Lex Chase's Blog, page 18

[Monday Spark] “No-Pants Weekend” by Lex Chase

Hello Internet! Here we are for another Monday Spark. How about something to cure your case of the Mondays and put a little perk in your step. You know what I mean. *hint* For today’s offering, I went sans prompt and decided to wing a little something in a day in the life of our favorite dorks Taylor and Corentin of Fairy Tales of the Open Road. What happens when Ringo and Honeysuckle leave on a couple’s retreat and leave the boys to fend for themselves?

No pants.

And all that it implies.

Please enjoy!

No-Pants Weekend
A Fairy Tales of the Open Road Short
by Lex Chase

It started when Corentin wanted Pop-Tarts.

No. Hold it. It started when Ringo and Honeysuckle left for a couple’s retreat. The moment the door clicked shut, Taylor gave Corentin that look and clothes hit the floor.

Corentin naturally wanted a break for the Saints game. Taylor obliged as they sat naked on the couch and their hair in disarray. Corentin had his reasons, and Taylor wasn’t going to point out his shortcomings. One was despite being a magical being, he was no spring chicken. Also he and football was his thing, Taylor tried to get him interested in theater, but there was no denying Corentin’s deer in the headlights expression during Les Mis.

Taylor refused to let him live it down the time he caught Corentin singing “I Dreamed a Dream” in the shower.

Corentin yawned, and slumped into the couch, spreading his legs to scratch his inner thigh. “Standing in for the Saints is Miss Marple’s School of the Blind,” he sighed, lamenting abysmal score.

Taylor leaned into him and nipped at his ear lobe. “Wanna know what’s not boring?” he whispered as he crawled into Corentin’s lap.

They kissed, and another hour later, they had shattered the lamp and smashed the coffee table.

Taylor lay under Corentin among the debris, and the sweat evaporating from their skin. He laughed breathlessly under Corentin’s weight, and Corentin chuckled in response.

“We can fix it, right?” Taylor asked.

“All it needs is a little duct tape,” Corentin said.

Taylor scowled. “Honeysuckle will yell at us.”

“We’re adults. Honeysuckle is not our mother.”

“Which would make this hella awkward.”

Corentin furrowed his brow. “Your mother.”

Taylor shrugged. “Whatever works.”

“Anyway. We’ll just go buy another one.”

“They’ll know,” Taylor said with a frown.

“We’re adults,” Corentin repeated. “I need you to be an adult with me because we’re naked and have been enjoying each other all day and I don’t want to feel gross.”

Taylor arched a brow. “That’s awkward.”

“Whatever. We’ll just say you decided to redecorate because you saw Nate Berkus spruce up a living room on Rachel Ray.”

“Wait.” Taylor said.

“Wait what?” Corentin asked.

“You know who Nate Berkus is?” Taylor grinned.

Corentin looked like he swallowed a toad. “No. Just. The TV was on.”

“You lie like hooker on lunch hour,” Taylor said and swatted his shoulder.

“It is lunch time, isn’t it?” Corentin asked.

“I’m not hungry at the moment,” Taylor said.

“Good.”

They kissed, and another two hours went by. They lay back against the stairs, heaving for breath, and Taylor shivered from dehydration.

“Okay,” he said. “Now we really need to think about dinner before a porn production company shows up.”

Corentin considered the KY bottle and shook it. “We are getting a bit low.”

“We’ll just make a Wal-Mart run,” Taylor said as he shakily navigated through the broken picture frames, upturned vases, and cracked doorframe. They had been at it long enough Taylor reconsidered Corentin’s stamina, and he wondered how he was still able to walk a reasonably straight line. Or walk at all.

“But that would require pants,” Corentin said as he popped his back. “You made a no pants rule this weekend.”

Taylor snorted. “If you want this—” he gestured to himself. “—We are going to Wal-Mart.”

Corentin followed him to the kitchen and Taylor riffled through the cabinets, then surveyed the freezer.

“We have ground turkey,” Taylor said, holding up the frozen package. “Not really feeling it.”

“And you can’t cook anyway,” Corentin said and then pressed his lips together.

Taylor knew he realized his mistake the moment it left his mouth. “Oh and you’re an amazing cook too,” he growled. “You burn water!”

Corentin waved his hands. “Not the point. I can cook Pop-Tarts.”

“Pop-Tarts,” Taylor said, disbelieving. “For dinner.”

“Why not?” he said and held up the bottle of KY. “It’s quick and we got just enough before we really have to go to Wal-Mart.”

“Such a romantic,” Taylor purred and slipped the Pop-Tarts into the toaster.

They kissed again.

Thirty minutes later, Taylor finally noticed the kitchen was on fire. Smoke poured through the house in thick black puffs. The fire alarm blared in an ear-piercing shrill as they screamed commands at each other that neither heard.

Corentin snatched the burning toaster in a kitchen towel and rushed outside. Taylor hurried behind him, and dashed for the garden hose. The kitchen towel smoked, and flames sparked at the edges. The faucet refused to turn, and Taylor scratched his knuckles against the shrubbery as it finally cranked on. Corentin threw down the toaster and the burning towel, and it bounced into a pile of dry brush.

Taylor screeched as the pine needles and fallen leaves erupted in a great orange fireball. Corentin snatched the hose from him, and aimed it toward the flames.

The water came out in a trickle.

“There’s a kink in the hose!” Corentin bellowed, both of them deaf from the shrieking fire alarm. “There’s a kink in the hose!”

Taylor nodded, reading his lips, and then scrambled to the faucet. He fumbled blindly through the bushes, feeling along the plastic tubing. Thorns and twigs scratched against his fingers and face.

“Got it!” Taylor screamed and yanked the hose free.

Corentin braced himself and doused the fire. They stood quietly, panting for breath, and shivering in the cold night.

Taylor leaned into Corentin, and he slipped a hand around Taylor’s nude waist.

“Okay…,” Corentin said. “So. No Pop-Tarts for dinner. Wanna go to Wal-Mart still?”

Instead of being pissed, Taylor shrugged. “I suppose.”

Corentin kissed the top of his head, and then made a face as he spit a twig. He turned back toward the house and sighed in defeat. “Time for pan—” he gasped when he lost his footing and crashed into the mud, yanking Taylor on top of him.

Taylor gasped with a hard slam of body to body and Corentin jerked in shock.

“You okay?” Taylor squealed as Corentin groaned.

“Your knee…,” he whined like a child. “Fuck your knees are bony.”

Taylor blinked widely. “I kicked you in the—”

“Yeah,” Corentin squeaked.

Laughing to keep from crying, Taylor helped Corentin into the house. The moment they crossed the threshold, the destruction of their No-Pants Weekend lay before them like a natural disaster blockbuster.

Hungry, sore, and too shell-shocked to kiss, they found pants.

Fifteen minutes later, they stood at the McDonald’s counter, bleary-eyed, filthy, and both of them in clothes dug up from the bottom of the hamper.

“And a twenty piece nuggets,” Corentin croaked.

Taylor swatted him in the arm. “And a McFlurry.”

Corentin scowled. “And a McFlurry.”

Taylor swatted him again. “Oreo.”

“Oreo,” Corentin told the bewildered cashier.

“Will that… be all?” the poor girl asked.

Corentin reached for his wallet. He blinked, patting all of his pockets.

“What?” Taylor asked, patting his as well. He was wearing a pair of Corentin’s pants after all.

They both gaped at each other.

Taylor realized the damming truth. “You forgot your wallet.”

“Shit.” Corentin scowled.

“No Wal-Mart then.”

“Fuck.”

 

Copyright © 2015 Lex Chase. All rights reserved.

[Flash Fiction Friday] Terry Rissen presents “Still Life”

Hello Internet! Please give a hearty welcome to Terry Rissen! Terry brings us a really special piece “Still Life,” which is quite the mindbender. I’m always a sucker for a good Twilight Zone riff, and Terry delivers!

Our lonely hero Marcus is at a loss when random items start vanishing from his apartment. Wait. Where did the door go?

“Still Life”
by Terry Rissen

It began the day Jack left.

And it kept happening.

Marcus wasn’t sure when the finality of it all sank in. Could have been when he got up and found his coffee machine gone. Might not have been until his front door vanished, leaving smooth wall in its stead. Sometimes he had nightmares about the order things had happened in. Maybe his door had been first. Why would he have stayed?

He reached for the book he’d been reading, Migratory Habits of the Greater Lambit, but his fingers brushed only the cold slick surface of his end table. The book had been dry as dust but had appeared on the table where his grandmother’s lily vase had been. He tried to remain philosophical about his new reality; it helped keep the clawing panic at bay.

Maybe a new book would show up. The History of Watch Hands or Geologic Activity on the Indian Sub-Continent During the British Occupation. Or, maybe, whatever was doing this would return The Maltese Falcon so he could finish reading it. The long parade of dry tomes he’d been given to read seemed to be of the type libraries always had at least two copies of…and no one ever read. Perhaps all this was part of a lonely hearts book club desperately seeking readers.

Marcus went into the morning room. It used to be the living room but he called it the morning room now because the bright morning sun always shone through the windows. The clock on his DVR read a constant 8:42 AM. The kitchen was noon and raining. Their…his bedroom was night, with occasional wind that sometimes rattled the windows waking him to once again see it was always 3:08 AM.

