'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 79

Impact, Intent, and Queering While Queer

First, impact.

Even though I’ve got a feeling I’m about to write a long post, I want to make sure the first and clearest thing is this: I’m sorry.

I wrote a tweet recently (or, rather, a quote-tweet). This one:

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It hurt people. Specifically: between “normalize” in the original tweet and “that’s not how any of this works” in my own, it came off like I was saying all queer people have queer friends—and from there, it’s a short hop to “if you don’t have queer friends, you’re not really queer.” And apparently, there are folk out there espousing that second opinion quite strongly, which is… well, flat out untrue, to say the least.

Neither of those messages were at all my intent, but impact trumps intent. So, again, I’m sorry. Feeling “not queer enough” is utter shit, and I empathize; one of the reasons I specifically use the word “queer” for myself is exactly that: so many of the other specific labels leave me feeling “not enough” to count.

I can’t un-say (and I don’t want to delete the tweet given the conversations that followed), but if anyone would like to know what it was I was trying to say, it’ll be below. If not, that’s fine, and again, I’m sorry. I hate that I contributed to an impossible “queer enough” message. I’ll do my absolute best not to phrase things going forward to sound like declarative statements about what is—and, by inference, isn’t—some sort of validly universal “queer enough.”

 

Okay, the second part of the post. The Intent part.

I read a lot of queer fiction, and as I’m sure is clear by now to anyone who’s dropped by my blog, I get frustrated a lot by things that pop up there, and I try to discuss these points in a way that I hope clarifies what they can (often unintentionally) do. Gay-for-you, and how it so often erases bi/pan people, or how every kind of queer romance shouldn’t be shuffled into a single sub-genre just because it’s queer, or how violent homophobia is not a great look for a queer hero, or how the opposite of queer isn’t straight, or how conversion therapy cannot ever be conflated with a caring parent, or—and this is the most relevant piece for today—how queer isn’t synonymous with romance.

I recently read a fantastic book that struck me, while I was reading it, as unfortunately rare in a specific way: it actually showed queer people having queer friends. It stuck out like a sore thumb over a large chunk of the last books I’d been reading, and it stuck in my mind. I tweeted about it, specifically, saying how I loved that author so much because her fictions actually read like my own, queer lived life, and it was—damned annoyingly—so rare to bump into that.

I think it honestly comes from the entanglement with romance queerness has. There’s a huge assumption that queer fictions must include romance, which in and of itself is a problem (not that queer romance exists, of course, but that it’s required for queer characters, but again, link above for how queer=romance is such a bad look).

In queer fictions—and especially queer romance—the more I looked the more I kept finding these fictional queer people who only exist in these future romantic pairs: and around them, elsewhere in the world, there are no other queer people. No mentions of other queer people. Not a lesbian doctor, nor a nonbinary friend, not another single speaking role to a queer person anywhere on-page. Not a tweet, nor an online discussion, no community what-so-ever. Sometimes, there’s an ex. Or two exes. But again, that frames the only queer connection as a romantic (albeit failed) one.

Queerplatonic friendships exist. And for a great many queer people—but not all of us, which is the inference I didn’t intend—they’re a huge piece of the lived queer experience. It might not be daily (I don’t get to see my queer friends every day myself), but entering queer spaces, or hanging with queer people—or even just interacting with them online, reading their words—has a big impact.

I couldn’t personally have made it this far in my life without my queer friends. When I was kicked to the curb, it was the queer people who caught me, gave me shelter, and helped me put my life back together. My neurologist? Queer. My psychiatrist? Queer. My experience is by no means unique—though I also live in a nation’s Capital, and in urban environments, this is certainly likely to be more common, at least in what passes for “accepting” societies of the West.

Of course I have non-queer friends, too. But the thing is I never lack for fictional representation of queer people with non-queer friends—it’s usually framed from the other side, though: here is the straight character, popular entertainment says, and look: there’s the queer bestie. Who, if they have other queer people in their life, will likely have exactly one: their romantic partner. Hello, token-ville. (And don’t get me started on their likelihood to be killed off.)

