'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 80

The People in the Neighbourhood

Now that Of Echoes Born has been out a while—and I recently finished page proofs for Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks—I’ve been working on “Faux-Ho-Ho.” “Faux-Ho-Ho” is a gay romance holiday novella with a “fake relationship” trope at the core, and it begins (and ends) in my fictional version of Ottawa’s queer village (or, as the characters always just call it, “The Village.”)

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There’s Easter Eggs in them thar pages.

Reviews of Of Echoes Born have pretty much all mentioned the interconnectedness of the stories, which makes me happy like you would not believe. It was absolutely the point, and—at least, I hope—went some of the distance to make Of Echoes Born a little bit more comfortable for readers who don’t maybe love short fiction as much as they love novels.

I, on the other hand, am loud and proud of the shorter fictions (novelettes and novellas included) and the sheer joy I got in releasing my first collection still hasn’t worn off. Even better? The positive response has me thinking my plan to continue the stories with these characters is actually a decent one.

There’s no stopping me now, in other words.

Speaking of those characters, while I plug away at “Faux-Ho-Ho,” I’ve already had a few cameos. Ru pops up almost immediately (the start of “Faux-Ho-Ho” begins with the main character Silas remembering how Ru reacted when he read the dedication page of Nick Wilson’s novel Ornamental). Later on, Phoebe helps Silas outfit his “boyfriend” for their visit to meet Silas’s family. Oh, and Silas rents one of the apartments over Bittersweets, and his landlord is Marion.

When I was working on Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks, I snuck in a mention of Ryan from “Leap” (my story in Boys of Summer), as well as a certain teacher from “In Memoriam.” Bittersweets gets mentioned, too, tying things back in to Of Echoes Born and “Handmade Holidays.” Ru would be the first to say that small coffee shop chain is one of the cornerstones of the Village, and he’d be right.

All this to say I’m not done with Ian Simon, Dawn Solati, or Bao Nguyen. I’m not done with Nick and Ru and the rest of Misfit Toys, either. And while Gabe and Justin hit it off, there’s someone I can’t wait to introduce to Ivan (who runs the tea shop in the Village), and although I penned a flash fic piece about what happened between Michel and Clive after Hans Köhler’s wake, I’d like to return to them, too.

First up is “Faux-Ho-Ho” since the deadline for the holidays is at the end of July. I’ve already got Ivan’s story edited (it’s called “A Little Village Blend.”) And I’ve always wanted to try my had at a “proximity” romance, and I can’t help but think that Kevin might be just the guy who’d get stuck somewhere cold and snowy during the holidays, if I can just think of someone to strand him with…

The Village is full of stories, and I’m so happy I get to tell them.

In case you were wondering where the crossovers appear in Of Echoes Born, here’s a quick-and-dirty list:

Prescient and aura-seeing Ian (Christian) Simon appears in “There & Then,” “Heart,” and “Here & Now.” (All three stories are in Of Echoes Born, though “Heart” originally appeared in Fool for Love: New Gay Fiction).
Ian’s close high school friend Dawn Solati appears in “There & Then,” and “Here & Now.”
Bao Nguyen, Ian’s former friend and now nebulous something-else, appears in “There & Then,” “Negative Space,” and “Here & Now.”
Rick Barritt is mentioned in “There & Then,” and appears in “The Psychometry of Snow.” (Both stories are in Of Echoes Born, though “The Psychometry of Snow” originally appeared in Bears of Winter (you can read it for free at that link).)
Fuca, the small town in British Columbia on the Juan de Fuca Strait, is the setting of “Time and Tide,” and is mentioned in “Here Be Dragons.” There’s another Fuca story, “Wind and Tree,” which appears in the anthology Tales from the Den, and involves the creation of the cabins Dylan rents, as well as two other families in Fuca with gifted heritages.
Jill Binder, the art teacher, appears in “Pentimento” and “Negative Space.”
Michel, the owner of the Village gallery, FunkArt, appears in “Pentimento,” and is mentioned in “A Little Village Magic” and “Here & Now.” There’s also a free little flash fic piece I wrote about him and Clive here.
Justin Cochrane appears in “Pentimento,” stars in “A Little Village Magic,” and is mentioned in “Here & Now.” It’s possible you might recognize him from somewhere else, too, but I’ve got a bit of work to do to explain that, and that’ll happen in another story…
Marion, the matriarch of the Village, is mentioned in “Pentimento,” and appears in “A Little Village Magic.” But her first (unnamed) appearance goes back way further than that, to “Vanilla,” which was printed in Threesome: Him, Him, and Me, a story that also details the re-opening of the Village candy shop, and puts the owner of Bittersweets, Pete Marlin, on the page, too.
Bailey Haliburton is mentioned in “A Psychometry of Snow” before she appears in “A Little Village Magic.”
Julian Mitchell from “Elsewhen” earns a place on the memorial wall in “A Little Village Magic,” so it seems something about his life did indeed change thanks to the intervention of the other Julian.
The Byrnes vineyard from “The Finish” pops up again in “Here Be Dragons” and “Here & Now.”
Phoebe, the trans woman clothing designer, is mentioned in “Here Be Dragons,” but her first appearance is in “Handmade Holidays,” and she—and her awesome shop in the Village, Urbane Myth, shows up again in “Saving the Date.”
In “Struck,” the bookstore where Chris works, Book It, is usually managed by Tracey, who is on maternity leave. That’s the same store where Nick Wilson is working at the start of “Handmade Holidays,” before she goes on maternity leave.

