'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 89

Friday Flash Fics – The End of the World As We Know It

When I first got the call for Bears of Winter (in which I eventually wrote “The Psychometry of Snow“), I had an idea for a post-apocalyptic love story, set just after Christmas where a planned viral outbreak resulting from biological terrorism wiped out pretty much everyone over the holidays, and in Ottawa in particular, it had hit in the middle of an ice-storm leading up to Christmas, further making bad things worse. I never quite got the story to work, though, and “Psychometry” struck me shortly thereafter and the original story ended up in the “maybe” drawer.

When I saw the Friday Flash Fics photo this week, I knew exactly what I wanted to do, and reworked a piece of that story.

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It’s the End of the World As We Know It…

The sky was gorgeous. Benoit couldn’t decide if that felt wrong somehow, or if maybe it was hopeful. Like, okay, so the centre didn’t hold. Things fell apart. But look: beautiful sunrises.

He shifted in the bed. Ray was already up, but unless he was mistaken, neither of them had woken the other last night, which meant no nightmares. That was another first, among many. He reached out and traced his hand across the empty sheet where Ray had been, since they’d fallen into the bed together, since they’d kissed…

“Good morning.”

He rolled over, putting the window to his back and saw Ray standing in the doorway. He had two mugs, and both steamed in the chill air. He was already dressed, of course. The bedroom, even with the door open, wasn’t much warmer than the winter morning outside.

The tea was good. Hot, and sweetened, so Ray must have found some sugar in the kitchen of the townhouse. Ray sat with him, and together they looked out the window.

“So,” Ray said.

“So,” Benoit said. He eyed Ray, smiling. Ray had a similar look, like he wasn’t sure if he should be grinning or not.

“I was thinking…” Ray said. “Maybe we could open the presents?”

Benoit laughed out loud. They hadn’t gotten as far from the mall where they’d first crashed out after finding each other as the only survivors in the hospital, gathering strength and recovering by the large enclosed glass fireplace that was the centre of the food court. When they’d finally felt strong enough, Ray had suggested a depot he knew—by then, Benoit knew he’d been a truck driver before—and they’d looted the sport’s supply store for snow shoes and made their way.

They’d only gotten as far as the townhouses before the sunlight failed. Between the ice storm that had hit at the same time as the outbreak, and all the snow that had come after, it was rough going. They’d picked a place with a chimney and no car in the driveway, hoping that would mean whoever had lived there weren’t likely to be found inside.

They’d been correct. And then, delighting in finding a gas stove they could light with their looted lighters, Benoit had cooked pasta in cans of vegetable broth, and they’d found some wine (and drank all of it) and then when Ray was taking off his shirt to change for bed Benoit had said something like “It’s the end of the world as we know it, and you look fine,” and then…

Well. They’d slept through nightmare free for the first time, after.

“You think it’s grim?” Ray asked. The big, burly former trucker looked chagrinned.

“I think it’s a great new tradition. Hell, it’s Christmas for the foreseeable future. No one’s gonna pull down the decorations, right? We might as well make it a thing: anywhere we break into? We open the presents.”

Ray nodded. “There might be something good. Useful, even.”

“Hey, I think we’re nailing this looting thing, frankly.”

“Come on. I got a fire going. It’s warm in the living room.”

“Awesome.” Benoit slid out of the bed. If he maybe took a bit longer sliding into his clothes than was strictly necessary, it was because Ray was ogling him so openly. They’d both been faking and hiding since they’d met each other. It seemed almost funny now.

“I was thinking,” Ray said, as they searched the kitchen cabinets for whatever might make for a good breakfast. “It might be smart for us not to try to get all the way to the depot today, either. Break it into bits. Give us time to find places we can rest up.”

Benoit nodded. They’d both been really winded by the end of their trek yesterday. Whatever it was that had killed pretty much everyone after days of migraine-level pain, it had taken a lot out of him.

“Also,” Ray was blushing now, a redness that crept up from his neck before vanishing into his beard. “If we stop at Bank Street today, there are some things we could pick up.”

“Things?” Benoit said. He tried to remember what shops were on Bank street. There were many.

“Just, y’know. Stuff.” Ray said.

Benoit raised one eyebrow.

“Lube,” Ray said. “Y’know. If… If you’d like to maybe have some on hand.”

Benoit smiled. It still felt strange to smile. Ever since he’d woken up in that hospital, he’d wondered if there would be good things in the world ever again. And what he’d need to survive in whatever kind of world he’d just woken up in.

Lube.

“Bank street it is,” Benoit said. Then, taking a deep breath and forcing a casualness to his voice, he added, “You think there’ll be any of those, y’know, harnesses?”

Ray choked on his tea. But once he managed to swallow, the big man nodded at him. “If not,” he said. “I know where we can go after that.”

When Ray left to grab his backpack from the front hall, Benoit looked out the window again. The sunrise was moving along as always.

“Hopeful,” Benoit said, deciding.

 

Writing Wednesday – At the Closing of the Year

Final Tally
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Putting this cover here one more time because queer chosen family holiday.

So, this year my goal was to submit something once a month and to be better about reprints and finding homes for reprints. I succeeded, I think, by both measures, and frankly, I’m chuffed.

The final numbers?

I submitted 17 pieces for publication (5 of which were reprints), and I had 8 acceptances (including 4 reprints). I also only got a single whopping rejection. Everything else just went unanswered (and as such, is an assumed rejection). That’s probably my least favourite part of the whole writing gig: silence. Finding out you didn’t make it isn’t great, but when it comes with a rejection, at least you know and can start working on the piece for a new home. When it’s floating in the void, you either have to (a) follow up (which always feels awkward) or (b) wait for the table of contents to be announced and see you’re not on it.

But that’s the gig, no?

Those numbers don’t include the YA novel or my upcoming collection (which would boost the “new” stories by six and the reprints by six), but those were under contract, so there was no real “rejection” opportunity there.

So. Next year? Next year’s plan is to be a bit more specific with my goals. I still want to submit something monthly, which is what I’m starting to think of as my bare-minimum plan, but I also want to accomplish one novel and (at least) one novella.

The biggest thing? I don’t want to set myself up for failure—I fight pretty hard not to be disheartened at writer folk who can honestly say, “Oh, I only released eight novels this year, it was a slow year for me!”—so I believe the one novel, one novella, twelve “other” (monthly and short) submissions is the way go to. If I try to do more than that, I’m risking my brain melting from the screen time, so… no. I’ll never be the novelist who has multiple books out in a year. Even doing the collection and the novel alongside each other this year was taxing. Lesson learned.

