'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 90

Flash Fiction — Rock, Paper, Bullets

Flash fiction doesn’t come naturally to me. It’s hard work to stay in the word count limit, and really, I’m a big believer in a story taking as long as it needs to be well told (and then pruning back a bajillion “that”s, just as a totally random example).

I’ve had some luck, however, with using flash fiction as a way to make me try new things. This is part of being a writer I don’t do nearly as often enough as I should, but I like my darned spec-fic queer cave, and you can’t make me leave. I don’t wanna.

Except sometimes I do.

The QSF Flash Fiction contests (super, super short flash fiction at only 300 words) has been something I’ve tried three times now. Once I got an honourable mention, which was cool. All three times my piece ended up in the anthology, so that’s a win regardless.

I also did the NYCMidnight Flash Fiction contest twice. Last year, I didn’t make it past the first round, though I got an honourable mention at the time (and here’s the story). This year? I made it through the first two rounds, and got an honourable mention on the third. Frankly, I’m chuffed. For a format that isn’t my usual, and being limited to less than two thousand words and only two days to write them, I’m pretty darn proud of myself.

Also, not winning the final round means I don’t have to try and write something the week before Christmas with just two days to accomplish it and parties and friends aplenty vying for time.

Ever since I joined two flash fiction prompt groups, Monday Flash Fics and Friday Flash Fics, I’ve been inspired twice a week to write pieces on the fly. It’s been fantastic for both my confidence (That flowed so well, I’m so happy!) and my humility (This isn’t working and nothing will ever work again!).

One thing I realized about writing for those two photo prompt groups, however, is how much I liked revisiting previously published pieces. Flash Fiction is excellent at offering Easter Eggs. And before I get too far ahead, I’m going to go back, tag, and figure out some way to have them link to my published works list.

But! Today? Today I realized (because I’m slow) that this means I currently have three flash fiction pieces I wrote for this year’s NYCMidnight Flash Fiction contest that I could share. And since it’s the season of sharing, I thought I’d do just that.

On the first round, I was given: A thriller, An ice fishing shanty, and a printed menu. With those three pieces, I had to craft a flash fiction piece no longer than 1,000 words, in the thriller genre, which I never write, and I managed to score a first place result, which was awesome.

This was what I came up with.

What starts as a boring evening shift in the retail business services shop where Raj works turns into a run for his life when the new man in town turns out to be more than just a polite, handsome newcomer. Taking refuge in an ice fishing shanty after outrunning most of the bullets of the man after them, Raj realizes there’s one bullet left, and needs to come up with some way to make sure it doesn’t end up in him.

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Image from Pixabay

Rock, Paper, Bullets

Raj bolted across the ice, staying upright through sheer will.

Pop.

“Nine,” he said. Silencer or not, you could tell where bullets hit. A piece of the frozen lake erupted in a puff of white.

He couldn’t zag on the ice. He ducked and kept running.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

“Twelve.” Something cut his cheek.

Pop. Pop.

“Fourteen.” The bullet hit close enough he flinched, skidded, and before he could recover he fell. He landed hard on his ass, feet out ahead of him, head hitting the ice.

Pop.

A hole appeared inches ahead of him.

Falling just saved my life.

Raj scrambled to his feet. Ahead, he spotted the ice fishing shanty through the cold mist, and took a ragged breath. He was freezing.

Pop.

“Fifteen.” No. Wrong. “Sixteen.”

He was up and running again, bag bouncing against his hip. The further away from the shore, the better.

Pop.

“Seventeen.”

David had said twenty or thirty. David was bleeding back by the side of the road, thanks to seven and eight.

Was he even alive?

Raj slid again at the shanty, fumbling the damn eye and hook with half-numb fingers. He didn’t have gloves.

Crack!

Nineteen, hitting the hut, made him swear out loud.

His fingers finally worked. He threw himself inside, slamming the door behind him.

Wait.

He swore.

He’d just trapped himself.

*

Working a business store wasn’t a career. Raj liked it well enough—mindless, repetitive, occasionally marred by irate customers—but mostly it meant paychecks and free wi-fi.

Seeing David Somorset walk in was a rare perk. New to town, handsome David had an accent Raj couldn’t place. They’d only spoken a few times at Nancy’s diner. He was always polite, made eye contact, and had shoulders capable of making any outfit look amazing.

Except today. He looked…off.

“I need a favor,” David said. “A rush print.”

“I can squeeze you in.” The icy rain meant they were alone in the store.

David pulled out a memory stick, wincing.

“You okay?” Raj said.

“Rough afternoon.”

Raj inserted it, watching his screen. “All the PDFs? One copy good?”

“Yes.”

Raj hit print, watched the progress, then went to the back. The previous job—Nancy’s latest menus—were still in the tray. He grabbed everything, then returned to the storefront.

“Get down!” David yelled, slamming into him.

Little noises—almost sneezes—and bullet holes appeared in the door above them.

“Got a back exit?” David said, lying atop him on the floor behind the counter. He seemed really calm.

He was also bleeding.

*

“Nineteen.” One more bullet, or eleven. Neither good, but when no shots struck the side of the shanty, Raj decided it meant one.

Might as well die an optimist.

A panicked inventory of the shanty was clear: unless he armed himself with a hand auger designed to make six inch holes in ice, he’d have zilch. He was playing a lethal game of rock-paper-scissors. Makeshift clubs didn’t beat rifles.

Wait.

No time to consider. He got to work.

*

Raj crawled into the back room, terrified. David followed, the blood he’d hidden under his coat showing now. He closed the door behind them.

“Your car?” David said, nodding to the rear exit.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Hurry. He’ll circle around.”

Raj patted his pockets. “My keys are in my coat. Out front, by the cash.”

“No problem.”

*

The man with the rifle opened the door, and everything in Raj’s world slowed.

“Too late,” Raj said. “David e-mailed everything.” Crouching behind the tiny shelf built along the shanty’s wall barely afforded cover, but he’d take it.

A brief second of hesitation on the man’s face came and went. “You’re lying.”

Raj gripped the auger.

The rifle never lowered. “All I want is the bag. Hand it over? You live.”

“Now you’re lying.” To Raj’s surprise, his voice didn’t waver. He pressed into the tiny space.

The man’s snort was barely an exhalation. “Fair enough.” He took a step into the shanty, opening his mouth to say more.

Instead, he lurched.

Raj leapt, swinging the auger.

Pop.

Twenty.

