'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 74

Friday Flash Fics — The List

Happy New Year! Today’s Friday Flash Fics shot made me think of the unnamed detective from “Keeping the Faith” (from Men of the Mean Streets). I liked the character, and I’ve always wanted to do more with him, but haven’t had the opportunity until now.

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The List

Clay didn’t feel comfortable in the bar, but the secretary at the address he’d been given had told him to come here if he wanted to find the man he needed, so here he was.

The bar wasn’t busy—it was too early to really be in the swing of things—but there were a few groups of people scattered in the room at different tables.

And one man, drinking alone.

Of course.

Clay took a deep breath, and took the set beside him at the table.

It didn’t elicit much of a reaction. The man looked at him for the briefest of moments, then turned back to his drink, a glass of something nearly clear, and iced. He took another sip.

Clay cleared his throat. “Your secretary said that maybe you’d be here.”

“She’s a smart woman.”

Okay. So it was him. Not that Clay had really doubted it. The man was handsome in a way that made Clay almost as nervous as being in a bar, but he also seemed just a bit… closed off. Separate. Held apart from everyone else.

Of course, if the rumours were true, that made sense.

Clay bit his lip. Why had Father Bryce suggested this man, of all people, to help him? Everything about this felt wrong.

“So, it generally works best if you tell me what’s missing,” the man said, taking another sip of his drink and putting it down on the table. His gaze turned to Clay, and Clay tried to hide his reaction to the scrutiny—a shiver that ran the full length of his spine.

The little smile that curled among the man’s stubble made it clear Clay had not succeeded.

“Father Bryce sent me,” Clay said, forcing the words out.

“Okay.”

“He said you’re my best…” Clay swallowed the word ‘hope.’ It didn’t feel right for this man. “He said you’re the best at finding… things.”

The man smiled. “I’ll drink to that.” He eyed Clay. “But you won’t.”

Another shiver. Clay shook his head. “I don’t drink.”

Clay knew they both heard the unspoken “anymore.”

“So how is Robert? Still tilting at windmills?”

Clay bristled. Father Bryce was a great man, and an icon for many. “He’s a great example for all of us.” This time, he didn’t falter, meeting the man’s gaze. “We could all learn from him.”

“Yeah, that whole ‘ignore the itch because scratching is a sin’ thing doesn’t really work for me.” The man took a final sip of his drink. “Or you, I’d imagine.”

Clay blew out a breath. “What did you even do for him?” He hadn’t intended to ask. He hadn’t wanted to know. Father Robert Bryce was one of the few people out there he could respect without question, and it was an already slim list he didn’t want to see grow any shorter. But the question was out before he could stop himself.

“Someone stole his faith,” the man said. “I got it back for him. And you know, even without his faith, there was no…” He paused, winked. “Scratching.”

Clay leaned back in the chair, feeling boneless and broken. It was true. This man really could… It should have made him feel better, but instead, it was somehow worse.

Because now he had hope.

The man leaned forward. “What about you? What do you need me to find?”

Was it wrong to work with a man like this? Clay bit his lip. The rumours of how this man had gained his ability to find anything…

“Did you really…?” Clay said. Meet the devil? Offer him your soul to find anything you set your mind to? Lose something so valuable it was worth the deal? He closed his mouth, unable to finish the question.

The man’s slow smile was answer enough. “How about you tell me what’s missing, Mr. Famous Artist.”

Clay shivered again. He hadn’t imagined this man would know who he was, but… He blew out a breath.

“My… muse, I suppose. My creativity. It’s just gone. I pick up a paintbrush and… nothing.” Clay tried to keep the misery out of his voice, and mostly succeeded.

The man nodded. “Okay. Let’s head back to my office. We’re going to start with you making a list of everyone you’ve ever pissed off.”

Clay watched the man rise, pull on a jacket over his shirt and tie and vest, and then stand there, looking at him with that same half-smile on his face. “Coming?”

Clay nodded, and rose. He should want to paint this man. He should want to paint this bar. He should want to put the shadows on a canvas, and show the world things about this place, these people, that they didn’t maybe want to see.

He didn’t. Not even a little. It made him feel like less than himself.

“It’s not a short list,” Clay admitted.

The man laughed. It was a really good laugh, and it bothered Clay how much he enjoyed it. “It never is.”

 

 

If You Liked…

[image error]I’m not sure there’s an author out there who actually enjoys the self-promo part of writing. I always feel guilty, I wince, and it’s out of reach of my confidence comfort zone. End result being awkwardness for everyone, which is so my zone, comfort or nay.

So, while this is a promotion post, I’m going to try something different. You’re at my blog, reading my words, so I’m going to start from a position of thinking you’ve read something I’ve written, and I’m gonna suggest something else I’ve loved and read by other people that’s similar, or at least, that I think you’d enjoy if you liked mine.

Because flogging other people’s stuff? That I can do, and love to do.

[image error]Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks is my first queer YA novel. It’s about Cole, a gay kid of seventeen who has a life plan he’s been working on for years: he’s going to graduate, move to Ottawa, and begin a life under the radar from the childhood event that has defined him in his small town: that time he got kidnapped for an afternoon when he was four. Cole is a list-maker, knows what he wants to be when he grows up, and imagines all sorts of conversations ahead of time so he has something prepared and doesn’t have to work on instinct. Because he’s pretty sure he was born without instinct.

And then he develops a spontaneous teleportation problem. Cole doesn’t do spontaneous. But the problem isn’t going away, he’s caught the attention of the cutest boy in school for all the wrong reasons, and it’s possible there are people after him. People in suits.

[image error]Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks is a light adventure story with a queer kid and a situation way, way over his head in a completely blindsiding way. No one plans on teleportation.

No one plans on being the key to a solving a curse, either. Which brings me to my first suggestion, which I’m sure long-time readers saw coming: The Unwanted, by Jeffrey Ricker.

Here we meet young gay Jamie, who is just trying to keep his head down and get through high school, has a guy who keeps picking on him, and who is trying to figure out how to explain to his single father dad about the scuffle that just sent him home early from school when his mother shows up.

Given that he was told his mother was dead, this is sort of surprising. Also? She arrived via pegasus.

Yeah, so his mother isn’t just not dead, she’s an Amazon (like, capital-A, Greek Mythology, Amazon). Jamie being born a boy, he was passed on to his father to raise, and that would have been that, except a dark curse has hit the Amazons and would Jamie mind coming into a world full of monsters and magic to fix that, maybe?

Yes. Yes, he would mind. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t going to happen…

[image error]Of Echoes Born is my first short fiction collection. Now, I love writing short fiction, and I know that’s not everyone’s bag, and so I tried to do something a little different with it to appease the more novel-loving readers of the world. So, yes it’s a collection, but it’s also a linked collection, and there’s a greater story happening across the whole. Half the stories are new, half are reprints, and you get to meet a character who appeared in a glimpse in the very first thing I ever had published professionally: Ian.

Ian is the guy on the cover. At sixteen (in the first story) he starts seeing things. Auras, mostly, around people that reveal what emotional state they’re in (not that he has a guidebook to what the various colours mean, but luckily he has a new friend, Dawn, who’s helping him figure all that stuff out). But when it starts to be more than just emotions as colours, when Ian starts seeing things that have happened, and maybe even things that haven’t happened yet, he’s got some choices to make.

[image error]Ian is the thread that runs through all the stories, and the Village, my version of the gay area of Ottawa, is a location that comes to the foreground quite a few times as well. You’ll see familiar faces and places from all the things I’ve ever written, too.

Now, if queer stories with magic and psychic and the speculative fictional other are your thing? You need look no further than the annual Wilde Stories, which has its (sadly) final volume this year with Wilde Stories 2018. You can meet a tonne of authors in anthologies like this, which on its own is a great reason to try out an anthology, but the stories gathered in these annual collections are freaking brilliant.

Sam J. Miller! John Chu! Sean Eads! Richard Bowes! These are names you probably already know and love, but if you don’t, I would love to be the person introducing you to them. Wish-granting fishes, Oscar Wilde, and crossovers with Peter Pan and Greek Mythology? It’s all here. And it’s so queer and so spec-fic it’s magical.

Just trust me. Open up any collection of Wilde Stories and bask and breathe.