For sure, though, I do want to write another holiday novella. It was so damn uplifting to have something queer chosen-family positive to talk about throughout the holidays this year. I think I’m going to attempt a “fake relationship” story: “Faux Ho Ho.”

What are your writing goals for 2018? Do you struggle with output comparison woes? You may very well be the “more” someone else wishes they could manage.

Open Calls for Submission

And now, the open calls:

Chicken Soup for the Soul—Various titles, various themes, various deadlines, 1,200 word count limit.
Mischief Corner Books—Open to submissions for various themes, including Legendary Love, Everyday Heroes, Cowboys and Space; these are open rolling calls, so no deadline.
NineStar Press—Open to submissions for various length prose, paranormal, science fiction, fantasy and horror; Click “Currently Seeking” header for details; word count limit variable.
Spectrum Lit—This is an ongoing patreon flash fic provider, 1,500 hard word count limit; LGBTQ+ #ownvoice only; ongoing call.
Best Gay Erotica for the Year, Volume 4—Cleis Press; 2,500-5,000 word count limit. Original stories strongly preferred; deadline January 5th, 2018 (but the earlier the better).
Fantastic Beasts and Where to F*** Them—Circlet Press; Erotic short stories with magical beasts and shapeshifter tropes; 3,000 to 7,000 word count limit; deadline February 1st, 2018.
Lost—NineStar Press. LGBTQIA+ romantic pairing. Both HEA and HFN are acceptable, Click “Lost” header for the theme. 30k-120k word count limit; deadline April 30th, 2018.
Happiness in Numbers—Less than Three Press; Polyamorous LGBTQIA+ anthology, non-erotic polyamorous stories that explore the idea of “Family”; 10k to 20k word count limit; deadline April 30th, 2018.
MLR Press—Quite a few different themes are open; 10k to 40k word count limit; deadlines vary, but the earliest right now is April 30th, 2018.

Flash Fiction Draw Challenge

I’ve mentioned a few times how I took part in the NYCMidnight Flash Fiction contest, and I did enjoy it quite a bit. At the end, I wasn’t sure about the judges’ critiques, so I think I’m going to give next year a pass, but the piece I liked the most about the contest was the random assignment of a genre, object, and setting.

[image error]So, it occurred to me I could stretch myself (and anyone else who wanted to join in) by recreating the contest for myself, using a three suits from a deck of cards. The other part of the contest that kept me honest was the turnaround time: each draw only gave the contestants two days to work on the piece, and they only found out what assignment they’d been given at midnight. So, in my case, the morning after. Because I’m old and asleep at midnight.

Instead, I’m thinking a draw at the start of each month, and a week to deliver, but I’ll stick to the “first Monday/following Monday” of each month, to keep it specific. I threw together a quick chart, using bits and pieces of the three challenges that I never had assigned to me, and this is the result:

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I’ll only allow each card once, to avoid both repeats and because that means as the year rolls on, I’ll be able to see what’s “inbound” so to speak, and when December comes up, there’ll only be two options left for each slot, which means not quite as much to worry about in the busiest month.

I’ll do the first draw Monday, January 1st, 2018, which means the first 1,000 word (or less) piece should go up on Monday, January 8th, 2018.

Anyone want to join me?

Monday Flash Fics – Well Lit

The image for this week’s Monday Flash Fics prompt is… well. It’s this. Which is so over-the-top hilarious to me it made me think of Lightning Todd from my short story, “Struck,” and how over-the-top he was. So, I decided to have some poor soul on vacation bump into a vacationing Todd, and here’s the result.

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“Well Lit”

No one else seemed to be laughing, so José managed to just stare, incredulously, at the lights. It was like there was an in-joke, and he wasn’t, well, in.

This whole Christmas, he thought, was a bad idea. He wanted a coffee.

Everyone around him wore pretty heavy coats. It made him, in his hoodie, feel like he stuck out in just one more way of many. Did they really think this was winter? When he’d climbed on the airplane in Ottawa, he’d had to wait for a deicing, and there’d been so much snow coming down he’d wondered if the whole flight might be canceled.

But now he was here. In the warm night air. Looking at palm trees covered in lights. Which really, really looked like–

“Well, the trees are having a way better time than I am,” came a voice to José’s left.

José turned. There was a trim, blond guy in shiny grey pants and a tight blue button-down shirt looking up at the lit palm trees. The blond frowned, and tilted his head. “They’re supposed to be cocks, right? What’s the light version of well hung? Well lit?”

José choked back a laugh, wondering who the guy might be talking to. No one was with him.

Then the guy looked up, and José had a brief moment of being surprised at how blue the guy’s eyes were before he pointed at him and said, loudly. “Oh, thank fuck. There you are.”

José looked around, but no, the guy was talking to him. “Excuse me?”

The guy walked over, and gave him an up-and-down look. “Huh. Normally you guys need more coiffing than this. Nicely done.”

“What?” José glanced around. Maybe this was a set-up after all.

“You look pretty nice,” the guy said. “I’m just used to there needing to be more work. Okay. Anyway. I’m trying to enjoy my redhead vacation and your vibes are getting all clumpy and orange and it’s messing with my good time. You need to stop that.”

Okay. This guy wasn’t joking, he was maybe just… unbalanced? “I’m sorry?”

“It’s okay, I’m feeling forgiving. I’m Lightning Todd,” the guy said, as though that cleared something up.

José shook his head.

“Right,” the guy–Lightning Todd–said. “We’re in the states. Duh. I’m kind of a big thing in Canada.”

“I’m Canadian, actually,” José said.

Lightning Todd pursed his lips. “You need to have the cookie ready. That should do it. And just… y’know… let the orange stuff go. Yes, it’s sad, but you knew more than you think you knew, I think.”

“I knew more…” José shook his head. “Cookie?”

“Right. Cookie. Letting go. You got it?” Lightning Todd wiped his palms together. “Great. Now, go fix that, and I’m gonna go find the redhead with the nice butt. He and I are going to have a great week.” He looked off into the air, in an unfocused way, then came back to himself, nodded, and turned. “You’ve been struck!” he said, aiming two finger guns at José, then pivoting and walking away.

José watched him go.

A cookie?

