'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 75

Holiday Reading (and Re-Reading), Part One

I tend to read most of my holiday-themed reads in November and December. It falls back to my days in retail, where I needed to work hard if I was going to recover any shred of joy to be found in the season (fist bump of solidarity to any of you retail workers out there… just twenty more days!). Add to that the relentless “Blood Family is Everything!” message of the holidays, and really, I was done. I’d come home from work, try not to snarl too much (and likely fail) then have a bath and throw myself into bed to try and recover enough for the next day. Ho-ho-bloody-ho.

But holiday stories (and particularly holiday romances) were a way to get through that. I always start new holiday stories a little wary though. For one, I’m not looking for yet another “Family is Everything!” experience, and if it’s a queer read in particular, that can get all the more tangled with “Kicked out, but with a Blood Family is Everything Reconciliation Chaser!” that makes me want to hurl the book across the room.

And I also find holiday stories don’t often drown in angst, which I definitely don’t want during the holidays. The holidays are hard enough, thanks.

This means I often re-read holiday stories I already know I enjoy—with the added benefit of being less likely to keep me up late at night, too, since I’m not pulled into the ‘just one more chapter so I can see what happens next!’ vibe.

So, over the month, I’m going to post here and there about some of the holiday stories I’ve loved in previous years, ones I re-read, and new ones I’ve stumbled into or been recommended (which I love, by the way, hit me with your fluffy queer book recommendations (with the above caveats: low-angst, no reconciliation if including kicked-out-queers, no “Blood Family is Everything!”)

Here are three such lovely holiday tales, in no order what-so-ever.

[image error]

Season’s Meetings, by Amy Dunne, was a new-to-me book this year. I listened to it on audio. It’s a “forced proximity” holiday romance, and this story matches Katherine (a workaholic who has buried her feelings after a terrible breakup) with Holly (a vibrant, if stubborn, business owner) on a trek up to the middle-of-nowhere Scotland. Instead of their destination, they end up crashing in Holly’s car in the middle-of-even-less-where, and find themselves snowed in at a honeymoon cabin rented in a small town, and joined by a super-cute puppy dog.

Katherine’s history with Christmas is such that she doesn’t really celebrate, whereas Holly brings her vibrant spark to everything, especially ugly holiday sweaters, baked goods, and general Christmas cheer. But as the two feel sparks that aren’t at all due to the ugly wool jumpers, they navigate the reality of their two very different lives, the friends they have in common, and wonder if things are worth the risk.

If you’re feeling a bit grinchy about the holidays, Season’s Meetings is just the audiobook to restore a little bit of faith in the holidays. The performer did a lovely job with range of voice, and accents were spot on, as was the pacing and emotionality.

[image error]

A Family for Christmas by Jay Northcote was a lovely little story I discovered last year, about two men who struggle with connection. Rudy is super-shy, and although he loves his job at Rainbow Futures (a youth-services organization working with LGBTQ youth) and has overcome the shyness with most of his coworkers, the new guy—who is super-hot—leaves him completely locked inside himself.

It doesn’t help that Zac never involves himself with any of the rest of them. He does a great job as the social media manager, but he is the least social person around. That Zac’s history has taught him this is the only way to stay safe is beside the point.

A holiday party, a bit too much tequila, a kiss, and an offer made in the spur of a moment combine to push Zac and Rudy together for the holidays alongside Rudy’s odd (and awesome) family. After that? It’s all up to some holiday magic, and maybe there’s some help from a kitten.

[image error]

Oh, Blame it on the Mistletoe! This one’s a yearly re-listen (I have it on audiobook) from Eli Easton and performed by . It’s not a story that really has Christmas centre-stage, so much as it happens during the holiday, and post-retail me is okay with that.

This is a fun novella-length audiobook that I tend to listen to every year when it’s time to bake the Christmas cookies (because I’m contrary and the POV character is anti-sugar). The narrative set-up is pretty simple: a super-healthy jock has a roommate who’s a super-smart (and rather cute) nerdy type. They’re very close, and when the nerd learns that jock has the reputation of being the best kisser on campus, he asks for kissing lessons.

Yup. That’s right. Kissing lessons.

The reason why, and how the two end up together, is actually quite adorable. Even better, the (as-yet) self-identifying straight jock character doesn’t come across as a gay-for-you character at all (a trope I have zero patience for), but rather a character who has successfully managed to not-think-about-it for a very long time—until his roommate’s request makes him realize what’s going on.

It’s sweet. It’s fun. And it’s performed wonderfully by Jason Frazier, who I honestly think is one of the best audiobook performers out there. Seriously – everything I’ve heard him perform is elevated by his skill as a narrator. If you’re at all an audiobook enthusiast, check him out.

 

December Flash Fiction Draw

It’s so very miserable out—it’s rainy, it’s wet, and there’s a kind of slushy mix of ice and water and snow on the ground. Yep, it’s December in Ottawa. But! Today’s draw added a much needed shot of levity, and I’m looking forward to the results.

