'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 72

Sunday Shorts—The Red Thread, by Sofia Samatar

[image error]I tend to shy away from dystopian fictions. I struggle with the sense of hopelessness, the feeling of “too late” and, if I’m being completely honest? It’s not hard to find all the bad news every day on the news, let alone seeing out that same hopelessness in fiction. That said? This story, from People of Colo(u)r Destroy Science Fiction, isn’t like that at all.

“The Red Thread” is absolutely set in a dystopia, one that’s all to easy to imagine, and absolutely has a hint of the dark and hopeless and “too late” but it doesn’t wallow and indeed takes a turn and my head—and heart—just exhaled in the rush of this unexpected shift in tone.

Sahra is traveling with her mother—heading somewhere even though it’s winter, and even though wheeling her mother is difficult (and through “isolation zones” very, very dangerous), but they’re part of a philosophy of moving. Of continuing, of avoiding places stained by violence, and the ethos of his group is the seed from which a sense of hope comes into “The Red Thread,” and wow, does it bloom.

Spectacular. Everything about “The Red Thread” is just pitch-perfect. I am so glad I picked up this anthology, for this story alone. It’s that good.

Book Birthday: Saving the Date

Wow, that whole linear time thing does sure happen, doesn’t it?

A year ago, Saving the Date was released. It was a couple of “firsts” for me, too: my first co-authored work (alongside Angela S. Stone, who wrote the Zach POV chapters) and my first brush with a multi-author shared-world series (the 1Night Stand series from Decadent Publishing).

It was also a labour of love for some representation we both felt important. With Morgan, I wanted to write a character who was dealing with trauma and scars and sexuality in a way that resonated for me, and with Zach, Angela wanted to write a bisexual character who’d experienced not just a little bit of the erasure of being bi while in a relationship.

Saving the Date

[image error]After a vicious gay bashing, Morgan has spent the last three years working hard to survive and thrive. His latest plan? Using Madame Evangeline’s high-end dating service, 1NightStand, to take the anniversary of the worst night of his life and replace it with a good—and maybe even sexy—memory.

Zach, a police officer with the Hate & Bias Crime Unit, is still coming to terms with his divorce and struggling to move on with his life. Using a matchmaking service is so very not his style, but sometimes a guy has to trust his friends—even if they don’t know everything about him, and he’s not sure they ever will.

Face-to-face, however, it becomes clear that despite an attraction, there’s a problem. Morgan and Zach have already met—three years ago. But with some courage, a couple of pairs of skates, and a leap of faith? Morgan and Zach have a shot at saving more than one day. Together? They might just make a future.

AMAZON * BARNES & NOBLE * GOOGLE PLAY * iBOOKS * KOBO * SMASHWORDS

Also, for fans of Handmade Holidays or Of Echoes Born, there’s crossover! Phoebe is Morgan’s boss, and she has a few moments to shine here, and Morgan is a Misfit Toy, right out of the Village.

Friday Flash Fics — Bailey Haliburton is Going to Prom

This image from Friday Flash Fics made me think of Bailey Haliburton, from Of Echoes Born. She’s mentioned in “The Psychometry of Snow” (and there’s fallout in that story to what happens here), and she appears in “A Little Village Magic” (years later from the events here). I wanted to explore her beginnings a little bit, and this picture was the perfect nudge.

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Bailey Haliburton is Going to Prom

Bailey Haliburton stared down at her pie and tried to let the world flow around her. Her mother’s voice was a near constant, and Bailey imagined each word slipping from her mother’s mouth and floating away on the air, hitting an invisible wall around Bailey and slipping off to one side or the other, unheard and unfelt.

“Are you listening?”

So much for that.

Bailey lifted her chin. “Sorry?”

Her mother’s lips thinned in that way they always did when Bailey failed to live up to expectations. It was amazing she still had lips, really. Her face should have a near invisible line where her mouth had once been.

“I said,” her mother spoke each word clearly and carefully, “it’s time to decide about prom.”

Bailey forced herself not to groan out loud. Decide about prom? Was her mother kidding? Was that the reason for this trip for “a girl’s chat” and pie? Who were they kidding?

“I already decided,” Bailey said. “I’m not going to go.”

“Bailey.” Lips thinner still, her mother took a deep breath.

An ache built in Bailey’s chest, and she resisted the urge to press her hand against it. Her hands wanted to clench, wanted to hold… something. There was something inside her and it wanted out and she knew if she didn’t stop herself, she’d say something she regretted.

Or enjoyed, and then regretted.

“Mom,” she said, and it came out a little too harshly, so she softened her voice. “I just don’t think it’s right for me.”

Her mother paused with that. It was one of her favorite lines, after all. They were the Haliburtons, and the Haliburtons had a certain image to uphold. That her father’s business had taken them to Nowhere, Ontario—okay, fine, Oneida, Ontario, but it was the same thing—hadn’t mattered at all to Bailey’s mother. They would act like they still had access to all the upper-class establishments and circles they’d left behind in Toronto, whether or not those even existed here.

Which they didn’t.

Though, Bailey thought, forking off a bit of pie and swallowing, they did have decent desserts.

“It’s a rite of passage,” her mother said, after a few moments.

“Do I get to choose my date?” Bailey said. The moment the words were out, she knew she’d mis-stepped. Too soon to ask, too obvious a question. “If anyone asks me, I mean?” she added, hoping for damage control.

“Has anyone asked you?” her mother countered.

Damn. “A couple of boys,” Bailey said, eyes on her pie.

“Well, as long as you choose someone appropriate.”

Bailey stabbed her pie. And that, she thought, was the end of that. Because the boy who’d asked her was many things. He was tall. He was talented. He was—in her biased opinion—gorgeous. He was kind. He was funny. He was so many things.