José shook off the odd encounter and got in line at the first coffee shop he could find. When he spotted a single gingerbread cookie left on the display, a Santa, he hesitated. Feeling stupid, he picked it up, and bought it along with his coffee.

He sipped the coffee while he walked in the warm (to him) air, and kept eyeing the brightly decorated palm trees. They totally looked like cocks. Lightning Todd–whoever he was–was right about that.

He sat on one of the benches, and decided to people watch. It was one of the many things that Nico had been unwilling to do, and the more José thought about how many of the things he enjoyed doing that Nico hadn’t done, the more he figured he should have seen the sudden Christmas breakup coming.

Yes, it’s sad, but you knew more than you think you knew, I think. José frowned. Huh. That was…something.

A handsome hipster dad carrying a little girl was strolling. The little girl was pointing at the lights, and her father was looking at the trees with an amused expression on his face. He had a really nicely trimmed beard and moustache. Nice jeans too. Snug.

The girl turned to point at one of the other trees, and something dropped from her other hand. The dad tried to catch it, but he just knocked it midair and it landed in a puddle.

“I’m sorry,” the girl said. “I’ll pick it up.”

“Oh, honey, no, you can’t eat that now. It went in the puddle.”

José glanced down. It was a gingerbread cookie. Huh.

He rose before he could stop himself. They were only a step or two away. “Here,” he said, pulling out the cookie. “It’s still wrapped. It was the last one.”

The dad eyed him, and smiled. Man. It was a good smile, too. “You may have just saved Christmas,” he said. Great voice. Also, his hazel eyes crinkled when he smiled. Man. All the hot ones were straight.

To avoid drooling too much, José knelt down and picked up the ruined cookie, tossing it into the bin beside the bench. By the time he’d done that, the little girl had unwrapped the cookie and was taking a bite.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re very welcome,” José said.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” the man said.

“Does it show?”

“No jacket.”

“Ah. I’m Canadian.”

“That explains the good deed. I hear Canadians are always polite.”

José laughed.

The little girl whispered in her dad’s ear. He listened, with a comic concentration face, then nodded to her seriously. “You think so?”

She nodded.

“My niece thinks you should join us for our walk.” The man was flushing just a little. “But you can say no if you’ve got plans. It is Christmas.”

“I have no plans. This was a last-minute thing,” José said, and then his brain caught up. Wait. Niece?

“You’ve got no plans for Christmas Day?” the man said. His eyebrows rose.

“Uh, it’s just… Home wasn’t really a good idea this year. I figured, maybe going somewhere warm would…” José squirmed. “Basically I ran away from having to answer breakup questions.”

The man regarded him for half a breath. José knew his face was burning.

“So some idiot man let you go?” the man said. “Right before Christmas?”

José managed a nod. So much for gender neutral camouflage.

The little girl whispered in her uncle’s ear again. He made the same concentration face, and nodded to her seriously again.

“You’re right. He’s very cute. And nice. I’ll ask.” He turned to José. “You’re welcome to join us for our dinner. Alicia’s parents are really good cooks, and I contribute by taking her out of the house while they work their magic. I am a terrible cook. But I love kids. And it turns out I also like polite Canadians with cookies.”

“I’m José,” José said, and he couldn’t help but think about how Nico didn’t like kids. “And dinner with Alicia sounds lovely.”

The little girl smiled at him, taking another big bite of the Santa cookie.

“I’m Clark,” the man said. “Nice to meet you, José.” He gestured. “This way.”

They started walking together. José took one last look behind him at the lit trees, and caught a glimpse of a trim blond man walking arm in arm with a redhead on the far side of the square. He also decided to  leave all his thoughts of Nico right there with him.

 

 

Five Shillings and Sixpence

This was written for the Renaissance Press Holiday Blog Roll 2017!

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Knocker from Pixabay.

Five Shillings and Sixpence

None of this is right, thought Peter, when the turkey was delivered.

It wasn’t the bird itself, though to be sure there was no way his father could have afforded such a large turkey. It was… everything.

Peter tugged at the collar of his father’s old shirt, standing back while his mother and father and even Tiny Tim exclaimed over the turkey. The address was right on the label. It was for them.

“But who?” asked his mother.

“I think…” Tim said, then paused as though he was reconsidering his words. But he smiled. “I think it was Mr. Scrooge.”

As his parents exclaimed over that particular unlikelihood, Peter eyed his brother and noticed the shadow around Tim had grown thinner.

“Well,” his mother said. “I’d should expect to start now, though I’ll confess I’m unsure I’ve a pot large enough.”

His whole family laughed. An unexpected joy, and on Christmas Day no less?

Peter put a well-practiced smile on his face, and as Tim passed, he rested a hand on his brother’s thin shoulder for a brief second. Tim smiled up at him. Peter, after all, rarely touched anyone.

The shadow was lighter still.

None of this is right, Peter thought again. He bit his lip.

*

“Five shillings and sixpence,” his father said, finishing his announcement.

Peter lowered his head, feeling a swell of pride as his family cheered for his good fortune. It wasn’t much, but the first time his father had told him of the position, Peter had felt the shadows move around him. Most especially? The darkness looming around a lone crutch by the fireplace shifted. Moving further away. Not gone—Peter wasn’t sure he believed there was a way to send a darkness so inevitable away—but further. And further he’d take.

The difference of five shillings and sixpence.

Their meal, later than usual thanks to the morning’s turkey, held a similar sense to Peter. The shadows were drifting away, and they were shifting so quickly Peter had stumbled a few times through the meal, answering the wrong questions and only realizing after that he was having conversations others weren’t. He caught Tim staring at him, and had to stop himself from returning the gaze in kind.

The shadows around Tim were nearly gone.

How?

Surely it wasn’t the five shillings and sixpence. He’d already known…

He remembered Tim’s voice: “I think it was Mr. Scrooge.”

When his father led a toast, and included the man in question, the cries of outrage from his family rang hollow. Peter couldn’t quite join in. He glanced at Tim again, and found Tim looking at him, a small frown on his face.

“Peter?” he said. It was a quiet aside, the sort Tim spoke best. His voice had always been soft and gentle.

“It’s nothing,” Peter said kindly, and Tim turned back to the passing of the cup. But by the time the cup had passed around the table, Peter could barely keep up the pretense. Everything was changing.

And it hadn’t been him.

After the meal, Peter excused himself, wrapped his neck with his muffler, and went out into the snow.