If you don’t know what I’m nattering about, here’s the poop: I set a challenge to myself (and anyone else who wanted to play) last January. It’s a year-long monthly Flash Fiction Draw challenge. Using three suits from a deck of cards, and assigning thirteen genres to clubs, thirteen items to diamonds, and thirteen locations to hearts, I made a deck of prompts. Once a month, drawing three cards creates the challenge. No more than 1,000 words, and no longer than a week to work on it, and… ta-da! Stretched writerly muscles, fun, and zero stress. (And that last rule is super-important: if it gets stressful or stops being fun? Skip it. It’s the holidays, I get it.)

In January, we had Fairy Tales involving a Tattoo Machine set in a Prison! The results were fantastic. February? Crime Caper, Compass, and a Soup Kitchen was a challenge (though with awesome results). March brought Romance, involving a VHS Cassette, set in a Firewatch Tower (results). Then in April, we had Historical Fictions set on Dirt Roads dealing with Rat Poison, and the timelines involved in those results were all over the place. Or time. You get it. May delivered some Science Fiction in our laps, taking place Above the Clouds and involving a Dog Whistle (results). For June, it was a Fantasy involving Hot Chocolate, set in a Junkyard or Scrapyard (which you can happily sip here). In July, we crafted Mysteries involving Typewriters set on a Dam (results here). August brought Ghost Stories involving Earrings set in Tobacco Shops (results here). And September gave us Suspense stories set at a Border Crossing and involving a Bag of Money (results here). October we had Horror stories set at Blood Drives involving Frogs (results here). And in November, we had Action/Adventure stories set on Bridges involving Sandbags (results here).

I made a video of this month’s draw, if you want to check it out.

The chart from which the draws were made was this (minus the cards from previous draws, greyed out):

[image error]

And the result for our final draw? Seven of clubs, Six of diamonds, and Ace of hearts. Which means anyone who wants to play along is going to write a flash fiction piece of 1,000 words within the following guidelines: Comedy, set in a Field of Poppies, including a Broom.

If you do participate, please pop a link to this post, or to the Facebook video above so I can gather all the stories again for a round-up post next week.

But the most important thing? This is supposed to be fun and inspiring. If it’s not working for you, take a pass. This is December, and I know the holidays are full of stress and obligations. The “rules” such as they are are pretty limited: You have to use the genre, the item, and the setting (though you can play a bit fast and loose within those guidelines), no more than 1,000 words, and the piece needs to be finished by next Monday (December 10th). That’s it.

Enjoy!

[image error]

A Few More Winter Tales

Well, it’s Monday, and I don’t know about where you are, but here it’s misting down a light rain over the icy slush from the weekend, so… yeah. Monday.

[image error]

That said, I’ve got news of the ebook sort, and it’s a follow up to last years news of the ebook sort. Last year, the wonderful Matthew Bright put together Just Another Winter’s Tale, an anthology of seven wee holiday stories, and was kind enough to include “Dolph,” my queer re-telling of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Well, this year, he’s pulled together a dozen holiday stories for A Few More Winter Tales, which includes my queer re-telling of the Snow Queen, “Reflection.”

I know it’s live on the big-A (dot-com, dot-uk, and dot-ca), and it will be coming to Smashwords and Weightless, too, if you’d rather get yourself an e-pub. At any route, if you’re looking for some holiday tales (and maybe want to discover some new authors in the process), may I suggest A Few More Winter Tales?

An eclectic collection of winter and Christmas tales, from Venice to the streets of the sinister village St. Botolph in the Wolds, featuring work from twelve authors – ’Nathan Burgoine, Nick Campbell, Scott Claringbold, Sarah Caulfield, John Linwood Grant, Sacchi Green, Stephen M. Hornby, Gene Hult, Catherine Lundoff, Paul Magrs, Christopher Parvin and Anthony Townsend.

Ornamental

Happy December! Today was the day my husband and I (and Max) put up the Christmas tree and decorated it. Now, if you’ve read Handmade Holidays, it’s likely this blog post will not surprise you, but there’s a story behind our tree.

Well, not the tree itself, though there’s a story behind that, too.

[image error]

This year’s ornament, a handmade wooden sea turtle ornament we got in Hawai’i.

Many years ago, I was very much like Nick in Handmade Holidays. I was living on my own in a tiny bachelor apartment, and I was working retail, and I was facing yet another Christmas flying solo. Unlike Nick, it wasn’t the first time, but like Nick, it was the first time since I’d gotten an apartment of my own, so on my lunch break at work, I stopped by the Christmas store in the mall, on Christmas Eve, and got a floor-model tree on a deep discount. I took it home on the bus (that was exciting) and I dragged it into my apartment, and then I opened the box, set it up, and…

…realized I had no ornaments. What I did have was a box of candy canes. And so that’s what ended up on the tree that year. It was, in no uncertain terms, kind of pathetic looking. But a friend gave me a cross-stitched ornament that year at our gathering of friends with nowhere to go party (often called “Christmas for Losers” or “Christmas for Misfit Toys”—yep, there’s a lot of semi-biography in Handmade Holidays). So, by the time the season was over, I had a few candy canes left (I ate most of them) and one ornament.

The next year, just like Nick, I bought a box of plain white ornaments and ribbon to hang on the tree, and tinsel, and lights and a tree-topper. And as luck would have it, a friend gave me an ornament as a gift that year, too—a little mouse with a typewriter, commemorating how a creative writing prof had told me my sample pieces were “trite” and “common” and denying me entry into his class—and thus the tradition of nostalgia ornaments began.