So when I read what is marketed specifically as queer fiction (be it m/m romance, queer sci-fi, lesfic, etc.), it’s a glaring omission of what is really common (not normal, common): queer people interacting with each other in a non-romantic way. Even be it online. Or in their history. Be it in passing, with a co-worker, a newspaper article headline, or—yes—a friend. So when I said “that’s not how any of this works,” I meant “the world doesn’t only have two queer people in it” not “all queer people have queer friends.”

Whenever I write these blogs about my own queer lived experience through a writing lens, I try to bring it back to the same two points: One is: I absolutely am never going to tell anyone they cannot write something.

The other is: I will ask you to consider why you are choosing to write something the way you are writing it.

If you’re writing a queer story, and the only queer people who ever show up in the story are the two romantic leads, why? It has impact when it’s written that way, regardless of intent, so clarity is going to matter—something I needed a reminder of myself today. I try to queer as best I can—I know I have a lot of you who listen to me specifically for these discussions—but today I queered badly. I’m sorry.

 

 

July Flash Fiction Draw Roundup

It’s July, so here’s the seventh collection of stories, and let me tell you, this month was like pulling teeth for me. To start, though, this is so much more awesome with friends: a big thank you to all the writers who wrote something. Especially those of you who don’t normally touch mystery (like me).

That said, if you’re new around these parts, it’s possible you have no idea what am I talking about.

Well, the Flash Fiction Draw is basically 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 (though, as I said, this month it was borderline painful for me). I make the draw on the first Monday of every month (the next draw will be August 6th, 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):

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With “Mystery,” “a Typewriter,” and “a Dam,” this awesome gathering of author friends came up with a plethora of tales to offer you. There’s a dash of thriller, a dose or two of humour, and some fantastic gamer puns, among other great tales.

Here they are, alphabetically by contributor:

Lilly Amadu wrote “I’ll Be Damned.”

Jeff Baker wrote “The Missing Disc Mystery.”

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

Alex deMorra wrote “Floodgates at the Buchanan.”

Cait Gordon wrote “I Suck at Mystery. Dam it.”

Bruce D. Gordon wrote “Murder at the Lodge.”

E.H. Timms wrote “An Awfully Big Adventure.”

Jamieson Wolf wrote “The Typewriter Lied.”

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 draw again on August 6th. 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. And the roundup for June (which was “Fantasy,” “Hot Chocolate,” and “A Junkyard or Scrapyard”) is here.

Spillway — A Flash Fiction Draw Challenge

Here’s my entry for the July Flash Fiction Draw Challenge (the post for the original July draw is here). In case you didn’t know about this challenge, there’s a video here explaining (and showing the seventh draw), but the quick version: I used a deck of cards (three suits) to randomly put together a genre (in this case: mystery), a location (in this case: a dam) and an object (in this case: a typewriter) and challenged anyone who wanted to play to write something over the next week, with a maximum of 1,000 words.

For most of the week, I waffled. I had no idea. I looked at websites about typewriters. I looked at websites about dams. Finally, in the eleventh hour, something struck me, and this came out.

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Spillway

Gagnon straightened his uniform. He’d never wanted to come back here again.

“Officer Gagnon?”

He turned. White was familiar to Gagnon, of course, but he supposed it shouldn’t have surprised him the detective didn’t remember him. They’d barely met before.

“Sir.” Gagnon nodded.

The dam was louder than the last time they’d been here.

“He asked for you by name. Any idea why?” Cool eyes appraised Gagnon, and unless Gagnon was mistaken, found him wanting.

“I was first on scene, last time,” Gagnon said. That wasn’t all of it, but it was enough of an answer that White nodded.

“You done this before?”

They both knew Gagnon was barely a year in his uniform. Gagnon shook his head.

“Keep him talking,” White said. “We don’t need another body going over the edge.”

“Yes, sir,” Gagnon said.

They walked to the dam together.

*

Benjamin stood at the edge, on the wrong side of the railing. The roar of the spillway was like thunder.

Gagnon approached, hands out in front of him.

“You came,” Benjamin said.

“I did.”

“He didn’t kill himself. He wouldn’t.”