*

“Papers in the bag.” David drove Raj’s hotwired car from behind the store, fast, before they had seatbelts on. At David’s command, Raj shoved the whole stack—even Nancy’s menus—into the bag.

The store exploded.

“Oh God.” Raj twisted to look.

“Asshole used my last grenade. Still has my rifle and one clip.”

“You have grenades?”

“Had.” David took the corner, skidding. Raj yanked on his seat belt. They were heading out of town, on Lakeside Crescent, with icy roads. “He took them. Not sure which clip. He has twenty bullets, or thirty. He’s used six.”

“Who are you?” Raj said.

“A good guy, promise. Those files are important.”

“The stick was in the computer.”

“Those hardcopies are it, then.” David eyed the rearview. “He’s following.”

He sped up. They made it out of town, driving beside the lake. Once they were around the curve, there must have been a clean shot across. Between blown tires and icy road, they didn’t stand a chance.

Raj’s world rolled.

*

Raj drilled two shallow holes at the entrance, considered a third, rejected the time it would take, and covered them with Nancy’s menus, face-down, scattering ice shavings on top.

*

“Raj!”

Raj came to. The car faced the wrong way, tilted in the ditch. Air-bag powder and glass coated everything. Frigid air whistled in.

“Run.” David coughed blood. “Phone…in bag. 6-8-5-8 unlocks it. Get…safe. Call Father. Repeat that.”

“What?”

“6-8-5-8. Father. Say it.”

“6-8-5-8. Father.”

“Good. Go. Won’t be long. He used eight bullets. Go.”

“But—”

“Can’t run. Go.”

*

The man’s foot found Raj’s holes. Raj leapt forward and swung the auger as hard as he could. Bullet twenty whistled by his ear; Raj’s blow struck hard across the man’s face with a wet crunch.

The quiet after—nothing but Raj panting—felt unreal.

“Paper beats bullets,” Raj said.

He pulled out the phone.

Monday Flash Fics — Limits

Monday Flash Fics used a photo I adore this week (you totally should check Dan Skinner out). And of course, the first think I thought of was Light, with my telekinetic, telepathic (and sparkly!) semi-superhero Kieran Quinn. Spoilers for the book, of course. And this wee piece takes place after the novel ends, but not too long after.

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Limits

Working half-days while I recovered wasn’t fun, but one of the few benefits was definitely letting the blue-haired barista at Bittersweets hand me off something sugary and terrible for me without Sebastien seeing me eat it.

Oh, and having an after-sugar snack nap.

I choose Sebastien’s place—it’s closer. I have keys now, and Pilot needed a walk and… Okay, look, Sebastien’s bed is a four-poster and is way bigger than mine and super, super comfy.

So, one cup of tea later, I crawled under the blankets and took a well-deserved (okay, a sort of half-ass-earned) rest.

And I dreamed of him.

Again.

*

A hospital bedroom. Sebastien and myself. My housecoat.

And a man. In a bed. Asleep.

Forever.

It wasn’t like it was, though. Here, I could hear him screaming. Begging. Raging.

It’s not real. Some part of me knew that, and some part of me even knew I was asleep in Sebastien’s bed and—more importantly—that what I’d done? It might not have been the right thing, but it had been the only thing.

But that still didn’t make the dream any less horrible.

*

I came to with a gasp, near the ceiling.

Seeing my glasses float, and the latest book Sebastien was reading, and even my tea cup? That wasn’t new. But the whole bed, mattress and all? The bedside table, too?

That…

Well.

The room was lit with sparks of light in every direction, in every colour.

I sat up. Which was monumentally dumb because I hit my forehead on the ceiling and had to lie down again.

Right. Floating at the ceiling.

Lowering the bed slowly was task number one. Then the bedside table. Then the book, my glasses, and the tea-cup.

I sat up, and exhaled.

That was the third time this week. And wow was it a problem.

*

Sebastien narrowed his eyes. “Are you okay?”

I smiled. “I’m fine.”

“Did you push yourself today?”

He was so darn good at reading me. Man it was annoying. “I came home half-way through the day. I even had a nap.”

He smiled, and leaned in for a kiss.

“We don’t need to practice today,” Sebastien said, pulling away.

“I can still—“

“No.” Sebastien shook his head. “Besides. I can’t get more than a foot past me.”

“I know, but—”

“And I can barely read thoughts without your help.”

“I know, but—“

“And you’re going to tell me we I can get better with practice.”

“Yes, I am, and—“

“But there are limits..”

“I know, but—”

Sebastien held up his hands. “I might not have hit my limits yet. But we don’t have to find out today. You just got out of the hospital. We can wait.”

I exhaled. “When did you get so smart?”

Sebastien shrugged. “When I got hit in the head by a float, maybe?”

I kissed him again.

“How long did it take, for you?” Sebastien asked.

“Hm?”

“How long until you hit your limit?” Sebastien took my shoulders. “Thirty pounds?”

I worked hard to put a smile on my face. “Thirty-five, mister.”

“Sorry. I may not get further than a foot away, but I can already do more than thirty.” He winked. “Sorry, thirty-five.”

I swallowed. “You really do enjoy being able to lift more than me, don’t you?”

“It’s a leather daddy thing. I like being stronger.” He wagged his eyebrows. “Want me to prove it?”

I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I nodded.

He scooped me up and carried me back to his four-poster bed.

*

For the record?

That bed weighs way, way more than thirty-five pounds.

Crap.

 

Sunday Shorts – “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles,” by Eli Easton

[image error]Toby Kincaid loves being the junior librarian in his hometown of Sandy Lake, Ohio. He spends his days surrounded by books and chatting with the library patrons. He especially adores the head librarian, Mr. Miggles, who is kind, witty, knowlegable about everything, and hopelessly addicted to Christmas. Sean Miggles is also pretty cute—especially for an older guy who wears ties and suit pants every day. 

But Sean keeps himself at a distance, and there’s a sadness about him that Toby can’t figure out. When Sean is accused of a crime he didn’t commit, he gives up without a fight. Toby realizes that he alone can save the library—and their head librarian. 

Toby will need to uncover the darkness in Sean’s past and prove to him that he deserves a second chance at life and at love too. And while Christmas miracles are being handed out, maybe Toby will get his own dearest wish—to love and be loved by Mr. Miggles.

I listened to this holiday novella on audio, and before anything else I should mention how well it was performed. The reader, Tristan Wright, didn’t just read, he performed, and the range of voices presented clear definition of character, and the pacing was spot-on. So far, my luck with Eli Easton audiobooks continues to shine (and the bar was set very, very high with an annual re-listen of Blame it on the Mistletoe, performed by Jason Frazier).