*

It wasn’t just his home, though his home was considerably more affected than many of those around. Peter closed his eyes, recalling how the street had appeared only the day before, and when he reopened his eyes, it was all the more obvious. It was like someone had washed some stones clean from the dark layer of coal smoke that coated them.

And his family’s home was the cleanest.

It wasn’t a real stain, and the real stains were still there, of course, but to Peter’s other eyes, the sight that had opened over the last couple of years, there were shadows he’d gotten used to seeing everywhere.

He’d also gotten used to noticing how he could shift them, ever so slightly. A kind word. A connection. Doing unto others…

He pushed his hands into his pockets, took a moment to consider, and followed the shifting pattern of darkness. The path was hard to follow—as a rook might cross the sky, not how a young clerk-to-be might walk—but he found his way through alleys and crossed narrow streets as he needed until he was facing a graveyard.

Peter had learned to avoid graveyards. Here, often the shadows he could see were thickest yet. Losses, inevitable losses, those not even delayed by the power of five shillings and sixpence, tangled and twisted themselves thickly in places like this.

But this one? To Peter’s gaze, it was almost light. And a single space where there was no gravestone yet placed was brightest of all.

Peter’s breath hitched, a cloud of white tugged away on the cold city wind.

If this much could change, what about him?

He was almost unsurprised by the time he reached Ebenezer Scrooge’s home. It was not a beautiful place, and he’d never have known it in passing, but it all came from here. Every fray in the twisting ropes of shadow, every weakness to the weave of potentials that Peter had been fighting and struggling for the better part of two years began here.

“I think it was Mister Scrooge.”

Tim’s voice echoed again. Peter breathed on his hands, unsure what to do now. He couldn’t as well as use the knocker, not if he wanted his father to know nothing of his evening walk.

The knocker.

It, too, was clear of shadow; it fair glowed.

The door opened. Peter started, as did the woman stepping out of the building. She wore a heavy shawl and had her hair tied up and appeared to be a servant. A charwoman, perhaps.

“You gave me a fright,” she said, not unkindly. She laughed. “Merry Christmas, in keeping with the situation.”

“A Merry Christmas,” Peter managed to reply.

The woman, too, was positively alight.

She stepped past him, and Peter nearly let her go, but the words were out before he could stop himself. “May I ask..?”

She turned, waiting.

“Are things…well…here?”

“Young master.” The woman’s smile only grew. “Things have never been so well as they are here. It’s changed, I must say myself. It’s, well, it’s Christmas.” Then, with another “Merry Christmas” from her lips, she was off. Peter eyed the closed door.

Changed, indeed.

Peter went home, wondering if there was change enough for him.

*

By the day after Christmas, it was confirmed. Tiny Tim had been right about the turkey, and more than that, Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge had not only seen fit to give his father more time to be with his family, but a raise as well. Peter stood quietly back as his father exclaimed the virtues of this new Mr. Scrooge, and watched the shadows fairly flee from around their home.

It should have filled him, Peter thought. It should have left him overflowing. But instead, Peter felt a weakness in the place behind his heart, a duller ache than he remembered. There were no shadows in his home to worry about.

Indeed, the world around Peter Cratchit was lightening day by day. The darknesses were retreating. So now there only remained those within his own heart.

For his family, though, Peter smiled and laughed, skills he’d been honing since the first braids of sorrow had started to appear throughout the world.

Those same laughs and smiles he prepared to carry to his first day. Where before he’d felt a sense of pride and minor triumph of delay against a future so determined to take his brother Tim from him, now he knew only uncertainty. It was not five shillings and sixpence shifting the world everywhere he looked. It was Ebenezer Scrooge. He had joined the Cratchit family for a dinner—Peter’s mind still spun at how much brighter the man seemed from all previous glances—and by the end of it, Peter had been hard pressed to find even a shred of ill fortune. He’d even touched Tim’s crutch, a thing he’d long ago learned never to do.

There had been nothing.

And so, as he stood outside where he was to work, he wondered what he could possibly do, who he could possibly be, now the only thing to give him direction had shifted so suddenly and without his being of any usefulness at all.

When a darkness gathered at the corner, Peter turned. A woman was crossing the street, and beside her, a cart was waiting to be unloaded at the warehouse, which blocked her from view. A horse and carriage was coming.

Peter Cratchit cried out as he moved, caught the woman by the arm, and both half-swung and half-pulled her. They fell together, backwards into the dirty snow, but the horse and carriage passed them with room for but a barest breath between.

“I’m so sorry,” Peter said.

“No, no,” the woman said, her voice shaking. “That was nearly my life.”

They rose. The woman eyed him. “I’ve seen you before, I believe.”

Peter didn’t recognize her, but he offered his hand. “Peter Cratchit, at your service.”

“Indeed you were,” she said. She was older than he’d first thought, and only now was it obvious. Still, she was beautiful in that her eyes were kind and her smile was easy. “And that settles where I’ve seen you. You’re the new clerk.”

Peter gestured to the building where he was to work.

She nodded. “My husband’s company. Come. I’ll come in with you, and explain why we’re both so wet. I’d only meant to stop by to see my husband and son.” She winked. “Now, I have a tale to tell.”

Peter gestured for her to go first. Ropes of darkness scattered away from them.

The woman’s husband—Peter’s employer—embraced her despite the wet snow drenching her dress, and kissed her forehead. “My Belle,” he said, his heart obviously full of a deep love. “Never.” He said it again, like it was a vow. “Never.”

“I’m unharmed and well,” she said, though she did not let go of his hand. “Thanks to young Peter.”

“I knew I’d made a good choice,” the man said, and Peter blushed.

He was shown to his desk, and introduced to the man’s eldest son, who would be his companion in the small office they would share. It was cozy, and warmed by a fire. Peter thought of his father’s office, and a small shiver ran through him.

“Are you warm enough?”

“I am,” Peter said. Shadows were fleeing all around him. And these, he knew, had nothing to do with Ebenezer Scrooge. A future that had almost been, thanks to a horse and carriage, was instead never to be. And he’d done that. Peter himself. “Thank you. I was just thinking of…something else.”

“Oh?” His companion asked it with genuine interest.

“I’m afraid I can be overconcerned with the future,” Peter said.

“That seems wise to me.”

“Does it?”

“The grasshopper and the ant,” his companion said.

Peter nodded. “Yes. In a way.”

“Join me for dinner.”

Peter blinked, surprised. “I…” He wasn’t sure what to say.