There’s more, of course, but those are the connections within (and without) of Of Echoes Born. And it’ll blur more as time goes by.

 

Friday Flash Fics — This Is A Job For…

Today’s Friday Flash Fics is a Pride Month scene, and given it’s Pride Month, I couldn’t think of a better character to revisit than Kieran (and Sebastien). It’s been a year since the end of Light in this flash fiction piece, and it’s time for Pride again, in more ways than one…

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This is a Job For…

“Relax.” Sebastien squeezed Kieran’s shoulder. It didn’t help.

“I’m trying.”

“You’re not trying. You’re here as you. You’re not needed as him. No one is going to…”

“Start tossing floats at me?”

Sebastien exhaled, a loud breezy sigh. Had he not been wearing a leather harness it might have been less distracting to watch what that did his chest.

Oui. Focus on that.

His telepathy was still very weak. Kieran could hear Sebastien’s thoughts, and it was easier to do so when Sebastien was trying to let Kieran hear his thoughts, but everything about Sebastien’s awoken telepathic and psychokinetic ability had a really short range. Perhaps a foot past his skin, or two feet at best.

“As much as I love focusing on that,” Kieran said, “I can’t help it. I’m nervous. Last year…”

“Was last year.”

Kieran nodded. “Okay. Okay.” He let Sebastien pull him in for a hug, and then they continued walking, hand in hand. An arch of balloon rainbows designated the start of the community area. A whole stretch of Bank Street had been cordoned off. Stalls, small stages, and even a beer tent awaited.

The parade had made it all the way. He should relax.

Instead, he opened his mind and skimmed the thoughts of all the minds in the area. Just a light touch, enough to get a sense of the mood and any worry or danger…

“You’re doing it again,” Sebastien said, though the frown on his face made it clear he wasn’t sure exactly what Kieran was doing. Also he looked hot when he frowned. It really was annoying how pretty much every mood suited the big guy.

“Just checking,” Kieran said, suppressing a flash of guilt. It didn’t take a lot of effort to quickly run through the surface of all the minds around him. Nothing felt worrisome. Everything was fine.

They stopped at a stand and got hot-dogs, and then some of Sebastien’s friends came up to say hello. Dating a former Mr. Leather Ottawa meant interruptions at most queer-related events.

Sometimes, that bothered Kieran. Right now? It gave him the opportunity to “check in” on the whole area again.

This time, he snagged on a thought.

I shouldn’t even be here.

Kieran kept smiling at the three men who were talking with Sebastien—and did the blond really have to keep stroking Sebastien’s arm like that?—while he let his mind focus. In front of him, to the right…

There.

There was a lone man, eighteen or nineteen or maybe in his early twenties, standing by himself. Unlike most of the people present, he didn’t wear a riot of colour or carry any other symbol or sign. Instead, he looked into the street fair and gnawed on his lower lip.

I should just go.

“I’ll be right back,” Kieran said, and Sebastien nodded and smiled.

It only took a few seconds to approach.

“Happy Pride,” Kieran said.

The young man blinked at him, surprised. “Oh. Happy Pride.” A slow flush crept up his neck.

Can he tell? There was a spike in anxiety from the man’s mind. How can he tell?

“First Pride?” Kieran asked.

The man just nodded.

“That’s awesome,” Kieran said. “Here.” He undid the rainbow bracelet he’d picked up before the parade and held it out. “A little bling for your first Pride.”

It took the anxious guy a second, but he took the bracelet. He bit his bottom lip again, then put it on his wrist.

“Thanks.” I can take it off before I go home.

“So what do you think?” Kieran said, trying to ignore the pulses of worry the guy was pumping out.

“Sorry?”

“Of the parade, or the party… Did you go to any of the other events? There’s a big dance tonight.”

“Oh,” the guy swallowed. “No, this is… This is the first… anything, I guess. I just…” He shrugged, and blushed again. “After last year…”

Kieran winced. “Yeah. Last year.” When a lunatic had hurt dozens of people and nearly killed both him and Sebastien, specifically.

“It’s just…” He paused. Don’t be stupid.

“Go on,” Kieran said.

“It’s just… I wondered if maybe… he’d be here.”

Kieran swallowed.

See? He thinks you’re an idiot.

“No, I don’t,” Kieran said, then thinking quickly, “I mean, I don’t know.”

“They call him Pride,” the guy said. “I mean. That’s what they say he calls himself.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“I just thought. Like… Maybe, if I came here… If I saw him..?” He trailed off.

“If you saw him?”

It would be a sign. That it’s okay. That I’m okay. “Nothing,” the guy said, shaking his head.

Kieran took a deep breath. “So, the important thing…” he started, and waited for the guy to look at him.