But she knew damned well neither of her parents would consider one of the res boys “appropriate.”

When her mother went to the bathroom, Bailey finished her pie and looked out the window. There had to be a way. Could she convince Randy to go to the prom by himself, and she to go with some friends, and they meet up there as dates? Would her parents allow her to go to prom unescorted?

Could she even wrangle up enough people to pretend to be friends with Bailey Haliburton? Because that was iffy. She had Tina, but there was no way Tina would go to prom. Beyond that, most of the girls in her classes had decided from day one that Bailey wasn’t worthwhile. They’d never actually tried to get to know her, and Bailey had been so shocked and sore to do her final year of high school removed from all her friends in Toronto that she’d decided she could do without them in return.

Bad choice, it turned out.

But in her theatre arts class, there was Randy. And Randy talked to her when no one else did. They partnered up, did project work together, wrote an amusing play together, and…

Her chest ached again, the pressure behind it building and trembling. Her hands itched, fingers curling. God. She just needed…

What did she need?

“You okay, dear?”

Bailey looked up. The waitress—a lovely, round woman who always remembered Bailey liked her apple pie scalding hot—smiled down at her.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Bailey said. A reflex response.

The waitress shook her head, and eyed the vacant seat where her mother had been. “No, you’re not.” Then she pressed a finger to the middle of her chest. “You’ve got it. But you’re not letting it out.”

Bailey stared. “I’m sorry?”

“You shouldn’t be.” The woman winked, then glanced left and right. Bailey looked as well, but they were pretty much alone in the restaurant. “Here,” the woman said, reaching into her top and pulling out a rock. She held it out to Bailey on one wrinkled palm. “I’ve been waiting to get you alone. This is for you.”

Bailey blinked. Had that been in her bra?

“Uh,” Bailey said, unsure what to do. But the waitress gestured again, and so Bailey raised her hand and the woman dropped the stone into her palm. It was a strange rock, sort of a liquid silver color, but dark and shiny.

“Hematite,” the woman said. “Good for letting things out.” She paused. “And you need to. You’re blocked. You know, it’s okay to be angry sometimes. Try the hematite. And I think you’d be good to find yourself an amethyst, too. And a tiger eye. You strike me as a tiger eye kind of girl.”

Bailey closed her fingers around the stone. It felt cool to the touch, which made no sense given where it had been seconds earlier. “A tiger eye kind of girl?” she repeated.

But then her mother was sliding back into the booth, eyeing them both oddly, and the waitress was once again her usual sweet and gentle self.

“Anything else for you two ladies?”

“No, thank you,” her mother said.

“I’ll see you again.” The waitress winked at Bailey.

Bailey slid her hand under the table, fingers tight around the hematite.

It almost felt like it was humming.

After they got home, Bailey went up to her room, checked her jewelry box, then excused herself to take a walk.

“A walk?” her mother said, surprised. She was in the kitchen, and if she wanted to say anything about Bailey’s change of clothes—a long-sleeved dress in a deep brown that was perhaps a bit formal for a walk—she held back the urge to criticize. A minor miracle in itself, really.

“Burn off some of that pie,” Bailey said, which she knew would make her mother smile. And sure enough, it did. Her mother had made it clear that Bailey’s tendency to “curves” would be something she’d need to fight, and sometimes Bailey wanted to just scream when she started speaking.

Like right now. Though that wouldn’t help anything. So instead, she walked along the asphalt until the road crossed with one of the dirt road that ringed the various farms in Oneida, and she walked down the dirt road after that.

The stone had been humming since she left. She held it out in her palm.

“A tiger-eye kind of girl,” Bailey said, feeling foolish. She had a small tiger eye pinky ring, too, and some other bits and pieces of jewelry from her childhood that she’d not thrown out. Barely semi-precious stones, she wasn’t even sure if she knew their names. The orange one might be carnelian, and the purple earrings could be amethyst. Or they could be purple glass. But she thought her parents, even when she was a kid, wouldn’t have dared put costume jewelry on their daughter.

The stone hummed in her palm, in time with the pulse in her chest. She looked at the stone. Good for letting some things out, the waitress had said.

Okay then. Let’s let some things out. It wasn’t that she wanted to go to prom with Randy. She did, of course, but it wasn’t that. It was that she wanted to be with Randy. And she wanted to be with Tina, too. And while she was pretty sure Tina didn’t feel the same way she did, Randy did. She just knew it.

And there was no way her parents would ever allow…

She choked, catching her breath. She swore the stone was visibly shaking now. She was shaking, too.

“It’s okay to be angry,” she said.

Bailey Haliburton let it out. She threw her arms to the side and just screamed into the failing light of the afternoon.

The hematite shattered. What had been a stone burst into a fine, dark powder and swirled around her outstretched hands, rising and falling with her own cries of frustration and anger and, yes, she could admit it, fear.

She hummed, every part of her, and in her hands, she felt the ring and earrings and other pieces from her childhood humming back. The cloud of fine hematite dust rose around her, pulled up and out and away, and she threw her head back, feeling connected and strengthened and aware and powerful.

You’re blocked, the waitress had said.

Bailey opened her eyes, watching the last of the hematite dust spin and swirl around her in the air. The pressure in her chest was gone. She caught herself on the edge of a laugh, then allowed herself to give in, laughing until her cheeks hurt.

The amethyst earrings felt light against her skin and their hum was different than the hematite’s had been. They felt protective, and calming, but also insightful. She shook her head, unsure where this instinct was coming from, but pulled out her diamonds—which didn’t hum at all for her—and slid in the amethysts instead.