“By every account, you saved my mother’s life today. It seems only fair I treat you to a dinner. You’re a working man now, Peter Cratchit, and we working men might as well be friends.”

Peter looked at him. Really looked. Despite the man’s smile, and the brightness of his voice, something familiar lay between them. It took a moment to find the twisting dark behind his heart. Worry. Fear. A hopelessness. A future alone, because…

Because.

But no. Even as he watched, a tiny piece frayed and drifted away.

Something familiar indeed.

“I would like that very much,” Peter said. Another fray.

For just a moment, Peter Cratchit thought of Old Mr. Marley. He wasn’t sure why, but the thought of the man, who’d been so close to Mr. Scrooge even before his father had worked for him, was as clear as day. He’d met the man only once.

He shook his head. Overconcerned with the future. But it occurred to him to wonder what Mr. Scrooge might have been like had Mr. Marley been alive longer. Had Mr. Marley perhaps had the chance to see the shadows Scrooge could have undone, and what that might have meant.

Peter dipped his pen into the inkwell.

There was no way to know, of course. And it was a strange and random thought. Mind, graveyards, door knockers, charwomen… It had been a strange and random week, all told.

“I do look forward to being friends,” Peter said.

His companion smiled.

They got to work.

Sunday Shorts – “A Holiday Ruse,” by Stephanie Hoyt

[image error]Kezia’s been harbouring feelings for Magdalena for what feels like an eternity. She’s made peace with that. But when her happily committed best friend is suddenly single, that peace is disturbed. Especially when Magdalena comes to Kezia asking for a huge, unreasonable favour. Kezia doesn’t know how to say no, even though she knows she should. Will she be able to maintain her composure while helping the broken-hearted Magdalena? Or will pretending to have the girl of her dreams only lead to a broken heart of her own?

I loved this holiday fake-relationship/hidden-feelings romance. A Holiday Ruse had the perfect narrative voice in Kezia, who is head-over-heels for her friend, Mags, and who will never say so because Mags is her best friend and is dating this girl she’s madly in love with.

And then they break up. And then Mags asks her to take on the role—just for pretend, of course—of girlfriend for the Christmas and Wedding that’s impending among her giant family, and how could Kezia say no?

Well, easily, according to her brother (who is also her only family, and I liked that: there was a lovely contrast between Mags’s giant family and Kezia’s just-her-and-her-brother one), but Kezia has a habit of putting her feelings second and letting herself get hurt, so she says yes.

What follows is a fun, fluffy, bright, snow-covered romp of a romance with just the right notes, and a great lead-up to the declaration and aw, I was just warm all over. It’s a romance type I also love to read that you don’t get to see often these days, which is to say it ends with said declaration and kisses, rather than a smouldering pile of erotic content (which I do also like, but it’s nice to have variety, frankly, and sometimes I just want something just like this). Also, Hoyt gets a big thumbs up for bi rep, women of colour, and serious cookie decorating.

Flash Fiction — End of a Thread

Earlier this week, I mentioned I had three flash fiction pieces thanks to taking part in the NYCMidnight Flash Fiction contest, and shared the first of the three. Today, the third story comes to play. Now, this was where I ended my journey in the contest, as I did earn an honourable mention, but only the top stories moved on into the final round.

That said? For this round, I wasn’t confident. I was given the genre of “mystery,” something I rarely touch, and scissors and a pasture. It’s possible I could have perhaps done better had I not gone to a queer and non-contemporary place with the story, and the judges’ feedback was pretty clear: they weren’t very keen on me pushing “mystery” to intersect with Greek mythology.

I do like the piece though, and like I said, honourable mention was granted.

When his last mortal friend dies in a pasture, Ganymede finds the scissors of Atropos and realizes he is witness to a murder. The motive seems clear: there is one goddess with very good reason to punish him for stealing her husband’s attention, but how can a mere immortal cupbearer find justice among the gods themselves?

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Image from Pixabay.

End of a Thread

On the hillside where I was snatched away, I visit my last mortal friend. He tends a flock of cattle, and though my opportunities to visit him are rare and he is already changed compared to me, I treasure him. Together we often laugh and speak of simpler times, before I became cupbearer to the gods.

I walk through the pasture. My immortal talents part the animals for me. I feel a pull on my heart and turn, expecting to see my friend waiting. But he’s not there.

A few hesitant steps reveal my mistake. He is there, but he is not. He lies in the pasture, eyes closed, one hand still holding his walking stick, his legs curled beneath him.

It isn’t sleep.

I weep. He was mortal, as I am no longer, and I knew this day would come, but he is barely a man grown, not even a father. Nothing marks him, no reason for his stillness. It makes no sense.

My eyes—changed by my immortal state—catch a glimpse of light.

Beside him in the grass, there are scissors. I lift them.

Their weight is not earthly. I bear the cups of the gods. I know when I am holding something of theirs.

This is not death, then.

No, this is murder.

*

I remain in the pasture; I also go elsewhere. It is a gift of immortality, but not one I use often. It is tiring, and it’s difficult to concentrate on two selves at once.

But a dead friend needs little attention.

They are together. My lover and his wife are speaking, and so before I am noticed—before I even exist among them—I deflect, and step aside.

And I realize.

I am by no means the first to capture his attention, nor am I not so vain to believe I will be the last. But my position is cupbearer. Lover.

My position is not wife.

If a thing of the gods struck down my one mortal friend, then surely the motive is godly, too.

Hera.

If it be so—and it must—then what can I do? Even with this loose thread, what justice can I unravel from this tapestry? What proof is there?

Threads.

Of course.

*

I am standing in a pasture with the cool, still body of my friend; I am elsewhere again.

“May I ask you a question?”

If she of wisdom and war is surprised to have the cupbearer speak to her it doesn’t show. “You may.”

“Atropos. How does she know when it is time?”

Athena is silent long enough that I wonder if she won’t answer. She only granted me permission to ask, after all.

“Is that the right question?”

I pull out the scissors. In Athena’s gaze, they glimmer.

“No,” I say.

It is a hard thing, I think, to embody both knowledge and destruction. She has grace many of the others do not, and I think it is born of this.

“Perhaps, cupbearer, I am not the one to ask.”

*

I am standing in a pasture with the cool, still body of my friend; I am elsewhere again.

Facing the three women takes every ounce of courage I have. I, who bear cups to the gods, who by my lover’s act will never meet the eldest of the Moirai, can barely raise my chin.

Clotho’s gaze is curious. Lachesis’s holds compassion.