Gagnon expected this. From the moment he’d arrived at the dam months ago, to the call of the potential suicide, Benjamin had insisted there was no way Logan would jump. They were happy. They ran a Bed & Breakfast together. Before that, Benjamin was a former sous-chef at a high-paced five-star restaurant, and Logan had worked in finance. Now Benjamin made breakfast pastries and Logan wrote mysteries.

Right up until Logan had thrown himself off the dam.

“Benny,” Gagnon said, “I’m here.” He remembered names being important. Use names. Make connections.

Then he saw the typewriter.

Oh shit.

Logan wrote mysteries on that thing. Benjamin said he’d learned to love the sound of the keys clicking. It had meant Logan was happy. He’d been making the keys click the very night before been found in the water.

That had been something Benjamin couldn’t convince anyone of, not the least of which the local detectives. Gagnon listened, but he was a uniform, and knew full well his job was “keep him from bothering us while we prove his boyfriend took a dive.”

“You brought the Underwood,” Gagnon said.

“He was writing,” Benjamin said. “He didn’t jump.”

Gagnon took another step. “Benny, you’re scaring me.”

Benjamin blinked, and for the first time turned to look at Gagnon. “No one listens.”

“I’m listening, Benny,” Gagnon said. He took another step. The Underwood was right at his feet now.

“He’d been writing,” Benjamin said. “Weeks. He’d was inspired.”

“Yes, I know,” Gagnon said. Except no work-in-progress had even been found. White took that as a sign of unspoken depression, but Benjamin was adamant: Logan had been writing, non-stop, for two months. Every night.

“It wasn’t a cozy,” Benjamin said then—and now. “It was going to be a thriller.”

“I know, Benny.”

“Where is the goddamn book?” It was a bellow. Gagnon winced. He was finally close enough to see the tears. “He just wouldn’t.”

Gagnon swallowed. “Please, Benny. I’m begging. Can you get closer to the railing? You don’t have to climb back over to this side, but just… away from the edge…”

Benjamin blew out a breath, turning away from him, and looking down at the rushing water. “If I go over, they’ll investigate. Maybe this time…”

“No,” Gagnon said. “Benny.”

Benjamin closed his eyes.

“They won’t,” Gagnon said. Benjamin flinched. “I’m sorry, but they won’t. You’ll be gone, and Logan is gone, and… that’ll be it. No one looking, Benny. Not if you go.”

Benjamin’s shoulders shook. “He. Wouldn’t.”

“I’ll help,” Gagnon said, and wasn’t calling on a half-remembered negotiation class. He meant it. He just didn’t know exactly how.

When Benjamin finally took a step back—away from the edge—Gagnon exhaled.

*

He carried the typewriter back to his car. Predictably, once Benjamin had come back over the railing and Gagnon had his arms around the distraught man, the rest of the officers and detectives had taken Benjamin away. Gagnon promised he’d follow in his car and be there every step of the way.

It was the only way Benjamin would let go.

Inside his car, Gagnon eyed the typewriter on the passenger seat.

“Should have used a fucking lap-top,” Gagnon said. The tech boys could have found a novel, even a deleted one. But would it help Benjamin to confirm there was no book?

He reached over and tapped a letter, watching the key rise and strike. He sighed.

Then he frowned.

He pulled out his phone. It took him a few minutes to find what he needed, and more for a walkthrough.

Once the ribbon was in his hand, he held it up, careful not to unspool too much. It read backwards, but there were words.

There were words.

He pulled out his notepad. Fifteen minutes later, he had the ending of a letter they’d never found.

It wasn’t a suicide note. It wasn’t a novel, either.

It was an explanation.

And it had White’s name.

*

“You’re late,” White said, and took no effort to hide his annoyance with Gagnon, and not really noticing the other uniforms with him. “Benjamin’s not willing to go anywhere without you.”

“You’re under arrest,” Gagnon said.

White stared him down for most of the Miranda, but by the time Gagnon was done, the mask had slipped somewhat.

“I found the letter,” Gagnon said, then raised a hand at the detective’s frown. “Not the actual letter, which I’m guessing you destroyed somehow. The typewriter ribbon.”