It felt like having two gentle friends at her ears, whispering a soothing reminder that she, Bailey Haliburton, could handle anything.

The carnelian wasn’t soothing. The carnelian made her think of kissing Randy, and not waiting for him to make a first move. They had something. Was it a forever something? Who knew? The carnelian didn’t, and neither did Bailey, but it was a kiss worth trying.

The tiger-eye pinky ring agreed. Choose. Believe. Act. 

Bailey laughed again. There was no sign left now of the hematite. And if she closed her eyes, she could feel something deep down in the earth beneath her feet. Other stones, maybe. Or just the very ground itself.

It hummed. It was there for her. It had her back, and she could call on it.

Bailey Haliburton closed her fingers around the carnelian and smiled.

She was definitely going to prom.

But first? She had some questions. Which meant it was time for another slice of pie.

Hey Canuck Authors, it’s PLR Time!

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I get to add OEB this year! (And Exit Plans, too!)

It’s that most wonderful time of the year again. I checked my mailbox and there it was. The envelope from the Canada Council for the Arts, with the blue cheque from the Public Lending Right Program.

The what, you might ask?

The Public Lending Right Program was put into place by the Canada Council for the Arts as a kind of compensation for the presence of books in Canada’s public libraries. If you’re a Canuck (a citizen or a permanent resident) and an author, illustrator, translator, editor—and, this year, narrator!—you can head on over to the site, and download what you need to register for the first time.

The way it works is a bit random, but it’s also been consistent in my experience. They check seven libraries, and each library they find your eligible title(s) in counts as a “hit.” And the “hits” equal payouts. So if the “hit” is, say $50, and your debut novel shows up in three libraries? Ta-da, $150.

Obviously, this—like so much in publishing—lends itself to the long tail. And the “hit” rate declines over time, but we’re talking a twenty-five year spread here. My first novel, Light, is still in the first category of 0-5 years of eligibility, so it counted the same value as Triad Soul, which came out in 2017 (and thus was eligible for 2018). Accordingly? Every year I’ve released a new title, I’ve done better than the years before. It grows.

Every year, alongside any cheque, you also get the form to add any new titles to your list, so this year I get to add Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks, and Of Echoes Born, which is super-exciting.

As an author, I’ve always loved libraries. They’re magic. Libraries were a huge part of my freedom as a younger queer man, too, as a place I could find books without having to out myself to a bookstore clerk or—more importantly—a parent. The PLR is the cherry on top of loving libraries, and I find a lot of Canadian authors don’t know about it. So every year, when the forms show up (registration is open February 15th to May 1st this year for titles released in 2018), I try to make noise about it. It’s not a secret. And if you’re an author, this cheque can often be the biggest income you see related to your work in a given year.

The PLR is also another reason I try really, really hard to counter any discussions about how libraries might hurt authors, and how flipping amazing it is when I hear a reader has borrowed my book from the library. I mean, libraries are magic, as I said, for so many reasons, and of course any copies bought for a library are exactly that: bought copies, so it’s already a win. But as a Canuck? A reader asking a library to carry my book absolutely also helps keep me afloat financially beyond that single purchase, and I truly appreciate it.

(Side-note? It’s not just Canada: the United Kingdom, all the Scandinavian countries, Germany, Austria, Belgium, the Netherlands, Israel, Australia, and New Zealand have PLR programs, too; so if you’re an author in those countries and you didn’t know, check it out and see how you go about registering.)

Sunday Shorts—Home by Nnedi Okorafor

[image error]I read Binti a couple of years ago, I loved it, which told such a brilliant story. I’d sort of squirrelled away Home, the next novella in the series, for some unknown “later” when I’d need a novella I knew would be amazing.

That time came in mid-winter this year, when I hit a wall of migraines and headaches and couldn’t handle much more than lying in the dark and listening to books.

Home picks up about a year or so after Binti, with Binti off-planet and studying at a multi-species university. She is a kind of celebrity—the woman who united two warring species—but also a curiosity—from an insular culture, now “changed” with part-alien physiology, and these two pieces play a major role in the narrative, for Binti is feeling unlike herself on a core level, and decides she needs to go home and perform a pilgrimage to cleanse herself. And from the first step, things do not go as planned.

The realism in Binti’s psychology after suffering such trauma in the first book was so refreshing (and, as an added dose of realism, I truly appreciated Okorafor noting that Binti felt fine for a while, but the PTSD snuck up later). More, Binti’s return to her home feels so very full of, well, humanity reacting to those who are different, that it felt like putting on an old sweater, one that I thought should have made me feel nostalgia but instead is really just scratchy and ill-fitting.

Binti’s alien artifact is once again key to the story, and it turns out that much of what Binti knows and believes she understands about her family and her home aren’t as clear or as understood as she thought. Her journey home is just a start.

My single (minor) caveat for my otherwise complete enjoyment of this novella was the cliffhanger ending. At least in this case the third instalment is already in my library, but if you’re someone who finds cliffhangers less appealing, consider yourself forewarned to pick up the third piece at the same time.

Friday “Flash” Fics — 9 a.m. Monday, Sharp

Okay, so this isn’t a flash fiction piece. It’s a short story. Normally, I try to keep my Friday Flash Fics pieces around or below 1,500 words or so, but this story just kept going. The picture reminded me of an idea I’d once tried to work into a novella, about a house existing outside of time and space, and although that novella didn’t work, the idea of it stayed with me. In fact, parts of that idea turned into Cole’s gift in Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks in the sense of how Cole teleports from doorway to doorway. So, even though this is Friday Flash Fics, here’s a not-flash story for your enjoyment.

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9 a.m. Monday, Sharp

“What are you doing in here, Junior?”