He’d only gone into the second bedroom once after all this started. Marcus had taken one look at the indescribable gut wrenching scene outside that window and fled.

He saw it only in nightmares now.

Marcus’s stomach rumbled so he left morning and went to noon. In the kitchen, the percolator sat next to the sink, ready to be used. No matter where it was when he walked away, as long as it wasn’t in the process of heating coffee, it was always sitting clean and ready for use by the sink. It had appeared the day after his coffee maker was taken. Marcus had never actually used a percolator before, but he remembered his dad making coffee in one in the mornings.

So far, odd bits of food kept appearing in his kitchen. A few things, like coffee never ran out. There was always fennel, too. Marcus had never actually cooked with fennel and couldn’t remember buying it. Maybe Jack had. Still, he never went hungry, even if his options were strange at times. Some days, he was grateful. Other days he wished his instinct for self-preservation would let him leave it to rot.

Or vanish.

The eggplant and pulled pork pizza had been filling, if weird.

His fridge had changed again. The last time he’d been to the kitchen, it had been an old-fashioned white model that had screamed the 50s. Now it was brilliant brushed chrome with the freezer on the bottom and ice and water dispensers in the door. He opened it and found a steak on one shelf with an onion and a potato.

He supposed he was to have steak now. He thought he could live with that.

It’s amazing what a man can get used to when he has no other choice.

He’d gotten past the paralysis that kept him from leaving a room for fear of what would be taken while he was gone. There’d been a time when he’d tried to control what disappeared, but that had been fruitless. Then there was the time when he obsessively measured each room, one after the other in case they were shrinking…in case his apartment was going to go the same way his belongings did.

Marcus wondered what his neighbors thought. He’d tried banging on the walls but no one responded. Not even old Mrs. Jenkins who at the age of older-than-dirt could still manage to hear him run his hand through Jack’s hair. And complain about it. Had been able to.

Maybe they’d disappeared first.

Or maybe he had.

The scent of grilling steak and onions made his mouth water. He’d sliced the potato into a semblance of steak fries but had no desire to try to fry them. No oil, either. That had vanished a long time ago and never replaced. Baking would have to do.

He took his meal into the morning room, hoping to find a new book to read while he ate. A bookless morning it was, apparently. The marble end table was gone. He’d liked that one. Instead he now had a big teak end table. It was carved to look like an elephant and reminding him of a childhood spent watching old jungle movies.

Marcus finished his morning steak and put the dishes on the elephant. He sat back in his chair and stared out the window into the eternal morning sunshine. The sun was high enough to not blind him but what there was in terms of landscape was washed in a golden glow. And still. So very still. Nothing moved outside this window.

He sat there in his comfortable chair and wondered if he sat still enough would he vanish, too? Would he become part of the morning landscape? Had Jack left before the door did? He didn’t like that idea but it settled in his mind like the percolator by the sink.

Maybe if he sat very, very still there would be something different. Jack had always been able to be still. He had never been as frenetic as Marcus. Just. Be. Still.

It was worth a try.

Tell Them What They’ve Won!

Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

I have come to a really bizarre moment in my life that I thought would never happen.

I have a new car.

What happened? How did this happen? I’m equal parts excited and awkwardly mournful.

My previous car was a limited edition Saturn sedan from 1999. It’s still sitting in my driveway. It’s still driveable even now in 2015. Hell, I drove it two days ago before I was informed I have a new vehicle.

Let me tell you about my Saturn. We’ve been through a lot together. Ups and downs, road trips, really great times, and really bad times. The thing halfway served as inspiration for Corentin’s truck in Americana Fairy Tale for how trashed out it was. Yes. Lex Chase had a trashed out car. Starbucks cups, fast food wrappers, and assorted messes. Peeling paint, sagging roof liner, visors that had totally sun rotted, torn seats. You name it. Corentin’s truck is quite authentic in that respect.

Oh, and the automatic locks recently died. Like I actually left my car unlocked hoping someone would steal it. No one took me up on the unspoken offer.

This car has been in the shop so many times the car has been paid for three times over at the very least.

My mother informs me one night, she has upped and decided she is getting a new car. I have now inherited her previous car, a very well maintained and clean Saturn VUE SUV.

I went from driving a teeny clown car, to driving a bus.

There’s even Sirius XM Radio in this thing. What. What. I’ve been using my first gen iPod Nano and blown out speaker system for over a decade.

And automatic locks. And an AC that goes to sub-zero in three seconds. And automatic headlights. And seat warmers.

So many buttons and switches. Many buttons. Much wow. I’ve ridden in this car for years, I’ve driven it a couple times. But now I have to figure out what do all these blinky things dooooo?

My mother, the delightful NASCAR fan she is, adores Jeff Gordon. And for years there has been his racing number, a big, gigantic 24 on the back windshield. Yup. That’s gotta go.

What do I put there? Give me your bumper sticker suggestions! Cats. Cats are always good.

But That’s Not All!

We’ve got some winners all around today. First up, it’s been long overdue but I have named my HAHABT winner. They are now in possession of a shiny new DSP $10 USD gift certificate to spend on swanky books.

If they do not confirm their prize in 48 hours, another winner will be named! Sorry guys, those that have already entered on my HAHABT post here before the deadline is the pool I’m picking from.

But there’s another giveaway you can enter that is still live until Monday, June 15th! What is it? Where is it?

Every month, I’m doing a column on the Dreamspinner Press Blog, and last month was about Once Upon A Dream. Featuring the message of even if we shoot for the stars, we find ourselves where we were meant to be. Also I debut the first Lex Chase Universe cosplay with Mae Wynn Talley as Americana Fairy Tale’s Taylor Hatfield. Check it out! Leave a comment and share!

Bayou Fairy Tale gets the Greenlight!

Hello Internet! In case you don’t follow me on Facebook, I announced on Tuesday Bayou Fairy Tale has been picked up by Dreamspinner Press!

Listen up Fairy Tale fans, Taylor, Corentin, and Ringo are back in action with humor, hijinks, action, adventure, and your tears when you sob for mercy.

Wait. I said that out loud didn’t I?

Ooops!

Well in lieu of Monday Spark, I’m sharing with you another healthy snippet of Bayou Fairy Tale. Did someone say a whole chapter? Yes indeedy!

Now that Taylor and Corentin have settled into a quaint little life and routine, trouble still has a way of always finding them. Please enjoy!

 

Chapter 4: Through the Looking Glass

 

May 3

Jesup Memorial Library, Bar Harbor, Maine

Despite Miss Miriam’s scrutiny, the children’s wide-eyed wonder and excited clapping of little hands made everything worthwhile. The smiles and giggles of her kindergartener class gave Taylor the much needed armor and ego-boost to face adversity. He still wasn’t ruling out the possibility of Miss Miriam being a witch. Or at least a wicked step-mother going incognito.

Devon and Taylor agreed she was just a bitter woman about a gay man and a lesbian woman teaching children in a small town library. Taylor shook his head as Devon led the children away to the circle of tables and their awaiting coloring pages. The glitter would take a week to get off the floor. When they had the last speck of glitter cleaned up, the glitter explosion would start again.

As Devon led them away, Bennett, the most skeptical five-year-old to grace the planet remained. He glared upward at Taylor, his hands balled into little fists.

“What’s up, little man?” Taylor asked. Bennett had reminded him so much of a crankier Ringo when his favorite shows get cancelled.

“I don’t buy it.” Bennett grunted, his chubby cheeks reddened and puffed with righteous five year old indignation. “How can Sleeping Beauty marry the prince? My mom told me not to talk to strangers. Why did Sleeping Beauty fall in love with a man she just met? How did she know he was a prince? Anyone could pretend to be a prince. Just like Miss Miriam pretends to be nice.”

Taylor choked, trying to hold in the urge to laugh, a boy after his own heart. Bennett would go far in the world. Over at the circle of tables, Miss Miriam narrowed her eyes. Taylor managed the kindest smile while he pictured her head exploding. He crouched down to Bennett’s level, collecting his thoughts. Taylor had to be sure not to go too far off “The Script” as Devon called it. They needed the donations to keep the library running, and they couldn’t afford to piss off Conners-Emerson Elementary.

“Because Sleeping Beauty saw the magic within Phillip’s heart that they were destined to be true loves,” Taylor said sweetly, while mentally gagging.

“You don’t believe it do you?” Bennett asked.

Taylor blinked. Bennett’s sixth sense for bullshit was a gift even Corentin would weep at the little boy’s magnificence. Taylor patted his head. “I’d say the author took some…adaptive liberties.” He raised his hands like claws and gave a comical growl. “I think Sleeping Beauty held a hidden power to slay all the dragons and save the Enchanted Forest from witches that would eat little boys up in one bite.” He gave a childish roar and tickled at Bennett’s cheeks.

Bennett wiggled out of Taylor’s grasp with peals of laughter. Miss Miriam cleared her throat as she stood in the center of the activity area. “Come along, Bennett,” she said sternly.

Bennett frowned and Taylor wanted to share his deepest sympathies. “I think your story is way better, Mr. Taylor.”

Zee turned in circles like an excited puppy inside Taylor’s soul. The vindication from a five year old made his week.