Gagnon could see White didn’t understand. It didn’t matter. He’d learn about how typewriters worked soon enough.

They led him away.

Gagnon would talk to Benny next. He wasn’t sure there was a way to explain. Logan had only been asking White questions for his book. Research. But he’d figured something out.

And he’d paid for it with his life.

Gagnon took a deep breath.

This was why he read romances.

Happier endings.

 

 

Friday Flash Fics — Feeling the Beat

Today’s Friday Flash Fics was a piece I found on Pixabay, and I just loved the shattering effect, which made me think of Ian from Of Echoes Born. And then I was working on Faux-Ho-Ho (this year’s holiday novella) and it reminded me of the characters in Handmade Holidays, and so… this happened.

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Feeling the Beat

The little bell over the door to The Second Page rang, and Ian glanced up to see two women coming in with two kids.

“Oh, that’s better,” said the first woman, guiding a little boy a few steps forward and letting the door shut behind her. “Okay kiddos, one book each.”

The girl dragged the other woman away, but the little boy tilted his head, then started to move his hips to the beat of the music Ian had on in the store. It was adorable.

“I can’t believe this heat,” Ian said, coming out from behind the counter.

“Right?” she said, and then she paused. She looked at his face for a few seconds, and he wondered if he was about to get the question, but instead she said. “You’re Ian, right?”

He blinked. “Yes. Have we met?” A soft trace of blues and pale yellows looped around her. Kind, happy.

“No, but I think you know Nick Wilson?”

Ian smiled. “Of course. I had his book launch here.”

“We couldn’t make it. This one,” she nodded down at the little boy, “popped a fever and we spent the whole night at CHEO.”

“Ouch,” Ian said, and crouched down in front of the boy. “I hope you’re feeling better now.”

“I had a cold inside my ear,” the little boy said. Then he stared at Ian, and his eyes went wide. “Your eyes are weird!”

“Reed,” the woman said, “That’s not very nice.”

“But his eyes are weird!”

“They are weird,” Ian said, looking up at Reed’s mother. He winked.

“Mermaids!” The cry came from the girl, who was older the boy. Ian glanced over and saw she’d sat down in the kids area and was indeed holding up a book about mermaids. The other woman had sat with her, and they started reading.

“Why are your eyes weird?”

Ian turned back to the little boy. “I was born like this. My right eye has always been green. My left eye has always been blue. It’s called heterochromia.”

The little boy tried to say the word. He mostly failed, then went back to bopping along with the music.

Ian glanced at his mother. “It’s the only hetero thing about me, really.”

She grinned. “I’m Jenn. My wife’s Fiona, and the mermaid addict is our daughter, Melody. My attempt to limit her to one notwithstanding, we’ll probably be leaving with all your mermaid books, by the way.”

“Wait,” Ian said. “Jenn, Fiona… Did Nick name all the characters in his book after people he knew?”

She laughed. “He sure did. Without telling us, even.”

“Jenn was the music teacher, right? In the book?”

“Which is an inside joke. My family has zero rhythm.” She looked down. “Except for this guy.”

Reed was still swaying to the music. He even threw in a couple of twirls. Ian smiled at the little boy—he was really into his moves—and then the air all around the kid fractured and shattered.

The man leapt in the air, launching with a strength and grace that seemed borderline magical to Ian. He wore a blue hoodie, white shirt, and jeans, but the shoes weren’t basic sneakers: they were dance shoes of some kind.

The man landed for barely a second. It seemed effortless, but then he turned and flung himself into the air again, twisting, and as he spun, the vision ended, and the world put itself back together in front of Ian’s eyes, where a little boy grooved and bopped in his store.

“You know,” Ian said. “I think I have a book about male dancers. I mean, if you think he’d be interested.”

Jenn smiled at her son. “Would you like to see a book about boys who dance?”

Reed’s eyes widened. “Yes, please.”