Porter turned, and threw a poker-face in place. False smile ready for his mother, he raised a glass. “Water.”

The line between her eyebrows made it clear she hadn’t quite believed him, but she nodded. “Well, come on through.” She gestured at the open door, then stepped back out to the reception.

Porter nodded, took a fortifying breath, and stepped through the door.

*

The stream of late afternoon sunlight was warm against his skin, and Porter grinned up into the air.

“Oh, thank you,” he said.

He was back at the house.

“Rough day?”

Porter turned, and the smile wasn’t at all a poker-face this time. Further down the balcony, and oddly enough, also wearing a suit, Dorian leaned against the railing.

“My sister’s wedding,” Porter said. “A.K.A. the second coming of Christ.”

Dorian’s laugh always delighted Porter. The British man often seemed quite reserved and quiet, but when he laughed, it was deeper than his usual soft-spoken voice. It suited him to laugh. It was unfortunate how rare he did so.

*

The first time, Porter had been heading to work. He’d pushed open the office door, trying not to dwell on yet another day doing something he barely cared about just to pay the rent and keep the lights on and then he was standing in a gorgeous library.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves built into every wall and stuffed with books greeted him. Between the stacks on one wall, a series of narrow windows provided daggers of light that cut across the thick rugs on the floor. Three separate seating areas were arranged in a crescent, and a pair of double doors stood at the opposite end of the room from him.

Just like the ones that closed behind him with a soft click.

Porter turned, mouth open, his backpack with his lunch in one hand, and his half-finished to-go Timmies in the other.

“What the fuck?” he said. It sort of echoed in the room. It was that big.

Had he made a wrong turn? The thought came unbidden, and he laughed out loud because how did you make a wrong turn walking through a clothing store to the employee area?

“I’m losing my mind. This is officially it. Small town Ontario has turned me mental.”

He waited for something to happen.

Nothing did.

After some amount of time he was never clear on, he took another step into the room. His heart thudded. “Hello?” he called.

Nothing.

He turned around, biting his lip.

He had to slide his backpack back on his shoulder to open the large double doors, but beyond the library there was a large entrance hall, complete with a curling Y-shaped staircase and white marble floor.

“Where the fuck am I?” Porter said, stepping through.

“Excuse me?” Jan said.

Porter blinked. Jan eyed him from the bank of lockers, where she was putting her coat away.

He was in the employee office.

“Sorry,” Porter said, through numb lips.

Jan laughed. She was fun to work with, one of the good keyholders. “I’m kidding. You’re at work, just like me, and I totally get asking why the fuck we do this.”

Porter managed a nod, and tried not to think about the strange library the rest of the day.

He failed.

*

Dorian pulled off his glasses long enough to clean them on the edge of his tie, then put them back on. “I’m at a wedding, too.”

“But not for a sister,” Porter said.

Dorian shook his head, another smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Dorian didn’t reveal much about himself, but Porter knew that much: only child.

“No. A second-cousin, I think. Probably removed.” He shrugged. “I’d rather wish I could have been removed, really.”

“Well, at least you get to look wonderful in your suit.”

Dorian had a slow blush. It started at his neck, and eventually his ears would turn pink, but it usually took Porter two or three compliments to get there.

“Thank you,” Dorian said, then chuckled. “Charmer.”

“You are charming,” Porter said.

Dorian laughed again. The blush was spreading.

“Seriously, though, it’s a gorgeous suit,” Porter said.

“Thank you.” And there it was. Ear Tip Level Pink had been achieved. “I like yours as well.”

“Now you’re just being kind. This is what we call Ontario Chic.” Porter held out his arms. “By which I mean, bought off-the-rack at as small an expense as possible, and will be used for mandatory Church until it falls apart, Amen.”

“That’s a little bitter for someone so young, no?” Dorian said.

“I’m bitter before my time,” Porter said. “Besides, you’ve like a decade older than me, right? A decade is nothing.”

“Well, I like the grey,” Dorian said, dodging as usual. “It suits your eyes.”

Porter winked. “Now who’s the charmer?”

*

Even the strangest things can become routine with enough repetition.

After a few more trips, Porter had found himself in a retro 50’s kitchen, a beautiful master bedroom done in a style he didn’t know at all, and a dining room lit only by candlelight.

If there were rules to his comings and goings, he didn’t quite know what they were, but there were a few things he’d figured out.

One: it was always doors. He had to be going through a door to get here, and when he went through a door here, he’d go back where he was.

Two: it was a break. No time ever passed back in the real world while he was here in the house. When he’d finally thought to check his phone—no signal, of course—that had been made crystal clear: the time never changed. He couldn’t get it to do anything, either.

Three: it happened more often when he was upset.

Those three rules had him thinking that maybe, just maybe, this house was some kind of retreat, but that made things all the more complicated: who made the place? Why were the rooms so different in style? How come it was always night in the dining room, and always day in the bedroom? Also, who restocked the fridge and cupboards in the kitchen with exactly the same items every single time?

Also, who knew Coke from a glass bottle tasted that much better?

He started carrying his backpack everywhere with him, with snacks and a book. Sometimes, even if he ended up in the en-suite bathroom, he’d just stop whatever he was doing and let himself relax for a while.

He’d taken a bath the other day and finished an entire novel. The water never cooled off.

No, Porter didn’t know what this place was, but he did know one thing.

He loved taking the breaks.

*

“You have me outclassed in flattery,” Dorian said. “And you know it.”

Porter grinned. God this was fun. It was so much more fun than what awaited him when he crossed the threshold again.

As though Dorian could hear Porter’s thoughts, he turned to eye the open doors that led back into the bedroom of their refuge.

“I was trying to work up the nerve to head back before you showed up.”