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

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

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

(I will say that while the blurb did warn me of “a crime” I wasn’t expecting child abuse. The novella is really, really good, it’s off-scene and lightly described without what I imagine would hit triggering levels for most, and I really enjoyed it nonetheless.)

This was cute, and charming, and tugged on the heart-strings more than once. And although it did have a dose of penetrative-sex-is-just-for-true-love in it, I know that’s a staple of the genre, and it wasn’t a deal breaker by any means, and actually Toby’s thoughts on the topic had some good moments.

I can happily see myself listening to this one again, when the holidays reappear next year.

Make the Yuletide Gay

It’s time for more of my favourite reads, and today I figured I’d go gay. Well, y’know, I’m always gay, but today… You know what? Never mind. Here are some more of the books I read this year and loved. If you love yourself some gay fiction, I have some options for you. Or, y’know, if you’re doing the gift-buying thing.

[image error]When you listen to audiobooks on a regular basis, as a listener you start to find performers you love. Before you know it, when you’re looking at the lists of audiobooks, you’re searching the listings not by title or author, but by who performs the audiobook, and then reading the blurbs of the books they’ve done.

Because of this, finding a new and awesome performer is like finding a new author, and in fact absolutely leads to just that: finding new authors through the performer. So, whenever I see a Jason Frazier audiobook, I nab it. And in this case? I got to rediscover an awesome queer retelling of a Greek Myth by Felice Picano, and a truly great narrative experience. An Asian Minor tells the tale of Ganymede through his own voice, and it’s a delightful, insouciant and fun ride.

[image error]There is a lot to love in this novella. First off, Ben’s character was well written: he’s a former athlete, he suffered a major injury, and his recovery was by no means an easy journey, and he’s living with chronic pain. Ben comes across as someone who has—in many ways—given up on “better” and is enjoying moments of happiness as he can snatch them (which includes fun sex with hot guys when he can grab it).

Davis Fox is a gay man rejected by his homophobic family who wants a shot at reconnecting with his stepbrother. Davis is an architect, a gosh-sweet-blushing sort of guy, and he hires Ben to teach him to wakeboard—because his younger step-brother is a bit of a wakeboarding prodigy, and there’s a contest coming up where they could both enter and have a chance to reconnect and talk out of the reach of their people.

They connect, miscommunicate, take terrible risks, screw up, and eventually come clean with each other about how they feel, what they’re afraid of, and of course, Double Up delivers a happy ending for the reader.

[image error]Revisiting the trio from the James Lucas Trilogy was like putting on a comfortable pair of shoes (okay, maybe more like a comfortable leather harness), I slipped right into this novella.

When a former acquaintance of James’ becomes involved with a shady character and James’ efforts to help him backfire, Tate decides it is up to him to save the day even if it means putting himself in danger. He dives into a dangerous situation without a lot of forethought, and of course ends up in danger himself.

What The Loft does with these three characters is magic on a couple of levels. Lister does her research. Be it consent, contracts, or kink, I have never found even a shred of fault in the depiction, which always walks the perfect example of “safe and sane.” More, the intersection of these three characters with very different points of view balances the queer mentality really, really well. These men live and breathe and exist in very different circles (I love that Lister writes a character who is involved in the church as well as a character who wants nothing to do with religion), have different ages and life experiences, and have formed a unit that’s strong without making the parts feel weaker alone.

[image error]I’ve long been a lover of Space Opera, but it was so rarely a place I saw myself represented that I drifted away from it over my years as a reader. I always felt a disconnect: how come we got to the stars, but there’s never a queer person in sight? Why can’t the cocky space pilot be bi? Why can’t the tech-smart engineer hook up with another guy?

Well, they can. Allow me to introduce you to the Maverick Heart Cycle.

Gatecrasher is the second volume, and as in Soul’s Blood puts Stephen Graham King’s brilliant (and apparently effortless) world-building on display to wonderful effect. Get them both. Trust me. Queer space opera rarely comes with the whole deal. A blooming poly romance? Bi representation? Gender and race explored in a future society handled with real skill and attention? Stephen Graham King brings it all and it’s very welcome, from the opening scenes to nail-biting conclusion.

[image error]I read Eros and Dust over the course of weeks, a story here and there, and walked away well contented. Healy has a way with short fiction I aspire to, and his themes—here very much a tangle of desire, aging, Mexico and South America, queerness—play lightly at one glance even as they settle into the reader’s skin.

I’d read a few of the tales before, but there were many new to me. Some walk right up to the edge of some pretty dark moments, while others are fanciful and magical and nearly folklorish. The end result is a collection that teases the reader tale by tale, zigging when you think it might zag, and all the more enjoyable for the surprises.

We all know I love good short fiction, and Eros and Dust is great short fiction. If you’re at all a fan, it deserves your attention.

[image error]The whole framing of the “seize the day” narrative of They Both Die at the End around these queer kids was so spot-on. They had a day: one day. And in that day, they had some choices to make about how and what they would allow themselves to be, and most of those choices were about whether or not they would be themselves. It’s frankly a perfect analogy of a queer life reduced to a twenty-four hour period. This is every day as a queer person: a loop of choices about where, when, and how you can position yourself to be yourself. The notion of so many people watching them live this last day just added all the more authenticity to the allegory for me. When I’m existing in a queer space, like my own home, or Pride, or a queer club, being me is effortless. I can relax. I can be. But the moment others are watching—and boy, how people watched Mateo and Rufus—the more decisions have to be made. Is this a safe spot to touch my husband, or kiss him, or to even say the word “husband” or “queer” or in any other way out myself? Or is this a moment where the smarter and safer thing—even though it’s the diminishing thing—is to not touch, not kiss, not say, not be out, not be me.

These kids? They live all of that in one day. They choose, moment by moment, whether or not to be themselves, and that’s the brilliance of They Both Die at the End to me: Even with just one day? They know how important that is, and show the whole damn world.

Friday Flash Fics – Wrath

Today’s Friday Flash Fics inspiration was this fellow. It took me a while to figure out what his tattoo said, but once I did, I couldn’t help but think of Tyson from Triad Blood. So, this means this week’s Flash Fic needs a minor spoiler warning. This story, “Wrath,” takes place after David, Ethan, and Tyson have formed their pack. It’s also about twice as long as it’s supposed to be. Ah well.

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Wrath

“So how come you look older now?” Ethan said.