[image error]Saving the Date is a novella I co-authored with Angela S. Stone, and it’s part of the multi-author 1Night Stand series put out by Decadent Press. The conceit of all the stories is a dating agency run by the somewhat mysterious “Madame Eve,” who has a knack for connecting people looking for a one-night stand with someone suitable for more, if those involved can get there…

This one was a labour of love for me, and also a labour of anxiety. Morgan is a survivor of violence, and scarred (physically and emotionally) and, three years after the hate-crime, has decided to use the service to allow himself some intimacy with someone with no-strings, as he feels ready for that. When the service matches him with big, blond, burly Zach, it seems like things are going well—except Zach was expecting, well, a woman, and though he’s not displeased (he’s bi, though closeted), there’s something else that feels off. They’re familiar to each other. When Zach reveals he’s a cop with the hate and bias crime unit, things become clear: they met during the worst time of Morgan’s life. They move forward, though, and skating turns to kissing turns to something more, and if they’re both willing to take some chances, something far more than one night.

[image error]Trying to move forward when life seems to conspire to hold you back is something Hannah Robinson knows well enough. In Unconditional Devotion, by Kayleigh Malcolm, Hannah is fighting through depression, and can’t face returning to the courts where she once had a career as a defence attorney. Her family is cold and damaging, apart from her son. The two men who live in the same building as her, on the other hand, are a bright point of temptation. It takes her son meddling a bit to get things going, but when things get going, this trio of people who’ve been so let down by so many people who were supposed to be there for them find something special together.

I love, love, love, that there’s no magical solution to their problems. No one is “fixed” here, but their lives are improved by support and care and the building of a chosen family. Also? Hot menage. I mean, come on.

This novella also starts the characters from Malcolm’s Peacock Terrace books, which feature steamy menage tales that include things I find rarely seen in romance (such as Hannah’s depression).

[image error]Handmade Holidays is my chosen-family queer holiday romance novella. At nineteen, Nick has just been kicked to the curb after coming out, and he’s facing his first Christmas alone. Determined to make the best of it, he buys a very discounted Christmas tree and brings it home only to realize he has no ornaments.

This is fixed by a box of candy canes his buddy Haruto brings over, and then Haruto goes one step further and uses the wrapping paper to fold a paper crane. It’s not the greatest tree, but it’s a start. The next year, Nick invites some new friends over to host “Christmas for the Misfit Toys,” a holiday gathering for those with nowhere to go, and a tradition is born.

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Over the next fifteen years, Handmade Holidays checks in with Nick, Haruto, Fiona, Matt, and Phoebe as their lives collide, separate, find love, lose love, face death, face illness, grow in numbers, and—ultimately—find happiness with their chosen family.

Speaking of chosen families? A Little Queermas Carol by Sassafras Lowrey is hands down a favourite and a re-read every year for me. I found it last year, and you’ll just have to trust me that a super-queer kink/little re-telling of A Christmas Carol can be this damn adorable. Humbug as a safeword, a family trying to bring someone into their fold, but meeting resistance born of the pain of loss, and the cutest wee little dog ever (Tiny Tim, naturally).

This one breathes its queerness, from Zine culture to kink to gender and sexuality rep much less common than we see in so many stories. Leather Daddies baking cookies in a holiday story? Yes, damnit. Holiday tales deserve to be queer as fuck too, though, and A Little Queermas Carol is here for it.

It’ll all just take Ebe finding it in their heart to try to care for someone again.

[image error]In Memoriam is a gay spec-fic second-chance romance novella with a bit of a different take on the second chance thing. James Daniels is an editor who has just gotten the worst news ever: he’s literally running out of time, thanks to some ill-placed (and fast-growing) tumours in his brain. Worse, where those tumours are placed is making it hard for him to keep a hold on his memory or sense of time.

There’s one thing he wants to make right before it’s over: Andy, the boy who got away. So he contacts a former-detective author friend and tries to gather all the information he has about Andy, which leads him to re-reading his journals. And then something happens: when he’s reading his journals, the same tumours that are making James lose track of time and memory seem to be making time and memory lose track of James, too, and he finds himself reliving key moments of his life…

…and making different choices.

[image error]It’s the greatest re-write of James’s life, and it might just be enough to make things right before it’s too late.

Another ticking-clock romantic novella I found last year, Hearts Alight by Elliot Cooper takes a Hanukkah holiday romance and adds magic of a different sort: a golem. At first, Dave Cunningham wants little to do with the holidays—they’ve gotten commercialized and he’s not flush, which makes the gift-giving so frustrating—and the quiet and stoic Amit isn’t helping. It’s hard to get a gift idea for someone who’ll barely speak to you (even if he’s attractive in all the right ways).

But Amit is running out of time—the magic that has sustained him this long is fading, and he knows soon he’ll be inanimate. And so getting close to Dave is a bad idea. Except, it might just be that Dave has the key to the sad history of Amit to turn this slow tragedy into something all the more wonderful: hope for a future.

[image error]Triad Blood (and Triad Soul) are my contemporary urban fantasy novels set in a version of Ottawa where the supernatural powers move in groups of three or more: three (or more) wizards make a coven, three (or more) vampires make a coterie, and three (or more) demons make a pack. But Curtis (a wizard), Luc (a vampire), and Anders (a demon) all have reasons they’ve not joined with others of their own kind, and Curtis comes up with a radical notion: the laws say it has to be three, but nowhere is it so specific to say the three must be the same.

They form a triad of their own, and there is more power there than any of them expected, and with that power comes unwanted attention from those who rule Ottawa from behind the shadows. In Triad Blood they face off against the vampire Duke of Ottawa, and in Triad Soul, they clash with someone murdering demons for some uncertain reason. They’ve got the powers of blood, soul, and magic—and many enemies—but more importantly, they’ve got each other.

[image error]Speaking of having other people, it’s possible Reylan doesn’t really want the people he’s starting to gather, but in Beast Without, Christian Baines begins his awesome Arcadia Trust series with dark delight. Reylan is a blood shade in Sydney who has little patience for an interruption to his existence, but one is about to arrive in the form of Jorgas, a werewolf with rage issues who has the entire community after him for a string of violence.

But Jorgas also awakens something in Reylan that he’d long thought dead, and it’s possible things aren’t as clear-cut as they seem. Soon Reylan is facing off against powerful forces on the streets of Sydney, and trying to figure out truths while keeping Jorgas—and himself—alive.

[image error]Light was my debut novel, a gay superhero(ish) story about Kieran Quinn, a gay massage therapist living in Ottawa who is a little bit telepathic, kind of psychokinetic, and hasn’t really practiced much with either beyond playing with his cat. When he uses his telekinesis, his gift also refracts light, which makes for pretty rainbows, too.

It’s Pride Week, and Kieran loves Pride Week, so he’s there first thing for the opening ceremonies. Which is when things take a turn for the violent in the form of a group who’ve come to protest the event, and who Kieran is pretty sure are led by someone way, way better at the telekinesis thing than he is.

So Kieran has to step up, bring the rainbows, and face off against someone who’d like to crush Pride, as well as saving some drag queens, matching wits with a cop who seems to be on to him, and having a great time with a French Canadian leather man, and hopefully not dying while saving the day, fabulously.

[image error]For the queer superhero lover, you need look no further than Sacred Band, from Joseph Carriker, Jr. Spinning our world, but with a faded golden age of heroes having passed in recent history, we meet a group of super-powered individuals who are living more-or-less under-the-radar, in governmental imposed inaction. The queer content here is off-the-charts awesome, and the various heroes (and their powers) are fantastic.

More, the story is surprisingly global—the main plot takes the characters to multiple places on the globe, and is about an attempted rescue of queerfolk from an oppressive regime all-too-real in today’s headlines.

The fact it’s listed as the first of a series still has me happy: I can’t wait to dive back into this world when the second volume arrives.

YA Catch-up Sale at @BoldStrokeBooks

[image error]Okay, this rocks. ⁦

So, to celebrate the release of my queer YA novel Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks (isn’t it pretty?), Bold Strokes Books⁩ is having a Flash Sale! This weekend, you get 30% off Young Adult ebook backlist titles at their webstore. Which titles? Click here.

Now, I’ve read quite a few of the YA titles from Bold Strokes, and I’ve really enjoyed them, so, in no particular order, allow me to suggest a few for you to try out, if you’re looking at that sale and thinking, ‘Hrm, but which ones?’