“Feel free to hang out with me. I’m intend to wait until the sun goes down.” Porter nodded at the horizon.

Dorian laughed.

Time didn’t pass here. It had taken them a while to figure that out. Wherever—and whatever—this house was, it didn’t seem to completely exist in a real sense. Take the balcony they were sitting on. They could look out over the late afternoon view for hours. And had done, separately and together on a few different occasions. But the sun would never dip any lower. The lawn below gave way to trees, and they could hear water beyond, but there were no other buildings in view no matter which way they craned their necks.

But if they looked out the window from the en-suite, attached to the bedroom on the other side of the glass paned doors, the view was of snow-covered mountains in a bright mid-day. That both windows faced the same direction didn’t mean anything, apparently. In fact, if Porter leaned over the balcony railing a bit, he could see into the en-suite window, and it wasn’t the same bathroom.

From the inside, the bathroom looked like something from the 1950’s.

From the outside, it matched the décor of the bedroom, something closer to Art Nouveau, which Dorian had said meant it might be anything from the 1890’s to the early 1900’s, or just someone’s retro idea of decoration.

Either way, it was gorgeous, and like everything else in this house, a perfect escape.

*

He’d intended to get himself a glass of water before bed, but instead he was back in the library.

Porter smiled, and went to check on his experiment. The last time he’d been here, he’d left a book on the shelf, a Stephen King he’d finished reading.

It was still there.

He’d wondered about how the house seemed to reset itself. The kitchen always restocked things, as did the three bathrooms he’d seen thus far—the same towel in the en-suite was always fluffy and dry on the rack even if he’d used it on a previous visit—but he’d never tried adding to what was there.

He smiled. His odd little paperback looked a bit out of place among the mostly hardcover titles—none of which seemed to have been published anywhere beyond 1980—but he left it there. He’d bring more as he finished them, he decided. This place could use a bit of an update.

Tired enough to sleep, Porter still wondered if he should hang out here for a while anyway. He loved this room, and the reading couches were comfy. There were a couple of throw-blankets, too, so even though he was walking around barefoot in pajama bottoms, he could keep warm. Maybe he could read for a while.

He eyed the shelves, considering, but the drowsiness made it clear it wouldn’t be long before he fell asleep.

Strange. He hadn’t really needed this time-out. Usually, this place only seemed to let him in when he was on his last nerve, or just wanted somewhere he could go be himself. A break from his family and their “when are you going to meet a nice girl?” questions.

But he’d had a good day. Work had been pleasant, and maybe that cute guy at the coffee place in the mall had winked at him. That had been good.

Terrifying, but good.

He sighed. He’d go back to his bedroom. He opened the double doors and found himself face to face with a man in glasses.

They both screamed.

*

“How long have you been coming here?” Porter asked.

Dorian regarded him. Behind his glasses, his eyes shifted in quick calculation. “Half a year,” he said. “Maybe seven months, if you could my first tumble through the kitchen, but I panicked and ran right back out, so it barely counts.”

Porter could relate. “My first room was the library. I was heading in to work, pushed open my office door, and…”

Dorian smiled. “And there you were. Or here you were, as it were.”

“I thought I’d lost my mind.”

Dorian nodded. They regarded each other in a quiet Porter found comfortable. Too comfortable. Why was it so easy to be with a man he’d probably never see outside of a house neither of them were even sure ever existed?

It didn’t hurt that Dorian had that British calm thing going on. He was older than Porter, which might have been part of it, but it was more than that. There was something there, something Dorian had endured, Porter thought, that made him seem all the more mature.

Or, fuck, it could just be the accent. Guy sounded like Mr. Darcy for crying out loud. How was a guy like Porter supposed to resist Mr. Fucking Darcy?

As for the decade or so between them? Well. Porter didn’t care. What was a decade, really? Nothing.

*

Porter stopped having baths in the en-suite after bumping into the glasses guy the first time. Nothing had come of it. Once they’d both screamed in surprise, the guy had started to ask him a question, “Is this—?” but he’d stepped forward when he was talking and then he was just gone. He’d crossed the threshold to the library and vanished.

Porter assumed the man had gone back to his own life, but there was no telling really. Maybe he’d been a ghost. It made as much sense as anything else.

But no baths. He didn’t need a man in glasses stumbling onto him while he was naked in the bathtub.

Even if he was cute.

Like, really cute.

Porter had napped on one of the beds in what he thought of as “the daughter’s room.” Soft salmon walls, a large bed covered in paler pink quilt and fluffy white pillows, and a kickass dollhouse were particular highlights of the room. It had been a welcome respite after an unwelcome visit from his father.

“It’s been long enough. You’re not finding a job in your field. Come work for me.”

The argument hadn’t gone well—Porter had tried so hard to be clear there was no insult in not wanting to work for his father’s farming supply company, but his father had taken complete offence—and it had ended with his father pointing out he’d inherit the business and someday he could pass it down to his own son.

Yeah.

He sat up in the bed, feeling somewhat better for the nap. He knew when he opened the bedroom door and left his father would still be in his apartment, waiting to continue the conversation, but a good hour of cooling off had helped.

The door opened, and the man in glasses walked in. He wasn’t actually wearing his glasses, he was carrying them, and wiping them with a little cloth. He paused, then let out a deep, long, exhale of what sounded like relief.

“Oh, brilliant,” he said. He had an accent. He also hadn’t noticed Porter yet.

“Uh, hi,” Porter said.

The man jumped, and put his glasses back on.

“Sorry,” Porter said.

They stared at each other.

“Is this your house?” the man asked.

Porter shook his head. “No.” He wished he wasn’t sitting on the bed. “Do you… Do you just randomly come and go, too?”