[image error]

Also? This Scarecrow a friend sent from Kansas.

Years went by. I picked up an ornament each year, and as friends learned of my tradition, often a few ornaments as gifts appeared, too. When I met my husband-to-be, and we moved in together, we had two trees to set up: a theme tree (how he always did Christmas) and my nostalgia tree (decidedly less thematic). But that year, I tucked a little glass frog ornament into his stocking, and we put it on my tree in the morning.

More years went by, and once we got Coach (rest in peace, buddy), we realized we didn’t have room for two trees, but by then, my husband had about as many ornaments that we’d gotten together as my ornaments from before that, and so we just put up the nostalgia tree.

More years. Somewhere in here came the year we decorated the tree together (often pausing to smile and say things like, ‘Oh, that’s the year we renovated the library!’ or ‘Our trip to New York!’) and realized the tree didn’t need any filler ornaments at all. We had a tree completely full of our own memories, and friends, and our chosen family, and it was so completely affirming it’s possible I wept a bit. (Not movie-hero crying, either, we’re talking sudden emotional snot-bubble blubbering crying, where you get all splotchy and you can’t catch your breath and then you’re laughing because happy crying is so confusing and who does that?)

That old tree? It’s still in the basement. It’s so ugly now, and it barely holds together. I’m not sure why I kept it even after we got a pre-lit tree, nor why I kept it after that pre-lit tree died and we got another pre-lit tree (which was also larger). I suppose it’s one of the few ways I’m sentimental.

[image error]

This year’s tree, fully decorated.

This larger tree still has room, even when we put every ornament on it. But we don’t need tinsel, and we don’t need filler ornaments. There are handmade and thumbprint ornaments from the small people in our lives (handmade gifts have heart, as Ru would say), and some of the ornaments make us laugh out loud and others—like the ones we got each year we had Coach with us, or the ones given to us by friends no longer with us—made us sniffle.

But that tree is full. I think back to that younger version of myself dragging home that tree on the bus without realizing he had zero ornaments, and how he was trying so hard to make something new for himself, and how now, decades later, he succeeded.

I’m so lucky. We’re so lucky.

Happy Christmas.

Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks available Now from Bold Strokes Books

It’s officially December 1st, which means the Bold Strokes Books webstore is officially selling the December titles, which means Cole Tozer is ready to get out in the world. I’m sure he has a plan.

Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks can be in your e-device of choice in moments if you pick it up from the BSB webstore today (they sell every format, don’t worry), and if you order the paperback, you’ll have a ten day lead on the official release date of December 11th, 2018.

So, what are you in for?

 

[image error]

That’s Cole. He’s got a teleportation problem.

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 kilometres 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.

I hope you enjoy Cole, and Malik, and the whole Rainbow Club. Teleporting freaks have never been so much fun to write.

WROTE Podcast — The Queerlings

[image error]Hello, happy Friday, and oh my God it’s almost December.

That last part is the total shakedown of nerves over the launch, tomorrow, of Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks. I’m fine. It’s fine. (I’m not fine. I’m a mess.)

But! I got to go spend time with the brilliant Vance Bastian over at Writers on the Edge (WROTE) and our podcast discussion is up and live. You can check that out here. We chat about how I got started in this whole writing thing, and then about the queerlings (my said-with-love term to the queer GSA/SAGA/Rainbow Club kids I back-and-forthed with while writing Exit Plans) and a wee bit about Of Echoes Born, too, my first ever short story collection that released just this summer and I know, I know, short stories? Well, I talk about how I tried to keep people who don’t love short stories in mind, too.

[image error]

These are the books that get mentioned the most.

So, head on over to WROTE, and give it a listen. Oh! At the end of the podcast, there’s a rapid-fire bunch of recommendations. I get that listening to a podcast often means not having a moment to write things down, so…

Here are the things I recommended, just in case you want to check them out:

Food? Poutine.
Book series or author? I cheated and dropped two: The Unwanted, by Jeffrey Ricker, and Secret City, by Julia Watts.
Song, band, or music genre? DeVotchKa, and specifically the song “How it Ends” which inspired my short story, “Elsewhen,” in Riding the Rails and Of Echoes Born.
A Film? Breakfast with Scot. (Based on the book, by Michael Downing).
A Show? Hilda! So, so good. Binged on NetFlix. Also based on a graphic novel series, by Luke Pearson.
A Person or Group to Follow on Social Media? The Kraken Collective! That link is their website. You can find them on Tumblr, Instagram, and Twitter.
An App that has improved my life or Entertained me? *sigh* Pokemon Go. (Don’t judge me. I walk the dog a lot.)
Thing to Add to the Bucket List? Make an appointment with a local government person (in my case a School Board Trustee) to chat about something that matters to you (queer youth in schools, in my case).
Any Miscellaneous Thing? The three sentence review! Here it is, one more time:

[image error]

Friday Flash Fics — Home

Today’s Friday Flash Fic photo once again brought me an idea for the ongoing “Cohort” series I started way back when. It’s getting to be quite the series now, which is fun for me, but it’s scattered all over this blog, so if you want to read them in chronological order (which wasn’t the order I wrote them in, but that’s just because I never write in chronological order), here they all are:  First Cohort, Second Cohort, Third Cohort, Fourth Cohort, Fifth Cohort, Sixth Cohort, Helios, and now this piece, Home.