I’m going to start with Jennifer Lavoie, who has written four (!) YA novels with Bold Strokes, and I’ve loved them all. So? Are you a doggo person? Grab Meeting Chance, which is about a scarred gay boy meeting a scarred rescue dog and their journey together to a better place.

Want a bit more family friction? Andy Squared! Andrew and Andrea are twins who’ve been on the same page for their whole lives, even down to the sport they both play (soccer), but Andy is starting to realize there are some things quite different about him, and it’s about to change everything.

[image error]How about warm-and-snuggly? Tristant and Elijah! Here we’ve got a lovely pairing of young fellas who’ve uncovered a family mystery, and while their relationship unfolds in the present day, we explore what was happening in the past, too, and the parallels—and bittersweet differences—are wonderfully told.

And in case you’re more in the mood for the end of the world, there’s The First Twenty. It’s post-apocalyptic done the way I love the most: with hope. This isn’t violent and awful people doing violent and awful things to survive, but rather people coming together, being resourceful, and a young woman taking a leadership position among her community and discovering another young woman with an incredible gift.

[image error]Now, I’ve mentioned Jeffrey Ricker so many times here I’m sure you’re sick to death of it (but too bad, he’s amazing, buy his books), but The Unwanted has such a place in my heart. Gay boy learns his mother isn’t so much dead as a mythological Amazon (and quite alive, thanks) and needs him to help break a curse on her people, and did I mention mythological creatures and gods are totally against this? So good. SO GOOD.

Elizabeth Wheeler’s Asher series is faboo, and begins with Asher’s Fault, where a camera—but more importantly, how the camera teaches young Asher to look at the world differently—allows him to take some steps towards forgiveness and understanding when it seems like the whole world is going to deny him anything good.

Greg Herren’s creeptastic YA Lake Thirteen gives the shivers and the spooky without losing the heart of the story: a queer young fellow and his coming-of-age (only maybe also ghosts and murder and oh no), and a budding relationship that is threatened by horror.

Oh! And if—like me—you love anthologies of short fiction by many authors? Boys of Summer gathers such a collection of tales around summer love between young fellas, and includes my only other foray into YA thus far: “Leap,” a short story about Ryan, who spends a holiday each year with his family at a rental campground of four cabins with two other families he’s known since he was born—and the arrival of a fourth family, and more importantly, their son Will.

 

The Five Crowns and Colonel’s Sabre

Every year for the past few 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). Last year, I wrote “Reflection,” (a retelling of “The Snow Queen.”) This year I present “The Five Crowns and Colonel’s Sabre,” (a retelling of “The Nutcracker and Mouse King.”)

I hope you enjoy.

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The Five Crowns and Colonel’s Sabre

“As a good soldier, he ought to know the wounded are not expected to take their places in the ranks.”

My father’s words were a cold comfort, spoken years before and of a toy and yet could have been said now, were my father still alive, with just as much merit.

Now, as then, I couldn’t help but feel some shame.

A good soldier. I had been that, in duty and effort and action if perhaps not always in heart. And now I rode a train back to a place I scarcely remembered from when I’d been a boy until the day I’d told my father I would not be joining his practice, but would instead be taking my skills to aid in war.

Ahead, I saw the city, lit in the failing light of the early winter afternoon.

The wounded are not expected to take their places in the ranks.

I exhaled, putting my father’s words out of my mind as best I could.

*

“I need a sword.” Marie sounded positively terrified. My gaze caught on the bandage on her arm, and I tried to have patience with her, for she’d had a few rough days, and though our godfather had meant to entertain her, I think we’d both found his story more terrible and mean than anything else.

You’ll be turned away if you are different, that story said. Even if you bring a magical nut, restore a princess, and fulfil a prophecy.

“Fritz?” Marie asked again.

“Pardon?”

“My nutcracker. He needs a sword. I can’t… I can’t protect him, and…” Tears filled her eyes.

I thought of my father and mother and our godfather—all of whom had been very, very clear that Marie’s flights of fancy needed to stop, and indulging them was childish. Her story of the battle between the dolls and the mice—my own soldiers doing abysmally—had been a dream, of course, it had to have been, but…

I looked at her tears again.

“Did my hussars really perform so poorly?”

She sniffed, and truly, she was always such a considerate girl. “I’m sure they were just unprepared. It was a frightful thing, the battle.”

“Well,” I said. “Soldiers should be brave, not unprepared.” I eyed the cabinet. “I may have just the thing.”

She hugged me, and I hugged her back. Surely it wasn’t an unkindness to set my younger sister’s mind to ease?

I tried not to think of what my father might say. He didn’t need to know, I thought.

He didn’t need to know.

*

The walk from the train station to my home—so strange to think of it as my home—was done without fanfare, for which I was grateful. My leg kept me at a certain lacklustre pace, but pained only a little, and as I carried my bag in one hand to free the other for my cane, it was a welcome piece of rare luck.

I had my key, and my eldest sister Luise had arranged for someone to come by the house and ensure it prepared well enough for my arrival, in as much as it would be stocked enough for me to spend a day or two acclimating before having to see to anything of a grand effort.

I lit a lamp left at the entrance, and eyed the spare entranceway. With the door closed behind me, the worst of the cold and snow had retreated, though surely it would also be cold inside, once I had not the contrast to consider.

I eyed the great staircase, but the weariness of that particular trek was too much. So, I pinned my hopes on my father’s penchant for resisting all change carrying him to his end and made my way to a room on the ground floor.

It was, indeed, unchanged enough for my purposes. The clock—still now, unwound—in the corner and the tall cabinet with glass doors were still the most striking pieces in the simple room, but it was the daybed to which my eyes wandered with true relief.

It was probable that upstairs I might have cleaned myself, washing away the lengthy journey before sleep, but instead I went to the hearth, lit the waiting tinder, and barely took the time to change into a sleeping shirt before I fell into the little bed, pulling the blankets up around me, and resting my head with a sigh equal parts relief and worry.

There was much going on in my head, more in my heart, and still more in my soul, but a good soldier learns young how to sleep no matter the noise, whether internal or external.

I closed my eyes, the last sight of the evening a cabinet and a clock by firelight, and the last thought uneasily of both.

*

I woke to the sound of a cry, of a voice unfamiliar. Bolting upright in my bed, the shadows of night all around me, I peered into the darkness and waited.

A bad dream? Damn godfather’s story, I thought, he has put such awful ideas in my head.

Another cry. And another. Different voices. And… a whinny?

I crept out of my bed, a skill I’d had long practice with when waking in the night in need of something sweet, and crept out of my bedroom.

The sounds came from below. And they were, if anything, growing louder not quieter. Did the others not hear? I eyed the doors to their rooms, wondering if at any moment Luise or Marie or mother or father would come into the hall and demand to know what was making a din, but…

Nothing.

I crept down the great staircase, skipping the spots that squeaked or groaned, though it seemed to me if those above slept through what was growing all the noisier below, they’d not hear a misstep.

In truth, it was frightening, but I kept thinking of what Marie had said about my hussars, and as such, bravery was at the forefront of my mind.

The noise, once traced to its source, was at once both clear and impossible.

A battle was being fought in our home. My soldiers and cannons and—yes, the hussars—were leaping from the cabinet now, despite being inanimate, simple things. And leading the fray, holding a colonel’s sabre in the air was the Nutcracker.

Across the room, tiny lights glittered in the darkness, and it took me a fair few seconds to understand I saw eyes.

So many eyes.

I took a step forward, unsure, and caught sight of my retired colonel in the cabinet, watching from his shelf. He reached out a hand to me, a hand that should not have moved, let alone on its own, and I took it.

My world shifted, a sensation of falling, almost, but not quite that. It was sudden, and so near to immediate I scarcely had time to cry out.

But after, I wore the colonel’s uniform, and he was nowhere in sight, and I looked down and saw a battle where soldiers were outnumbered by those glittering eyes, and despite that, the Nutcracker held his blade high, and cried out.

“For Marie!” he said. “For her sacrifice!”

And so, I ran into battle beside him.

*

Setting the manor to rights filled days, and Luise was invaluable. Sheets were removed from the furniture that remained, curtains opened, and what few updated amenities my father had allowed were put to rights and, with my blessing, plans were made for further changes as well. I visited the graves of my parents to pay respects, found an institution in need of a tried surgeon, and tried to adjust to the thought of a life outside the military.