Then Kieran formed lenses in the bright sunlight above the whole community fair, interrupting himself, and doing his best to look as shocked and surprised as anyone else when the light around them shattered into dozens of shifting rainbows.

“Pride!” Someone yelled. Within moments, it was a chant. “Pride! Pride! Pride!”

Beside Kieran, the guy stared up into the twisting, ever-shifting colours of light above them, and grinned.

“Oh my god!” the guy said. “Holy shit!”

Kieran did his part to look up at the shifting light. He kept it going for a little while, and then narrowed a few beams of coloured light on six people at random: one red, one orange, one yellow, one green, one blue, and one purple.

Well, almost at random.

Bathed in the red light, the guy beside him laughed out loud.

“Happy Pride!” Kieran had to yell to be heard over the chanting and the laughter all around him. People were coming over as the last of the columns of light faded. Strangers introduced themselves to him, and Kieran took the opportunity to step back and watch as the guy laughed and pointed up and shook his head.

Back in the fair, he found Sebastien, who raised an eyebrow.

“What was that for?”

Kieran shrugged. “Turned out I was needed after all.”

Of Echoes Born — Now Available Everywhere!

June is Pride Month, and this particular June I’m waving my rainbow flag all the higher because Of Echoes Born released at the start of the month from Bold Strokes Books’s webstore, and as of today? It’s available everywhere. So if you were waiting for it from your local e-tailor or retailer of choice, today is the day.

I hope you enjoy it.

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Outside a hospital in Ottawa, a heartbeat returns long enough for a good-bye. Downtown, a man steps into shadows of the past to help those who have died find their way free from their memories. In Niagara, an icewine vintage is flavored with the truth of what happened on a dark evening of betrayal. In British Columbia, the snow itself can speak to someone who knows how to listen.

The past echoes through these queer tales—sometimes soft enough to grant a second chance at love, and other times loud enough to damn a killer—never without leaving those who’ve heard it unchanged.

Of Echoes Born is the first short story collection from Lambda Literary Award finalist ’Nathan Burgoine.

Advance praise from Publishers Weekly: “Burgoine assembles 12 queer supernatural tales, several of which interlock…The best tales could easily stand alone; these include ‘The Finish,’ about an aging vintner whose erotic dalliance with a deaf young man named Dennis gets complicated, and ‘Struck,’ in which beleaguered bookstore clerk Chris meets Lightning Todd, who predicts his future wealth and romance. A pair of stories set in ‘the Village,’ a gay neighborhood, feature appealing characters and romances and could be components of a fine Tales of the City–like novel.”

June Flash Fiction Draw Roundup

We’re half-way through the month, which means a sixth collection of stories! As always, because this is so much more fun with friends: a hearty thank you to everyone who took part. I can’t believe we’re at the half-way point.

So, 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. I do a draw on the first Monday of every month (the next draw will be July 2nd, 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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Given “Fantasy,” “Hot Chocolate,” and “Junkyard or Scrapyard,” my wonderful group of author friends have all manner of awesome tales to offer you. Some are funny. Some are kind of sentimental and might give you a nudge in the feels. (Some are both, thankyouverymuch, Cait). All have some kind of magic.

Here they are, alphabetically by contributor:

Lilly Amadu wrote “One Man’s Trash.”

Jeff Baker wrote “Calburnus and Chocolate.”

‘Nathan Burgoine (that’s me) wrote “Crow, Rook, Raven.”

Cait Gordon wrote “Forsooth!”

Bruce Gordon wrote “The Junkyard Brownie.”

E.H. Timms wrote “The Stuff of Dreams.”

Jamieson Wolf wrote “The Shadow Queen.”

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 July 2nd. 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. And the roundup for May (which was “Science Fiction,” “A Dog Whistle,” and “Above the Clouds”) is here.

Crow, Rook, Raven — A Flash Fiction Draw Challenge

Here’s my entry for the first Flash Fiction Draw Challenge (the post for the original June draw is here). In case you didn’t know about this challenge, there’s a video here explaining (and showing the sixth draw), but the quick version: I used a deck of cards (three suits) to randomly put together a genre (in this case: fantasy), a location (in this case: a junkyard or scrapyard) and an object (in this case: hot chocolate) 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 thought I was going to write a Triad Story and go urban fantasy, but then an idea occurred to me I could play with something I didn’t already know well, which is the whole point of this exercise, and here we are.

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Crow, Rook, Raven

The knocking startled Kobish.

It wasn’t a nervous disposition. Soldiers with nervous dispositions didn’t last in the King’s army, and Kobish had lasted longer than most. No, it was that no one ever knocked.

His family lived in Akard, and apart from weekly carts—delivered after Temple’s Day—he was left to sort castoffs by himself. If something was required, a missive was delivered with the carts. He found what was needed and left it out the night of Temple’s Day, the castoff gone by morning.

His own needs he dealt with on Market’s Day. He ate simply, tended a garden between duties, and sent the rest of his coppers to Akard. A soldier’s stipend and yardkeeper’s wages were small, but meant his sister could live comfortably without having to wed a Kingsman.