Tyson took a sip of his coffee. His first instinct was to dodge the question. His second was to lie. He swallowed, and forced himself to do the opposite. It was a habit he was having trouble with. And it still felt surreal to be able to speak whatever he wanted to say.

“This is pretty much what I default to,” he said. “I looked younger before because…” He paused, not sure how to put it.

“Because it would piss off Curtis better? You looking younger made him madder at what that guy did to you?”

That guy. Tyson nodded and took another sip. The cup also hid most of his reaction. Humiliation. Pain. Self-loathing. At first, he’d dismissed Ethan as the least of their odd triumvirate, but he was starting to realize both he and David had greater depths than they let on. Ethan was a sharp judge of character for someone so young. David knew people, understood how they thought, and could navigate their worst natures.

They’d been in Patterson Park for a few minutes, just sitting on a bench and enjoying a surprisingly warm Autumn day. A group of young men were throwing a frisbee, and one of them had brought a dog. The dog was chasing the frisbee as much as the men were, to less success. When some of the men had stripped off their shirts, Ethan perked up.

“Okay, a few possibilities there,” he said, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Nobody outright lusting after each other, but… some buried thoughts.”

“I think I’d have more luck.” Tyson nodded to one of the men, who was shorter than the others and hadn’t taken off his shirt. “That one is easily frustrated, and the one in the grey hat is making it worse.”

They watched in silence for a few moments longer. Sure enough, the grey hat wearer’s throws always seemed to sail just high enough to make the shorter man work twice as hard as the rest to jump and catch the plastic disk. The dog got the frisbee after the shorter man missed.

“Come here, pup,” Ethan said, barely loud enough for Tyson to hear, and a pulse of heat washed out from their bench.

Tyson looked at him, amused, then watched the dog react suddenly to the allure. It turned almost ninety degrees and ran right up to their bench from across the field, hopping up with its front paws in Ethan’s lap and licking his face. The frisbee dropped to the ground, and Tyson leaned down to pick it up.

“Hey buddy.” Ethan rubbed the dog’s neck, and it continued to lick him. Large, adoring eyes and a wagging tail completed the effect.

“Saint. Down, boy. Saint!”

The shirtless man in the grey hat–he was handsome, and muscular–had chased the dog. The dog didn’t obey in the slightest. Tyson noticed the man had words inked on his skin.

The sight of the tattoo gave him a moment of pain. Ethan glanced at him, one eyebrow rising just a little. The dog, for his part, continued to ignore the man.

Tyson shook his head. He didn’t like that Ethan could sense things from him. The way tattoos disturbed him, for example. He eyed the man’s arm again, and this time he read the words.

Psalms 7:11 – God is a righteous judge, a God who shows his wrath every day.

Wrath. Tyson could feel the man’s frustration. The dog was ignoring him, and he wasn’t used to that. He drew a little on the man’s anger, just a sliver. It was as refreshing as the coffee.

Ethan smiled slyly, looking up at the man. “I think he likes me better than you.”

The man did not like that assessment at all. Embarrassment was a kind of anger, too. He scooped up the dog in strong arms, lifting the animal bodily away from the two of them.

“Sorry if he bothered you,” the man said, not sounding remotely sincere. He turned and carried the dog away from them.

Tyson rose, and waited for the man to put the dog down and realize his mistake. When he did, Tyson felt more of the man’s anger shimmer to the surface. Tyson threw the frisbee back across the field, with a strength born of his demonic nature.

To his credit, the shirtless man in the grey hat gave it a solid leap. But the frisbee sailed an inch or two above his reach. That the shorter man was the one to catch it before it hit the grass was an unexpected bonus.

The flare of anger that raced between the two players was palpable to Tyson, even from where he stood at the bench.

“Poor dog,” Ethan said. “That guy’s an asshole.”

Tyson nodded, sitting down again. “Want to take him down a few pegs?”

“Hell, yes.” Ethan grinned. “I didn’t think you’d ever loosen up.”

Tyson tried a smile of his own. It felt a little closer to genuine than any he’d worn in a long, long time. “Any thoughts on where you want to start?”

Ethan shook his head. “You lead. I’ll follow.”

Tyson eyed the shirtless man who appeared to find wrath something of a virtue. Tyson’s hand rose to his chest. The remnants of the chains that had kept him bound for decades were still there, but they held no power any more. Freedom took getting used to.

Time to practice.

 

 

 

 

Reflection

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Soap Bubble, from PixaBay.

I only know my own part, but that’s all any of us can say. But before I begin, I need you to understand one thing above all: I was rescued twice, not once, but I was never kidnapped.

But I should start at the beginning, which I guess is the garret.

For most people, if you live in a garret you get two views. One is the view through your window, where you can see the whole city, up high like a bird. The other is the way people view you, which is the complete opposite. Us poor people lived in the garrets, where even as young as I was when all this began, I had to duck down on one side of our room so I wouldn’t hit my head on the slope of the roof.

And in my case, I had a third view but it had barely started. A glance in water, a moment in front of the small mirror my mother kept, or catching a glance at the side of a teapot.

But I’m getting ahead of myself again.

I did have a grandmother, but I lived with my parents and brothers, too, all of us in our two rooms with one window, but if people talk about my family they only talk about my grandmother. I had friends—we garret kids had the top set of stairs to ourselves, after all—but mostly there was Gerda.

Gerda didn’t live in my building. Her family was in the one next door, but if I scarpered out my window I could climb into hers, and between the windows her papa built a box where my grandmother grew vegetables, some herbs, and sometimes even a flower or two.

They weren’t roses. You don’t grow roses in garret flower boxes.

I guess that’s the first thing you’ve been told that’s wrong. They were pansies. And it’s more important than you’d think. Pansies are tough.

It took me quite a while to figure that part out for myself.

 

*

 

It was my grandmother that told me about the Queen of the Snow. When winter came, and the last of the things that grew in the box were gone, she’d tell me stories by the light of the window, or read to me from the only book we had in our rooms. My parents worked most of the day—my father chipping away deep in the stone of the earth, my mother keeping one of the great houses fed without being seen. Two of my brothers were already working with my father—I imagined that would have been me, too, if not for everything that would come—and my third brother was out selling, carrying his tray-box around his neck and stomping his feet in the cold.

My brothers always looked at me like I’d done something wrong being born last. Like somehow, staying home with my grandmother and holding the yarn while she knitted, or cleaning the floors while she cooked up a stew from bits and pieces was a great life they’d missed out on for having been born before me.

Me? I watched them climb down all the stairs every day and go out into the city and walk through the streets and thought they had freedom.