“Dear Fritz,” Luise said, touching my arm. “You do hold yourself so tight.”

I tried to relax my posture, but it only made her laugh, bringing colour to her cheeks.

“Never mind,” she said. “Never mind.” She invited me to eat with her husband and family that evening, and it was a good evening. When I came back to my own home—for another habit I intended was to think of the manor as such—it felt all the emptier, and once again I retired to the smaller room.

The clock ticked now, and the announcement of the hour was a comfort of noise, if not melody. I opened the tall glass cabinet and pulled free a particular clockwork castle, winding it and watching as the figures moved about their slotted paths, endlessly performing their routines, the clicking of the clockwork piece almost a kind of heartbeat.

I smiled now, as I hadn’t much smiled then. It was a clever piece of work, from a clever godfather’s hands. With perspective, I saw now the effort and care and intellect required to make such a beautiful thing, where in my youth I saw only repetition and a lack of whimsy.

I sipped a brandy, stoked the fire, and my eyes traveled the rest of the cabinet. A few hussars remained, though most of the other pieces had been long passed on to Luise or Marie’s children. Tucked in a far corner, a colonel stood.

“Retired, with full honour,” I said to the small soldier. “And pension. I thank you for your duty.”

My hand shook with the next sip.

The colonel did not wear his sabre.

*

Mice.

We fought mice, which would seem so simple, so unthreatening, but was neither. Their teeth flashed so quickly, and they leapt to deadly effect. The hussars struggled to outmanoeuvre them, and failed so quickly my own heart leapt into my throat as they were to a man surrounded with speed.

I had the benefit of my own agility, and though distorted, a notion of the layout of the battlefield such as it was. Beneath footstools and between the legs of the cabinet and the shadow of the clock I wove my way through the battle, trying to reach the Nutcracker, though I scarce knew what I would accomplish once I arrived.

The cries of the soldiers were terrifying. The Nutcracker could only repeat his weak call to action again and again, but a reason to fight was not enough.

“Form a rank!” I found myself crying, giving away my position in the shadow by standing upright in what little light there was. I pointed. “You are better than this! Have you learned nothing from our drills?”

My soldiers started, twisting free from sharp teeth and furry bodies, and over time, with much effort and fear plain in their painted and molded eyes, did as I said.

Soon, we had a simple, basic line.

“Advance!” I cried.

All too soon it became clear to the mice this new influence on their foes must be me, and I was soon dodging attacks of my own.

Those teeth. I was not made of tin, I was not carved of wood. One good bite could end me here on the floor of this little room…

They leapt for me, and I tumbled as best I could away from their reach. It was harder and harder to keep the battle clear, to remember the layout of the land, to keep sight of the goal—or, since I’d joined this sortie so late, my assumed goal of the far end from whence the mice came—and hold the ranks of soldiers to tenuously formed.

I was so very afraid.

“Hussars!” I pointed, and they sprang to action.

“Cannons!” I pointed, and instead of the “pop!” I knew, there were deep, chest-shaking booms.

Mice screamed. They were enemies, yes, and they wanted me dead, but oh… Oh how they screamed.

*

Marie asked me to dinner next. We hugged carefully—each convinced the other more fragile than we were—and broke apart to smiles just shy of laughter. It was good to see her. Her husband had worked with my father, and had inherited his practice, and was quick to offer me a position if I so wanted one, but I assured him I had plans to teach, and would be doing so come the spring.

As though conjured by our amiability, my leg set forth to ache in such a manner that no amount of my best training could hide, and so it was Marie tasked her husband to take me home early.

“I’m fine,” I demurred.

“You are not, and so I dismiss you,” Marie said, imperious, and in that moment, we shared a glance of knowing.

I maintained my pride well enough to thank them both and cane in hand accepted the offer. I would need to arrange my own transport, but as yet it was another thing on a long list growing ever longer each day.

Dismissed.

“She orders you around like a princess holding court,” my brother-in-law said, though only once we were alone together in the carriage.

“More of a queen, I would say.”

He laughed, and I joined him.

I imagined he didn’t know.

*

And then I was beside him. The Nutcracker, tall and strangely built, with his short white beard and large eyes and a colonel’s sabre in his hand, now wet with mouse blood.

“You are with me?” he said, sparing a glance.

His voice seemed to reach inside me, to find something there and hold it tight.

“I am with you,” I said. I wished I had a sabre of my own. Then, over my shoulder, “Grant cover! Sortie! You, to the right!”

The final stretch was a fury of screams on all sides, mice, teeth, sabre, cannon… We ran, and dodged, and slipped, and more than once fell and rose with the aid of the other. I had never been more afraid in my life, but I learned that fear and bravery were companions, and how the fellowship of someone else tipped the scales to bravery’s side every time.

Our goal should not have surprised me, and yet, when I saw the foul creature rise, I was struck dumb at the sight of him.

Seven faces loomed above us, each one bearing a crown, each one with sharp teeth and glittering eyes.

“I won’t let him terrorize her again,” Nutcracker said.

“Agreed,” I said, the only word I could force past lips otherwise failing at the sight of the beastly king.

“You are with me?” he said again.

“I am with you,” I said again.

And we charged.

When it was done, and seven crowns lay at our feet, and the remaining mice were scattering back to their holes, and the colonel’s sabre was finally still inside the beast that lay at our feet, I stood shaking from effort and the echo of fear.

Strong arms wrapped around me, holding me tight.

“Dear Fritz, you were with me, and you gave me that blade, and now, now I am as a free as I dare hope to be.”

If he saw I was crying, he didn’t mention it. Soldiers aren’t supposed to cry, I thought, but I was a boy, too. And I was being held, and it had been so very long since I’d been held like this.

“Are you really his nephew?” I said, once my voice returned. My godfather’s terrible story had lived up to its horror in so many other ways, it now seemed simple enough to believe. As Marie always had.

“Here, I am this,” the Nutcracker said. It wasn’t quite an answer.

“You are brave,” I said. “And if it were up to me…”

He waited, watching.

“You are so brave,” I repeated. “And I am lucky to have fought with you.”

The Nutcracker held me again, and this time, I was not the only one with tears in his eyes.

He held my hand while we walked back across the battlefield, and the hussars and soldiers and cannons bowed as we passed, then followed. They formed their rows and ranks back on the shelf, and I watched each pass by, commending their courage in turn.

Finally, the Nutcracker and I were the only ones left.

“You are quite fine, Nutcracker,” I said. “You are quite fine as you are.”

His short white beard tickled my ear as he leaned in.

“Those are good words to remember.”

After that, I swooned, falling and rising both, and come morning, I had no idea how I was restored to my bed, but I had aches, and bruises, and was much fatigued, as though from battle itself.

*

Even in a city this large, there is only so much time one hope to have without certain company. There is solitude to be had, of course, but more it is of a specific company to which I speak. In my case—and how suitable—it was on Christmas Eve my path crossed with my godfather’s nephew.

Walking home from Luise’s house to my own, my attention had been on my cane and my gait, and of the pleasure of waking up tomorrow morning to my own small tree and the few small things beneath it gifted me by what remained of my family. I was not unhappy, I had realized with a start, pausing to look up at the sky and watch snow falling around me.

I am not unhappy, I thought again.

I lowered my head, and there he was. He looked smart in his jacket and coat and scarf, and his eyes—those cunning green eyes—knocked my attention from my step so completely I nearly fell.

He caught me with some effort, and I remained upright as much by luck as by the strength in his arms. He had always been slighter of build than I was, and the years had not broadened him much beyond his youthful frame. The beard though, was new, and it suited him.

“Fritz,” he said, and then what had been a lunge to keep me upright changed into a tight embrace. “Fritz,” he said again.

For half a breath, I returned the embrace, then managed a half-step retreat.

His gaze wandered over me, cataloging me with his quick intellect and leaving me feeling bare and broken before him.

I was neither, I reminded myself. I was neither.

“Theodor,” I said, and it was not without warmth.

“You’re back,” he said.

*

The mockery and disdain of the adults only paused when Marie returned to the room with the seven tiny crowns on her open palm.

“See?” She said. “My valiant Nutcracker defeated the Mouse King, and here are his seven crowns!”