 

 

July Flash Fiction Draw

Happy (belated) Canada Day! Today is the first Monday of the month, so I dug out my Geek & Sundry playing cards and did the draw for July. No idea what I’m talking about? The background is this: as a kind of challenge to myself (and anyone else who wanted to try), last January I started a year-long monthly Flash Fiction Draw Challenge. I took three piles of suits from a deck of cards, and then assigned thirteen genres to clubs, thirteen items to diamonds, and thirteen locations to hearts. 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… voila. Stretched writerly muscles, fun, and zero stress. (And that last rule is paramount: if it gets stressful or stops being fun? Skip the month. There’ll be another challenge August 6th.)

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. And in June, we hit the half-way point with a Fantasy involving Hot Chocolate, set in a Junkyard or Scrapyard (which you can happily sip here).

I made a video of this month’s draw, in between sweating in this heat.

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

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And the result for July? Five of clubs, ace of diamonds, and four 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: a Mystery, set on or in a Dam, and including a Typewriter.

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. There’ll be another challenge on the first Monday of August (that’s August 6th), from the remaining items on the list. 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 (July 9th). That’s it.

Enjoy!

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Friday Flash Fics — Ready

Today’s Friday Flash Fics reminded me of Cinder, the fire-powered superhero who pops up in “Lesser Evil,” my gay supervillain story from The Lavender Menace. Given world events, I wondered how that might parallel with my alternate universe of metahumans. From there, the image made me think things weren’t going well there, either, and I wondered what Jeff—that’s Cinder’s real name—might do in the name of justice when things get even harder. We’ve already seen him suggest some methods that weren’t entirely above the board in “Lesser Evil.” Now we see him facing off against bad policy.

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Ready

“Well?” Colin said, though the look on Jeff’s face said it all.

“They’re closing the border to us. The North American Metahuman Defense Agency is going to need a new name.” He loosened his tie and went to the window, looking out over the Canal. “This is bad, Colin.”

“I know.”

Jeff flinched and glanced back at him. “Sorry. Of course you do. Is this how it was for you?” He frowned. “Or would have been? Will be?” He shook his head. “You know, it’s awesome to have you back, but the whole quantum alternate futures thing makes it hard to make sense sometimes.”

Colin laughed. “Try living them.” He rose from the bed, and wrapped his arms around Jeff. “And no. In my original timeline, NAMDA was in place. It was just… infiltrated.”

Jeff kissed his forehead. “Well, I’m glad you’re back in my timeline. Even if it’s going to hell.”

Colin took a deep breath. “Yeah. So, how bad is it?”

“No non-citizen metahuman is allowed to cross the US border, period. NAMDA membership or not. So I can’t go there. Neither can Juan or Solange. And thanks to their idiot in chief, they’re even rolling back what US NAMDA operatives can do, and creating their own organization and…” Jeff threw up his hands. “Sorry. It’s not your fault, and I’m angry.”

“Hey, I get it. You’re worried about what’s next.”

“I’m terrified about what’s next. In two different ways.”

Colin squeezed him. “Just two?”

“Well, at least two. I’m scared for any new metas. I can only imagine how they’ll be treated.”

Colin nodded. It was easy to see that possibility. Hell, Colin had lived it, before he’d unlocked his own ability to slide through time and possibility both.

“And the other thing…” Jeff sighed.

“The other thing?”

“Tristan,” Jeff said.

Colin swallowed, tempering his reaction as best he could. Tristan Edwards—Psilence, back when he’d worked with NAMBDA, before he’d used his telepathic abilities to brainwash Jeff and convince Colin Jeff didn’t love him—had been gone for nearly a year and a half now. “What about him?”

“I’m convinced it’s him working with Aleph. The attacks. The donations. The…suicides.”

Colin didn’t trust himself to speak, so he nodded. Besides, he agreed. The recent spate of politicians and groups imploding, confessing, or literally exploding had been one of the major cases NAMDA had been working on. Now they had no access to the United States.

They stood in silence for a while.

“The thing is, in my darker moments..?” Jeff said, but his voice trailed off.

“You don’t agree with what he’s doing. Not really,” Colin said.

“He took down that serial killer,” Jeff said.

“And had him write ‘Psilence’ on the wall with his own blood after slitting his wrists,” Colin said. “That’s not justice. It’s vengeance.”