No one should come to his yard.

And still, someone knocked again.

The boy who knocked was on the edge of being a man, and wore unadorned black robes. Apprentice to one of the three towers in Nobleside, then, though whether to be crow, rook, or raven, there was no way to know. For certain he had magic.

“Hello.” The boy bowed his right shoulder in a perfect Akard bow, and with what seemed as honest respect. “My name is Bram. I wondered if you might share a cup of cacaolt.”

In his left hand, Bram held a folded yellow silk, decorated with deep brown crescents.

Kobish hadn’t had cacaolt in years. No one outside of Nobleside could.

“I…would be pleased,” Kobish said.

Bram’s whole posture relaxed.

“Come. I will warm milk.” Kobish stepped aside.

*

The first sip Kobish took eyes closed, for memory. Voices, language, faces… All came to him, and he treasured them even as he fought the pain of longing.

With the second swallow he turned his attention to his guest, who kept pace and raised his own cup a second time.

Bram’s hair was too fair to be Nobleside born, though his eyes were, dark as the cacaolt. Smooth chin, though. And narrow overall. Not pure Kingsmen.

“How did you get this?” Kobish asked.

Bram swallowed. “Fixing. And I’ll be cleaning more than my share of the shelves in the libraries. All three towers.” He shrugged. “Worth it though. I’d heard of cacaolt, of course. Read about it. But… Even the odour. It’s… wonderful.”

Kobish decided he liked this apprentice, but even so… “What do you need?”

Bram licked cacaolt from his lip. “To come here to your yard. I’m good with my hands. I’ve had to be.” For the first time, Bram’s gaze flicked to the straps and buckles around Kobish’s left thigh. “I could fix that. Make a better ankle for you.”

“This services,” Kobish said.

“How Kingsmen.” For the first time there was something other than amiability to his tone. “The whole Kingsland services. People service. Until they don’t. Then they’re tossed aside just like everything in this yard. Workers. Soldiers.” He made eye contact. Kobish didn’t look away. “Bastards, too.”

That explained the fair hair, at least. And the youth wasn’t wrong. The foot of his leg had no give. He was a former soldier, but foreign born.

Tossed aside, Bram said.

“Fixing things. With magic?”

The apprentice’s smile wasn’t quite answer, but Kobish found himself nodding anyway.

 *

Bram didn’t come often, but as seasons passed, Kobish sussed when the apprentice might arrive. It seemed tied to the moon, tides, and another, third cycle he supposed he didn’t know because he did not have magic. Bram presented him a new leg, with give and spring, and it gripped the remnant of his thigh without straps or buckles. It seemed to know his intent, and pains he’d grown used to bearing faded. Made of foreign woods—some he recognized from Akard—and metals all familiar to him from the yard, as far as he could tell it was untouched by the marks of any tool.

Magic.

The yard itself seemed the same, though Kobish knew things changed. Discarded pieces would shift after Bram’s visits, or he’d not see them again.

He had no idea if the man—Bram had crossed into manhood—was crow, rook, or raven. His magic didn’t seem to deal with the dead, or in binding, or in spirits.

After two years, Bram brought more cacaolt. They drank together, and when Bram kissed him in thanks, Kobish knew their visits were at an end.

He allowed the kiss to linger.

“You’ll Market tomorrow?” Bram said, at Kobish’s door.

Kobish nodded. “Yes.”

Bram smiled, and left.

*

Kobish bought milk. He’d enough cacaolt left for a cup, and thought it best to not let it linger. The taste brought new memories now as well as old, and he still felt a kiss on his lips. It wouldn’t do to dwell.

He was at the fruit stall when the bird landed in front of him. Wood, some metal, and wings decorated with feathers made of bright yellow silk marked with brown crescents. It trilled.

The fruitseller stepped away, nervous.

Kobish knelt. The bird hopped into his hand, then curled itself into perfect egg with tiny clicks and shifts. It was very light.

Another click, and a panel opened. The glint of gold coins caught Kobish’s breath. And there was… paper? A ticket. Passage to the Southland.

Kobish walked straight from the Market to the Dockside, an instinct—or perhaps a kiss—insisting that now would be better than later.

He watched from the deck as the ship pulled away from the harbor.

A cloud of forms rose from his former yard, on wings of wood, and silk, and metal. They rose in a twist of the air, swirling like flecks of cinnamon shaved over cacaolt, so many they blocked the sky.

Then they wheeled, flew to the Nobleside, and the towers, and the palace.

Kobish could just hear the alarms from the distance.

Fixing things, Kobish thought.

The captain, an Akarder, ordered the crew to sail on.

 

 

Catch-up Sale at @BoldStrokeBooks

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Hey! Bold Strokes Books is doing a catch-up sale on the backlists of all the authors who have new releases this month, and hey, how about that, my new release is this month!

That’s right! Since Of Echoes Born is out now, all this weekend, until June 10th, 11:59 EDT, Light, Three, Triad Blood, and Triad Soul are all 30% off!

So, if you missed any of my earlier forays into fiction, now’s a great time to pop on over to the Bold Strokes website.