My breath caught in my throat, and I had to clutch the wall not to swoon, but no one noticed. All eyes were on Marie, and the tiny crowns in her hand.

“Where did you get these?” my father asked, his voice quite cross.

“But I’ve told you!”

My mother picked one up and eyed it carefully. “It’s so finely made…”

“Watch chain,” our godfather spoke suddenly. “From my watch chain. Do you not remember me gifting it to the children?” He spins a story of a gift from years ago, and once again tells Marie not to be so childish.

I open my mouth. I want to yell. You never gifted us these crowns! I will say. Marie is right! But instead, I close my mouth again. My mother, and father, and godfather all took to Marie now, telling her to be an adult, to not be so fanciful, to admit it was a dream.

She catches my eye then, and I think she sees. She knows.

I shake my head, and I think I see something break between us, but I don’t know another way. I don’t think we can win this battle.

I’m not sure any child ever has.

It is another afternoon, only weeks later, that we sit together in the room as a family, and almost out of nowhere, Marie declares that were she royalty, she would never reject someone brave and true just because of how they looked.

I’m not sure either of my parents realize quite what she was saying, but no sooner has she declared it than there is a both a crash, and a knock at the door.

The crash is from inside the cabinet, where a shelf has inexplicably given way, and scattered most of the soldiers and dolls. Marie and I set them to rights while my parents answer the door.

“He’s gone,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

I look, for there’s only one toy she could mean. And she’s right. There is no sign of our—no, her—Nutcracker.

I look at my colonel.

His sabre is gone, too.

“Children,” my father’s voice is, as always, a command. “Godfather Drosselmeier’s nephew has come to the city. Come say hello.”

We both recognize him, of course, though he is much changed and so handsome. He grins at Marie, and they hug as though they’ve known each other for years and are close as family, much to my father’s surprise and consternation. My mother jokes they hug like betrothed—and the adults laugh at the notion of children so young marrying.

All I can do is be polite, to offer and shake a hand now trembling.

“Fritz Stahlbaum,” I say, and to my credit, my voice doesn’t shake as my hand did.

“Theodor Drosselmeier,” he says.

*

In the room, Theodor smiles first at the clock, and then at the cabinet. I hand him a glass, and we toast the season, then fall silent into an awkwardness that feels as much shame as habit.

“I’m sorry—” I say, just as Theodor says, “I wish—”

We regard each other, grown men amused by our mutual cowardice. “Please,” I say. “Let me.”

He looks as if to argue for a brief moment, then nods.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “For how I left. For how I… refused.” It’s not quite the right word, but it’s the best I have. “I didn’t dare. I wasn’t brave enough, I think. I couldn’t have done what she did. I couldn’t have had, and not had.” I look at him, and every part of me wishes I could gather him into my arms again and let him know with touch, instead of useless, weak words.

“I still have the sword,” he says.

“I’m glad.”

We sit, and after a sip, he pauses. “I can fashion a brace, if you’d let me. I’d like to.”

“The watchmaker’s nephew is as clever as he was, then?” I say, because I can’t quite bring myself to accept plainly.

He smiles. “I’m told. Out here, I do well enough.”

Out here.

“So you still..?” I say. It’s as much as I dare. My chest tightens.

He nods, and I wonder what he was going to say originally. “I wish—” what, exactly?

“And Marie?”

“Queen Marie comes and goes as she pleases.” His smile is a genuine one. “And she brings her children, too. They were delighted.”

I can well imagine.

Finally, I can hold my tongue no more. “What do you wish?”

Theodor turns his handsome face to me. “That I’d shown you then. That you knew it could be more than battles. That you would let me show you now.”

*

“But we can go there whenever we want, Fritz! Theodor said he will take us.” Marie’s delight is clear. “When he comes back. He promised to come back. I’ll be a queen there.”

It stings. If she is queen, then what could I be to Theodor? It’s unfair. It’s all so unfair. Every moment we spent together in that little room is a kind of torture.

“You have to let this silly fantasy go,” I say, though I’m not speaking to her. Not really. I hug myself and squeeze, though those aren’t the arms I’m thinking of.

“I know you’re his friend,” she says. “I know it.”

“It’s dreams and childish and father says—”

“You know it isn’t. You know.” Her tears are no easier to ignore this time than before, but I can still hear my father and my mother and my godfather. They will throw her toys from the windows if she keeps this up. If I join in, it will only make things worse.

And if the toy is thrown, what would become of the boy? Because after Theodor left, there it was: the Nutcracker on the shelf again.

I can’t allow that. I will be brave. If the only way for him to be okay is to turn my back, then isn’t that my duty? A soldier protects. A soldier is brave.

“It’s just a dream, silly goose,” I say, meeting her gaze and speaking so carefully, hoping she will hear what I daren’t say. I can’t have this. I can’t. But you can, if you’re careful.

Marie’s eyes spill over, but she nods.

We don’t speak of it again, and when Theodor returns to the city, sometimes I see them sneak into the small room with the cabinet late at night. I count to ten before I follow, finding only an empty room.

Marie is always back in the morning, and night by night, she becomes more. Calmer. Assured.

Regal.

I don’t dare speak to Theodor, and I don’t chance being alone with him. Our parents joke that perhaps one day he and Marie will marry, given how sweet they are together, and I have to smile along with them.

After a few visits, Theodor realizes I am avoiding him, and though I sometimes catch him looking, he defers. I tell myself it is best that Marie have something special for herself, that I will have great things of my own as an officer someday, but for her, with her whimsy and imagination and great heart, life will never offer anything like this.

I tell myself it’s not that I’m afraid.

When it’s time to be sent away to school, it is a relief that aches like shame, but it is a relief nonetheless.

And after school comes war.

I do my duty, take my place, until…

The wounded are not expected to take their places in the ranks.

*

We go as far as the castle, and up a tower so I can see out over a land of spun sugar and deep brown ginger and powdered snow. There are dancers and swans and this world is full of bright, warm things. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I fear my cane will crack the floor with every step, but it doesn’t.

We are welcomed by faces both familiar and unknown—some ageless, faces I remember seeing as a boy on the battlefield—some I did not meet in that terrifying night, but who have heard of me.

He has told them of me.

Theodor holds my hand while I look out over this whole other world.

There have been moments like this, I think. Snatched seconds between battles. Kindnesses, touches, but always with the understanding of their nature always being so: found, impermanent moments. But here—Inside? Elsewhere? Wherever we are?—time, I think, will allow us much more than a moment.

“It’s wonderful,” I say, though I’m looking right at him.

“I still have five more crowns,” Theodor says.

I glance away, remembering the seven crowns he’d taken from the mouse king’s lifeless body. One he wears now, himself. One, I assume, is on my sweet Marie’s head whenever she is here. Theodor has pointed to her kingdom, barely visible on the horizon.

I wonder if we will visit her there.

“I’m no prince,” I say, knowing what he’s offering, feeling it in the way his hand squeezes. “But I am with you.”

“That settles it,” He says, and kisses me. “My soldier king.”

Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks — Now Available Everywhere!

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Cover by Inkspiral Design.

Today is the day.

I’m just going to count to five or something. Maybe ten. Okay, probably fifteen at the very least.

Today is the official release day for the queer YA novel I wrote over the last mumble-mumble years. As of today? You should see it available everywhere. As always, if you can, I’d love to see you hit your local indie (if you’re in the US, Indiebound.org is a great resource), and if you’re a reader of e-books, the publisher webstore sells all the e-formats. But the most important thing? It’s available. Everywhere. Today.

(It’s possible I’m freaking out a little bit.)

Quite a few years ago, I was at the Bold Strokes Books publishing retreat in Easton Mountain, and there was a pitch contest. We had time to put together a blurb/pitch for a book, and there was a prize. Nell Stark and Jennifer Lavoie (both wonderful authors you should totally check out) nudged me to try writing a blurb for the contest, so I did. I scribbled something that was pretty close to what became the actual blurb for Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks, and made my pitch—complete with the title, which never happens for me!—and to my surprise, I won. It was a blast, it was fun, and I’d never tried to blurb a YA before, so it was also one hell of a challenge. I read YA, I love YA, but beyond one short story in an anthology (Boys of Summer), I’ve not written YA.