The man nodded slowly. He looked really smart, and it struck Porter that he was maybe in his mid-thirties, late-thirties at most?

“Well,” Porter slid off the bed. The man tensed, so Porter slowly stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Porter.”

It took the man a second to take it. “Dorian,” he said.

“Well, Dorian. I have to go finish a fight with my father, so if you need a nap, the bed’s all yours.”

*

“What is it?” Dorian said, eyeing him.

Whoops. Busted. “Nothing. Sorry.”

That earned him a brief frown, but Dorian pushed off from the balcony and turned his face to the sun again. “It’s raining where I am.”

“We have snow,” Porter said.

Dorian closed his eyes. Then, with a sigh of pure frustration, he yanked on his tie, loosening it almost savagely. He gulped in air, a succession of breaths each louder than the rest.

Porter moved before he could think, taking Dorian’s shoulder and squeezing. “Hey.”

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said, eyes still squeezed shut. “It’s been a bloody awful day.”

He was shaking beneath Porter’s hand.

Fuck it, Porter thought, and did something he’d wanted to do since they’d met in this strange house. He pulled Dorian in and hugged him.

Dorian stiffened for just a moment’s worth of resistance, then pressed his face against Porter’s shoulder. Dorian was a smaller man, but Porter thought they fit together just perfectly. He squeezed, and Porter felt him shake in his arms.

He let him cry it out.

*

“Oh, I fucking hate small town Ontario.”

Dorian was sitting on one of the library chairs. He had a briefcase beside him, and his tie was rolled up on top of it. His dress shoes were tucked beside the couch, and he had one of the blankets over his lap. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, too, which Porter couldn’t help but notice.

Nice chest hair.

“Hi,” Dorian said, putting the book down. He nodded at the name-tag Porter was wearing. “Tough day at the shop?”

“It’s not me,” Porter said. “It’s this guy I know. Well, kind of know. He works at the coffee shop in the mall. He’s younger than me, but he’s always been nice and I was pretty sure he was gay, too—he’s just got a kind of look, you know?”

Dorian nodded.

“Anyway, I was in line for coffee, and this asshole was mocking him. Homophobic jackass. The kid just looked so miserable.” Porter paced the length of the rug. “I wanted to say something. I should have said something. But the guy was huge, and he wasn’t alone, and I just…” He clenched his fists and screamed at the ceiling.

“Hey,” Dorian said.

Porter looked at him.

“I’m reading the book you left me,” Dorian said, holding up the book in question. On the cover, a pair of handsome men stood back to back. “It’s funny.”

“It’s one of my favorites,” Porter said.

“I know.” He patted the couch. Porter sat down beside him.

They sat in silence for a while.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said. “It really sucks when you’ve got wankers like that. For what it’s worth, if you don’t feel safe, you’re smart to trust your instincts.”

Porter blew out a breath. “Thanks.”

“Check in with the kid,” Dorian said. “Make sure he knows you’re on his side. And maybe talk to the manager there?”

Porter rolled his head on the back of the couch, looking at him. “You’re smart. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“I’m just older.”

“You’re not that much older.”

Dorian started to blush.

*

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said, pulling back from him.

“Don’t be. We both know how this place works.”

Dorian snorted. “Do we?”

“When we need a break,” Porter said. “A moment to catch our breath.” He reached out and started fixing Dorian’s tie. He told himself it wasn’t to keep him as close as possible.

“She’s marrying my best mate,” Dorian said.

It took a second for Porter to catch up. “Oh. Your cousin.”

“Right.” Dorian swallowed. “He was… He and I…” He took another deep breath, and Porter finished fixing his tie, patting it once. “It was a long time ago, and I thought I’d be okay, but…”

“Oh,” Porter said, getting it. “Gotcha.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “I’m a bloody fool. He never felt that way about me. I was just…” He paused, obviously trying to think of the right words. “Convenient.”

Ouch. Porter looked at him. “His loss.”

Dorian smiled. “Charmer.”

“Hey, if you weren’t thousands of miles away…”

“Or old enough to be—”

“I’m twenty-six,” Porter said.

“—your uncle?” Dorian finished with a little chuckle.

“You could tell me where you are,” Porter said.

Dorian took another shaky breath. “I’m at a wedding.”

Porter tried not to let the hurt show, but Dorian flinched. Poker wasn’t Porter’s game.

“I’m sorry,” they both said, then grinned at each other.

“By all means,” Porter said. “You first.”

“This?” Dorian said, gesturing to the balcony, but Porter got that he was also including everything. The house. Their strange trips outside of time. Their times together. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t want to…” He bit his lip.

“You don’t want to ruin it,” Porter said.

Dorian sighed. Then nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Porter said. “I don’t mean to push. I really don’t. I just… you’re right. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, too. And that’s not just because the bar is set at freaking Oneida, Ontario, where the men are men and the livestock is nervous.”

Dorian laughed. God, he loved that laugh.

“Anyway,” Porter said. “You’re right. This is…” He waved a hand. “This is magic.”

“It is,” Dorian said, and then pulled out a small folded booklet from the inside pocket of his suit. “And magic is worth the risk.” He pulled out a pen from his other pocket and flipped the booklet over and started writing. He handed the booklet to Porter a moment later.

Porter glanced at it. It was a wedding program. He turned it over, and stared.

Dorian Whitmore. It was followed by an address. And an e-mail. And a phone number.

Porter looked up. His eyes were filling with tears. “Really?”

“Really.”

Porter looked back down, flipping the invitation over again. “You crushed out on a guy named Angus MacLeod? Seriously? I assume he wears a kilt and carries a battle-axe?”

Dorian narrowed his eyes.