#PrideMonth — Family Values

I live in a bubble.

More specifically, I live in a queer, lower-case-L liberal bubble. I often hear people refer to living in a bubble as a bad thing, and I do understand why. The bubble gives you a skewed view of what you think most people think. Talking about queer rights in my bubble doesn’t generally get met with debate—after all, the vast majority of queer people aren’t generally going to feel the need to play Devil’s Advocate over whether or not queer people should be granted equal rights and protections.

I’m not foolish enough to believe in the bubble. There are enough reminders on a near-daily basis that the bubble I live in isn’t the same as the world I live in (or even the city, or neighbourhood, or street).

Days like yesterday drive that home in no uncertain terms.

For those of you reading this from outside of Canada, we had a provincial election yesterday, which led to a majority government for the “Progressive” Conservative Party, and the premier is now Doug Ford. (For readers in the US, that’s like electing a governor of a state, more or less, and in this case, a Republican one with a terrible history of standing up for pretty much anyone other than the rich and white and straight.)

There are a lot of mitigating circumstances at play to this majority government. The biggest things is there is only one conservative option—the “Progressive” Conservatives—there are multiple options to the left of centre, the Liberals (who can generally be quite central), the New Democratic Party (who are more socialist) and the Green Party (who are small, but did get a win in Guelph). This splits the non-conservative vote often, and given how the ridings work and our first-past-the-post system, even though 59% of the votes weren’t for the PCs, they have 60% of the seats. It’s literally the opposite of what people voted for, from the popular vote point-of-view.

Which, I’m sure, sounds familiar to my U.S. readers.

I’m drifting a bit away from what I wanted to talk about today, which is actually what it’s like to be queer when your family makes it clear they’re not okay with being queer, but the election serves as a timely stage to work with: namely, I’m well aware that there are a lot of people out there—41% of voting Ontarians, say—who don’t consider queer people (or people with disabilities, or anyone not-like-them, really) to be worth more consideration than the vague promise of a tax cut of some kind, and cheap beer.

And that likely included my nephew.

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In ‘A Family By Any Other Name‘ I talk about the good family I’ve got: my In-Laws.

I’ve talked about my family before many times, and I’ve talked about how, in writing, the inclusion of reconciliation plots is often done at the cost of realism and is incredibly over-represented as a plot in fiction to the point I feel it’s a detriment. But I think today it bears repeating, and updating, and some clarity about a choice I just made.

Growing up queer in my family was awful. My mother and father were casually racist, tossing around terms and slurs as amusements and jokes—and even as a kid I recognized this as “off.” My father enjoyed a good “poofter” joke (my family being British, although he eventually updated his language to “fag” and “faggot”). He made it very, very clear on many occasions how short I fell on his measurement of masculinity, generally with a skillful and sharp turn of phrase.

That’s something we had in common, it occurs to me know: we both always had the words on the tip of our tongue.

Otherwise, I was a quiet kid. A reader and a drawer, I had zero skill at most sports, generally only one or two good friends at a time, and liked science fiction and Dungeons & Dragons. He’d been a rugby player, a member of the Oxford rowing team, and made it perfectly clear he had no idea what to do with me, nor that I had any value to him beyond an achiever of good grades, which was at least something he could put forth as a quantitative measurement of success. I avoided him. A great deal of the time, he did the same, though not without time outs for endless litanies of my general failings. I was “a big girl’s blouse.” I was “a mother’s boy.” I was “a mess.” I was “pathetic.” I was “such a girl.”

My mother wasn’t quite as directed, though I grew up with a particular hatred of the phrase “you’re hopeless” as it came my way from her on a regular basis. My sister I tried to please, but she was five years older than me, generally popular, and really we had nothing that much in common—mostly she used me as a gopher to fetch her a pop from the basement as payment to be allowed to hang out with her, or as someone to ignore while she invited her boyfriend over when my parents were out.

I retreated into books, and my few good friends, and generally tried to keep my head down. After I was aware I was queer, it was worse. Knowing full well that my father thought it was sickening—I cannot tell you how many times that was stressed in my presence—and that the very notion he might have to give his queer workers any kind of leave or rights of any kind was beyond-the-pale and ridiculous, especially civil partner health coverage, because “it was their own damn fault they got sick in the first place,” I withdrew further, and tried to repress any sign he might see. It might be worth mentioning that my father was in charge of a large company, savvy in discourse, and face-to-face with anyone who belonged to a visible (or known invisible) minority he certainly knew how to speak. At my father’s funeral, a man he’d referred to with a racial slur nearly every time he’d spoken of him in front of me came up to me and said my father had always been a “very democratic man.” I wanted to tell him the truth. I didn’t.

By the time I was doing my last year of high school, a change of my father’s job situation meant my parents left. I lived with my sister long enough to graduate high school, and then I was heading to Ottawa for University.

Anyway. Long before my father’s death, things imploded with my family, and after a phone call where my father had made it perfectly clear where I stood (and to “bugger the hell off, faggot”), there were years of silence.