But Atropos merely waits. Were she angry, or sad, I wouldn’t be able to speak.

I raise the scissors. “Yours, I believe.”

She takes them, and while I stand there—and elsewhere—she gathers three strings from Lachesis and shears them, wraps the lose end around the spindles and places each in the shadows behind her.

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“Do you not?” Her voice is a caress of shadow and rest.

“Why strike him down?” My voice breaks. “Why now?” It’s an unfair question. Atropos knows the measure of every life. She does not have to share how with a mere cupbearer. She answers only to fate.

Except… Except no. Not just fate.

Athena’s words: the right question.

“Why leave your shears behind for me?” My voice grows weak.

“So that you might ask,” Atropos says. She snips another thread. “That you might ask me, Ganymede.” Another. “Thank you for their return. It is agreeable to have met you. Now go.”

*

I am standing in a pasture with the cool, still body of my friend; I am elsewhere again.

The first words I ever say to Hera become this: “I’m sorry.” There are ways to speak as immortals, to include more than words. I think I do this, too, for the first time. She sees the pasture where now the sun is low, and she sees my suspicions of her as they were born—and as they have died, as surely as if cut by Atropos’s scissors.

She does not look at me. She does not speak to me. It’s possible she never will, and in this immortal place, never has weight.

But Hera nods. The slightest inclination of her chin. She has heard me. Perhaps she understands me, perhaps even forgives me—though whether for considering her as murderer or for my mere existence catching her husband’s eye, I do not know.

*

I fill his cup, as always. His smile for me is as full of his love and lusts as ever, and even as I stand in the pasture, waiting for someone to notice my friend is missing, to notice he is gone, to come and learn he has ended, that look warms me to my very core.

I have the love of a god. It is magnificent. It lifted me to immortality.

I step away from where the gods feast, from he who snatched me from a pasture and made me his forever.

From the only one who could order Atropos. From the only one she must obey.

And I know.

Zeus.

He will not share me.

 

Friday Flash Fics — Learning Curve

The latest Friday Flash Fics inspiration photo was definitely inspiring and seasonal. I pondered linking it to one of my already written pieces, but in the end, an idea clicked with me that reminded me of when I used to volunteer and teach adult literacy. To be clear, though: this one’s totally fictional, not based on true events, yadda-yadda. Also, I doubled the word count again. Sorry/not-sorry.

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Learning Curve

“Hey Wyatt, I’m home.” Al was careful to undo his size fourteen (and a half) safety boots on the mat, and hung up his coat on the hook closest to the door, away from Wyatt’s jacket. He felt grubby, grit and dirt and sweat from the day’s work coated him in a fine layer even though it had snowed all day.

Wyatt didn’t answer, and so Al moved further into the house. He knew he shouldn’t feel like an interloper—Wyatt had asked him to stay with him, after all—but he still felt strange being in his place without him.

Which wasn’t the case. Wyatt was standing right there in the living room. Dressed completely in red.

“Why are you dressed like Santa?” Al asked.

He had the whole kit on. Red hat, big red jacket, big red pants, even the boots and wide belt. And there were things written on them. White cards that Al knew all too well.

Flash cards.

He groaned.

“Really?” Al asked. It had been a really long day. Construction was hard enough, but working jobs in winter, doing overtime in the snow? Not to mention the bus ride home and a visit with his parole officer.

But Wyatt flashed him that smile. The same smile Al had fallen for back when he’d still been inside, and Wyatt had showed up three days a week with a pile of flash cards and paper and started teaching.

Wyatt pointed at the card on the Santa belt.

Al looked at it. The letters weren’t incomprehensible any more, though he still had a lot of work to do. Wyatt was patient, though.

“It’s time,” Al said, reading the words on the card. That was easy enough.

Wyatt’s smile grew, and then he took off the belt.

Al shifted. “What—?” he started, but Wyatt shook his head, and pointed at the flash card pinned to the jacket. He tossed the belt onto the floor.

Al looked at the next card. “To…” He frowned. A-D-M-I-T. It took a second. “To admit?”

Wyatt grinned.

“It’s time to admit,” Al said, and was about to say more, but then Wyatt was taking off the Santa jacket, and underneath he was wearing a snug white T-shirt and that was a very good thing. The red Santa pants were held in place by suspenders.

The jacket joined the belt on the floor.

Al felt his skin heating up. And it wasn’t just coming in from the cold.

There was no card on Wyatt’s shirt, but Wyatt pointed at the card on the Santa pants.

“I Th…Think.” It was getting harder to concentrate on reading, what with what seemed to be happening with each success. He glanced up at Wyatt, who raised one eyebrow.

“It’s time to admit I think..?” Al said, putting all three together.

Beneath the Santa pants were a pair of very snug red boxer briefs and now Al wasn’t just warm, he was struggling not to adjust himself in his jeans. The pants were tossed aside, too.

Wyatt took a long, long look at him, and it became very obvious from the view of the red boxer-briefs that Wyatt was also having a very good time.

“Wyatt…” Al started, but Wyatt slowly turned around.

There was another card pinned on the back of his shirt.

“You…Re? You’re. You’re…” He balked at the next word. But he broke it down into bits, like Wyatt had taught him. “In…cree…cred..I..blee…” He knew his lips were moving, and he took a breath. He hated feeling this dumb. And no matter how often Wyatt had told him he wasn’t dumb, that he was learning just fine, he still felt it.

But the sight of Wyatt’s thighs, and his tight little butt were definitely helping. Not with the reading—major distraction for that—but with the motivation? Oh yes.

“Incredible,” he said. “You’re incredible.” Then he put it all together again, and his voice was soft. “It’s time to admit I think you’re incredible?”

Watching Wyatt peel off the shirt made him swallow. The man had a nice back. He’d known Wyatt modeled. He’d seen some of the pictures, but…

“So,” Wyatt said, breaking his silence. He sounded nervous. Actually nervous. Like he was the one with something to be nervous about? He was gorgeous. Not some big, thick, barely literate ex-con with a menial job and… “One last question, Aleki.” Wyatt was one of the only people who used his full name. “And it’s up to you.”

“Okay,” Al said. His voice was rough and scratchy, like the gravel he’d been shoveling earlier.

Wyatt turned around, and there were words written in black on the skin of his beautiful chest and stomach. His teacher, his friend, the guy who’d come to him at his lowest and told him he could help him learn to read?

He was fucking hot.