“Bennett.” Miss Miriam said it like it was his final warning.

Taylor scooted him off, and grudgingly Bennett toddled away to join the rest of his class. Corentin would tease him mercilessly that he basically proved the existence of Santa Claus to a single child. The calm that came over Taylor for his good deeds soothed his inner savage beast, and above all, his flash fire of a temper. As long as he kept Zee from blowing up microwaves or turning washing machines into time bombs once they hit the spin cycle, he’d call that a win.

As much as he protested, it was pretty thrilling when Zee shattered the windows behind the dairy joy while he and Corentin got down and dirty. Taylor flushed at the memory, he hasn’t been able to watch Corentin eat a mint chocolate chip cone without getting a raging hard-on ever since. What if he had blown Corentin in the parking lot this morning? He shook his head, trying not to think about it. Once he traded in his V-Card that one night at Mackinac Island, one of Taylor’s ever present thoughts was seeing how many different ways he could get off. Making up for lost time. And boy howdy was he.

Taylor slapped his hands to his face as he blushed hotly. “Stop thinking about it,” he ordered himself out loud.

“Hey,” Devon said over his shoulder, and Taylor jumped, making an embarrassing squeal. She smiled apologetically. “Um. We have a situation over in romance. Cindy Lou made a bit of a mess.”

Taylor nodded. “Tore books down again? I got it.”

“Uh. No,” Devon rubbed the back of her arm, turning sheepish. “Didn’t make it in time….”

She didn’t need to say anything else. Taylor rubbed his itchy eyes. “Some days I wish you paid me.”

Devon patted his shoulder. “I’ll just shove more bills into Corentin’s thong.”

That joke never got old.

***                  ***                  ***

Don’t touch your face. Don’t touch your face. Don’t touch your face. Taylor reminded himself again and again as he scrubbed the urine stains off the floor. It was sheer luck Puddles, aka Cindy Lou, didn’t splash the books on the bottom shelves. He’d never hear the end of it from Phyllis when she found her precious Anita Shreve books smelling like dirty children. The books always came back smelling like cheap beer and tobacco anyhow.

His hands sweat inside the blue rubber dish gloves, and Taylor tried to keep his mind off the odd moist texture of what lingered inside from the previous users.

At least it kept him from close proximity to Miss Miriam. There was only so much of her face he could take before he wanted to scream out in front of the children what the fuck was her problem. He never even did anything to piss her off. Not that he knew of anyway. When he and Corentin came to town, they definitely raised a few eyebrows. Nothing like two unmarried Southern boys settling in the frozen north and sharing a home. Taylor got picked on for his Piedmont accent a time or two. Corentin needed a translator most days. Taylor had grown accustomed, and Corentin’s enchanted arrowhead gave him a head start in picking up the lingo. In these parts, Creole dialect and Yankee colloquialisms gave way into a lot of repeating, pointing, and gesturing.

Taylor sat back on his knees and reached to wipe his forehead. “Don’t,” he told himself once he realized his impending error. He took the white cleaning cloth and then ran it over the wooden floor, meticulously scrubbing through the plank seams. Anything to stall being in Miss Miriam’s personal space.

As the children laughed and giggled, Taylor chuckled under his breath along with them as he blotted the last bits of moisture that had long dried. “There,” he whispered. “Until the next time Puddles needs to mark her territory.”

“Excuse me, I’m looking for the folklore section,” a husky womanly voice said not even a foot away from him.

Taylor jerked in surprise, and hopped to his feet. Inside, Zee perked and listened for danger. Taylor clutched his chest, trying to get his heart to stop racing and quiet her. He plastered on his professional smile and looked up. “Yes, ma’am, anything I can help you find?”

The woman didn’t respond, and seemed to study him over the rim of her sharp nose. Taylor arched a brow. Her red silk kimono jacket paired with her brown leather waist cincher and black pencil skirt screamed she wasn’t the type to be from anywhere near these parts of Maine. And she was dressed far too high class to be a tourist.

She came from “away” as the locals called it. The city. Somewhere. And Taylor knew it was far from anywhere he had known.

Her wine red eyes gave her away.

Taylor danced back. “Fucking hell,” he hissed. “I don’t want any trouble.”

She pursed her lips, and seemed to consider his words or Taylor himself. “You’re one of us,” she said, her eyes widening in fascination.

Taylor stubbornly set his jaw. He glanced over his shoulder at the children working on their drawings and laughing among one another. Miss Miriam strolled between the gaggle of kindergarteners, oblivious to Taylor and this new Enchant.

“Please,” Taylor whispered as he followed the woman deeper into the stacks. “Whatever you’re planning to do, don’t do it in front of the kids. I can’t do this here. I retired from all of this.”

Her pale lips curled into a haughty smirk. “Storyteller forfend, Dragon. I don’t plan to expose them.” She raised her fingertip in a slow purposeful gesture, pointing past Taylor and at the children. “Although, that one.”

Taylor clenched his fists, and snapped his attention back to the children. She indicated a blonde girl holding up a drawing of a glittering tiara.

“That one.” She pointed at a boy with a toy horse as he trotted the horse around like a gallant steed.

“And them.” She made a circle with her French manicured nail, gesturing to Bennett and his two tablemates. “We’re more common than you think.”

Taylor went on the defensive and slowly stepped into position between her and the children. “What do you want? I don’t have anything of use for you.” Zee seemed to sense his anxiety and he shivered with the sensation. His fingers twitched, feeling through the air, and preparing to summon his lance. The lack of trust made his cheeks burn. Flecks of pink magic swirled over his fingertips, and Zee growled, warming his chest with a sense of defensive urgency.

If she wasn’t a witch, Taylor had two other guesses. The least of the likely was probably correct. She was Little Red Riding Hood and a wolf hunter. Or the wolf was not so much a furry quadruped canine and more like a high powered man-eater.

Taylor’s grip on Zee’s inner reigns slipped and Zee rumbled defensively. The bookshelves trembled in warning. Overhead, the lights flickered.

“Neither.” Her voice like a scalpel cutting into his thoughts.

Taylor coughed and then stumbled against the nearby bookshelf. Zee went silent, stealing his breath. “Stop it, Zee,” he whispered.

“Is that her name?” she asked with a tilt of the chin. “Zee?” she tested the name with a childish chirp.

Sweat dripped down Taylor’s forehead. He couldn’t breathe. He gagged for air in a panic.

“It’s not Zee,” she said. “It’s your heart.” She tapped her chin. “I can hear your thoughts on your heart.”

He coughed as his lungs relaxed. Taylor leaned onto the bookshelf and concentrated on his breathing. “Okay. That’s a new one,” he croaked.

She swept a peculiarly gentlemanly bow, and Taylor stiffened.

Fuck. Not another damned female prince.

Her red eyes flashed and Zee stirred in warning.

“Aliss Magnus,” she said, and then stood. “Queen of Hearts. I’ve been looking for you Princess Hatfield and the huntsman.”

Of course, she would have to be an Enchant queen. Taylor huffed in exasperation as he yanked off his rubber gloves. “His name is Corentin. Not huntsman. He’s not even a huntsman anymore. I’m not really a princess either.” He tossed the gloves into the cleaning bucket. He pointed at his face. “Read my lips: We. Quit. We. Want. To. Be. Left. Alone.” He scooped up the bucket and then swept a princess-like curtsey. “Your Majesty, I believe you know the way out.”

Taylor turned an about face, and took one step before she called out, “I know how to break the huntsman’s curse.”

His heart thumped. Taylor pressed his lips together and screamed in his head to fight the impulse to trust her. Enchants trusted at face value, it was hardwired into their identities. Corentin had told him it’s what helped the most in luring his victims. It was Corentin’s Cronespawn gift in manipulating that trust. It was Taylor’s acclimation to mundane society that protected him with a thick layer of skepticism.

“If you give me a moment of your time, I’ll tell you how,” Aliss said. Her voice had a regal tone compelling him to listen.

Taylor’s grip on the bucket tightened as he screwed his eyes shut. Don’t trust her. Don’t trust her. He turned on his heel to face her. “You have a moment.”

Curiosity got the best of him. He hoped beyond hope that she was going to simply try to convert him to some Enchant religion and then be on her way.

“I want you to join us in defeating Snow White.”

The words fell so easily from her lips, but to Taylor he had been assaulted with a freight train. That definitely wasn’t a religious sales pitch.

“At-Atticus?” he stammered. The bucket clunked to the floor. The bottle of Mr. Clean bounced against the stacks and settled against Taylor’s left foot. “Atticus is still in a mental hospital. He’s getting the help he needs.” Taylor’s voice grew in determination as he rose to defend his brother. “He’s not a threat anymore.”

“How can you be so sure of that?” Aliss shifted her weight, jutting out a hip. “Idi will find Snow again. You can only delay the inevitable.”

“Idi’s dead.” Taylor spat. His gut churned with slow brewing anxiety and anger.

“For now.” Her tone came out like a taunt. “Idi only needs a new vessel. If he hasn’t gotten one already.”

Taylor tossed out his hand in frustration. “Who the fuck are you to wander in here and tell me this shit?”