We were both wrong. They were no more free than I was, they just got a different view and had more people to talk to.

I should say my Grandmother never meant to be cruel. When they say she loved me, I suppose in her way, in a fashion, she did. Same with Gerda, really. But there’s love and there’s love. So when my grandmother warned me about the Snow Queen, she thought she was doing me a good deed.

 

*

 

I heard the same stories year after year—my grandmother only had so many—but when frost started to draw patterns on the glass of our window, that was usually when I’d hear about the Snow Queen. The frost reminded her, I think.

“She’s a queen like bees in their boxes have queens, my boy. You have to watch the snow. Sometimes what seems white and pure and delicate isn’t—that’s her.”

My grandmother would trace her finger on the glass, pressing it against the surface until the frost melted.

“Watch for the snow. Sometimes it’s not snow. When you see the snowflakes gathering in the light make sure they’re not hers. They’re more like bees, my boy. Like bees made of ice so sharp and fit to cut you like glass.”

After that, she’d knit for a while in silence, and I’d watch the ball of yarn grow smaller and smaller until the candles grew dim and it was time to start the evening tea, and I would go down all the stairs to fetch water or sweep the room and after I’d look at the frost on the window and wonder about bees made of glass.

“Beware her kisses, my boy. One kiss and you’ll be as cold as she is, two and you’ll be as heartless, and if you allow a third…” Here she would pause, and look over her glasses at me. “A third is death.”

That winter, the winter they talk about, I barely slept. I lay by the fire in my blankets, shivering with a cold that had little to do with the drafts of an attic room. My grandmother had started to ask about my friendship with Gerda.

My eldest brother would soon be married, and he would leave us in spring.

I knew what she was asking, and I knew I couldn’t answer.

I gave up trying to sleep and paced the small room, wishing the movement and stoking the fire would warm me inside where the cold of fear was settling. To the window. Back again. In the other room, the rest of my family slept. I tried whispering rhymes to myself—Gerda had a silly rhyme about pansies she liked to sing to me—and sometimes that would help.

But that night it didn’t.

The cold inside me only grew worse the more I thought about the days ahead.

So I went to the window.

It was just a glimpse. A woman, tall and beautiful, in a cloak as white as freshly fallen snow. She was walking through the street, and the angle between the two buildings from our garret window meant my glimpse was brief.

But she turned, and she met my gaze.

Her smile seemed kind.

I pulled away from the window, went back to my bed by the fire, and pulled the cloth over my eyes. I should have been terrified.

Instead, for the first time in months, I finally felt warm.

That night I realized I liked the stories of the Snow Queen better than the ones from the book, which so often made my insides twist, desperate and terrified, even as my grandmother swore we’d all be welcomed in paradise. She said she knew our hearts, and we were all worthy.

I knew better. I only had to see a mirror to be reminded.

And I knew better than to say so.

 

*

 

For all the warnings my grandmother made in winter, it was in summer it began. I had brought a bucket to the plant box between our garret windows and Gerda had a picture book. I don’t know where she got it, but it seemed like a very beautiful thing to me. There were dancing ladies and men in great coats and so many birds.

I was using a ladle to water the plants. If that seems silly, understand: if I could, I didn’t want to have to go get a second bucket of water and carry it all the way up all the stairs to the garret. With a ladle, I could be careful, and water each vegetable enough with just one bucket.

“Look at these two,” Gerda said. She pointed to a group of pipers, each man playing music. Her voice was hushed, as though she was telling me a secret.

I looked at the picture. Two of the pipers were holding hands.

Heat and cold warred inside me, despite the summer day. I opened my mouth to say something, glancing down at the bucket, and I saw Gerda’s reflection.

She was recoiling from me, pulling away and shaking her head. Disgusted, or afraid, or just pitying. It was hard to tell on the surface of the water, but I was sure of one thing: like every reflection I happened to look into, it was telling me a truth.

It was a warning.

“It’s a terrible thing,” I said, meaning one thing, but knowing Gerda would hear another. She gave me a little nod and closed the book, and helped me water the rest of the vegetables.

I watched as every ladle lowered the water in the bucket. Gerda seemed to get further and further away.

“Gerda,” I said, before there wasn’t enough water left to show her face. “Are we friends?”

She smiled at me. It was a sunny smile, as warm as the day. “Of course we are.”

Her reflection shook her head.

I poured the last of the water into the garden. The pansies were bright and pretty, even though the wind had been strong for days many were a little beaten down. I wished I had half the courage they had.

 

*

 

It was easy to catch my grandmother’s reflection, too. Between the basin where we washed the dishes, and the small mirror in the garret, it just took a little forethought. When I allowed myself to think of myself as I was, and whisper a word out loud, her reflection would turn from me. Or raise both hands to the heavens, pleading and afraid. Or weep.

That was the worst.

After, I kept my own counsel, and I tried to avoid anything that reflected, but it wasn’t always possible. My grandmother noticed. So did Gerda. And my grandmother even noticed how little Gerda and I spoke, and that gave her more concern.

“Have you argued?” she asked me, one autumn afternoon.

“No, grandmother,” I said. I was always respectful. I did nothing to give her any reason to worry about me. But I knew it couldn’t last forever. Her face was full of concern.

“Good,” she said, but I knew she felt it was anything but. Her stories turned to tales of those who didn’t allow love in their hearts, and the various cataclysms befalling them. Every story seemed to begin with someone who lost love from their heart and become cruel, and ended with someone who loved them bringing them back from some dark place.

I learned to close my eyes when I passed the garret mirror, and keep my gaze above the water when I washed plates or watered the plant box.

 

*

 

By winter, the tales my grandmother told were once again of the Snow Queen, and I was barely sleeping. I could not find enough blankets, and I singed myself by sleeping too close to the fire. Nothing thawed the fear every mirror, window, or pool of water revealed to me: if they knew, they would turn away.

And worse, I knew if would eventually be when.

After a particularly heavy snow, and a productive morning, my grandmother suggested I go outside with my sled. I knew she wanted me to go with the others my age, and especially Gerda, but I took her to her word and no further and carried my sled outside by myself. Between the fear in my chest and the snow that was still falling, I was soon chilled through, though I did ride down the slope of the lane a few times.

It was there, at the end of our lane, I saw the carriage sleigh. It was beautiful: its wood painted white, trimmed with fur and bells and somehow stately in a way I couldn’t explain. And on it, as though she were waiting for me all this time, was the beautiful woman herself, in her white furs and smiling her kind smile for me.