My sister, to her credit, did reach out to me when it happened to tell me I was “still her brother,” but I didn’t visit really, until she had married.

I was on my own.

Honestly? I didn’t really look back and it was the first, best years of my life as a queer person. It was terrifying, and I had to drop out of university and scramble for a place to live and it took me years to get my feet under me. I crafted a persona, so if anyone decided to cut me from their life, at least I knew, inside, that they didn’t actually know me. I tried not to ask anyone for help (which was so dumb, I cannot tell you) and I was damned lucky the bear community and the drag queens were there, and later people I met through the queer centre on campus. I got the job at the bookstore. I eventually scraped enough together to get a bachelor apartment of my own. Holidays sucked at first, of course, but I found chosen family soon enough and then they felt like celebrations again. Successes.

Hopeful, rather than hopeless. And despite some really, really awful moments and hate and an attack, I’d never felt better about myself.

It was healthier to not be around them. “Family matters” is a message hammered in from all angles, but when that family isn’t a good thing, that message doesn’t come with an asterisk to remind you that there are exceptions. But there are.

The birth of my nephew, and later my niece, was a turning point, though, and when my father died, it got easier and cemented the sense that it could be worth trying again. I started to make controlled contact after they were born, on my terms. Visiting for short times which always left me feeling awful, but in the hopes that it might be worth it to have access to my nephew and niece and—maybe—be a living, breathing example of how queer people aren’t less-than. My husband hated it when I visited, as I’d always come back less than when I’d left. There’d be some thing that was said, usually without any recognition from those involved that they’d even said anything wrong. I’d try. I’d try again. And again.

Fast-forward eighteen years or so, and…it didn’t work.

I’d like to think part of that is distance. And I didn’t visit (or have them visit me) often at all. Social media and texting and e-mails are one thing, but it started to become clear that I wasn’t gaining any ground. It became frustrating to watch my nephew, especially. He’d share memes, mostly. Seeing his name on my screen generally meant it was time to do a bit of debunking research, show him the links to actual information, and gently remind him that if something seemed succinct and pithy and aligned with his views immediately, that it was worth researching to see if it was factually correct, or was just speaking to a confirmation bias. My niece would talk about how we needed to take care of the homeless and veterans before we needed to take care of immigrants. Again, I tried to educate gently, with links and discussions.

But when my nephew’s memes shifted from things like gas prices and falsehoods about minimum wage to slams against men who weren’t “masculine” enough (often, of course, in the guise of patriotism for veterans), I started to get a sick feeling in my gut again. And then my niece started sharing “queer is a mental illness” memes.

That was this week, and that was it. I lost my temper, realized I was speaking to a sixteen year old and a nineteen year old and they were old enough to know better by now. I’d had enough, and I wasn’t polite about it. I warned my mother I’d done it, and my mother defended them, and I realized I’d done the same damn thing all over again.

I’d let myself place value with people who didn’t value people like me. Again.

If you have queer friends who aren’t in contact with their families, don’t push them. Don’t say things like, “you only have the one family!” Don’t tell them they should try, or they’ll regret things left unsaid. The day before my father died, he ranted and raved at me (and all the nurses nearby) very clearly how he felt about his “faggot son.” To this day, I wish I hadn’t gone back to see him before he died. I know he was basically stoned out of his mind on a mix of medication and oxygen deprivation, but it certainly didn’t make the things he said untrue to his beliefs.

It’s possible my nephew and my niece might change. It is. Maybe they’ll meet someone who’ll change their mind. But right now? That person isn’t going to be me. It’s not my job to drag them there just because I’m related to them.

 

Friday Flash Fics — Traditional Values

Today’s Friday Flash Fics is a rare dark story for me and comes from three places. One, recent events. Two, the book the man is holding in photo, which one of the members pointed out was a Lovecraft book. And Three, my utter hatred of the way people use the word ‘Traditional’ when they mean something very, very different.

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Traditional Values

“Stocking up?” Hank said.

The man with the basket turned, looked at Hank, and then smiled a slow smile that made Hank think of hunger and thirst and the pleasantness that came after a long and enjoyable self-indulgence.

“I like to read,” he said. Suspenders stretched tight over wide shoulders and a broad chest, and the arm holding the basket—already full of books—filled the sleeve of his shirt admirably.

“Me too,” Hank said, holding up the two novels he’d found so far.

“What brings you to the city?”

Hank blinked, a little surprised. “What makes you think I don’t live here?”

“I don’t just read books,” the man said. Hank realized he had an accent, though it was slight and hard to place. “I read people. You’re not from here.” He picked up a couple of novels with twisted misshapen things on the cover, smiled, and popped them in his basket.

“Really?” Hank was just a bit unsettled. It was a good guess.

The man smiled again, and it had the same effect it had the first time. “You’re wearing a conference name-badge.”

Hank glanced down. Well, crap. There it was, his pass to the conference, hanging around his neck. At least it only had his first name on it. He tucked it into his shirt pocket.

“You also read badges,” Hank said.

“Those, too,” the man picked up a fantasy novel, eyed it, shook his head and put it back.

“Not a fan of fantasy?”