[image error]

Home

Adamson watched the station appear in the distance, and checked the display on the dashboard. Another few minutes, and they’d land. He tapped the comm.

“Klenova Station, this is Colony Shuttle Two. We’ve got visual and we’ll be dropping by shortly.”

A second later, the signal was picked up. “Hey Shuttle Two. We’ve got you on the screen. See you in a few.”

Adamson closed the connection, and glanced at the pilot. Popov had the shuttle on manual, and had done so pretty much from liftoff, only trusting the AI when he’d taken a visit to the head.

“You’re landing on manual?” Adamson said.

“Of course,” Popov said. He didn’t look at him.

“Not a fan of the autopilot?” Adamson said, after another moment.

Now the pilot did turn his way. “Do you know how often we get to take the shuttles out?”

Adamson did know, what with being the head administrator of the colony as a whole. “Aren’t there monthly check-in flights to Klenova?”

“And there are a dozen of us qualified to fly,” Popov said. “And even more technically cleared, like you are, to fill the co-pilot seat.”

Adamson got it. “Which means the actual answer is ‘not often enough.’”

Popov tapped his nose.

“Got it,” Adamson said. “Manual it is. And I’ll see if there’s any wiggle room for more shuttle projects on the horizon. I know Constantinou keeps requesting to let his teams go further afield. Maybe we could use Shuttle Four.” It was their redundant backup. And now they had Enceladus Station in orbit, they had the orbital capable auxiliary vessels from up there, too.

Not to mention the four Vanguard ships.

Which, of course, were a whole other problem.

“That would be great, sir.”

Adamson stole another glance. Popov had been formerly military. He and Patel were friends, he knew, but beyond that, he hadn’t really gotten to know Popov beyond his file.

“How are you doing?” Adamson said. “With the news, I mean?”

Popov took a breath. “There’s no one I’ve left behind,” he said. “So it shouldn’t be an issue, sir.”

Adamson touched his shoulder. The pilot jumped.

“I never intended to go back,” Adamson said. “And I think the reason why is pretty much common knowledge now.” He paused long enough for pilot to nod. Since the arrival of Enceladus Station and the Vanguard ships, he’d let it be known he was Gentech to the whole colony. It hadn’t been anything of a real issue, and key people had already known, but he’d still been relieved. He hadn’t exactly spread around the full extent of the genetic tampering done to him—not everyone needed to know he was a fully-capable telepath, for example, or that his psychokinetic ability was very much near the upper edge of the recorded scale—but it had been clear the screening they’d done for personnel had done a decent job in weeding out those with extreme positions on Gentech, at least.

“Yes, sir,” Popov said.

“Even so, I’m upset about it,” Adamson said.

The pilot glanced at him again. “But you could never have gone back.”

Adamson shrugged. “Feelings don’t have to make sense.”

The pilot cleared his throat. “Final approach,” he said, and started the descent. It was a smooth, practiced move and the shuttle was down with barely a bump. Popov ran through the systems, noted all the green lights, and then nodded.

“Thank you, sir,” he said.

Adamson supposed that was a close as he was going to get to an emotional statement from the man, but he’d take it.

*

The polar cap of Chiaroscuro was breathtaking, and not just by virtue of the frigid temperatures. He’d read the reports out of Klenova Station, and more-or-less understood the principles in play leading to the formation of such beautiful, clear ice, but even the holos paled in comparison to seeing it first-hand.

Adamson stared out across the field, out to where open water began in the distance, and icebergs could be seen in what was the southernmost edge of Chiaroscuro’s largest of its three oceans.

He needed to go into the station. He needed to talk to everyone here, to answer their questions. But right now, looking out over the ice, he just wanted to stay for a few seconds.

His wrist comm pinged, and he felt his jacket heater engage.

It was enough to get him moving again. He turned his back on the vista and headed back past the landing pad, to Klenova Station, and the thirty-six people who were waiting for him.

*

They gathered in the cafeteria, the one place that could more-or-less hold them all at once, with about a third of the staff standing along the far wall. The very vista Adamson had been looking at just moments ago was now behind where they stood, through the windows that lined the far wall.

As a whole, they all waited for him to speak. He didn’t intend to, but a sliver of the room’s mood slipped into his mind telepathically before he could filter it out. Some worry. Some disappointment. Even some anger. But no panic, or outright fear.

He cleared his throat. “I wanted to come by to speak with you all face-to-face. I imagine a lot of you have already been in contact with friends back at the colony and know most of the story, but I’m here to make sure you’ve all got access to the same information.”

He paused. A few people nodded.

“As of right now, there are no more cohorts coming. Enceladus Station is in orbit, and they’re here because the Earth WorldGov tried to annex all science and research organizations not directly under Mars affiliation.” Adamson took a breath. “The eruption of Yellowstone seems to have been a catalyst, but I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of details about what was happening Earth-side. The Vanguard fleet were under contract with our Luna and Enceladus people, and managed to get the majority of the personnel out before Earth Defense forced the issue.”