Wyatt started fiddling with the pom-pom on the hat he wore. His smile was anxious. He pointed at his chest, and Al forced himself to look at the words.

“N…ay… Nayg?” He frowned. No. A’s and U’s did that thing when they were together. “Naw… Nawt… Naughty,” he said, and his eyebrow rose. The other two were easier. “Naughty or nice.” He smiled, and looked at Wyatt. “Naughty or nice?”

“Your choice,” Wyatt said. “Though, between you and me? I’m hoping you’d like things to be more than…nice…between us.”

One of the best things about being a big guy like Al was the length of his stride. He covered the gap between them and they were kissing and the little noise Wyatt made was music to Al’s ears. And other places. Wyatt rubbed against him, and Al pulled back with a huge amount of effort.

“Look, Wyatt, I’m—”

“Incredible,” Wyatt interrupted. “Don’t argue with me.”

“I’m not,” Al said. “But I was going to say dirty. I mean, dirt and gravel dirty, not…” He winked. “Well, that, too. I’d like to get you dirty.”

Wyatt bit his lip. “Well, I need to wipe off the grease pencil from my chest. Maybe we could go get dirty in the shower? Clean, too?”

Al looked at him, letting everything show in his eyes. “Got any more cue cards?”

“I’m just getting started, big man,” Wyatt said.

 

 

 

 

Flash Fiction — Pine Puppet and Candlewick

A couple of days ago, I mentioned I had three flash fiction pieces thanks to taking part in the NYCMidnight Flash Fiction contest, and shared the first of the three. Today, the second story gets its turn. Now, for this round, I felt way, way more confident. I was given the genre of “fairy tale,” and the objects of an abandoned railway car and a ticket stub. I love doing queer retellings of stories, so I took a look through a list of fairy tales and found Pinocchio waiting for me. I placed first in my group with this story.

As is so often the case, fairy tales get told the way the teller wants them told, not necessarily how they were. Candlewick, who knew a certain real boy, tells his tale of the village carver, a puppet who danced, a lady in blue, a train and a ticket to a magical land, and how a cricket’s voice changed everything for everyone.

[image error]

Photo from Pixabay.

Pine Puppet and Candlewick

They say our story means be good and don’t lie, but it’s really be like us or be quiet.

I’ve no idea why I’m made a donkey. I promise we had no coins to plant.

But maybe I should start at the start, like they do.

*

Once upon a time there was a carver who already had a real boy, but that boy struggled at most things. The carver loved him, so he carved a solution: braces and crutches, bound with strings and straps.

Folk called him Pine Puppet because of those straps and ropes and the scent which followed him. They weren’t cruel exactly, but rarely kind. Pine got left behind, like me. Me they mocked for being the mean chandler’s boy—burned little Candlewick—but him?

Pine was their puppet, dancing for them so they’d be nice a while.

*

Nights I’m bravest I visit the railway. Sometimes it’s there: our railroad car. The paint peeled, lanterns unlit, and rabbits build nests for their kits in the torn seats.

I listen to the crickets.

And hope.

*

Pine wasn’t disobedient or mischievous. Him kicking his father in the story was an accident of tightened straps, not malice. Sure, his nose was pointed, but Pine didn’t lie. He kept secrets though, like how he felt about boys who could run, jump, and play more than he ever would.

He wasn’t jealous. Not of Fox or Cat or even Magpie, with his unfortunate name.

No, Pine adored them boys.

Which of course was the problem.

I met Pine when I was done working and my father had sent me home with a kick to my back and a snarl for my dinner. I had wax on my sleeves, burns on my skin, and a rare afternoon to myself. I was young enough to know what I wanted, but not old enough to believe I deserved it to happen.

That’s when I saw Pine, smiling and planning his party.

And he invited me.

*

The fairy—it makes me laugh, even now—was no blue-haired pixie. She was a weaver riding the rails, bringing stories, shawls and dresses in equal measure. She wore blue, which I suppose is how it got confused. She didn’t have magic.

Just knowledge.

When other boys played outside the market, Pine watched. She understood his gaze, telling him about the train and a party in a village where different might not only be good, it could be forever. She’d heard it so from the crickets, who repeated all things people said from everywhere, if you knew how to listen.

People like her, Pine, and me? Talked about more than to?

We know how to listen.

*

I had wax on my sleeves, burns on my skin, and aches for something I couldn’t have. And then, suddenly, wonderfully, Pine Puppet. Coming from the rails. He moved quickly despite his straps, strings, and wood.

“Would you come to a party?”

I fell in love with him on the spot.

We walked hours while Pine invited the other boys.

They refused. Some laughed and asked him to dance first. He danced. They turned him down.

“I’ll miss dancing for them,” he said.

It broke my heart, so newly given to him.

“You’ll come with me?” At least a dozen times he asked as I walked him back to his father, who was so poor he and Pine were rail thin.

I promised.

“I’ll get tickets tonight,” he said.

*

He traded a school book for two tickets marked “Toylund Return Fare.”

I worried. Weasels preyed on simpletons near railways, offering rides to places that didn’t exist for good coins before scarpering.

“It will just be us,” he said.

I kept my ticket in my pocket, by my heart.

“Tonight,” he said.

My father was furious I was once again late. It took long hours to finish my final chores. I smelled pine everywhere, despite the wax on my sleeves. When I heard my father snore, I left a note and fled.

The train waited. It was an impossibility: no engine, only a string of railroad cars one after another, each painted brightly. It had overstuffed seats, and lanterns danced like fireflies. More people were on board than I expected, none familiar.

But so many like us.

Pine was waiting.

We climbed on board, sitting together, afraid and excited like everyone else. When he reached for my hand, I tried to hide my burns. He unrolled my fingers.

“Candles bring light and warmth,” he said. “There’s few things as good.”

The train left.

*

The stories saying Pine was a puppet who wanted to be real and didn’t know how to be good? Not true. We were always real. And Pine was the best person I ever knew from the start. Maybe the storytellers are jealous. Together we were happy. We had a place with each other, every night held laughter, each morning a smile, and days—even ones we worked hardest—worthwhile.

Yes, we worked. Toylund was a village, and even elsewheres and elsewhens have crops to plant, raise, and reap, and candles to dip.

But in Toylund someone kissed my fingers each night.

After many months of singing, laughter, kisses, and love, a cricket chirped near my pillow. It talked of a chandler. He was ill, couldn’t make enough candles to sell, and wished he hadn’t been brutal to his son, who’d fled.