Jeff nodded. “I know you’re right. But I look at the world lately, and I wonder if I’d settle for vengeance.”

Colin kissed him again.

“You don’t settle.”

Jeff smiled. “Thank you. Talking to you always helps. I just wish I could help.”

Colin laughed.

“What?” Jeff blinked. “What’s so funny?”

“You’re already figuring out how you’re going to get the team across the border, valid access or not. Don’t tell me you’re not.”

Jeff blushed. It looked good on him. “When did you start reading minds?”

Colin tapped Jeff’s chest. “I’m not reading your mind, love. I’m reading your heart.”

“Fair enough.” He cleared his throat. “Any ideas?”

“I can’t shift in location, only in quantum. But I happen to know that in most timelines I’m aware of, there are metas who can teleport, and bring passengers along with them. Ever heard of Railroad?”

Jeff shook his head.

“She works on getting people like us out of Russia. Let me reach out to her.” He stepped back. “After food. You want to eat in?”

Jeff smiled again. “Reading my heart again?”

“You know it. Give me a sec and we can head down to the Market, pick something up, and come back here.” Colin went to the bathroom and washed his hands. When he came back out, Jeff was standing at the window again, but he had on fist raised. It burned with the flame he could conjure and control.

“Ready?”

Jeff turned, and nodded, fist still burning.

“Ready.”

Colin wondered if this timeline had the adage his own, original quantum reality had or not.

Never push a Canadian too far.

 

‘Nathan Burgoine’s First Short-Story Collection, reviewed by Jeff Baker.

A perfect thing to wake up to in the morning. Thank you, Jeff!

authorjeffbaker

Of Echoes Born

Reviewed by Jeff Baker

“Of Echoes Born” is the first short story collection by ‘Nathan Burgoine. (Bold Strokes Books, 2018.) Maybe better known for his novels, Burgoine has been one of the best writers in the shorter form working in the field of LGBT science fiction and fantasy in recent years. Now he has put together twelve stories linked together by theme and character, including the very clever idea of the story introductions being told by his character Ian through his unwanted gift of visions which include colors indicating emotional states or even sickness.

The deeper reds, the richer reds, the ones reaching within and spreading out like wings? Those reds change the world. People march with those reds, they defend with those reds, and they fight tooth and nail with those reds.

The bulk of the stories feature characters that may be semi-autobiographical; young men on…

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Of Echoes Born – ‘Nathan Burgoine (Bold Strokes Books)

Well now, this is how you start a Monday off right…

Huge thank-you to Anthony R. Cardno and Out in Print: Queer Book Reviews.

Out in Print: Queer Book Reviews

Buy from Bold Strokes Books

It’s no surprise given the title of ‘Nathan Burgoine’s new collection that the twelve stories herein are built on echoes. Colors, sounds, emotions, and characters reverberate both within each story and between them. Supporting characters from one story take center stage in another and get referred to in passing in a third. Readers familiar with Burgoine’s other works will see echoes of those in here as well. The theme is present even in the collection’s structure: half of the stories presented are reprints – echoes of the anthologies they originally appeared in – given new light by the way they’re now presented in conjunction with the six stories that are brand-new.

Many of the stories, but not all, have a romantic element, something Burgoine is well-known for. Like his other work, the romance is sometimes meet-cute, sometimes awkward, and occasionally steamy. Sometimes it’s unrequited or…

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Stock-Up Paperback Sale at Bold Strokes Books

Bold Strokes Books is running a Paperback Stock-Up Sale at their e-store. This includes a tonne of great titles, and all of them for $2.99. I’ve read and loved many of those titles, so if you’re a lover of the physical book, go check it out.

Also, three of the titles on sale are anthologies that include short stories of mine.

[image error]The first is Sweat. I’ve got two stories in this anthology!

“In the Doghouse” is a story about a recently dumped guy who ends up on a fake “date” with his kickboxing coach because he’s heading to an Eat Out for Life dinner and has a spare ticket, but then things take a turn for the… not-fake.