“Fucking Eds,” someone muttered, and Adamson allowed a moment for the anger to ripple through the room. He had no love for the Earth Defense Force himself.

“They got through the Helios gate at Sol, and they scuttled it behind them,” Adamson said.

“There’s no way back,” a woman in the front row said. It wasn’t a question. Adamson wished he could remember her name, but all he could recall was her placement leading the core sample team, and her research about the history of Chiaroscuro’s climate.

“No,” he said, and forced himself to stop there. There might be. I’m working on it. It’s a long shot. I’m not sure it’s even a good idea to try. “No,” he said again.

A few more moments of silence passed.

“Questions?” he said.

About half the hands in the room went up.

*

Hours later, Popov came to find him on the ice.

“How’d it go?” he said.

“Most of them wanted to know if we were still planning on continuing the research done here,” Adamson said. Chiaroscuro’s sun was low on the horizon. It wouldn’t set, not at this time of the year, instead doing a long, slow arc before rising again, but right now it painted the ice around them a stunning golden-yellow.

Everything about this planet seemed determined to show them bright, beautiful colours and light. It was how the place had earned its name.

“Scientists are like that,” Popov said.

Adamson turned. “What about you?” he said. “Any questions? Any worries?”

The pilot regarded him, then bit his lip. It was a charmingly insecure gesture for the otherwise all-business man. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

“What are my chances of being put on rotation for one of the orbital runs?”

Adamson laughed. “You know, I think I can make that happen.”

“Thank you, sir.” Popov looked out over the ice. It seemed to Adamson that he was fighting off a grin. “Shall we head home?”

“Yeah,” Adamson said, and they started back for the landing pad. It was only once they were in the air again—Popov had the system on full manual control, of course—that the word struck him. Not “the colony.” Not “the Coop.”

Home.

“What are you going to do about the Vanguard personnel?” Popov said.

Adamson blew out a breath. “That’s a really good question.” A private security group, the Vanguard ships had been sitting on his “to-do” list since they’d arrived. So far, they’d been co-operating fully with Adamson, and their leader, Bradley, had given them all an extended shore-leave of sorts in the colony. But they weren’t technically a part of the hierarchy, they reported to a company that had been annexed, and the colony didn’t have a way to pay them.

And just like the colonists, the Vanguard ships and personnel had no way to go home.

“Have you thought of folding them into security, under Patel?” Popov said.

Adamson smiled. “That’s what Patel suggested.”

“He was my former C.O.,” Popov said. “He’s a smart man.”

“He is,” Adamson said, nodding to himself. He pulled out his comm and sent a meeting request to both Patel and Bradley. Within a few minutes, both had accepted.

It should have made him feel better. It didn’t.

“You didn’t want that much firepower around, did you, sir?”

Adamson turned back to the pilot, not entirely convinced he was the only telepath in the shuttle. “I really didn’t.”

They flew on, Adamson watching the display counting down the distance to home.

 

 

Friday Flash Fics — Drew

Today’s Friday Flash Fics is a bit odd, and charmed me on a couple of levels. I couldn’t resist going for something spec fic (as usual), and then I remembered a recurring dream I’d had a few years ago, and this happened.

[image error]

Drew

Keegan lay in the new grass for a long while, eyes closed, waiting for the ache in his stomach to stop, and for the tears to dry on his cheeks. When he couldn’t hear them anymore, he opened his eyes and braced himself, pushing himself up on his elbows and waiting for the pain to come. It did, but it wasn’t quite as bad as he thought it might have been.

“They’re gone,” he said, hating how relieved his voice sounded. How cowardly.

Then he realized he was alone.

“Drew?”

Keegan scrambled to his feet. There were their backpacks, and his hat, all of which had been dropped when Bradley and his gang started shoving them around and Keegan realized things were moving past “bullying” into something… worse.

“Drew!” he called.

Drew didn’t answer, of course. He hadn’t spoken yet, not since he’d been found at the edge of the lumberyard last winter, alone and naked and obviously traumatized. He’d written the word down when someone from youth services had given him a pencil, and he’d come to stay with the Raymonds after that.

Bradley and his friends must have taken him.

Keegan tried to think. There was really only one place anywhere near here.

He started running, slipping a little in the spring rain that started to fall.

*

Keegan had vowed to take care of Drew as best he could, the moment he’d seen an all too familiar adrift look in Drew’s brown eyes. He didn’t tell his foster parents the first time he woke up to find Drew wrapped around him in the bed, but he did tell Drew he should be careful not to get caught.

Drew nodded, apparently understanding.

They weren’t sure if Drew could speak but just wouldn’t, but he wasn’t deaf, and when it became clear he could write, they ended up going to school together after the winter break. They placed Drew in the same grade—they were both seventeen, though Drew didn’t seem to know his birthday. He didn’t seem to remember much of anything he should already have been taught, but he picked things up quickly enough, and Keegan was a patient teacher.

But that look in his eyes, and the way he almost clung to Keegan didn’t go without notice.