Crickets aren’t cruel. They mindlessly repeat what they’ve heard. We couldn’t unhear it.

Beside me, Pine reached into his pocket and pulled out his ticket, cut neatly in half.

“Use mine,” he said.

*

Sometimes I board our railroad car and close my eyes.

I hear laughter and feel kisses where wax burned the scars into my hands.

Someday, when father is gone and no one needs me? I’ll come here. I’ll bring my ticket stub. That’s why Pine gave me his.

I hope it’s enough to bring me back to Toylund, to what matters most.

My Pine and his Candlewick.

Writing Wednesday – Ideas!

For those playing the home game, I didn’t make it through to the last round of the NYCMidnight Flash Fiction contest, but it ended up feeling as much as a relief as it did a disappointment. I did make an honorable mention for my queer Ganymede re-telling of a Greek myth as a mystery, but it went a bit too far off the mark for some of the judges, who felt it wasn’t traditional a mystery enough. That also didn’t feel like a loss, really: I knew I was taking a risk, and I wanted to still write something the way I like to write, which is to say to add some magic, psychic, or other.

Also? I don’t have to madly scramble to write a flash fiction piece over the weekend, and that’s kind of awesome.

But it did put me in mind for ideas. And wow, do I have about a million ideas. In my notebook of potential “next things,” I ended up scribbling the following:

Faux-Ho-Ho (Fake relationship holiday romance).
Triad Magic (Third paranormal novel in the series). This is absolutely the next thing I’ll be pitching as a novel to my publisher.
Triad Tales (Triad short fiction anthology—and yes, anthology not collection—because I know a few people who I’d love to ask to contribute). This is basically a pipe-dream, but.
The Village Series (Novella series, starting with A Little Village Magic, five of them, a wee bit of magic in a contemporary romance, all set in a fictionalized version of the gay village here). I’ve finished two of five thus far, and I want all five to be done before I release.
Ringmaker (SF Novella, Earth’s first colony on another world, wormhole gates, a bit of politics, also kissy stuff). This would let me write something closer to hard SF, which I’ve never really done.
Plus One (Vague idea for a 1NS novella centred around needing someone for a wedding date). I’m starting to think it could be Kevin needing a date for Ru and Nick’s wedding, actually.
That tooth/mafia caper romance story (I tried to write a short story for Anthony that got way too long and needed to be a novella where the guy gets an envelope of teeth in lieu of roses and it goes off the rails from there).
[image error]Silver & Blue (Ian simon novella, a psychic mystery set on the train from BC to Ontario). With Ian about to appear in three novellas in Of Echoes Born, I keep thinking about him.
Flame (sequel to Light; a pyrokinetic starts torching bigots). Also? Pregnant Karen.
Key (YA, a boy finds a key that lets him use any door to enter a strange home that seems to have rooms in all sorts of different time periods). This is a re-write of a three day novel writing contest I did.
Love by the Book (Paranormal rom-com, a guy ends up with one of the books from the library of Alexandria and it turns out reading it can change reality. So far he’s figured out how to make things cerulean blue).
Demon Interruptus (The first in a demon-hunter paranormal series, Arcana Major, with tarot-card based witches fighting demons; think Charmed only really gay). The first one of this series is all but written. I should get on that.
Third’s a Charm (Erotica collection of paranormal/magical/psychic threesomes, because apparently I write/wrote a bunch of those).
A reunion themed romance (where a guy goes to his high school reunion a great success, a date on his arm, and though money has changed hands, it’s not what you think).
Served Cold (a proximity romance between a guy dodging some legal trouble for all the right reasons and the man who is hired to serve him with papers).
LeFou (A queer retelling of Beauty and the Beast).
Oh! A recent online chat had a bunch of us discussing some sort of geek gamer nerd novella romance series that begins with the setting up of a tabletop board game shop/cafe, and then moves through all sorts of geeky games.

Also, more Fuca stories, a novella with Jace and Matt from the Triad series (and maybe another with Mackenzie), and and and and and…

Yeah. Ideas. You gotta love ’em.

Open Calls for Submission

Writing Wednesdays are supposed to be the days I track open calls for submission I’m keeping an eye on, as well as keeping honest with how the year in submitting things for publication myself has gone.

Previously this year: January was: 6 submissions (4 reprints, 2 new), with 1 acceptance (new) and three acceptances (three reprints); in February was bare minimum: 1 submission (1 new); March brought 1 rejection, and 1 submission (new); April saw 1 submission (new) and 1 acceptance; May: 1 submission (new), 1 acceptance. June: BUZZ! (Let’s not talk about that). July: 1 submission (1 new). August: 1 submission (1 new). September and October: 2 submissions (2 new), and 1 acceptance. November: 1 submission (1 new). December has been 2 submissions (1 new, 1 reprint) and 1 acceptance. So, I officially managed to submit something at least twelve times this year, but not quite at once-a-month pace near the end there.

And now, the open calls:

Chicken Soup for the Soul—Various titles, various themes, various deadlines, 1,200 word count limit.
Mischief Corner Books—Open to submissions for various themes, including Legendary Love, Everyday Heroes, Cowboys and Space; these are open rolling calls, so no deadline.
NineStar Press—Open to submissions for various length prose, paranormal, science fiction, fantasy and horror; Click “Currently Seeking” header for details; word count limit variable.
Spectrum Lit—This is an ongoing patreon flash fic provider, 1,500 hard word count limit; LGBTQ+ #ownvoice only; ongoing call.
Best Gay Erotica for the Year, Volume 4—Cleis Press; 2,500-5,000 word count limit. Original stories strongly preferred; deadline January 5th, 2018 (but the earlier the better).
Fantastic Beasts and Where to F*** Them—Circlet Press; Erotic short stories with magical beasts and shapeshifter tropes; 3,000 to 7,000 word count limit; deadline February 1st, 2018.
Lost—NineStar Press. LGBTQIA+ romantic pairing. Both HEA and HFN are acceptable, Click “Lost” header for the theme. 30k-120k word count limit; deadline April 30th, 2018.
Happiness in Numbers—Less than Three Press; Polyamorous LGBTQIA+ anthology, non-erotic polyamorous stories that explore the idea of “Family”; 10k to 20k word count limit; deadline April 30th, 2018.
MLR Press—Quite a few different themes are open; 10k to 40k word count limit; deadlines vary, but the earliest right now is April 30th, 2018.