Porter grinned, and looked back down at the program.

His grin vanished. “Oh fuck.”

“What’s wrong?” Dorian said.

*

“Oh! I’m sorry!” Dorian blurted, stepping into the en-suite from wherever he’d been. He averted his eyes and went pink to the tips of his ears in record time. He turned his back, facing the wall.

Porter scrambled to gather some of the remaining bubbles. The one time he decided to risk a bubble-bath, and boom, there was Dorian. In boxers. In only boxers. He didn’t even have his glasses on.

“Uh, could you pass me the towel?”

Dorian fumbled to do so without looking.

Porter yanked the plug and did his best to dry off as fast as he could. By the time he was dry and in his pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt, the bath was gurgling as the last of the water hit the drain.

“It’s okay now.”

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said, finally glancing over his shoulder before turning.

He really did have a nice chest. And nice chest hair. Porter forced his gaze back up to Dorian’s face.

“I shouldn’t have risked the bath. I was just really sore. Inventory. And I don’t have a bath in my apartment, just a shower, so…” He shrugged.

“No, no,” Dorian said. “It’s… okay. I didn’t see anything.”

Porter grinned. “Well that’s disappointing.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “My glasses are beside the bed. I can barely see past my own nose.”

“Rough night?”

“Bad dreams,” Dorian said. He looked down at his bare feet. Porter noticed he had nice legs, too. He was a compact man, but those were some calves.

“Want to talk about it?”

Dorian blew out a breath. “If I say no will you let it drop?”

Porter just raised one eyebrow, and glasses or not, Dorian obviously saw enough to read him.

“Right. Didn’t think so.”

They talked for at least an hour, as they often did, their backs against the wall, side by side. By the time Dorian admitted he felt better and thought he could sleep again, Porter realized the exhaustion of inventory—and the crushing feeling he was doing nothing with his life—had also passed.

“You’re good for me,” Porter said. “Did I mention I’ve been saving money? I think I’m going to maybe go on a real vacation. Maybe somewhere overseas.”

Hint, hint. Porter waited.

“A vacation sounds great. You should head somewhere warm.”

“Right.” Ouch.

“We’re good for each other,” Dorian said, then glanced down again, as though he’d said something he shouldn’t have. Then he cleared his throat. “And this house, of course. Whatever the bloody hell this house is.”

“Right,” Porter said. “This house is good, too.”

*

“February 17th, 2029,” Porter said, pointing at the date on the wedding program. “Twenty twenty-nine?”

Dorian frowned, looking at the folded paper. “Yes.”

“That’s…” Porter had to lean against the railing. He couldn’t breathe.

“Porter?”

“Two thousand and nineteen,” Porter said. His voice shook.

Dorian shook his head. “Pardon?”

Porter tapped his own chest four times. “Two. Thousand. And. Nineteen.”

He saw the moment Dorian got it. The widening of his eyes behind the lenses. His mouth dropped open, and his lips moved, but there were no sounds.

“You’re in the past?” Dorian said.

“No, you’re in the future,” Porter snapped, annoyed.

They stared at each other.

Then Dorian smiled. Actually smiled.

“This isn’t funny!” Porter said.

“Well,” Dorian said, raising one hand. “No. But…” His lips wiggled, and it was obvious he was fighting off a laugh despite this being very not funny.

“But?” Porter said.

“Thirty-six,” Dorian said. “You’ll be thirty-six.” And now he did laugh. “I mean, are. Where I am. When I am.”

Porter stared at him. “Seriously? You’re still stuck on the age thing? We’re bending time and space here, and you’re worried about how old I am?”

Dorian shrugged. “I can’t help it. My lot would have a field day if I dated someone fifteen years younger than me.”

“Your lot?” Porter blinked. “Who are your lot?”

“The tabloids, the business news… Everyone.” Dorian sighed. “I’m Dorian Whitmore. As in Whitmore Global.”

Porter stared. “Okay.”

It was Dorian’s turn to blink. “You don’t know what that is, do you?”

“Should I?”

“It’s Europe’s largest…” He stopped. “Oh. Oh, bloody hell.”

“What?”

“Whitmore Global. It’s nothing. It’s barely a start-up. Because as far as you’re concerned, it’s twenty-bloody-nineteen. Holy shite.”

“See?” Porter felt a little bit of triumph. “Bending time and space.”

“Wait,” Dorian held up a hand. “Wait. Porter what?”

“Pardon?”

“Your surname.”

“Porter is my last name. My first name is—”

“Joseph.” They said it in unison.

Porter leaned back. “Uh. Yeah. But I’m a junior, so everyone calls me Porter because Joseph Porter is my dad.”

“No, Joseph Porter was one of the first investors in my start up. He got in at the ground floor, but we’ve never met. Not in the last decade. Even when I reached out, there was always a reason he couldn’t… He said he was too busy, or… God, he never took a buyout, either. He… Oh my God. And Just last week, he set up a meeting for next Monday, nine a.m. He…” Dorian stared at him. “You…” Dorian’s smile grew. “Holy bloody shite.”

Porter gaped while it all sunk in. And then it really sunk in. He scowled. “This fucking sucks.”

Dorian leaned back. “What?”

“From my point of view, mister, your Monday nine a.m. is a fucking decade away!”

“Oh,” Dorian said, deflating a bit. “Oh. Right. I’m sorry.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“How much did I invest?” Porter said, finally.

“In Canadian dollars? Probably five or six thousand?” Dorian frowned. “I’m not certain on the exchange at the time. It was a lot back then for my company. And the return on investment would have been… Well.” He blew out a breath. “You’ve been… I mean, you’ll be very comfortable for most of that decade. Two years in, we had our first offer.”