Bradley and his pals were always assholes, but they seemed to reach new heights just at the sight of Drew. Keegan didn’t get it. Drew was handsome, curly hair and brown eyes, and in the simple clothes his foster parents got for him, it was obvious Drew was certainly strong enough to take care of himself if anything came of it, but Bradley took an instant dislike to him, and the comments began. The whispers. Then shoves.

He got in trouble for it, of course, if anyone saw it happening. So then he and his buddies got more subtle.

School was always like that: they said they were “zero tolerance,” but so often that meant “see no evil.”

Then the thunderstorm had happened, and it had all come to a head. Sudden, and incredibly loud, the booms had obviously terrified Drew, and he’d curled up right there in the classroom, trying to cover his ears. When Keegan had gone to his side, Drew had flung his arms around him and held on as if his life depended on it, and Keegan had just held him, waiting it out, feeling him shake and stroking his curly hair and telling him it would be okay.

Most of the class weren’t assholes. They had all guessed something really bad must have happened to Drew, and it wasn’t like the story of where and how he was found hadn’t been circulating school since he’d arrived, and given that the police and youth services couldn’t seem to find Drew’s family, it was all the more mysterious. But for Bradley? Every strange thing about Drew just gave him new ammunition, and cringing from a thunderstorm was the icing on the cake.

Not to mention anyone with eyes caught on how much Keegan cared. That part was maybe not a total surprise, but it wasn’t exactly how Keegan had wanted to come out at school. If ever.

Two weeks later, they were walking home together after school, and Drew had reached out and taken Keegan’s hand. When Keegan had paused, Drew had tugged, just enough to get him moving, and then taken him off their path home and into the park.

He led Keegan to an oak tree, and pressed Keegan’s hand against it, looking at him with those brown eyes and a kind of hopeful, questioning glance.

“I don’t think I get it,” Keegan had said.

Drew smiled. Keegan loved those smiles. Forgiving. Accepting. Drew shrugged, and they turned to head home.

And there was Bradley and his friends, waiting.

Angry.

*

Keegan was drenched by the rain by the time he made it. He heard voices outside the old building, and bit his lip.

Okay, he thought. Now what?

Not for the first time, he wished he was one of those big, tough foster kids so often represented in fiction. But he wasn’t. He was just Keegan, and today, that hadn’t been enough to stop Bradley and his asshole friends then, and it wasn’t like it would be now.

Laughter came from inside, and it was the kind of laughter that made the hair on the back of Keegan’s neck stand on edge.

Enough or not, he had to do something. He eyed the building. It had been a house, and then a café. On the edge of the park, the No Trespassing sign was ignored by pretty much everyone his age, as well a town drunk or two.

Another chorus of laughter, and then Keegan caught Bradley’s loud voice declaring “Get a picture!” and Keegan climbed in through the window with the broken boarding the city got tired of replacing every week.

They were in the large room that had been where the café tables and chairs were, and being so loud he didn’t have to work too hard to sneak. He came around the corner to the archway and froze.

They’d taken Drew’s pants and shirt and even his shoes and socks, and they’d tied something—a scarf?—around his eyes and bound his hands in front of him with what looked like duct tape… Drew was standing near the far wall, and Keegan could see he was shaking, his head lowered.

Bradley was flanked by his two friends, one of which, Jonah, was holding up a phone, ready to take a picture.

“Smile!” Bradley boomed, and his two friends laughed.

Keegan threw himself at Jonah, and the phone went flying the moment he rammed into Jonah’s back.

“What the fuck—?” Bradley said, before he realized what was happening.

The scuffle barely lasted a minute. Jonah was down, but only because they hadn’t heard Keegan coming. In almost no time at all, Bradley had Keegan in a headlock and the other guy, Tom, was helping Jonah stand up.

“He broke my fucking screen!” Jonah said, picking up his phone.

Keegan felt a surge of triumph.

“Get his pants,” Bradley said. “I think we’ll get a shot of both of them.”

Keegan’s mind filled with a kind of panicked white noise when Jonah and Tom’s hands started pulling at him. He tried to thrash, but it didn’t do much.

Then it happened. There was a kind of snapping sound. Jonah and Tom let go, and even Bradley’s tight grip around Keegan’s neck loosened a bit.

“What the fuck…” Bradley’s voice was shaking.

Keegan shoved as hard as he could, and broke free from Bradley’s grip. He stumbled, but kept his feet under him, and started to cross the room. He’d grab Drew and they’d run…

He stopped at the sight.

Behind Drew, spreading out like wings, were… branches. It was like watching one of their boring science class movies, where time was sped up and they saw a seed turn into a whole flower, but the branches were growing out from behind Drew, and…

They started to bud.

“What the fuck…” Bradley said again. “What the fuck!”

Drew’s blindfolded face turned to him, and Bradley took an actual step back. And then he yelped.

Keegan turned, and something tangled around Bradley’s left boot. It looked like vines or something. They were covered in bark, and it almost looked like they were growing right out of the old wooden floor of the café…

Tom and Jonah started freaking out, and Keegan saw the same thing was happening to them. Both of them had vines growing up thick around their feet and ankles.

Keegan looked down at his own feet. Nothing.