Aliss smiled in a way that didn’t indicate kindness. “I represent a group of likeminded Enchants dedicated to monitoring and defending against threats to our kind. Thanks to you and the huntsman, maintaining our vigilance on the Snow White and Idi situation is our top priority.” Taylor’s palms sweat as she stared him down. Zee whimpered under Aliss’s intimidating presence. The more Taylor fought her unconscious influence, his knees trembled in fear. “Your assistance in our efforts would ensure Princess Snow White will never rise to power. We need a man of a particular set of skills to put an end to Atticus Hatfield once and for all.”

“We?” he asked. “Who the fuck is we?” He forced himself to stand straighter, even if she dwarfed his smaller stature. Damned petite princess genes making female princesses attractive and doll-like but making male princesses look like gangly-limbed teens that haven’t grown into their bodies yet.

“We are the Library, a vast network of Enchants dedicated to preserving peace and our way of life,” she said without arrogance but instead a peculiar hint of regret. “We don’t have the resources or knowledge to stop Snow White on our own. We need the skillset that could.”

“The Library?” Taylor asked. He rolled the name over in his head. Why hadn’t he learned the name before? Was this yet another thing Ringo was conveniently glossing over until the right moment? It seemed like he would. He frowned in an attempt for intimidation. “Tell me how to break Corentin’s curse.”

Aliss brushed away her stick straight blonde hair. “You agree to help us?” she asked as she paced a slow circle around Taylor.

He twitched his fingers, craving the safety of his lance. He couldn’t afford to expose the children to magic, and the mistrust gathered like sweat on his forehead. “I don’t agree or disagree.” He grunted. “Out with it. How do I help Corentin?”

“With this,” Aliss said and flicked her wrist toward Taylor.

There was a soft whistling by his ear, and his hair fluttered, followed by a heavy thump into the bookcase next to his head. Taylor startled when he realized it was a knife, nested between two books, next to his ear. He scowled. “You expect me to kill him? You’re out of luck.”

She narrowed her eyes and gave a tight-lipped frown. She was unflappable, not a single indication Taylor was getting under her skin.

“No.” Even with such a simple phrase, Aliss commanded Taylor’s attention. As much as he tried to brush her off, he couldn’t help being sucked up into her presence. “I expect you to make the sacrifice of true love. That is…,” she trailed off and gave him a knowing smile. “If he is your true love.”

Taylor snorted as he picked up on the jab. “Get a grip. I get it enough dirty looks from a fucking kindergartener teacher already.”

“They did say you had a temper,” Aliss said as she stepped toward him. “Brash, abrasive, wild, problems with authority.”

Taylor slipped back, only to back to trip over the bucket of cleaning supplies. He crashed to his rear, and yelped in embarrassment. No one in the activity area gave him a second glance as Devon led the children through a round of Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes.

Aliss loomed over him. Her smirk vanished, and replaced with a royal sternness. “If you want to free the huntsman of his curse, you need to listen. In exchange for your full cooperation to the Library, the huntsman will no longer suffer his memory loss. He will remember you.” She smiled, for the first time in kindness. “He will remember you every day. And what you meant to each other.”

Taylor didn’t understand as he slowly stood. “Remember everything?” he asked. The idea made his stomach clench with confusion, yet temptation. “No more journals? No more starting over every seven days?” He failed trying to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice.

“We are in agreement?” Aliss asked. “You’ll cooperate?”

“If I can save Corentin and Atticus, I’m in.” Taylor gave a confident nod.

She held out her palm to the knife. The blade burst into motes of red light, and reappeared in her hand. Taylor squinted at the wide curving blade, a red pulsing glow danced down the knife in a network of thin veins. He swallowed. The blade pulsed with each beat of his heart. Taylor glanced from Aliss, to the blade, and back. He pressed his lips together, keeping silent.

“With this blade,” Aliss began, and the knife lifted from her fingers, hovering and twirling over her palm. “The huntsman must use it to capture his most elusive trophy. He will bring it to me, where the trophy will be destroyed. And he will be truly the huntsman he has forgotten.”

Taylor nodded slowly. Her voice was different, softer, deep inside of his head. Her words pulsed like the blood in his ears. She could have been speaking, and they could have been in the library, but Taylor wasn’t sure. He was elsewhere as the beating light of the blade called to him like a distant whisper. Words he couldn’t quite hear. A language he didn’t understand.

“What is the trophy?” he whispered to the blade.

Your heart. The words roared in his mind like the scream of a hurricane.

Taylor jerked back, backpedaling to find his footing. “What the fuck,” he gasped. “What the hell are you talking about?” He coughed and then glared at Aliss. “I thought you wanted my skillset to help with Atticus?”

Aliss blinked and confusion crossed her features. “Did I say you? I said we wanted the huntsman. We need you to help us secure him.”

“By cutting out my heart?” Taylor snapped. There was always a catch to Enchant bullshit. “What kind of sick fuck are you?”

Aliss narrowed her eyes, and her irritated frown reappeared. “I am the Queen of Hearts, after all. And either you’ll cooperate, or you’ll become another situation the Library has to clean up.”

“How about you try cleaning piss off an antique wood floor?” Taylor growled and flipped her off. “If you think for one second you’re going to go after Atticus, you’re going to have to go through me.”

“Who are you talking to, Mr. Taylor?” a little girl asked behind him.

Taylor startled and spun on his heel. Rachel, Miss Miriam’s perkiest student, smiled up at him, her blue eyes bright and almost too big for her face.

“H-hey Rachel,” Taylor said as the nerves crept into his voice. “I was just talking to my fri—” He turned back to Aliss, only to see the nothingness of the empty aisle. He knew it was useless to think she was elsewhere in the library. When magic was afoot, anything was possible. He shivered as he slowly digested everything Aliss had said. Free Corentin? By sacrificing himself? It had to be bullshit. There had to be another way. If princes and princesses could get their curses broken all the time by making out, breaking the curse of a Cronespawn must be something just as stupidly simple.

“Do you like my drawing?” Rachel asked, as she held up her paper.

Taylor slowly turned to her with a scripted smile on his face. The smile fell at the sight of Rachel’s medium: the Andersen Institute letter.

A sinister stick figure drawn in red crayon grinned wickedly from the letters at him. In one of his appendages, he held a crooked club. Maybe a bat? Taylor ventured a guess. “Is he a baseball player?” he asked as he crouched to her level. “Your dad likes the Red Sox doesn’t he?”

Rachel laughed. “You’re silly, Mr. Taylor.” She pointed the drawing scrawled over the paragraph discussing the specifics of Atticus’s current state of recovery. Taylor winced at the ruined letter. “He’s the Axeman.”

Taylor froze.

“The… Axeman?” he asked quietly, and forcing himself to smile.

Rachel nodded quickly. The poor thing was all too proud of herself. “He lives in my backyard.”

“Okay!” Taylor yelped as he shot to his feet. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he rubbed his hands together. He forced a chuckle and then clapped twice. “Hey sweetie, can I have your drawing? I think my best friend would really like it.” He faked excitement as he folded his hands together in begging. He needed to get the letter. He prayed Devon hadn’t seen it. He had taken care not to mention Atticus to her. “Please? Please? Please can I have it? My best friend would really love it. Really.”

“Mr. Ten?” Rachel asked and bounced on her toes. Her sneakers squeaked and lit up with their pressure sensitive lights. She giggled and spun in a cheerful circle.

Taylor arched a brow and cracked a slow smile. He didn’t know what it was about Corentin, but he even had five year olds that were screaming fans. Did he have all of Hancock County under some spell? Or his rakish charm? Maybe he poisoned the well water.

Rachel started to hand over the letter, but stopped in her tracks. “Oh! I should put my name on it!”

As she scuttled back onto the activity area, Taylor followed close behind. He noted where Miss Miriam and Devon were amid all of the children. Devon smiled at Taylor as she prepared the snack trays. Miss Miriam was instructing Bennett to use his right hand instead of his left.

Rachel yanked out a black crayon and scribbled on the paper. “Tooo….Misssteeeer…Teeeeen…,” she said as she wrote. “Looooove… Raaachel.” She handed Taylor the page in a flourish as if she were a newspaper reporter flinging notes. Taylor took the letter and made sure he could still read the pertinent information under the markings.

Devon plucked a cookie off the tray and handed it to Rachel. She winked at Taylor. “Rachel has a present for Corentin, huh?”

Taylor pressed the letter close to his chest, trying to hide the paper. “Mmmhmm. Very special.”

Rachel overdramatically swooned in her seat. “When I’m old enough I’m gunna marry Mr. Ten!”

Taylor slapped his hand over his mouth, and glanced at Devon. Her cheeks puffed as she held in a laugh. Don’t. He tried to tell her.

Devon grinned instead as he gave Rachel an extra cookie. “And you’ll be his princess?”

Rachel bounced in her seat. “Like Sleeping Beauty!”

“Okay!” Taylor squeaked, and all eyes turned to him. He coughed, and swallowed as the embarrassment stung on every pore. “I’m…,” he pointed toward the break room. “Going to get some more glitter.”

He tacked on a smile, and then hurried to the librarian lounge. Once he crossed the threshold, he made sure to lock the door behind him. Taylor collapsed onto the nearby couch and the letter slipped to the floor.