Children would hitch their sleds to carriage sleighs like this, to have a ride. But this was her carriage sleigh, and I looked around and saw no other children and the snow in the air seemed to swirl in and on itself in little circles, less like snow and more like bees.

My grandmother’s warnings conjured nothing. I should have been afraid. I shivered, but it was not born of fear of this woman.

I tied my sled to the carriage sleigh, and her smile stole any shred of worry I might have had.

The ride out of the city was incredible. There were no crowds of people in our way. Everyone seemed to step aside just in time, and I found myself laughing as the snow itself blew into people’s faces and made them turn, or twist, or pause. We flew through the streets, and when we came to rest outside the gates, I was panting from laughter.

I untied my sled, and went to thank her.

The woman on the carriage sleigh was no longer just a beautiful woman in white fur. She had cast aside her fur coat, and beneath she wore snow and ice gathered like a fine gown. Her eyes were the palest blue I’d ever seen, and I could see my own reflection in them.

And just for a second, I saw myself smiling, and happy.

“You are the Snow Queen,” I said.

She nodded once. “I am.”

“Are you here to hurt me?”

Those pale blue eyes filled with a sadness so familiar I ached for her. “Do you think I am?”

I shook my head.

“Most people can’t see me,” she said.

“I see things,” I said. “In mirrors. In glass. In water. In…”

“Ice?” she said.

I nodded. “Reflections.”

“You see a person’s heart, then?”

“I think so.” I swallowed. “Yes. Truths, I think. Words in my head make truths in reflections.”

The Snow Queen waved her hand, and snow whirled in a circle beside us, a swarm of flakes that wove the air itself into ice so perfect and smooth I could see both of us on its surface.

“And what do you see of me?” she asked.

I looked at the reflection, and I allowed myself to imagine telling her more of myself. Not just of the things I could see in mirrors.

In the ice, the Snow Queen opened her arms in welcome, and I stepped into her embrace.

“I do not love,” I said. “Not as they want me to.”

When the Snow Queen embraced me, she kissed my forehead. And finally, the cold fear that had lived inside my heart was gone. My grandmother was right: I was as cold as she was.

It was just that she wasn’t cold at all.

“They’ll never understand,” I said. It wasn’t a question.

And so the Snow Queen kissed me again.

I was not made heartless, either. The second kiss drew a distance in my thoughts and memories, though, and a clarity to know I could not be what they expected. It wasn’t heartlessness. It was understanding that some hearts could not be pleased.

Enough understanding to know it was time to leave.

 

*

 

There was indeed a magic in reflection, and I could touch it. The Snow Queen took me to her palace, tucked away in the northern woods where snow and pines reigned around us in a peaceful and beautiful rest. She had friends, people like us, who would visit a while from time to time, but mostly she lived alone, content and happy with her own company.

She took me to a lake frozen mirror perfect, and began to teach me.

“I work with snow and ice and memory,” she said. “You work with words, reflection, and potential. I’m not sure how much of what I know might guide you, but for me, it always comes to a thought—a word as a truth—and the magic takes the rest.”

It was like that for me, too. I had only to imagine words of truth on my lips, and I could see the reactions that those words would bring in the reflections of those around me, but to do so with a purpose beyond discovering how others would react?

We started with simple things.

The Snow Queen would speak of winter, and for her, the snow would shift and twist and fly around in squalls about us, covering the world in a layer of white that no longer left me cold.

And so I spoke those words, and beneath us, the surface of the lake showed me winters around the world, where people woke and shared greetings, or where those who were alone would gaze out upon the snow-covered beauty of the season, and perhaps see something in it worth knowing. And, a few times, I even saw others like us—a valiant antlered deer who seemed to be fighting off wolves with a blazing light, and a woman who could pull time taught and hold it steady, and a young slight man who drew patterns of frost on every surface he touched with his bare hand—and I knew that even in the simplest words and truths there was much to learn.

I would often spend the whole of the night outside, for it seemed to me that the reflections I saw in moonlight were different from those in sunlight, and besides which, I had no fear of the cold thanks to the Snow Queen’s first kiss.

If I was not happy, it was not that I was unhappy.  If I was alone, it was worth saying that I was not lonely. The Snow Queen would visit, and she would see what words I had uncovered, and often join in for a while to speak them herself and see what, if anything, they would do when she used them.

When I said “home” under the sunlight I saw my family, who believed I had drowned in a river. When I said “home” under the moonlight, nothing would appear beyond swirls of light and colour.

When I said “escape” under the sunlight I could watch myself hitch my sled to the Snow Queen’s carriage sleigh, and ride off to the freedom I now enjoyed. Under moonlight? The same word showed me myself, sitting on the lake, speaking word after word, trying to find the right one.

One morning, the Snow Queen came to me, and draped a beautiful white cape across my shoulders. I tied it closed. “Thank you,” I said, though I was confused. “It’s lovely.”

“It’s a day for giving gifts,” she said, and I realized just how long I’d been working my magic on the lake.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I keep thinking there is a word I’m missing. Something I could say that would show me where in the world there is a place for those like me.” I smiled at the Snow Queen. “And yet here I sit, in a place you’ve brought me to that is place enough.”

“This is mine, and it is perfect for me,” the Snow Queen said. “But for you? I’m not sure. I think you’re right. There’s a word you still seek.”

“I’ll keep trying. But, for you?” I gestured to the lake beneath us. “Gift,” I said.

I kept my eyes away from the ice, for it felt private, but seeing the joy that crossed her face at whatever it was she watched play out beneath us a gift in and of itself. Her laughter made beautiful snow zephyrs dance around us.

“You’re talented,” she said, once the vision had ended. “Perhaps tonight you will join me for a dinner?”

I said that I would, and I did. But come the morning, I returned to the lake and the hunt for my words.

And just before sunset game Gerda.

 

*

 

“The pansies wouldn’t die,” Gerda said.

She stood facing me. I had no idea how long she had been there, watching me conjure magic from the reflection in the lake, but when I finally saw her, the expression on her face was exactly as I’d seen it in the bucket. Disgusted. Afraid.

Well.

Now she knew, and I knew I’d been right not to tell her.

As victories went, it was hollow.

“How?” I said.

“The pansies… and then I went… I went to see a woman. She… She was like you, but I thought, to save you, it was worth the risk… She tried to stop me, but the pansies, again…” Gerda was shaking her head. “They broke through and I knew it meant you were okay.”

A coach stood by the edge of the lake. I hadn’t even heard it approach. It must have been how she’d come here. I never did find out if the thing about the Prince and Princess was even a little true, but this much was: her adventure had served her well, even if my “rescue” was not at all to be at her hand.