Oddly calm, he walked over to Drew. “It’s me,” he said, and Drew’s blindfolded face turned his way. He pulled the blindfold off, and gasped.

Drew’s eyes were the rich green of fresh grass or new leaves…

The branches were growing right out of his shoulder blades. The buds were unfurling. Bright green leaves soon lined them. Wings, Keegan thought. Drew has wings.

He looked down at Drew’s hands. The tape was tight, and looked cruelly done. “Let me get this undone.”

“Help us!” Bradley shouted, and Keegan glanced back for just a second. The vines were half-way up their bodies now, wrapping around their waists. Bradley was beating at them with his hands, ineffectually, and as Keegan watched, his left hand got stuck and was soon buried in the tangle of twisting wood.

“That’s you,” Keegan said, looking back at Drew. “That’s you doing that, right?”

Drew nodded.

“Don’t kill them,” Keegan said, staring into those incredible green eyes. “Please.”

Drew blinked, but he nodded again.

Behind him, Keegan heard the crackling, snapping sound slow down, and then stop. He glanced back, and saw three terrified faces looking back at him, each wrapped from the chest down in the thick twists of vine.

“Help,” Tom breathed the word. “Keegan?”

“We need to get this off your wrists,” Keegan said, ignoring him. He found the edge of the tape, and tried to peel it back, but it was too tight and too stuck. Finally, he remembered his Swiss army knife and dug it out of his pocket. It took some time, but he managed to cut away the tape enough for Drew to pull his hands apart.

Keegan found his clothes, and helped him pull on his pants and socks and shoes, but he held the shirt uselessly. Drew’s branch-like wings moved gently, as though there were a breeze in the room.

“You can’t just leave us here,” Bradley said.

“I totally can,” Keegan said, walking Drew past them.

“I’m not sure how you’re going to fit through this,” Keegan said, once they got to the window.

Drew looked at him, then closed his incredible green eyes, and took a deep breath. Keegan tried not to stare too much at what that did to Drew’s chest, but he more or less failed until he realized the wings were curling up again, folding back in, each leaf shrinking back to a bud, and then each bud disappearing into the branch, and then the branches themselves shrinking back.

That science class movie was being rewound.

Drew opened his eyes. They were brown again. Keegan handed him his shirt, and Drew slid it on.

“They’re not going to find your family, are they?” Keegan said.

Drew shook his head.

“Well,” Keegan said. “Mine are gone too. And the Raymonds are great. We’ll figure it out.”

Drew leaned in, and kissed him.

Keegan was grinning when they pulled apart.

Drew slipped through the window. Once they were both through, Keegan reached out and touched his shoulder.

Drew turned.

“I thought dryads were girls,” he said.

Drew shook his head.

“When we get home, I’m giving you a pencil and you and I are going to have a long talk.”

Drew mimed putting on a backpack.

“They’re in the park still.” Keegan sighed. “We should go get them. They’ll be soaked.”

They started walking. After a few steps, Drew took his hand.

Yeah, Keegan thought. We’ll figure it out.

 

 

November Flash Fiction Draw Roundup

Woke up to snow this morning, again, and looking at the forecast, right now it seems like this might be the start of “there will never not be snow until spring.” So, y’know, ugh. Thank goodness there’s a new husky in the home. Max, like Coach, seems to like snow. That helps.

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 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. It’s meant to be for fun and inspiration, rather than for serious competition (stretching writer muscles, rather than stressing writers out). I make the draw on the first Monday of every month (the next—and final!—draw of the year will be December 3rd, if you want to join in) and post results the following Monday, updating the post as I find new stories writers have written.

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

[image error]

With “Action/Adventure,” “Sandbag,” and “Bridge,” what did the authors come up with?

Here they are, alphabetically by contributor:

Jeff Baker wrote “Incident on a Dirt Road.”

‘Nathan Burgoine (that’s me) wrote “Crossing.”

“The Dark Netizen” wrote “Last Stand.”

Ralph Seligman-Courtois wrote “Kwai, Revisited.”

E.H. Timms wrote “Miles to Go.”

Did I miss your entry? Let me know and I’ll add you to the list! And by all means join us next month, when I do the (final!) draw again on December 3rd. And if you want to see what people came up with for previous stories? 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.

Crossing — A Flash Fiction Draw Challenge

Here’s my entry for the November Flash Fiction Draw Challenge (the post for the original November 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: action/adventure), a location (in this case: a bridge) and an object (in this case: a sandbag) and challenge anyone who wants to play to write something over the next week, with a maximum of 1,000 words.

This was harder than usual. I don’t think I quite tipped over into “Action/Adventure” but maybe I got “Suspense.” If I’d had more words, I’d maybe have tried to include a few more bam-bam-bam moments, but instead I went for a singular countdown. The setting is more-or-less taken from an island I used to love in British Columbia, offset from a small town where I lived for a while. That bridge man. That bridge.

[image error]

Crossing

“Mr. Coleman? A soldier.” Armin’s voice over the walkie-talkie was strained. “Just one. I think he’s hurt.” There was a pause. “Do I shoot?”