The second story, “Shutout,” is a hockey story about a guy assigned to work with the physiotherapy of an injured star goalie who doesn’t know anything about hockey (or care to know) right until there’s a bit of flirting happening… unless he’s reading things wrong. It’s possible I wrote the character to know nothing about hockey so I didn’t have to learn anything about hockey.

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The second is Riding the Rails. This anthology contains my husband’s favourite of all the stories I’ve written, “Elsewhen.” It’s about a man with a gift to see things that happened all around him, but he can step in an interact with them to set things right that maybe didn’t go as well as they should have, and takes place here in Ottawa at the former Grand Trunk station, downtown.

Fun trivia fact about “Elsewhen”: the entire thing was inspired by the DeVotchKa song “How it Ends,” which I listened to on repeat the entire time I was writing the first draft. It happened over the space of a couple of hours, which almost never happens for me. It dropped almost fully-formed into my head. It was amazing. It hasn’t happened again since.

[image error]Last is Wings. For Fans of the Triad, this anthology contains “Intercession,” which was the second Triad short story I wrote. This one takes Anders’s POV, and has him facing off with an angel making him an offer that he’s really, really tempted to take, and dealing with the fallout of having bonded with a vampire and a wizard and maybe, just maybe, getting something more than he bargained for out of the deal: a shot at redemption.

It’s rare that paperbacks get on sale at such a lovely, low price, so I hope you do go check out the deals on the site and maybe pick up a new favourite or two. I can heartily recommend Greg Herren’s Garden District Gothic, Vieux Carré Voodoo, Timothy, Sleeping Angel, and Murder in the Arts District, Melissa Brayden’s Ready or Not, How Sweet It Is, and Just Three Words, Nell Stark’s The Princess and the Prix, Elizabeth Wheeler’s Asher’s Fault, William Holden’s Words to Die By, Rob Byrnes’s Holy Rollers, and Martha Miller’s Retirement Plan.

 

Friday Flash Fics — Choosing

Today’s Friday Flash Fics was nabbed from the awesome photographer Aaron Jay Young (go check out his website), and so I named the character after him. This revisits Matt and Jace, post-“Bound” but before any of the events in Triad Soul.

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Choosing

“Thank you for doing this,” Jace said.

“Okay, that’s the third time you’ve said that,” Matt said. “Is there something I don’t know?”

Jace tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

“Puppy-bear?” Matt tried again.

Jace narrowed his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“Seriously. Why all the pre-thanking? I feel overly thanked.”

“It’s just… He’s… struggling.”

“He being the guy Taryne wants me to work with.”

“Aaron.” Jace nodded. “Yeah.”

“Because he’s got the knack,” Matt said.

“Yeah,” Jace said again.

Matt frowned. It wasn’t like Jace was Mr. Talkative most days, but this felt like pulling teeth. Some werewolves had a trace of magic. Not even sorcerer level, or at least that was Matt’s understanding. But this guy—Aaron—had the knack and apparently the werewolf druid Taryne had asked Jace if Matt would be willing to help.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Matt said.

“He’s not part of the pack,” Jace said.

Oh. Well, that wasn’t so much, really. “So he’s a lone wolf?”

“He’s a coywolf.” Jace winced and blew out a breath. “Sorry. I should have said earlier.”

“A coywolf,” Matt said, nodding slowly. “Right. Because that changes everything.”

Jace glanced at him. “Are you still okay to do this?”

Matt raised his hands. “Jace, I have no idea what a coywolf is.”

“Oh. Right.”

“This is the part where you tell me what a coywolf is.”

“Aaron is part coyote, part wolf.”

“Okay,” Matt said. “So, like, his mother was a werewolf, his father a…whatever you call a werecoyote, I guess? Or the other way around?”

“Right.” Jace blew out a breath. “Thanks for understanding.”

Matt leaned back in his seat and tried not to snort or laugh. If this was some sort of big surprise or problem, it was news to him. It obviously meant something more to Jace, though. Was it the equivalent of a country club or something? Only full werewolves need apply?

“How long has he lived here?” Matt said, trying another angle. They’d been driving for nearly an hour, and the buildings and suburbs of Ottawa had been long replaced by alternating trees and farm fields.