“Not that kind of fantasy.” He stressed the word.

Hank had to swallow. Lord, but this man was handsome. Nice chin. Just a shade of stubble. Okay, maybe there were a few too many hoops in one of his ears and there was a tattoo Hank couldn’t quite make out on his forearm, but the forearm itself..? Yes, please.

“So where’s your conference?” Another book picked up and returned.

“The EY Centre,” Hank said.

“What’s it about?” This came with a brief moment of eye contact, and Hank wondered if he’d ever met someone with eyes as dark a blue as this man’s before. Midnight eyes.

“Political rally,” Hank said.

“Ah.” The smile returned. “So this is you escaping the realities of politics?” He nodded, a gesture that seemed to encompass the whole open bookfair, and maybe himself as well.

“Everyone likes to escape politics,” Hank said.

“So this rally,” the man said. The accent was a little stronger now. “It gives you a hotel room?”

Hank had to swallow again. He nodded.

*

Beneath the shirt and suspenders was an expanse of skin that felt hot to the touch. Hank kissed him feverishly, and the man took hold of Hank’s neck in one hand, guiding him down. He went there willingly, and gladly.

Hank’s hands shook. This man was handsome and it had been a while since he’d had the opportunity. He knelt in front, but nearly lost his balance when his knee struck one of the books. It had fallen from the man’s basket when the man had tossed it aside.

“Careful,” the man said.

Hank picked up the book. On the cover, a face made up from various body parts and strange shadows met his gaze, and he suppressed a shiver. He put it back in the basket.

“Not a fan of fantasy?”

Hearing his own words said back to him, and with a teasing lilt of the man’s strange accent brought Hank back to the task at hand. His fingers worked the man’s zipper.

“Not that kind of fantasy,” Hank said.

“What about family?” the man said.

Hank paused. “What?”

“Your conference,” the man said. He reached down and took Hank’s right hand. “You take off your ring, but you rally around families?” He smiled again, that same, slow smile. “Or am I wrong?”

Hank hesitated, but the man made no move to stop what he was doing with his other hand. He pulled on the man’s jeans and underwear, exposing him. The man’s smile only grew.

“It’s just politics,” Hank said. “Family is important to a lot of people. Traditional values are important.”

“There we agree,” the man said. He pulled Hank up to his feet again, undoing Hank’s shirt and pulling it open. “Traditions. Rituals.”

“Right,” Hank was having a hard time concentrating. The man’s hands were warm and his fingers seemed to be everywhere at once. Undoing buttons and zippers and touching him. “Values.”

The man leaned in close, and then took Hank’s face in his hands. “Would you like to share my values? A tradition or two? Maybe a ritual?” His accent was thick now, and Hank had never been more turned on in his life.

“Yes.”

The man smiled, and then something twisted. The fingers behind Hank’s neck seemed to lace together and grip tighter by the passing second. And there was a sound, a wet sound.

Hank tried to push back, but his hands seemed to sink into the man’s chest—slipping through the man’s skin and into something hot and liquid. He wanted to look down, but he couldn’t turn his face.

The man’s eyes were so dark. And in the dark, midnight blue, Hank saw movement. Something uncoiled, something was reaching… The depth of the man’s eyes were impossible, wells into somewhere that could not be…

Hank opened his mouth to scream, but the man closed the final gap and pressed his own lips to Hank’s, and then a stream of slick, writhing things were filling his mouth and his throat and then, mercifully, his mind began to break.

*

John frowned out into the lecture hall, shaking his head. The rally had only been going one day and already they’d had two key speakers not show. Whatever happened to commitment to ideals? He checked his watch, trying to hide his annoyance. Okay, if Hank White wasn’t here to deliver his usual piece on Traditional Values in the next ten seconds, he’d find one of the alternates. He pulled out his phone, stepping back out into the hallway. He still had five minutes.

He bumped into someone, and forced himself not to snap out something rude. Appearances mattered.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, putting a gentle smile in place. “I should be more careful.”

“It’s fine. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” The speaker was a very attractive woman, John thought. He’d never seen eyes so dark a shade of blue before. “I was trying to find the family talk?”

“It’s this room,” John said.

The woman smiled at him. It was a very good smile, a slow smile that made John think of hunger and the meal that awaited them this evening and—he returned the smile in kind—how he had his evening free of any obligations. Especially his family.

“I’m glad to have found it,” the woman said, her eyes never leaving his. “I’m a big believer in traditional ways.”

John put his phone away. Maybe he’d lead this talk himself instead.

 

 

#PrideMonth — Readers

I wasn’t sure what I was going to talk about today for Pride Month. Some pretty awful stuff happened the other day, but I also finished the final proofs on Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks today, and I have a post bubbling in my head about the cast of characters in the fictional Rainbow Club in the book…

And then I got an e-mail from my publisher about a NetGalley review.

Of Echoes Born launched this month, and so it’s up on NetGalley for review. If you don’t know what NetGalley is, it’s a kind of digital ARC resource (ARCs are Advance Reading Copies, books sent to reviewers, librarians, booksellers, and chain buyers so they can have read the book prior to launch and help generate noise or place confident orders of product they know they want to handsell). Bloggers and reviewers and booksellers and librarians can get access to NetGalley, and request digital copies of books to read, review, and promote.