Vincent brought the walkie-talkie up to his mouth. “No. I’ll be right there.” He eyed the group, who stared at him, afraid. “Jana, keep an eye, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Jana, who was so much more mature than her fourteen years, nodded. Not for the first time, Vincent was grateful to have her.

He left at a jog. Seconds later, he was running. He used to avoid cardio, preferring nominal gym time, just enough to maybe stave off the effects of a mostly sedentary lifestyle teaching kids chemistry.

Then again, governmental collapse changed lots of things.

*

Armin waited at the lookout behind the sign, handing him the binoculars. Sure enough, a soldier made his way across the bridge. He lowered the binoculars. Armin handed him their weapon.

Vincent exhaled. Sandbags they’d placed at both ends of the bridge hadn’t stopped the soldier—who definitely limped—from crawling or climbing over at the far end. He was at their side now. Either they stopped him, or…

Stopped. Vincent frowned. Euphemism. He was no killer. He was a fucking chemistry teacher.

“I’ll talk to him,” Vincent said.

Armin sucked in a breath. “What if…?” He didn’t finish. Jana was mature, Armin was tough. But tough only went so far in a teenager.

“I’ll be okay.” It was confidence he didn’t feel.

*

“Hands in the air!” Vincent said, once the soldier was past him. “Right now!”

To his surprise, the soldier obeyed. He kept the weapon aimed low to the ground while he approached the man. When he got close enough to see his uniform, he blinked in surprise.

“You’re Canadian,” Vincent said.

“Yes,” the soldier turned. Dirty, and bloody below his left knee, his face was a mess, but the uniform was definitely Canadian. The nametag read Calipano.

“Six-pack of Uncle Sams are maybe an hour behind me,” the soldier said. “Chasing my unit down. It’s just me, now…” He swayed.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m hurt.”

“Come on, let’s get you inside.” Vincent lowered the weapon.

*

Beneath the dirt, blood, and soot was a handsome man. An adult, too, though Vincent guessed Calipano was younger than him by half a decade. Why couldn’t someone older come along? Take over?

He dealt with Calipano’s leg first, cutting away the material and cleaning it as best he could with the meagre first-aid supplies they’d gathered during their initial run and two forays into the town since.

“It’s just you and nine kids?” Calipano said.

“Students,” Vincent said. “I’m their chemistry teacher. I was chaperoning a trip to the island here. Culture day. Same day was the first attack. The bus driver and my co-worker wanted to go back right away, I thought it smarter to stay put…” He sighed.

“You were right.”

“We snuck back into town. Twice. For things we needed. Mostly raided some empty houses on the outskirts, once we saw how bad things were. Soldier patrols.” Vincent swallowed. “Bodies.”

“You’re close to the former border here.”

Former.

“You said they were after you?” Vincent said.

Calipano nodded, grim. “I crossed the river after they hit my unit, then doubled back. I’m sure they’re still looking for me. I hit one. I don’t suppose you’ve got a cache of ammo or anything?”

“No ammo,” Vincent said. “Just a flare gun.”

The soldier blinked. “You held me up with a flare gun?”

“That’s why I came at you from behind.”

The soldier chuckled. “I never had any teachers like you.”

*

“So what is this place?”

Vincent wasn’t sure if Calipano was interested, or trying to relax him.

“Artist retreat. The cabins got turned into a museum, and there are great nature trails. The footbridge is the only way over the river other than through, but you can see…” He gestured down the steep drop. A lot of people hated the suspended footbridge. It was barely wide enough for two, not a whole lot above a very long fall.

“Artists?”

“Free love hippie types,” Vincent said. “To be honest, I was mostly here to wrangle the students. But the staff never came.”

Calipano tensed. Vincent raised his binoculars.

“Shit,” he said.

The Americans were there, on the other side. One looked at the ground, then pointed. Then they all looked over the bridge.

“What if they don’t all come?” Vincent said, ducking back behind the sign.

“They will,” Calipano said. “See how there’s five?”

“Yes.”

“There were six. They’re pissed at me. And they don’t seem to be following any of the rules about prisoners of war.”

Vincent swallowed.

“You’re sure?” Calipano said.

Vincent took a shaky breath. “Dude. I’m a chemistry teacher.”

*

The soldiers started crossing. They seemed alert and aware of how vulnerable they’d be, but it was obvious they were pissed. Guns sweeping back and forth as they crossed the narrow suspension bridge, Vincent watched the soldier in the rear scan the woods on the other side with binoculars.

“We need them past the half-way point,” Calipano said. “For the fall to count.”

Count. Another euphemism. But Vincent eyed them and thought of the destruction he’d seen in town. The ruined school bus. It would count.

“Almost,” Vincent said, binoculars up.

Calipano shifted his position slightly.

“Okay. Now.”

The flare gun fired. The soldiers sent off a short spray off bullets their way—neither of them were hit, but the sign rattled ominously—and then the flare hit the sandbags at their end of the bridge.

The explosion bellowed, angry and far more violent than Vincent had expected. He wondered if the nails accounted for the sound or not. He stayed low for a few full seconds before he risked peeking again.

The bridge, and soldiers, were gone.

“Yeah, I definitely had no teachers like you,” Calipano said.

“If you’d like, I can teach you,” Vincent said. “It’s basic grade ten chemistry.”