Ringo fluttered down from the bookcase and settled on the floor. He paced around the letter and rubbed his chin.

“I’m no art critic, but that is a creepy-assed drawing,” he said.

Taylor folded his arms behind his head and sighed. “Tell me about the Library.”

Ringo blinked. “We’re in one?”

Taylor narrowed his eyes. “The Queen of Hearts wants to recruit us.” It wasn’t lying, not really. He pulled his right arm from behind his head. He held up his palm, and then flexes his fingers, imagining a knife there.

“Oh,” Ringo said. “That Library. The Big L.”

“Yeah. Big L.” Taylor snorted.

Ringo wrung his hands. “It’s kind of a long story.”

“Well skip the Once Upon A Time part and get to the point.” Taylor stared at the ceiling. Was this what it was like for Corentin when he had a bad day? Everything going topsy-turvy? Too much to digest all at once? Too many things that were pure coincidence, but had to be fate?

But the questions remained. Did Corentin really have to kill Taylor all along to break his curse? And the only part he needed for the spell to work was to make true love’s sacrifice? Taylor knew he had been a selfish person before, but now he has things in order. He’s changed. The truth prickled like the hair on the back of his neck. The selfishness never left him. He’d stay alive if it meant he could be happy with Corentin forever.

None of it made sense. His eye twitched like someone had taken an icepick to the bridge of his nose. He needed sleep. Who knew how much of the day so far was all in his head. Did he even go to bed last night? Was he dreaming? He snorted in derision. Taylor was Sleeping Beauty after all, the technical expert on dreaming. He waited for Ringo to explain is all away and so everything would fall into place.

“They don’t exist.”

Instead, Ringo’s words ruined everything.

Copyright © 2015 Lex Chase. All Rights Reserved.

The Human Garbage Dump

I know what you’re saying, “Where is the Human Centipede? I came for the Human Centipede!” This is not that post. Also protip. Don’t Google it. You just did, didn’t you? Sorry. I warned you.

The Human Garbage Dump is not Soylent Green, but us. (Which is technically the same thing I suppose?)

Back in 2012, Chuck Wendig made the most amazing post called 25 Things Writers Should Stop Doing, and it is a piece of advice I come back to year after year for one particular gem.

“STOP TREATING YOUR BODY LIKE A DUMPSTER”

Yeah, yeah, we heard it all before. Books on writing craft all come with gentle prodding that have things like “Make sure to take care of yourself.” “Take a walk once in a while.” “Get plenty of sleep.”

My personal favorite: “Are you willing to let your butt expand to be a productive writer?”

Bitch.

Are. You. For. Friggin. Real?

Since when has gaining weight to be a writer a requirement?

No. Just. No.

This is not a post telling you what to do. This is a post of me relating a story of what I do. If you get inspiration from it, and I hope you do, awesome! We all know as Miss Martha told us in kindergarten, no one can tell you to do anything you don’t want to do.

I’ve always had issues with my weight, and I come from a heavy family. I also come from a family that comforts themselves with food. I have a diabetic father, a brother with high blood pressure, and a mother a whole host of undiagnosed gastronomic issues. And you have me, overweight, self-conscious, sick and tired of being sick and tired.

I joined Weight Watchers in 2011. And I have been on the wagon, off the wagon, and on again. The most important milestones I made was when I lost 30 pounds for GRL 2013. The following year I had lost 50 pounds total. And I planned to lose 60 total by GRL 2014.

Well. Let me tell you how I gained it all back. I went back to my old habits, and sure enough, back on it went.

Safe to say, I’m back on the Weight Watchers wagon as of Valentine’s Day 2015. Not lying, it’s been a struggle getting back into the swing of things. The Bayou Fairy Tale deadline was breathing down my neck which meant a lot of butt in chair and a lot of mindless munchies in mouth. Also a loss of sleep that the next day chapters would have to be rewritten because WTF did I mean?

My favorite line out of the WTF files was “He held her up like a taxidermied beaver.”

I have no freaking idea where I was going with that line.

Because of this book under deadline, my weight wasn’t coming off. And everyone says “Oh. I know what I need to do! I just need to do X or Y or Z.” I was the same way. I am the same way. And my answer finally was “Well why aren’t I doing X or Y or Z? And how can I make X or Y or Z happen?”

My excuse has always been I have a book under deadline. I’ll eat like crap. And promise myself I’ll get back to my healthy habits.

Newsflash! There will always be books under deadline. Have you seen what’s coming up for the next three years of my life? That is some crazy business right there. That’s not counting the stuff without concrete release dates.

So, there will always be books to write, always be books to promo, always be social media, blogging, everything. Just everything. But where is the time for me? Or for that matter, where is the time for you?

If you know where I’m coming from, you might be here for some tips right? (Or you’re still Googling the Human Centipede. I said stop that.)

Here’s a few bits that I do:

Keep a Veggie Tray on my Desk

For my birthday of all things, Mom bought me a Rubbermaid party platter. You know the thing where you put your snacks and has a spot for your dip in the middle for you and your guests. I fill that crap up to the limit with various things I like. Raw carrots, blanched green beans, apple slices, sweet pepper rings, whatever. I also make a dip of salsa and Greek yogurt with a few extra bits in there. You will be very surprised how salsa and apples mesh quite well.

Hydrate

Coffee is okay once in a while. But water is where it’s at. Sometimes I don’t drink enough, and I mistake my hunger cues for dehydration. Coffee being a caffeinated beverage will dehydrate you and therefore make you think you’re hungry. Science! I but a crapton of cute water bottles or cute cups. Anything to keep me drinking. My go to cup is Taylor V. Donovan’s mason jars from GRL 2014. Seriously. Useful swag people!

Sleep

Seriously. Sleep. Just. Trust me on this. I’m under doctor’s orders to get 8 or more hours of sleep. At minimum 7, but dude wants me sleeping forever. Doesn’t anyone know there’s 24 usable hours in every day? Yeah. I did too. Until the 6 hours of Facebook and cat videos. Doesn’t seem very useful now does it? I have a bed time, and I set my alarm. Even on weekends. If I fluctuate one way or another too frequently too often I crash hard. Anything from mood swings to crying jags. Sleep is beautiful. Because you should see the dreams I have. They’re extra cracky when I have a book due.

Never once did I say exercise. Never once. If you want to do that business, you do it for you, and you should know you have my full support for doing it. I myself am trying to work up the nerve to join a swim club. I bought a new swimsuit to the tune of the economic worth of a small country. You better believe I am getting in that damn pool.

Are you willing to let your butt expand to be a better writer?

Not just no. But hell no. 

[Monday Spark] “Taste the Love” by Lex Chase

Hello Internet! Welcome back to Monday Spark. Guess who totally dropped the ball on last week’s Monday Spark? Winner, winner, chicken dinner! This week, I bring you a light and fluffy flash fic. Fluffy and sweet like frosting and one boy’s dreams of storybook romance. Our lovebirds are John and Ahimsa, who we’ve met previously in Ain’t Misbehavin’ where they were tiny tots. Good to know the spark remains.

Please enjoy!

Taste the Love
by Lex Chase

Genre: Contemporary

Prompt: The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. And one cooking-inept man sets out to prove it.

Today was John’s birthday and Ahimsa wanted it to be special.

He baked John’s favorite cake, chocolate and vanilla swirl, of course. Because sometimes you want vanilla and sometimes you want chocolate, as John always said.

Ahimsa used a lovely Anne Burrell recipe he found for the cakes. The frosting was a delicate whipped buttercream of pink and blue. Because sometimes you want pink and sometimes you want blue. Ahimsa knew the cake needed a spot of color.

Ahimsa wasn’t the best cook but he tried hard. He had only burnt the cake four times and confused the flour and confectioner’s sugar for the frosting more times than he could count. He realized time and again he was making a lovely batch of blue and pink glue.

But he got it perfect. The cake was exquisite. He did the crumb layer of frosting. He piped the scalloped edges. It was the best he had ever done.

He could see it now when he presented John with the cake he had so lovingly made.

“For me?” John would say. “Triple A! You shouldn’t have!”

“Oh, it was all worth it,” Ahimsa would say. “Anything for you my best buddy oh pal!”

He could see it so clearly; John would demurely blush, then fidget, then clear his throat.

“Triple A?” John would say shyly.

“Yes?” Ahimsa would bat his lashes.

“There’s something you need to know…,” John would say.

Ahimsa would nod and pay perfect attention like he had practiced so many times before. After all, an attentive friend was a perfect friend!

John would pause. Clear his throat. He’d carefully choose his perfect words. He would say…

“Dearest Triple A, best friend of all best friends! With this delightful Anne Burrell cake and it’s sweet, creamy pink and blue frosting… Because sometimes you want pink and sometimes you want blue… Has made me realize something.”

“Oh?” Ahimsa would say, delicately giggling. “Oh what did you realize, dear friend?”

John would take him by the hand and boldly profess, “Dearest Ahimsa Siven, I am madly in love with you. This cake has moved me to tell you so!”

And then they’d elope to the Virgin Islands and have a dream wedding and live totally happily ever after!

Ahimsa knew this because, doi! Cosmo said so!

Cosmo Girl was always right. Well… There was that incident about dying his hair plum with beet juice. He was trying to go green! Only it came out neon plum and took months to actually come out.