Honestly? It’s an awesome tool, and I’m so glad I have access to it.

And I wasn’t particularly sure much would happen on NetGalley this time because short fiction isn’t as easy a sell to a lot of people. In fact, I’d go further and say short fiction collections are generally a pretty hard sell. Certainly, when I worked at the bookstore, that was my experience.

But this review I got sent today? This review is frankly perfect.

Every now and then, if you’re really lucky as a writer, a book will connect with a reader in the way you intended it to. I don’t want that to sound defeatist, because it’s not; most of the time, at least in my experience, what a reader gets out of a book is as much personal as guidance from the author. Things like theme and narrative weave together in certain ways, and certainly the author is the one who put them there, but what a reader discovers inside a book is often unique to that reader, and often things the reader might express about the narrative are a surprise to the writer.

And this is a good thing, don’t get me wrong. I love seeing what people see in things I’ve written, especially when I didn’t consciously put it there to be found. I cannot tell you how many awesome conversations I’ve had with readers and fellow authors about exactly this. It’s one of the wonderful things about telling stories.

But when I’m trying to do something specific, and a reader gets that? Well. Wonderful doesn’t cover it.

The whole review is over on NetGalley, but this words in particular:

[image error]Of Echoes Born contains plenty of hints of romance, but the focus is more on highlighting voices. Each story served like a snapshot in time of a defining moment in that particular character’s life—when they’ve find solace, strength, or confidence in themself.

…

Each story was distinct but there was a cohesiveness that made the transitions seamless. This was enhanced when characters, places, important names would pop up from story to story, uniting the theme almost giving nods to those who came before. While I enjoyed each short, my favorite aspect were the bookends of the collection. It was a surprise, tying everything together and leaving me covered in goosebumps.

This is everything I could have hoped for from a reader of Of Echoes Born. Everything.

So, readers, thank you. From the bottom of my heart, for every review you post, every moment of word-of-mouth? Thank you. You do magic.

#PrideMonth — What’s the Opposite of Queer?

Pride Month is here, and in the last five days I’ve already seen more than a few references to who Pride is or isn’t for. A few of those references I can agree with (say, for example, agreeing that Pride is not for empowered organizations who carry guns and wear uniforms).

But then the other thing happens. And it happens all the time.

The use of “straight” as somehow the opposite of queer, or as synonymous with “not queer.” I see it in books and writing (and even in books and writing from queer authors), I see it in memes, I see it in well-meaning slogans of support. Basically, once you look for it, you see it everywhere.

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One of the points I tried to slip into Handmade Holidays was how Phoebe, a trans woman, is straight. She’s still queer.

When I say queer, it’s important to note I’m using as wide an umbrella as I can with the term. Especially because of discussions like the ones around who Pride is for—and more to the point, who Pride isn’t for—it matters to be clear. Pride? Pride is for queer people.

So, when I say “queer” I’m including aromantic queers. I’m including asexual queers. I’m including trans queers. I’m including demigender individuals, enbies, pansexuals… The entire queer alphabet, is what I’m going for here.

Some of those queer people are straight. A trans man who is attracted to women absolutely is allowed heterosexuality/straightness as his label, and he’s still queer because he’s trans. Pride is still for him. An aromantic woman who is sexually attracted to men? Same deal. Straight can also be applied to romantic feelings when sexuality isn’t at play, meaning asexual queer people can—and do—refer to themselves as straight on the romantic spectrum, but they’re still asexual queers. Pride is for them.

There’s also the reality faced by people in queer relationships who aren’t queer themselves. If one person in a relationship is queer, that relationship itself contains queerness. Bi and Pan queers who are in relationships with straight people don’t suddenly become not-queer, and their partner(s) are exposed to the same queer-hating crap that rains down on the rest of us queers (with the added “bonus” of sometimes getting crapped on from within the community, too, which just adds to the suck). There’s an intersection happening here, and the reality of saying Pride is for a person, but not their partner strikes me as yet another faced of bi- or pan- erasure/exclusion. Queer relationships are queer. Queer families are queer.

Anyway. I mentioned earlier this month that “Love is Love” isn’t a singular rallying charge for all of queerdom (because, again, queer doesn’t mean romance), a flip side of that same coin is to remember that straight doesn’t mean not-queer. They’re not opposites. If you mean not-queer, some variation of those two words should suffice: “people who aren’t queer.” “Non-queer people.”

Making a new habit of language that includes queer people rather than gatekeeping some of them out—even by accident—is always a worthy endeavour. We’ve been changing our language since we started. This is no different.

*

(I’ll also note here: It used to be a combination of allo- (meaning allosexual and/or alloromantic), cisgender, and hetero- (meaning heterosexual and/or heteroromantic) worked to be specific about including trans and ace queers, but variations of that word has been repeatedly weaponized against asexual and aromantic queers, so right now I’m going to stick to the easiest and go with “not queer” or “people who aren’t queer” or the like.)