And she did look so fine, dressed in beautiful winter clothes. She couldn’t feel the cold in those layers of beautiful cloths and furs.

“Aren’t you cold?” she said. It was like she was reading my mind.

“No,” I said. “It’s part of…” I bit back the words. “It’s part of all of this.”

“Will you come home?”

“Home.” I repeated the word, and the magic of it escaped me. Beneath us, the lake showed us my family in their garret, gathered for a meal. Gerda gasped, stepping away from me, her eyes on the magic.

And then the sun set, and the lake changed to the swirls of light instead.

“Why are you doing this?” Gerda said. Then, angrily, “Why are you like this?”

Snowflakes began to swirl around the edge of the lake. The Snow Queen, protecting me.

“Gerda,” I said, not sure what else to say.

“Come home with me,” Gerda said. “Come back to us. We’re your family. We love you.”

“Say that again,” I said.

Gerda frowned, but repeated herself. And when she said “We love you,” I caught her words and let the magic free.

Beneath us, she saw the truth of her words reflected in the ice. She saw my grandmother weep and pull away, my brothers full of scorn and spit, my mother turn her back, my father’s anger… And her own disgust.

“It’s not true,” she said, shaking her head. “We do love you. If you just free yourself from her. From what she’s done to you.”

Around the lake, the snow swirled faster.

“She rescued me,” I said.

“No!” Gerda stomped her foot, as if wishing her fancy new boot would break the ice and drop us into the frigid water deep beneath. “No, you are not… This isn’t you. You’re not…”

“A pansy?” I said.

She turned away. “You don’t have to be.”

“But I am,” I said. “And I always will be.”

The ice beneath us filled with the swirling light again, so bright that the snow swirling around the lake seemed like lace curtains in motion. Gerda took my hand, frightened.

“It’s okay,” I said. I tried repeating the word that had set the magic in motion. “Always?” The light flared. It wasn’t quite the right word, but it was of a family with the one I’d been seeking all along.

Gerda was crying now.

“It’s okay,” I said. She buried her face in my shoulder. I tried another word. “Forever?”

Closer, still.

“Please don’t,” Gerda said. “Kai. It’s like her. It’s the snow. It’s the Snow Queen!”

“It’s not,” I said. It was so close. Almost the right word. I could rescue myself, I could find the way to a home, if I just got it right. “It’s not her. It’s me. It’ll always be me. Forever. It’s…”

“Kai!”

“Eternity.”

Light again, a moment between breaths, and then we saw all the places where I belonged.

 

*

 

In the story you were told, we came back together changed, adults in the space of the fallout of a single magical word. And I suppose, if you look at what happened a certain way, that might be true for me at least. But it took me time to go to all the places I saw, and it took me a bit longer to figure out what it was I was looking at.

And Gerda went home without me.

The lake showed me a pretty house in the woods, planter boxes on the windows, but also a row of stone houses in a city much bigger than the one where I’d grown, each colourful door with a basket hanging above. And a farm. And some docks lined with barrels. And so many gardens, one even by a palace.

I thought one of those places might be where I belonged, and so I went to them. It took days, then weeks, then months. I grew stronger, and taller, and in each of those places my magic was welcomed by one or two people, and I used it to help them speak truths and see things they didn’t yet know.

And I would say the word “Eternity” and I would see all the places I had been already before the rest. Sometimes the order was different. Sometimes some of them were gone, replaced by others. It was a different kind of riddle, but as I traveled, I met others like myself.

It’s possible you’re wiser than I, and have spotted what it took me years to notice myself.

The pansies.

Pansies in flower boxes or baskets. Pansies on the hillside of the farm. Pansies on the docks. Hardy things, those flowers. And they’re everywhere. They make it even when the wind breaks them down. They bloom, and grow, and thrive wherever they can.

It’s possible all the various mirrors who’d shown me where I needed to go to find a home where I could belong could have been a bit more clear, but, well.

They reflect. It’s what they do.

People come to my home from all of those places: the city where I was born, the farms, the row of stone homes, villages, and ships. Over water or glass I help them find the words they need, and outside, I hang a mirror. Each morning I stop, face it, and say the word.

Eternity.

The mirror is there for people who need it. People who need to look and see a truth they might not know themselves.

There have always be those like us.

There always will be.

And where we belong?

Everywhere.

You’re tougher than you think.

Just like pansies, children who live in garrets, and the Queen of the Snow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Writing Wednesday — Just Another Winter’s Tale

[image error]I have a surprise announcement today, in the form of an e-book anthology of holiday stories. Just Another Winter’s Tale was the brainchild of Matthew Bright (he of the brilliant Inkspiral Book & Cover Design), and is a gathering of seven wee tales of the holiday by myself, Matthew Bright, Nicholas M. Campbell, Michael Thomas Ford, Roy Gill, Gene Hult and Paul Magrs.

A few years ago, I wrote a blog entry re-telling the story of Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, and that story, “Dolph,” is my addition to the collection. Since I wrote the entry, I’ve had people ask me if they could have it in e-format, and now thanks to this collection, the answer is yes.

You can find Just Another Winter’s Tale on Amazon.

So! Apart from that awesome news, Writing Wednesdays are supposed to be about catching up on writing projects, and I gotta tell you, I’m still in a holding pattern of deciding what to work on next. I have so very many ideas, and that’s a good thing, but I’m going to let it sit a bit longer before I put together a pitch for Triad Magic and schedule out what I’m planning for the year ahead.

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Open Calls for Submission

On Writing Wednesdays I also track open calls for submission I’m keeping an eye on, as well as keeping honest how I’ve done thus far for the year in submitting things for publication myself.

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. Also, soon I’ll find out if I made it through to the next round of the NYCMidnight Flash Fiction contest; if I have, I’ve got one more flash fiction piece to write.

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.

 

 

Card Carrying

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Three of our recurring cards, hanging on the string.

I’m struggling with the Christmas cards this year. (Please note this post doubles as an apology for any late Christmas cards you may receive).

I normally enjoy writing them, and I sit down, put on some music, and go through the stacks of cards from last year to make sure I haven’t missed anyone from my list. That’s a “life hack” thing that I read once, and it turned out to have a hidden benefit.

The actual reason to keep all of last year’s Christmas cards, tucked in a box for the next year, was to keep track of who sent us a card. Not that Christmas cards are some sort of an earned or owed thing—we have a list of names and addresses we send to, and if someone doesn’t send us a card, it’s not like we strike out their name with red pen or something—it’s more a gentle reminder of people from the previous year, and a chance to double-check we haven’t forgotten someone by some accident.