Okay… One small boo boo. But Cosmo never lied!

Not like Rachel Ray’s Everyday that had the delicious basil pesto hamburger dinner that could be prepared in thirty minutes. Thirty! Rachel herself had said so! It took five hours. Between grinding the meat, making the pesto, baking the buns, growing the tomatoes, curing the bacon, and on and on. Thirty minute meals were not thirty minutes!

Ahimsa was losing track. John was going to confess his undying love. Over the cake. The cake of love. He made it with love, he made sure you could taste the love. He even put heart-shaped sprinkles in the batter. See! Love!

Paula Deen, besides cooking with so much butter it’s a psychological compulsion, said to always put an accent in the dish that told the person what was in it.

Ahimsa wanted John to know love was in it. So! Heart shaped sprinkles. So what the jar said they were six years old.

The cake was perfect.

The best he ever made.

Anne Burrell was right that her recipes rocked.

He carefully stepped down the stairs carrying the cake plate. The lovely desert jiggled gleefully.

Ahimsa wondered… Did he bake it long enough? Would he wear a dress at the wedding? Was the frosting even? Would he and John adopt children. Three at least! And a cat! A dog! No! Two cats! Of course the children would want a bunny and a pony… And…

The cake wobbled again.

Hmmmm…

He crossed the threshold onto the back patio.

There stood John. The man of his dreams. His true love. His fairytale prince.

Cosmo was very clear about the prince part.

Very.

“Triple A!” John said.

Ahimsa smiled in delight. “John, I made you a cake!”

“And it’s dripping everywhere!” John barked.

He asked to be married at once! He was overjoyed! At last! Ahimsa’s dreams of love came true.

“Triple A,” John repeated. “The cake is melting!”

“I made it with love!” he said.

“Triple A!” John urged. “You’re covered in cake!”

Why was John saying such things? Ahimsa didn’t understand! His clothes did feel wet and sticky though. He looked down.

And the cake had become a chocolate, vanilla, pink, and blue blob!

Ahimsa was crushed. He burst into tears!

“I made it with love and now I’m wearing it!” he sobbed. “I even used heart-shaped sprinkles because Paula Deen said so. I used an Anne Burrell recipe. I thought Rachel Ray was a liar. Her thirty minute meals aren’t thirty minutes.”

John tilted his head.

“Paula Deen is a little obsessive about butter…” John pointed out.

“I know!” Ahimsa wailed.

“Hey…” John poked him in the arm. “Stop crying. It’s really sweet you tried. I know you can’t cook for beans.”

Ahimsa sniffed and pointed at his ruined shirt. “But I’m wearing cake!”

John smiled and gave him a peck on the cake smeared cheek. “It’s okay. I can still taste the love.”

Ahimsa wiped his face only to succeed in smearing more cake all over it.

“Cosmo never lies,” he said.

[Flash Fiction Friday] Jessica Walsh presents “Reclaimed Luggage”

Hello Internet! Welcome to back to (a delayed) Flash Fiction Friday (oops!) I’m getting a lot of fresh new faces over here. Please welcome Jessica Walsh with her story “Reclaimed Luggage.” In this tale, our narrator has an unsual experience at an airport baggage claim and meets an old man with a secret.

Reclaimed Luggage
By Jessica Walsh

It’s early in the morning, the sunlight just starting to peek over the large concrete highways and give the morning drivers a hard time.  The baggage claim area is mercifully quiet, only the sound of a maintenance worker and a vacuum reaching my ears.  I shift in the uncomfortable metal seat, my eyes reading over the screen of arrival times for the same flight.

It happened nearly a month ago, but – as the cliché goes – I remember it like yesterday.  Sitting in the same chair, watching the screen for a flight that’s listed as delayed with a dead cell phone battery.  It took me forever to get the information that her plane wasn’t going to make it back.  Instead, at the time, I’d just sat in the same chair, waiting for hours, for a woman who’d never arrive.

“It’s quiet this early.  Almost peaceful.”

I hadn’t heard him come in, but he was there now, lounging in the chair next to me and watching the same screen.  A businessman, I think, dressed in a comfortable suit with long, thin grey hair that was pulled into a small ponytail down his back.  His eyes and face were not memorable but the carefree smile that sat across his lips wasn’t something to be forgotten.  It wasn’t creepy, as you might think, but strangely calming.

“Just come back from a trip?”  He nodded to the suitcase sitting next to me, one which I hadn’t brought in and hadn’t even noticed.  Had he carried it in?  It could have been possible, but the suitcase was eerily familiar with its plastic pink edges and embroidered flower design.

“It looks like hers.”

The man’s head tilted just a little, as if he knew exactly what I meant.  “Maybe you should open it.”

The suggestion was odd, but at the same time perfectly reasonable.  Leaning forward I set the suitcase on its side and unhooked each side until it popped open.  Internally my heart clenched, waiting for the wave of familiar scents and memories that were sure to hit me from seeing her belongings – but none of that was inside.  Instead there was simply a pink book, thick and hard cover with a name written in calligraphy across the front and the bottom edge just slightly brown, as if it had sat a little too close to a candle one night.

I closed the suitcase and looked at the outside in disbelief, before opening it again and looking at the book.  No, it looked just like hers, a perfect match to the horrible thing she’d set on our bed to pack for her trip.  I remembered helping her fold the summer dress – and doing it wrong.  We hadn’t packed a book and we certainly hadn’t packed a book with her name on it-

Emily.

My brain registered the name on the book a moment later and the panic started to subside.  Something about seeing the unfamiliar book was comforting and I wanted to reach forward and open it, just like I wanted to hold her in my arms again.

I quietly looked at the man beside me, not surprised to see the smile hadn’t left his face.  He raised a hand and pressed a finger to his lips, motioning me to be silent and not ask him the questions swirling in my head. Beyond us the luggage belt clicked on and a small buzzer flashed from the ceiling, signaling the passengers from a plane would soon be coming in.

Minutes passed with us quietly sitting there and the luggage belt turning.  Somewhere, deep in the back, I could hear the faint clunking of suitcases being dropped onto the belt and chugging along to be revealed.  Voices and footsteps came from the arrivals doors and I looked up, waiting for the flow of people with false hopefulness.

The noise stopped, the luggage belt grinding to a stop and even the vacuum in the distance shut off as if it had been unplugged.  Silent hissed in my brain and I vaguely noticed the flashing light from the ceiling had paused mid-flash.  I might have registered it all as strange, but I was too busy staring at the door on the other side of the room at the familiar and heart wrenching summer dress I’d had so much trouble folding.

She was there.  A month after the crash and she was standing in front of me as if nothing had happened and nothing had changed.  The perfect flowered sundress, the dark curly hair and the tanned brown skin, all tied into the amazing gray of her eyes.  I wanted to stand and run to her, but I couldn’t make my body move.  Instead we just stared at each other, completely lost as to how it happened.

The smiling man beside me was gone, neither of him saw us leave.  But we both remember his smile perfectly and how he motioned for us both to be silent.  I told myself I’d worry about it later, it wasn’t important really, because she was home.

He must have taken the strange book with him, because the next time we opened the suitcase all her things had reappeared, just as they’d been when I’d helped her pack.  Her summer dresses, her business suit and even the silly cat themed pajamas.  I didn’t tell her about the book or about the strange man, but something in her face said I didn’t have to.  Instead we took his last motion to heart and didn’t tell anyone.  I quit my job and we moved to somewhere where she wouldn’t be recognized and went back to living like normal.

After all, what would I really tell people?  That my dead wife came back a month later because of some man with a strange smile?  Who would believe a story like that?

Welcome Racheline Maltese and Erin McRae

Midsummer is an M/M May/December gay-for-you contemporary summer romance novella. It’s also about someone who may – or may not – be a changeling.

There are no vampires lurking in the theater basement, or werewolves in the trees outside the Theater in the Woods, the summer stock company at which Midsummer is set. But there is Michael, the boy who plays Puck in the company’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Michael is twenty-five, but he looks much younger. He’s short, slight, and loves to run around outside barefoot and without a shirt as often as he possibly can. He can climb to the top of trees, and is perfectly at ease with dirt on his face and leaves in his hair. And he has a strange affinity for nature; he’s drawn to storms and strong weather, and the natural world — plants and trees and animals — affect him in the way they don’t most people.

John, the hero of Midsummer and the man who falls in love with Michael, sometimes wonders if Michael is even human. He’s not quite sure what, exactly, Michael would be if he weren’t human. But there is something so otherworldly about him — especially at night, under the trees and the full moon of a Midsummer’s Eve — that John just can’t be sure he’s not as much a member of the faerie folk as Puck is.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream plays with the line between dream and waking, fantasy and reality. It’s never quite clear what is real, and what is all just a figment of the imagination. Michael exists in a similar state. He may not be a changeling or a faerie or a ghost or anything else John ever wonders — but he also may be. And while Midsummer is not a mystery — it’s not interested in answering the question of what Michael is — it is interested in telling the story of how a boy like Michael, lives, breathes, interacts with the world, and falls in love.