“Not long. But he paid respects to Taryne and the alphas as soon as he arrived, so he’s not stupid.”

“Smart coywolf. Got it.”

Jace glanced at him again, and the affection in the lug’s dark eyes brought a little tightness to Matt’s chest. “You’re the best. You know that?”

“Anything for my Puppy-bear.”

*

The house was more of a cottage. It was small, only a single floor, but it was tidy and well-maintained. Beside the cottage a series of small container gardens ran the length of the yard, each surrounded by chicken-wire, capped with lids to be as animal proof as they could possibly be.

Jace parked at the bottom of the dirt driveway, and they walked to the door together.

Matt knocked.

“Come on in,” came a voice.

Jace opened the door and waved Matt through.

Matt had to blink a few times and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The interior of the cottage was much like the outside: simple, well-maintained, and tidy. It was more-or-less like a bachelor apartment, he thought, seeing the kitchen open into the main area, and noting a bed tucked in the far corner. There was what Matt assumed was a bathroom set in the far corner. It was the only door, and it was closed.

And in front of it was a half-naked man in a towel with a crow on his shoulder.

“Uh,” Matt said. Why did he have a crow on his shoulder?

“You’re the wizard?” the man said. He reached up with one hand and fed something to the crow. The crow ate it, but Matt swore it was keeping its black eyes focused entirely on Matt.

Jace came in behind him.

“Aaron, Matt,” Jace said. “Matt, Aaron.”

“Nice to meet you,” Matt said, keeping his gaze on Aaron’s face. The towel wasn’t tied very tight. Also, Aaron was freaking pretty. He didn’t know many men who could pull off a full moustache with a barely-there beard, but Aaron had it down pat. Also, he had a nice chest. Also, nice chest hair.

Aaron stared at him. “You think you can help me.” It wasn’t quite a question, but it dripped with skepticism.

Matt took a breath. “Why don’t we start with what’s going on, first? I know you’ve got the knack, and that Taryne tried to work with you, but that’s about it.”

Aaron’s gaze flicked to Jace. “He’s yours?”

Matt blinked. “Pardon?”

“Yeah,” Jace said.

Matt glanced at Jace, but Jace didn’t return the look. Okay. That could be a discussion for the ride home, he supposed. And it wasn’t like he was opposed to a little light possessiveness from the hot werewolf. He liked to think of Jace as his, too.

“My knack is…specific.” Aaron fed the crow again, then held out his hand. It hopped from his shoulder to his hand, and he lowered it to the back of one of the two stools tucked under the small counter that divided the kitchen from the rest of the cottage. Then, mercifully, he grabbed a pair of jeans, and stepped into the bathroom.

“Okay,” Matt said, eyeing Jace.

Jace just shook his head. No help there.

Aaron came back out in the jeans and a black t-shirt. “I see things,” he said. He seemed to have to force the words out.

The penny dropped.

“You’re prescient,” Matt said.

The deep breath Aaron took was confirmation enough.

Jace was staring at the floor of the cabin, and Matt took a moment to let it sink in what this meant. One: Jace had told Taryne that Matt also had a gift for seeing the future, albeit one he’d bound into tattoo ink. Two: Jace hadn’t told Matt he’d told Taryne. Three: Upon realizing she couldn’t help Aaron, she’d asked Jace to ask Matt to help him. Four: Prescients were highly prized, for obvious reasons, and Aaron had no ties to a pack of his own.

Five: If anyone from Matt’s family learned about Aaron, they’d want him for their own use. The Stirlings were used to having a prescient dancing to their tune. Or they had been, until the gift had moved to Matt from his father and Matt refused to play along.

If he helped Aaron, he’d be risking a lot. Hell, just knowing about Aaron was a risk.

Taryne had to know that. Jace definitely knew that. Putting Matt with a coywolf and a druid and his werewolf boyfriend over the Families was a lot. They were asking him to choose a side. But then again…

Matt looked at the werewolf. Jace finally met his gaze.

“Okay,” Matt said.

“Thank you,” Jace said.

“So. Aaron,” Matt said, turning back to the coywolf. “Let’s figure out where we need to start.”