So. What was the prize-winning blurb? This:

Being the kid abducted by old Ms. Easton when he was four permanently set Cole’s status to freak. At seventeen, his exit plan is simple: make it through the last few weeks of high school with his grades up and his head down.

When he pushes through the front door of the school and finds himself eighty kilometers away holding the door of a museum he was just thinking about, Cole faces facts: he’s either more deluded than old Ms. Easton, or he just teleported.

Now every door is an accident waiting to happen—especially when Cole thinks about Malik, who, it turns out, has a glass door on his shower. When he starts seeing the same creepy people over his shoulder, no matter how far he’s gone, crushes become the least of his worries. They want him to stop, and they’ll go to any length to make it happen.

Cole is running out of luck, excuses, and places to hide.

Time for a new exit plan.

Then one of the judges stopped by to ask me when I wanted to work on it.

Obviously, it took a few years. For one, I was nervous about writing a queer YA when my own queer youth was so removed from the experiences of queer youth today. For another, I wanted to release a collection of short fiction and I was already working on a novella and a novel, so it would have to be in the future.

The idea, though, took hold. And I reached out to some queer youth organizations and started up a dialog and learned that things are, indeed, very different from when I was their age—but also things are still the same in many ways.

And so, Cole (named for the bookstore where I worked for a couple of decades) was born.

It took a tonne of people to get Exit Plans to today. Those queerlings, for one. My ASL and interpreter buddies (and most especially one in particular, which is where Cole’s family surname, Tozer, comes from) to try my damnedest to make sure Cole’s father, who is Deaf and has a team interpretation business is as well represented as I could manage. My teacher friends, who interact with youth on a daily basis. An amazing cover artist (you should check out Inkspiral, truly). And of course my editors—especially the wonderful Jerry L. Wheeler, who, if you need an editor, you should also check out). Typesetters, line editors, proofreaders, ARC readers… The list is very large.

My gratefulness is larger.

I hope you enjoy Cole and Alec and Nat and Lindsey and Rhonda and Grayson and Malik and their parents and friends and even the creepy freaks. If Cole himself were writing this, he’d have planned a better, more cohesive statement than that, but there you go. We can’t all be hyper-organized queer teens with teleportation problems.

More’s the pity.

 

December Flash Fiction Draw Roundup

And here we are! At the end of a year-long experiment in flash fiction writing, stretching writerly brain muscles and trying new genres completely at random. On the off chance this is the first month you’ve been visiting here, and if you’ve not read a roundup post before, the Flash Fiction Draw is a randomized card-draw I’ve been doing since January, once a month, that spits out a genre, an object, and a location, after which writers have a week to come up with up to 1,000 words that fit the criteria.

These were the cards drawn for the final draw (and what they meant):

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With “Comedy,” “A Broom,” and “A Field of Poppies,” what did the authors come up with?

Here they are, alphabetically by contributor:

Jeff Baker wrote “The Deadly Poppy Field.”

‘Nathan Burgoine (that’s me) wrote “The Pevensie Academy Boys.”

Cait Gordon wrote “Broom Chicka-Wow-Wow.”

E.H. Timms wrote “A Clean Sweep.”

Did I miss your entry? Let me know and I’ll add you to the list!

And that’s it! If you wanted to see all the other round-ups, here they are:

The roundup for January (which was “A Fairy Tale,” “A Tattoo Machine,” and “A Prison”) is here.
The roundup for February (which was “A Crime Caper,” “A Compass,” and “A Soup Kitchen”) is here.
The roundup for March (which was “A Romance,” “A VHS Cassette,” and “A Firewatch Tower”) is here.
The roundup for April (which was “Historical Fiction,” “Rat Poison,” and “A Dirt Road”) is here.
The roundup for May (which was “Science Fiction,” “A Dog Whistle,” and “Above the Clouds”) is here.
The roundup for June (which was “Fantasy,” “Hot Chocolate,” and “A Junkyard or Scrapyard”) is here.
The roundup for July (which was “Mystery,” “Typewriter” and “A Dam”) is here.
The roundup for August (which was “Ghost Story,” “An Earring,” and “A Tobacco Shop”) is here.
The roundup for September (which was “Thriller,” “A Bag of Money” and “A Border Crossing”) is here.
The roundup for October (which was “Horror,” “A Blood Drive,” and “Frog”) is here.
The roundup for November (which was “Action/Adventure,” “A Bridge,” and “Sandbag”) is here.

I want to say a very special “thank you!” to everyone who took part in this challenge. It was fun. I loved reading your stories and it was a very welcome reminder of just how—even with the same prompts and constraints—authors go in such different directions with so many different voices. So, truly, thank you.

The Pevensie Academy Boys — A Flash Fiction Draw Challenge

Here’s my entry for the final Flash Fiction Draw Challenge (the post for the original December draw is here). In case you didn’t know about this challenge, there’s a video here explaining (and showing the monthly draw), but the quick version is this: I use three suits from a deck of cards to randomly put together a genre (in this case: comedy), a location (in this case: a field of poppies) and an object (in this case: a broom) and challenge anyone who wants to play to write something over the next week, with a maximum of 1,000 words.

Once there was “field of poppies” and “broom” I could only think of one thing, but it reminded me of an idea I’d had for a YA novel a while back, about the grandkids of some pretty amazing young adult characters, and so I ran with it.

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The Pevensie Academy Boys

Once the wind died down, and the woodshed stopped spinning and lurching, they let go of each other and rose shakily to their feet.

“You okay?” Leo said. His voice wobbled, and he could hear his gramma’s voice. You’re named for the bravest person I know. He cleared his throat “Henry?”

That was better.

“Yeah.” Henry sucked in a breath. “Was that a tornado?”

Leo hoped not. He’d had enough of those back home. He stroked the patch on the pocket of his suit jacket. The crest of the Pevensie Academy had always felt like good luck.

What else could you call inviting a sixteen-year-old American to upper-class British boarding school, all-expenses-paid?

“We should go back,” Henry said.

Leo looked at him, and Henry was grinning.

“What?”

“That was some kiss, Kansas.”

“Yeah, well…” He blushed. Sneaking off to “snog” (as Henry had put it) had been kind of amazing. Until the weather had turned. Who knew England had storms like back home?

Leo made a grand gesture at the door. Henry laughed, and passed by him, opening the door and stepping outside, but stopping so abruptly that Leo walked into him.

“Hey, what—” Leo started, but stopped. The ‘what’ was pretty apparent.

The shed was in the middle of a sloping valley of poppies. They were beautiful, waving in a soft breeze. There was no sign of the large stone boarding school.

Leo stared. The sky was an intense shade of blue, brighter than any sky he’d ever seen. Despite himself, he sucked in a breath at the beauty.

Then reality hit.

“Uh,” Leo said. “Where are we?”

Henry turned. “It wasn’t me.”

“What?” Leo said, frowning.

“I don’t work this way. This is all you, Kansas.”

Leo blinked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Henry frowned. “Wait. You don’t know? You’re a legacy.”

“So everyone keeps saying,” Leo said, eyeing the poppies. Was it just him, or where they all leaning towards them. He yawned, surprised he felt drowsy in the middle of what was, undoubtedly, a massive hallucination.

“Oh my god,” Henry said. “Leo Gale, do you seriously have no idea? I can’t believe I let you kiss me.”

“Hey,” Leo said, stung. “You kissed me.”

Henry considered. “Fine. I kissed you. But…” He blinked, then yawned. “Pardon me. We need to go home.”

“Still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right.” He smiled. “You know, you’re cute when you’re baffled. You’re normally all rough and American.”

“I’m starting to regret letting you kiss me,” Leo said, but he winked.

“Fine. So. Someone in your family can—or could—break barriers between worlds. You—a legacy—are at the Academy because there’s a chance you can, too. I mean, obviously.” Henry waved his hands. “Apparently you do it by tornado, which… Wow.”

“Gramma Dorothy,” Leo said. “Oh my God.” Stories she’d told him as a child suddenly burst to the forefront of his brain, and he looked down. The field of poppies.

Poppies!

He yawned again, shaking his head. “We need to get away from here. They’ll knock us out.”

“What?”

Leo took Henry’s hand, and pulled him to the top of the hill. He saw a long, winding road just down the other side of the slope, skirting a forest.

“Come on,” he said.

“Can’t we take the shed back?” Henry yawned. “Oh man, sorry.”