Blurb:

John Lyonel, a long-time theater professional and teacher, heads to Virginia to play Oberon in the Theater in the Woods’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, intending to focus on his work. John is recovering from the tragic loss of his family and needs a break. The last thing he expects is to become captivated by Michael Hilliard, the professional actor playing Puck, especially since John has never been attracted to men, let alone one so much younger.

They rush headlong into an affair which falls apart dramatically over secrets that John and Michael are keeping from each other. A steep learning curve, the gossipy cast of the show, and the sometimes sinister magic of the woods conspire to keep them apart. But stage lights and stars might work their magic and help them define a new future.

Excerpt:

Costume fittings and dress rehearsals means that John finally gets to see Michael costumed as Puck. The human characters are dressed contemporarily, in suits and cocktail dresses that become increasingly disheveled as the show goes on. The fairies, though, are dressed in greens and browns with crowns of strange wildness — thistles, cornsilk, and Queen Ann’s lace. Michael as Puck looks deeply inhuman, covered in leaves as if dragged in from the wooded grounds. For their first dress rehearsal, it takes all of John’s considerable experience and willpower to actually focus on the play and not Michael. As taken as Oberon is meant to be with Puck, he should actually be able to remember and deliver his lines.

“Whose idea was this?” he asks Michael afterward, catching him before he can change. Michael blinks at him with eyes done up in silver and green. John wants to devour him.

“Do you like it?” Michael asks, more distant and coy than usual, sliding his hands up John’s chest which, like his own, is bare.

All John can do is groan when Michael looks up at him from under his lashes. He stands on his tiptoes to kiss John briefly, and then vanishes. When he reappears he’s Michael again, in t-shirt and shorts, but John can’t forget the image of him transformed.

Buy Links:

Dreamspinner |  AllRomance

Bio:

Erin McRae and Racheline Maltese are authors of the gay romance series Love in Los Angeles, set in the film and television industry — Starling (September 10, 2014), Doves (January 21, 2015), and Phoenix (June 10, 2015) — from Torquere Press. Their gay romance novella series Love’s Labours, set in the theater world — Midsummer (May 2015), and Twelfth Night (Fall 2015), is from Dreamspinner Press. They also have a story in Best Gay Romance 2015 from Cleis Press and edited by Felice Picano.

Racheline is a NYC-based performer and storyteller; Erin is a writer and blogger based in Washington, D.C. They write stories and scripts about the intersection of private lives, fame, and desire. You can find them on the web at http://www.Avian30.com.

Social Media:

Joint Blog

Joint Facebook Page

Erin’s Twitter

Racheline’s Twitter

Erin’s Goodreads

Racheline’s Goodreads

Erin’s Amazon Author Page

Racheline’s Amazon Author Page

HAHABT: Give Me That Old-Time Religion

May 17th is the International Day Against Homophobia, Transphobia, and Biphobia, and just in case you’re wondering about the title of this post, it’s the name of a song by Fisk Jubilee Singers from 1837. You can listen to it here or at the end of this post where I’ll embed it and make it easy for everyone.

The title of this post pretty much does what it says on the tin. It is no less apt from my contribution to the Hop Against Homophobia, Bi- and Transphobia this year.

I live in the Deep South of the USA, like this place bleeds Red, White and Blue ‘MURICA. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a church or a Walmart.

I came out during the ever so delightful period I was told under no uncertain terms I was not welcome in the House of God, and I had a first class ticket to Hell. That’s okay. I’m bringing the marshmallows. But now things have changed, or are changing. Churches are getting more progressive and seeing indeed love is love.

In my area? Not so much. There are six churches on my street alone and all of their signage gets pretty depressing sometimes.

I write for Dreamspinner Press, and their mainstream line DSP Publications. I write books with gay protagonists. Sometimes they kiss. Sometimes parts touch. Most of the time they’re punching bad guys in the face and there’s a fuckton of explosions.

Despite all that, I co-exist just ducky with my fellow Southerners. I am a transplant from the North, and quite proud of it. For those of you from elsewhere in the world, I am what is called a Yankee. In the South, because I am a permanent resident, I am a Damned Yankee. During the US Civil War, the South lost, the North won. And I have many of the older generation of Southerners that like to remind me of that bitterly.

I am very proud of what I do. And everyone I meet is always very excited to know an author. An international bestselling one at that! In their excitement, because I’m three seconds away from making a sale, they ask me what I write. I tell them straight up. Why hide it?

Surprisingly, most reactions have been positive. Or in awe that LGBTQ+ books are a thing.

But.

Then you get the phrase we all dread. You know the one. The one that goes:

“Well, I was raised a Christian…”

My first reaction for many years had been, “Uh oh. ABORT! ABORT!”

I’d politely slink away only for them to follow at my heels and try to forcibly convert me on the spot.

Now, my reaction is to stare them right in the eye and say, “And?”

You’d be surprised how that stops a person cold. I don’t bother to challenge them with facts of homosexuality not being mentioned in the Bible. Or the details about shellfish, or mixed fibers, or slavery, and so on. Why throw the rhetoric back at them? Why stir the fire and challenge their world view? I am no less qualified to challenge them then they are to challenge me. Neither of us are going to budge. And that’s okay. In fact, I find faith quite beautiful, and a lot of my characters have some form of faith in their fictional worlds.

So. I get:

“Well, I was raised a Christian…”

And my response:

“And water’s wet and stars twinkle. And?”

Just last Saturday, I got the spiel twice in one day. You heard me.

I got “The Conversation” in the middle of shopping at Office Depot.

Office. Depot.

Yes.

There I was, actually printing a copy of Chasing Sunrise for revisions. A woman in line in front of me asks me how I’m doing. I respond “Good.” and smile and nod. Do the kindly thing. That is it.

And BAM. She put a pamphlet in my hand and is giving me the sales pitch and offers the formal invite to her church and finding God.

In. Office. Depot.

Later that afternoon at a birthday party, the host introduces me to one of his friends. The host and I were in a critique group together and is very proud and supportive of what I do. In fact, Pawn Takes Rook, my very first book is dedicated to him.

And then the friend goes….yup. You guessed it. That candied phrase.

Why does it have to matter? It’s a double standard. Why is it Mormons can come to my door (with a very clear no soliciting sign) and want to spread the word of their Savior, and I can’t go door to door and spread the word of the LGBT community?

Oh. Right. In the US there’s that pesky freedom of religion thing which basically any religious party uses as an exemption from everything.

Case in point. Absolutely unprompted, I can get the sermon in Panera Bread while eating lunch.

That happened.

I can get approached in a bookstore.

That happened.

The mall.

The movies.

Even while my car is stopped at the light.

All of them. All of them happened.

Is this really necessary? Really?

I’d like to think I’m a good person. I know right from wrong. I don’t kill babies. I dote on my cats and have my vet on speed dial every time one of them sneezes. My vet also thinks I’m a wee overprotective. I’m a very positive person. Does this make me any less “good?”

Is it a good person that comes up to you while you are trying to check out in an office supply store and tries to convince you to come to their church the next morning?

Is it a good person that approaches you at a restaurant while you have food in your face and tell you how the Lord saved them from drinking and drugs?

If anything, my first thought is I don’t even know their names, and they could likely be ax murders. I just want to be able to buy my pens and my lunch without being harassed because I…somehow look like someone that looks like they need saving. It’s my hair probably. It’s three colors. It’s always my hair. I can tell you stories about airport security.

Like I can’t randomly walk up to J. Random stranger and tell them how awesome dudes being in love is and push my books into their hands. Or give them the whole sales pitch. That’s plain rude.

It is rude. Didn’t anyone teach them Do Onto Others As They Would Do To You?

Oh. Wait. They do. Only they Do Onto Others fully expecting the reciprocation part.

So when someone gets all excited to ooooh aaah know an author and they’re three seconds away from buying my books on their phones, they ask what do I write.

I answer.

“Well, I was raised a—”

“And? My parents tell me the Mothership left me behind.”

“That’s funny.”

“And so are my books. I’m sure you’ll like them.”

“You’re pretty cool.”

“Thanks. I think you’re pretty cool too.”

And now, I leave you with some Old-Time Religion. Grab your hymnals and sing along. Yes, sir.

 

 

GIVEAWAY!

One lucky winner will walk away with a loverly $10.00 USD DSP Gift Certificate!

And you say, how do I enter to win such a remarkable prize?

And I say unto thee, since I’m sharing a song, share with me a song that you particularly like and why. If you can find it on YouTube, drop in the link in the comments.

Also please, please leave me your email address! I want to be able to find you!

The winner will be chosen on May 24th!

 

Hop on to these other awesome blogs!

[Flash Fiction Friday] Ki Brightly with “A Kind of Hero”

Hello Internet! Please welcome a newcomer to my blog, Ki Brightly! Ki has definitely risen to the Flash Fiction Friday challenge with this contemporary mystery piece. This tale features a deaf dining patron reading the lips of the cook slipping something into another diner’s food. Is that glass?

A Kind of Hero
by Ki Brightly

“Get your shit and leave,” Nolan signs to me angrily with his long, tapered fingers. Looks like he just came from a manicure. Usually I love that, the buffed gloss on his fingers as they talk to me, but not now. His emerald green eyes are icy in the afternoon light and somehow his slight frame is menacing as he leans over our bed, shoulders hunched. “I was serious. I’m not going to be your sugar daddy so you can feel sorry for yourself instead of living,” he signs. His lips turn down in a grimace and then he jerks the sheet away from me leaving me cold in my gray briefs on the middle of his ridiculously huge bed. Why does one little guy need a king?

