imagined Clark’s smile often excused inquiry. He shifted his stance, and rubbed the back of his head with one hand, revealing a necklace Clark wore. It had come free from his simple—but odd—shirt, and Thaddeus would have recognized the form of it anywhere. A bird. One of the very birds growing all the louder around them, in fact. A goose, carved from wood in intricate detail though barely as long as the first two knuckles of Thaddeus’s pinky finger. It hung from a fine chain, though.

Clark frowned, glanced down, then tucked the necklace back into his shirt.

“Where did you get that?” Thaddeus said.

“Birthday present,” Clark said. “From my grandmother.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over wind and geese, both now completely regaining their cacophony. Clark bit his bottom lip, then shivered.

“We should get you somewhere dry,” Thaddeus said.

“I can dry off when I get home.”

“To Aulac?” Thaddeus raised a dry eyebrow of clear skepticism.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, and waved both hands in the air as though trying to shoo Thaddeus away. “You go on ahead. I have to…” He trailed off.

“To?”

“I have something to do.” Another smile.

“You are sodden and we are a half-hour’s walk from nearest shelter,” Thaddeus said.

“It’s fine. You go ahead.”

“I’ll not going to leave you here in such a state.”

“I really need you to.”

“I beg your pardon?” Thaddeus stared.

“Look, I’ve got, like, ten more minutes, tops, before I have to go, and I need you not to be here.” This time there was no smile.

“Have I offended?” Thaddeus felt the hot knot of shame in his belly.

“Oh shit. No.” Clark pressed a hand to his forehead. “I’m just a bit off my target—probably you, given the whole Clark thing—and there’s a timer and I don’t want you to end up being considered strange or something—that could screw up… well, everything—so it’s best if you go. And maybe don’t talk about this.”

“I don’t understand you,” Thaddeus said.

Clark stopped, and faced him directly. He reached out with both arms and took Thaddeus by the shoulders, squeezing just enough to hold Thaddeus’s attention firm. “You don’t have to. I promise it won’t matter a bit. You won’t see me again. I’m just here to get some photographs for a museum.”

“You have no camera!” Thaddeus near shouted.

Clark blew out a breath. “I wonder if this is how my professors feel talking to me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. Nature nurture, right?”

“Nature nurture?” Clark made less sense with every phrase he spoke.

A sound interrupted them. A series of chimes, it was sonorous, and would have been lovely had there been any obvious source. Instead, Thaddeus pulled free from Clark’s grasp and looked left and right. “Did you hear that?”

“It’s my five-minute warning,” Clark said. “Well, I officially give up. Smile.”

“Pardon?” Thaddeus said, but Clark paid no mind, having pulled from his pocket a small flat rectangle of… was it glass?

Clark held it up in front of Thaddeus, and touched it with one finger. Then he smiled. “I’m going to be in so much trouble,” he said, but with seeming cheerfulness. Then he started to pivot, turning in a small circle and Thaddeus watched him turn until he could see the other side of the small glass the man was carrying and…

It was lit. It glowed brightly, in fact, and on the surface were the very fields around them, sunset gold and glorious, somehow captured and illuminated.

“What…?” Thaddeus’s voice ran dry with the single word.

“That’ll have to do,” Clarke said, sliding the glass back into his pocket. He turned to face Thaddeus. “So, this is going to get strange, but I promise you, there’s nothing bad happening.” Clark’s oddly familiar face broke into another smile, this one intended to be comforting, Thaddeus supposed. “Though I still wouldn’t tell anyone about it.”

“About what?” Thaddeus said, but then, almost as if he’d conjured it with his question, as one the geese fell silent again.

Both men turned to face them.

“Huh,” Clarke said. “Probably the peri-electromagnetic lead effect. I wonder if we can fix that.”

“The…?” Thaddeus said, frowning and turning back to Clarke just in time to see the man vanish.

Once again, pressure released painfully from his ears.

One by one, the geese regained their chorus.

Thaddeus Clark took a breath. Then another. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a piece of wood. He’d begun the carving it the night before, and it was clear it would be a goose even now. It was a gift, planned for his sister’s birthday, and he intended to string it up as a simple pendant. For the briefest moment, he considered abandoning the project, and doing something—anything—else, but…

He swallowed. He’d lose the sun soon, and he had a long way to walk. His family would be worried about him, and his odd habit of wandering off without thinking through the consequences of his acts on others was a long-held discourse around their table. His father said his uncle had been the same way, dashing off where his fancy took him.

Thaddeus looked down at his feet. Wet footprints remained where Clark had stood. He hadn’t imagined any moment of the strange encounter.

The geese were loud again, louder than the wind. Thaddeus started his walk back, letting the two voices take all the space in his thoughts, allowing the encounter to slip away from the forefront of his mind, and thinking, perhaps, that was for the best, really.