“I don’t know how,” Leo said. “And—” He yawned. “—if we stay put we’re going to pass out.”

“I wouldn’t mind a snuggle,” Henry’s drowsy voice teased.

Instead, Leo pulled him.

They made it to the road just in time, barely upright. But once they stepped out of the field, the first breeze cleared their heads.

“Woah,” Henry said. “That’s better.” He looked down. “Are these bricks gold? Is this a gold road?” He knelt down. “Your world rocks, Kansas. Can we take a brick?”

Leo stared at him. “Could we maybe focus?”

Henry looked up. “Oh. Sorry.” He rose. “But, y’know, we could.”

“I’m not vandalizing the gold road.” He crossed his arms.

“Fine,” Henry said. “Make with the wind.”

“Make with the wind?” Leo blinked.

“That’s your thing, isn’t it?”

“My thing?”

“You keep repeating what I’m saying. Are you still, y’know, all poppy-headed, or whatever?”

“Poppy-headed?”

Henry took Leo by the shoulders. “I want you to make another tornado to take us home.”

Leo took Henry’s shoulders in return. “I have no idea how to do that.”

They stared at each other.

“Well shit,” Henry said.

“That’s about the sum of it.”

“Didn’t Headmistress Pensevie explain anything to you?”

“We have an appointment tomorrow morning.”

“Ah.” Henry winced. “So, this is sort of like premature—”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

“—teleportation.”

They stared at each other. Henry grinned.

“You’re kind of random, Henry Liddell,” Leo said.

“Runs in my family. So, if you’re not getting us home, then I guess it’s up to me. We’ll need a looking glass.”

“What?”

“A big mirror.”

Leo gestured to either side. “How about a field of narcotic poppies, a forest, and a road?”

Henry started to nod, then stopped, his eyes resting on something over Leo’s shoulder. “Or we could ask that person.”

“What?” Leo said, turning.

It took him a second, but there was something in the sky. It took a while, but it got closer and closer, and after a few minutes, Leo realized he was looking at…

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said.

“Hey,” Henry said. “It’s your world.”

The witch—did you call boys witches?—swooped down, landing lightly on the gold bricks and dismounting his broom in one easy lope. The black shirt was tight across his shoulders, and riding pants left little to the imagination. He also had dark green hair, which was certainly a look.

He leaned on his broom, and smiled at Henry in a way that made Leo feel just a bit protective and possessive.

“Let me guess,” the witch said. “Kansas?”

 

Friday Flash Fics—No Chimney Required

Today’s Friday Flash Fics photo is totally a cheat. Whenever I do little promo graphic images for Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks for things like one-line-Wednesday, I use a particular picture from Pixabay that I like as somewhat Cole-ish (or, in my head, what Cole will look like when he’s a bit older). I chose it as last week’s image because it’s December and things are keying up and as of right now Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks is available from the Bold Strokes Books Webstore, and next week it’ll go live everywhere else.

Also? I wanted to write a little Cole scene again, and it’s Christmas, so why not?

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No Chimney Required

This was a terrible plan, and I was having the time of my life.

I didn’t have a red suit—that seemed like maybe going a bit too far—but I did have a black bag. It was a messenger bag, but whatever. I wasn’t trying to get to every child in the world or anything. It wasn’t like I needed a sack.

I’d started with Alec, tucking a copy of Love, Simon under his family Christmas tree. His cat hadn’t so much as meowed, though she did purr when I stopped to stroke her chin. That first stop had been the most nerve-wracking, and the moment I’d stepped through my bedroom door and teleported my way to Alec’s living room, my heart had started hammering in my chest like it was going to pop right out.

But everyone was in bed.

This was totally going to work.

Poof.

From Alec’s, I went to Lindsey’s. The Settlers of Catan six-player expansion was easily slipped under the tree. They had a theme tree, I noticed, and it struck me how much I preferred the one Alec and his dad put up every year: a sort of mish-mash of bits and bobs I imagine they’d had for years. They still had stuff Alec had made in kindergarten.

Lindsey’s parents had a theme tree. This year it was all gold and white, and it just sort of looked sterile to me. Like, Christmas the way you see it in a magazine. Then again, Lindsey’s mom was a doctor. Maybe sterile was a way of life.

Poof.

Rhonda’s family front room was lit only by the streetlights outside. I put the gelt down by the menorah just in time for her dog, Cookie, to come around the corner and stare at me. Cookie was roughly eleventy-million years old, and I loved her, and luckily the feeling was mutual, but she did give a single startled woof to see me. I froze, listening, but no one reacted, and by the time I was scratching Cookie’s head and she threw herself down on her back and rolled over, I was smiling again.

The plan hadn’t included noises from dogs, but look at me, I handled it like a spontaneous genius-type person.

Poof.

The earring I’d found in Lexa’s gallery—it was a tiny screw—I left under the tree at Grayson’s. There weren’t many gifts there under the tree, and I couldn’t help but notice how many more of them were for his sister. She was younger, sure, but…

I blew out a breath. Maybe next year Grayson could be somewhere else for the holidays. Maybe that needed to be a plan. I hadn’t really reached out much to Grayson in the last few months or so. Between working at the Deaf Camp over summer, my art classes, helping my dad, and training time with Lexa, I was constantly supposed to be somewhere. It hadn’t led to kept promises about keeping in touch.

Definitely needed to find more time for Grayson.

“Sorry,” I said to the room.

The fun had maybe faded a bit. But I was sure Grayson would love the little screw, and it made me feel a bit better knowing it was under the tree for him to find.

Poof.

Once Nat’s bow-tie was safely nudged under her family tree (I was especially proud of this gift, as the bow-tie glowed in the dark) I took a deep breath, bit my lip, and stepped through Nat’s kitchen entrance.

Poof.

The King family tree was pretty darn impressive. For one, it was freaking huge and a live tree. For another, I was pretty sure every single ornament on there was handmade, or at the very least, wasn’t mass-produced. Quite a few of them had little picture-frames built in, and it’s possible I spent a few moments looking at pictures of Malik sitting on Santa’s lap.

I was so unsure about this gift, but I slid it under the tree, and then straightened.

Okay. That was it. Mission accomplished. I could go home, and wait for the surprised texts from everyone in the morning.

I stood there.

Yep. Done now. All the boxes were checked off.

I bit my lip.

I looked up.

I could totally poof directly from here to Malik’s room.

I shook my head. There was spontaneous, and there was “pretending to be spontaneous when really you’re just keen on your super-hot boyfriend who sleeps in boxers and you really enjoy the view and the kissing and the touching.”

Besides, we had a date tomorrow. Or today, what with it being after midnight.

I poofed my way back to my bedroom, changed into my pajama bottoms, and climbed into bed, inordinately proud of myself.

Over breakfast, which I swear my dad made take forever because he knew both me and my mom wanted to open the damn presents already, my phone began to buzz.

Grayson: Are you trying to tell me I’ve got a loose screw?

Lindsey: Thank you, “Santa”! When did you even drop this off?

We finished breakfast, and moved into the living room. I’d just opened up my first gift when my phone buzzed again.

Rhonda: Lindsey told me you got her a present. That was really sweet. Also, it seems I have extra chocolate. Thank you.

My dad nudged my shoulder. Waiting for something? He nodded at my phone, his eyebrows rising in that dad-way.

I tried to wave it off, but he just grinned. Presents first, then Malik.

I’m sure I turned beet red.

By the time we’d opened the last gifts, two more texts had come in.

Alec: Movie night this weekend? I have just the thing.

Nat: It’s lovely. Thank you. Where did you find it?

I modeled the clothes my mother got me—a Christmas Tozer tradition—and then helped clean up the shredded paper and bows. I also had a big box of fudge that was calling my name, but I wasn’t going to give in until after lunch. Or at least until after ten.

Okay, maybe after nine.

What? Teleporting burns a lot of calories.

Finally, my phone buzzed once more, and I didn’t even pretend not to be eager to check it.

Santa brought me a really nice journal and a pen. And he even filled in the first page for me.

Did he? I sent. That was nice of him.

Yeah. Apparently I need to make a list of the top five places I’d like to go on a date.

Huh. That Santa. He’s all about lists. I bit my lip. Do they all have to be nice, or can they be naughty? I hit send before I could stop myself.