I hold my elbow awkwardly with my hand, not sure what to say. I tighten my fingers until I’m probably going to end up with a bruise. I look away, even though I know it’s a sure fire way to drive him insane. Yeah. It’s noon. Yeah, I should have been looking for a job this morning, but it’s so hard. I look great on paper, but when I get to the interviews and I fuck up-miss someone’s mouth moving for a few seconds and have to ask them to repeat themselves…I don’t get hired.

No one wants to hire a deaf man. He shoves my shoulder and I don’t look at him. I catch his hands moving out of the corner of my eye, but I can’t ball up and actually face him. My stomach tight, with shaking hands, I roll off the bed. I pull on my jeans and sweater from the night before keeping my eyes on the way my fingers sink into the thick carpet. When I glance around the airy room I probably couldn’t afford in five lifetimes, he’s gone. There’s a note on the bed.

Over.

Well, guess that’s clear enough.  I run a hand along my short spiky hair even though there’s no real way for it to be messed up. It takes me ten minutes to clear out my stuff. There’s not much. My calculus book weighs down my clothes as I struggle to zip my bag closed. I’m standing outside in the sunshine on the sidewalk with my duffle bag over my shoulder when my stomach growls. I start walking. The Moontipper Café is near my favorite bar, One Eyed Pete’s. I’ll get food and then spend the rest of the day drunk, like a responsible jobless, homeless man. My gut rolls again, but I ignore it. I catch a glimpse of myself in a storefront window as I stroll by in the bright sunshine. With my rumpled clothes and the dark stubble on my face I look the part. Shrugging my bag higher on my shoulder I kick a rock and lose myself in thought. I didn’t exactly love Nolan, but I enjoyed what he gave me. Security. A warm body in the night. We had nothing in common really, but I had no place to go.

This is for the best. That wasn’t fair to either of us.

But where the fuck am I going to go?

Moontipper is busy when I get there. Glancing in the front window I almost don’t go in because it’s so packed. I’m sweaty because it’s warmer than it was last night and a sweater is overkill. I pull at my collar. Sweet pancake and frying bacon smells tease my nose as I yank open the wooden door. I see a couple of guys from The Blur, the only gay bar in town, snuggled together in a booth. A dark haired man about Nolan’s height with a cute, serene face is seriously perusing the menu. He’s bookended by a well-dressed ginger with glasses and a tall bronzed brunette Adonis in paint spattered clothes wearing a sleepy smile. All three men are looking at the same menu like love drunk teenagers. I blink at them and shake my head. They’re eye candy. I don’t know their names, but the redhead hosts shows sometimes at the Blur. I wave as I pass and get smiles. I don’t usually talk to anyone when I’m out. Or anyone at all, for that matter. It’s awkward and I’m never quite sure if I’m being too loud. Uneasily I take a seat at the counter instead of in a booth. I don’t want to be here long. There’s a mug of beer somewhere with my name on it.

He I take a seat by myself at the very end of the counter, the only spot left, and snag an abandoned newspaper. I read the headlines out of habit. May starting out Hot! Hot! Hot! No shit. No real news today, I guess. A waitress comes toward me, a sunny brunette in red jeans and a red, low cut tee shirt with Emily sewn onto the breast. She’s young, or at least her pigtails make her look it. I’m having a day, so when she asks me what I want I don’t want to try to figure out how loud I should be talking.

Pancakes, eggs, bacon, coffee.  I type into my phone before I turn the screen to her. As she’s smiling and reading it I glance over her shoulder because the smile almost hurts to see. Nolan’s gone. I didn’t love him, but I’d come to rely on him. I rub my elbow. From my spot at the ass end of the counter I can see through the partition into the small kitchen. The cook seems to be talking to himself. He’s a portly man with gray hair shoved into a hair net. His nose is a little too big for his face and his lips curve in like maybe he’s missing a few of the more important teeth. At first I thought he was singing to the radio, but something sparkles in his hand as it’s tossed into a pan and I pay closer attention. That’s weird. The waitress taps my hand holding my phone and leaves with a happy nod to bustle off to the next customer.

“Hope you like broken glass with your bacon. Bacon and glass,” the cook laughs and bile rises up to the back of my throat while my hand squeezes tight around my phone. “I love you. Why can’t you love me? Doesn’t matter anymore. Hope you enjoy your whore.” He’s still talking, but he turns away from me to pick up a plastic bin from the counter and I lose what he’s saying. That isn’t a fucking love song.

I suck in a deep breath and watch him sprinkle a lot of cheese into the pan then fold over an omelet before he slides it out onto a plate. I’m not sure what to do for a few seconds while I struggle to breathe. I look around desperately, but all I see are people munching food or talking with friends. No one else is panicking.

No one else saw. Shit.

He puts the plate onto the stainless steel ticket counter and I watch with horror as a waitress, a stout woman one with a long, dark braid, frowns at the cook as she takes the plate along with a few others. She arranges them neatly onto a round tray and I flail mentally.

Shiiiit. She walks behind the counter and around the end near me, but my muscles are frozen. She weaves her way around a man standing in the isle, chatting with someone to a man slouched in a corner booth by himself. He seems like he’s had an even worse day than I have…more maybe last night ran into today. He’s wearing too much mascara and a black water stained silk shirt. A briefcase is slung up onto the table beside him and he’s staring at it like it holds the answers to the world while he tugs on the longish dirty blond hair falling out of its product on the top of his head. The waitress starts to unload the tray in front of him and he sits up like a live wire just sparked under his ass, smiling.

“You look nice today, Jenny. How’s your son? Still fabulous?” He smiles at her and she laughs. He has nice lips, blushed just a bit like maybe he was wearing lipstick and it wore off…or maybe he was kissing someone wearing raspberry red.

She puts her empty try under her arm, still talking, and he picks up his fork, eyes on her. I glance around wildly, but no one else is doing anything. I stumble off my stool and run toward them. His eyes widen as I barrel toward him and sweep the plates off the table. His mouth drops open, fork hovering cartoonishly in mid-air, and I have just enough time to see that he’s got a softer rounded jaw to go along with his plush lips, and a nice solid body, before I’m shoved to the ground and the wind is knocked out of me. It hurts, and the weight is a lot on my back, but I’m no Tinkerbelle. I roll us ending on top, instinctively landing a blow to the face of the man who’d taken me down. He’s yelling. It’s the cook in his greasy white apron. Then hands are on me and I struggle, but I’m man handled off. The restaurant blurs as I’m dragged away.

“Glass. There’s glass in the omelet,” I say, but I’m not sure if I’m too loud or not loud enough with the noise that’s going on. The Adonis from earlier is muscling me toward the front door and I struggle. “Glass in the omelet,” I yell this time, forcing the air out of my lungs, hoping I’ll be heard. Understanding dawns in expressive blue eyes as they meet mind across the room and the waitress who served the man begins flapping her arms at the cook who sits stupidly on the ground holding his cheek. Strong arms spin me out onto the sundrenched sidewalk and when I turn the Adonis from earlier is behind me, stony faced, but his concern is in the crinkle at corner of his eyes.

“I watched him put glass in that man’s food,” I say. He turns away from me to look back into the restaurant, and when he turns back I realize he’s been talking.

“…kind of a hero.”

I shake my head and he frowns. I would leave, but my duffle bag is inside and I need it. He turns back to check inside and the redhead he was with, the one with a sweet smile, joins us.

“…police were called,” he says to his boyfriend as the links their hands together. “…the guy that had Curtis at the bar. He’s a real piece of-” Nervously I dance from foot to foot as I look away because I caught something in a whisper that I wasn’t meant to see. All I want to do is leave. Fuck it. I’ll get the bag later. I have my wallet. I start to walk away when a hand falls on my shoulder and I shrug it off. I hate it when people touch me to get my attention. As I turn I’m readying a frown, but it’s that guy. He has his briefcase and my duffle bag over his shoulder. The mascara glimmers under his eyes in the sunlight making them pop.

“I’m Brian. Can I buy you breakfast to say thank you for saving me?” He talks with a perpetual smirk that starts up a warm interest in my stomach.

“Only if we eat somewhere else.” I start to answer in sign, then force myself to speak out loud even though it makes me uncomfortable. He’s startled for a second, watching my hands, but then he smiles. His laugh transforms his face from something seductive, but pinched with worry to pure sexy relief. His entire body loosens up and he clasps a hand to my shoulder again, but this time I don’t want to shake it off. I’m not sure what to say. My life still sucks. I just got dumped. I have nowhere to sleep tonight, but maybe I’m someone’s hero today. Blue eyes rake up and down my body and I can feel a flush starting in my chest, working up my neck to my face. He holds out a hand for me to shake and his skin is dry and warm. His grip is solid and those lips are touched with lipstick. I can see it glisten in the sun. My own tighten with curiosity. I wonder what a lipstick kiss is like?

Yeah, maybe this won’t be a total waste of a day after all.

If you enjoyed this piece pick up Threefold Love by Ki Brightly today!