Porter nodded. Six grand? His entire vacation savings and then some. If he sold his car, that might push him over the top. He could take the bus to work. Two years more at the store…

And then eight years of waiting. Could he do that?

“You don’t have to wait for me,” Dorian said.

Porter smiled. Dorian was doing that mind-reading thing again.

“Well,” Porter said. “I guess you’ll find out on Monday.”

Dorian swallowed. “I suppose so.”

Porter leaned in pressed his forehead to the shorter man’s own. Thing was? He knew himself pretty well. Making an appointment to meet Dorian wasn’t something he’d do to the man after seeing him come apart today. Not if Porter weren’t available.

He laughed.

“What?” Dorian said.

“It just struck me how many times I’ve said a decade is nothing. This is sort of like karma, right? I’m paying for my hubris?”

Dorian laughed, rose on his toes, and kissed him. A soft pressing of lips, the kiss ended far too soon for Porter’s taste, and he found himself holding Dorian’s shoulders and leaning against him again.

“See you Monday,” Dorian said.

“Ten years, nine a.m., sharp,” Porter agreed.

 

 

 

Review: Of Echoes Born by ‘Nathan Burgoine

I am not gonna lie. When a reader gets exactly what you were trying to do, it’s a magical moment.

Elliott Dunstan

Oh man. Oh MAN. So – I love short stories. They’re wonderful to rea to master, and the best ones leave you just wanting more.

Interconnected short stories are even better. Stories that share a few characters here and there, similar themes, trickling with the slow realization that this is really all the same story, told bit by bit, piece by piece. Lives don’t go from beginning to end – they unfold, and bump into each other, leaving little blooms of colour along the way.

I’m waxing poetic. But the point is, Of Echoes Born is really, really fucking good. I think what’s really astonishing me about it is that it’s an unusual kind of good – it’s the type of book I don’t think I’ve encountered before, and I don’t imagine I’ll see again. (Unless I can tempted Monsieur Burgoine into another. I shall prepare the cupcakes.) Nathan Burgoine…

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Sunday Shorts—Once Ghosted, Twice Shy by Alyssa Cole

[image error]Ohmigosh I really enjoyed this. First, I want to talk format. This Sunday Shorts series lets me take a moment to focus on shorter fictions, be it short stories, novelettes, short plays, or novellas, and this book was a perfect reminder why I wanted to take time every week to focus on those formats.

I honestly think the novella is often the most perfect way to tell a romance story. And Cole has this down cold here. The focus is kept on the specific characters involved, and every side character feels all the more important for being included, the conflict (and resolution) arc become more… I want to say “natural,” but what I mean is there’s less opportunity for “Perils of Pauline” effects to slip in, where the couple get close, break apart, get close, break apart over and over in a way that feels like filler. In a novella, there’s generally one “issue” and that issue feels all the more realistic when the couple work through it without dozens of other things popping up as well. I enjoy that, and I enjoy the journey, and Cole does it so very damn well.

In Once Ghosted, Twice Shy? The ladies in question are flipping awesome. Likotsi’s confidence was really engaging, and Fabiola’s described style (and incredibly genuine emotional reactions to some seriously impactful life events) hummed on the page, and I wanted them to be together even when I understood 100% why they’d gone in the direction they had the last time they’d had the chance.

I also loved their discussions of how hard things would be to make it work, given their very, very different lives. (And the sizzle. Egad, the sizzle.)

I listened to this one as an audiobook, too, and full props to the narrator, Karen Chilton. Superb job.

Professional envy. Or, Damn all the words.

I feel this. So very much. (And I like the notion of taking it to a motivational place, frankly.)

Brey Willows

I’m pretty sure most writers have been, or will go, there.

You read a book by another author friend of yours. It’s fucking fantastic. You read the beautifully constructed sentences, the tightly woven plot, the unexpected twist. It’s all so clever and lovely and fucking excellent.

And you think, why can’t I write like that? Why didn’t I think of constructing that sentence that way? I’d give my best toenail to have come up with that idea first…

And so on.

And then you see the reviews. That’s fun.

Seven page articles extolling the originality, the excellence, the depth. Star ratings that catapult the author to (niche) demigod status. Fans clamouring for their next book, for their attention, who can’t say enough about this most amazing author, whose back catalogue you simply must read…

And you’re happy for them. Genuinely. You know how that kind of thing can feed an…

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Sunday Shorts—Feeding the Dragon by Sharon Washington

[image error]Oh, how I loved this. I don’t read a lot of biographies (though I know full well I should), but when I do, I tend to listen to audios if I can, especially if they’re read by the person in question. In this case, Sharon Washington took her one-woman play and worked with Audible to create Feeding the Dragon: The True Story of the Little Girl Who Lived in the Library. This is a short biopic piece, which she performs to absolute perfection.

It pivots around Sharon’s childhood, growing up in an apartment on the top floor of the St. Agnes Branch of the New York Public Library, and her relationship with her family (most importantly her mother and father). They had this apartment because of her father’s job—custodian of the St. Agnes Branch—and the opening descriptions of Sharon’s access to the library after hours, and how this formed a childhood for her that was somewhere between magical and illusory, was freaking brilliant.

Washington doesn’t pull punches, though. Her childhood was also hit by a series of unwelcome revelations, the realities of being a black girl in New York, and these flow seamlessly into her narrative. Alcoholism, racism, classism, ableism… there’s a lot to unpack in such a short piece, but somehow Washington juggles it all (seemingly) effortlessly, and with such a brilliant variation of voice, inflection, and character.

Living above a library was obviously many things, and it’s a story I’m glad Washington told. I only hope more people hear it, be that on the stage, or through this audiobook.