But the first year I realized there was another reason to do this was the year I pulled out my husband’s card from his grandmother the year before. She’d passed that year, and this card was the last from her we’d receive.

So it went back up on the string.

[image error]It might be a facet of my queer life, but I had losses of loved ones early on. It’s something that sneaks into my writing more than a little (heck, even in Handmade Holidays, the illness and passing of a parent is a major plot point for one of the main characters), and there’s a reason so much of the magic or psychic abilities I often give my characters provides them with second chances to speak to loved ones, or to make something right that went wrong.

There are multiple last cards on that string now from people we’ve loved and lost, and although it’s bittersweet to hang them every year, it does feel very much like receiving a message from them again, and there is happiness in the memory. Carrying that memory throughout the year is a little easier with a yearly reminder.

In fact, the first time I met my husband’s grandmother, it was her 90th birthday. Thanks to jet lag, I was up very early, and I wandered into the front parlour of the home she shared with her daughter and her daughter’s partner, and I hadn’t noticed she was there (she was so quiet). After I jump-scared myself when I saw her, we had a little chat—I was so nervous, because I was meeting my boyfriend’s grandmother, for crying out loud—and at one point, she pointed to her display of birthday cards and said, “There were more last year.” She got a little frown, like this was somehow an insult, but then her face cleared. “Oh. No. That’s okay. They died.”

I think of that every year when I hang her final Christmas card to us, which she sent with love to both of us. She was a lovely lady.

Also? She had the most amazing penmanship. Seriously. I’ll try to keep that in mind while I chicken-scratch my way through the cards this year.

Monday Flash Fics – It’s an Honour

Monday Flash Fics provides an image every week to spark an idea. This week, I immediately thought of my somewhat-superhero story, Light, and the main character, Keiran, who is a bit telepathic, sort of telekinetic, and really gay and who refracts light when he uses his telekinesis, which makes for a handy, if less than subtle, disguise.

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It’s an Honour

“I don’t get it.”

“I’m not sure it’s the kind of thing you get,” Callum said. “I think it’s just what it is.”

I frowned. I titled my head one way, then the other. One of the poles changed from blue to purple.

“But it’s a bunch of poles,” I said, trying hard not to sound too negative. “A bunch of poles that light up.”

“Well, it suits the theme,” Callum said. “I mean, for you-know-who.”

“I’m not Voldemort, Callum,” I said.

“Okay, it’s for you. I mean, nobody knows that, but it is.” Callum stomped his feet. “Also, it’s freezing. Can we maybe stop and get coffee?”

“Sure,” I said. But I didn’t move.

“Kieran?”

“Sorry.” I took another long look. Still a bunch of poles with lights inside. One of the poles, glowing green, turned yellow. The purple one was still purple. I sighed, then turned to go. Callum was already leaving the small park.

“I think you’re supposed to be honoured,” Callum said, once I caught up to him.

“I guess.” It was an homage to me, after all. That was pretty cool. And I’d been excited when it was announced. It’s possible I’d been thinking about what it might look like too much and the grand reveal was…

Well. It was a bunch of metal poles with lights.

There wasn’t even a heroic statue.

“I wanted a statue,” I admitted.

Callum laughed. Loud. Like only a big brother could. If he wasn’t such a great guy most of the time, I’d’ve probably reprogrammed his brain by now. Maybe make him think he was a hamster.

“Shut up,” I said, imagining him running on a wheel.

“You realize that doesn’t make sense, right?” Callum said.

I frowned. “How so?”

“No one knows what you look like!” He held out his hands, wiggling his fingers. “You get all…sparkly. You’re like…walking glitter.”

I stopped walking. “I can’t believe you came up with something worse than Disco.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter. It didn’t have to be an accurate statue. Just… y’know…” I sighed. “Not glow sticks.”

“Kieran,” Callum said, touching my shoulder. “I love you like a brother, but—”

“You are my brother.”

“—you’re being an idiot.”

“Would you consider that a great monument if it was dedicated to you and your…uh…academic greatness?”

“If my academic greatness saved lives? Yes. I would.” He squeezed. “I’d consider it an honour.”

Well, now I felt like an ass.

But then Callum grinned. “A really, really, really ugly honour,” he said.

“You do think it’s ugly!”

“Bro, it’s hideous.” He laughed. “But it’s meant well.”

I turned and looked. When the lights were orange and purple, it did no one any favours. Even the snow looked gross.

“You saved people,” Callum said. “That’s really more important.”

He was right.

“Now can we also save my life before I freeze to death?”

No one was around, so I teked a snowball at the back of his head. He whirled, then whirled back and pointed at me. “Kieran,” he said, his tone full of older-brother warning.

I glanced left and right. No one was around.

Multiple balls of snow rose around me.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

I dared.

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday Shorts – Sock it to Me, Santa! by Madison Parker

[image error]Ryan is assigned to Jamie Peterson for his class’s secret gift exchange. If word gets out that he has to make a handcrafted gift for flamboyant and openly gay Jamie, Ryan will be the laughing stock of the school. It’s a good thing no self-respecting boy would be caught dead in a craft store, because otherwise he’d be at risk of being spotted when his mom drags him to her weekly craft workshops. He hopes Jamie will appreciate all the trouble he’s going to for this assignment. Finding the perfect gift is gonna be tricky. Jamie deserves something good, though, after all the crap he has to put up with at school. At least, Ryan tells himself that’s the reason he’s putting so much thought into the gift. It couldn’t be that he has feelings for Jamie, could it?

This was a totally adorable little holiday short that I picked up because I saw Jennifer Lavoie had read it and loved it. Sock it to Me, Santa! is a short, sweet, lovely little Christmas story about a young man in high school who ends up facing his feelings—and coming out—thanks to a tie, a spider ornament, a sock monkey, and a out-and-proud classmate named Jamie.

Ryan is given Jamie’s name for a three-week ongoing Secret Santa where the gifts have to be handmade and all the pieces can’t cost more than $10. He’s freaking out. What if people find out he made something for Jamie? What if people think he enjoyed doing it?

What if he did?

This was just the right level of angsty and cute, and even the brushes with homophobic bullying felt real without overshadowing all the joy in the piece. If you’re looking for a mostly completely upbeat little short about a boy coming to terms with himself, and getting brave enough to stand up for others as well as himself, this is it. That it’s also got a dash of the holiday spirit just added the shining snowflake on top for me.