The little grey dots seemed to take forever.

We can decide that when I see you later. When are you coming over?

“Hey mom,” I said, looking up, only to see both she and my father staring at me and grinning in that decidedly parent way.

“As long as you’re back for dinner,” she said.

Tell Malik Merry Christmas, my father signed.

I didn’t even blush. I put on my winter coat and my boots—not that I’d need them—and typed away on my phone.

See you in five, four, three, two…

Poof.

 

 

Holiday Reading (and Re-Reading), Part Three

Before I forget, a gentle reminder that my interview on WROTE Podcast is still up, so if you’re wondering about what it was like to write Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks, a queer YA, given I’m mumble-mumble years old, or how I tried to tackle the “But I don’t like short stories!” crowd with my first collection, Of Echoes Born, or you want to talk poutine? Check it out.

Also? Matt Bright’s lovely anthology, A Few More Winter Tales, which includes my queer re-telling of The Snow Queen, is out and free right now. So you should check that out, too.

Man, there’s all sorts of stuff going on, no? It’s a good thing my day started early.  I learned this morning that without the 6:00am alarm my husband sets for work, Max will let me sleep in until 5:45am. So that’s something. It’s snowing again, little accumulations that dust down from the sky, and on our walk this morning, as we passed under the new super-duper streetlights, Max started darting and dodging at the ground. It took me a second to realize he was chasing the shadows of snowflakes.

It’s possible our dog is not the brightest, but he sure is adorable.

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Speaking of adorable? Merry Christmas Mr. Miggles, by Eli Easton. I listened to this holiday novella on audio last year. The reader, Tristan Wright, performed a range of voices, and the pacing was spot-on. So far, my luck with Eli Easton audiobooks continues to shine.

Plot-wise, this holiday story ticks off a few boxes: small town holiday, the man trying to make good something from his past, books (it takes place mostly in a library), dating-the-boss, and a slow-to-kindle awareness of a budding romance. That the Mr. Miggles in question is older than Toby, our narrator, gets brought up quite a bit, but it’s only a decade, and we’re talking thirty-something with a twenty-something, so I can’t quite bring myself to call this a May-December. May-June? Whatever.

Toby’s voice is fun, light, and amusing, and also so easy to identify with, as a lit geek myself. His comparisons of his life and those around him to famous works of literature was a cute touch. Toby has a boyfriend (and is slow to realize he’s got a crappy boyfriend), a great boss (Mr. Miggles), and a strong family. Coming back to his small-town of origin was a wise move for him, and his job at the Library is perfect.

Until it’s isn’t. Things take a dark turn in this story when Mr. Miggles is accused of a crime, and the bulk of the story is Toby juggling his absolute certainty that Mr. Miggles has done no such thing, and trying to save (in no particular order) the library, Mr. Miggles’s career, both their jobs, and the potential of love between them. And maybe Christmas.

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Golems and Hanukkah? Yes please. Elliot Cooper wrote such a lovely little holiday novella on so many fronts, and I snuggled right into it. Dave was so easy to identify with: he’s a gaming nerd, so done with holiday consumerism, and frustrated at feeling the guilt of not being able to be “on par” with the gift-giving going on around him. He’s also just awkward enough to get in his own way, and overthinking himself out of confidence. In short, he’s adorable.

The dash of holiday magic here is in a Golem, yes, but also in the blending of family, friendship, compassion and the shared desire to give, but not in the consumerism way. That it also involved some Dungeons & Dragons, latkes and a little bit of golem magic just made it all the more up my alley. Also, the wide range of queer identities included here bears mentioning, including a bi main character, and a trans man supporting character.

Hearts Alight is completely charming.

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Okay, I loved The Werewolf Before Christmas. Charles Payseur hit all the right buttons for me, somewhere in the Venn diagram where campy, queer, supervillainy, magic, hilarity, sweetness, and just enough spice intersect.

It’s not a serious story, but there’s verisimilitude, which is hard enough with any spec fic, but we’re talking a magic and a tech based queer super-villains in love, one of whom watches a soap opera about werewolves—and it totally holds together. I bought in, and loved the ride.

So when a magic-wielding super-villain (whose magic isn’t totally reliable) decides the one grand gesture that will make Christmas work involves kidnapping the star of his super-villain lover’s favourite character from his soap opera of choice? It’s gold. And it’s a holiday story, and romantic, and still freaking adorable.

I’m biased. I love superhero stuff. And there’s so damn little of it (especially queer stuff) so finding this was like reaching into the holiday stocking and finding a chocolate orange where you thought there was just going to be a roll of socks.

Holiday Reading (and Re-Reading), Part Two

My husband had to get up at three in the morning to catch a flight to Miami for work today. Max didn’t take it so well, and ended up keeping me awake ever since, so I’ve been going for roughly four hours now, and it’s going to be a long, long day.

I imagine there’s some holiday re-reading in my immediate future.

Speaking of which…

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This is probably the Christmas story I re-read the most. A Coventry Christmas, while technically not queer in the sense that the main character is Keelie is a straight woman, has one of her best buds, Evan, who is gay and gets a fully formed side-plot complete with a love story. Not only is Keelie a well-written ally, the theme of chosen family pops up quite a bit, too, so as far as I’m concerned, it’s queer enough.

Keelie is a blast. She’s an assistant manager for a grotesque boss at a bookstore, and Christmas is coming, with all the attendant issues thereof (you can tell that Becky Cochrane has book retail history, and the scenes in the book store made me chuckle for their accuracy). She’s tired, cranky, hates Christmas, and just wants… well, something. Anything. Preferably being swept off her feet (and out of the bookstore) by the handsome beefy security fellow who picks up the morning deposit. But, with a broken ankle and time off at Christmas for the first time since her retail career began, Keelie has the chance to walk… well, hobble… into a new sort of Christmas.

With the superb group-of-friends style that I’ve come to know and love from Becky Cochrane and her compatriots in other works, the ensemble cast is just the right mix of people, and the plot kept me laughing, smiling, and interested. Empathizing with Cochrane’s characters isn’t hard – somehow, regardless of how out-there some of the characters might be, you click with them and get pulled in for the ride.

[image error]Speaking of chosen family, Sassafras Lowrey‘s A Little Queermas Carol is adorable. I found this one last year, and I’m going to tuck right back into it during my re-reads this month.

It’s not the kind of thing I expected to say about a Queer Leather Little retelling of A Christmas Carol, but then again, having been lucky enough to meet Sassafras Lowrey a few times at the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival, it’s a combination in retrospect that makes perfect sense. Much like Leather Ever After: An Anthology of Kinky Fairy Tales envisioned familiar fairy tales with a kinky and erotic lens to amazing effect, A Little Queermas Carol takes on a genderqueer Little/Daddy dynamic and brings forth the same result: a great narrative that invites in the very people that the original version of the tale would never have dreamed to even mention, let alone include.

Even better, that spirit of light-hearted joy that so infuses a Little narrative doesn’t shy away from the hurts and pains that many queer Littles have experienced. This isn’t a story of sunshine and rainbows, much like the original Dickens, and is instead a story of someone taking their pain and finding the joys and rainbows where they can—which, as in the real world, is often in the company of others like themselves who can truly empathize.

Stories like A Little Queermas Carol are exactly the kind of narratives we need: stories that remind us we exist, have always existed, and will continue to exist. The spirits of past, present, and future queerness are very much alive in this novella.

[image error]Speaking of titles that give me something I rarely see? Teddy Bears is a great little novella that explores a queer holiday from a bunch of fresh angles:

One: both of the guys involved aren’t in their twenties/early thirties. (I love reading about guys my age or guys older than I am, frankly.)

Two: bears who aren’t just muscle bears! (And one who’s struggling to be cool with his body, which—hey—we’ve all been there, no?)

Three: nerd/geek who isn’t “secretly gorgeous super-lean model type once he gets new clothes and reveals his abs.” (Because no.)

Four: Buffy/Spike/Angel dwarf hamster YouTube stars. (No, like, really.)

Five: a bathhouse setting for a romance? (Yep.)

So, with that in mind, if you’re in the mood for a holiday story that lives up to its description, you’re well advised to nab this one for the next time you want something jolly, sweet, a little bit smexy, and funny to boot. This was a wonderful bit of warmth for a frigid winter day.