Saturday Snippet

Welcome to #RainbowSnippets! On Saturdays, six sentences of GLBT fiction are posted. It can be your own. It can be someone else’s. It just needs to be GLBT fiction.

Lately, I’ve been racing to finish ‘Seven Tricks’, a Christmas story inspired by ‘The Nutcracker’. The version I saw in San Jose gave the battle between the Nutcracker and the Mouse King some very interesting overtones, shall we say? I decided to play with that, as well as the original story themes from ‘The Nutcracker and the Mouse King’ to create my own particular tale.  Here’s a sample from ‘Seven Tricks’. Yes, it’s seven sentences long, not six. To make sense, this snippet needed the extra sentence. (bows apologetically)

I’d had a dream of the coming Christmas Eve, but wasn’t of me ascending the throne, oh, no. I’d dreamed of an endless supply of tissue, scattered about the giant shrubbery humans insisted on covering with baubles. Not that the tissue was what I desired, although there was enough to give all of our people’s bedding, saving the king sized portion for myself.

No, what I desired was the exquisite creature standing half in, and half out of one of the giant boxes humans left open on the floor. Wooden was he, with stiff arms and legs, with a bright red coat and a crown sticking out of his head. Never had I seen such an enormous, toothy jaw as he possessed. The scent of roasted nuts wafted from his jaw, making my nostrils flare with hunger.

‘Fairest’ Snippet

I’m promoting ‘Fairest’ right now to interested readers, who might be stopping by. 🙂 Here’s a little teaser from my f/f fantasy fairy tale.

The tower was one of the few places I could be alone. It became one of my favorite spots, other than my bed. Sleep was the one state in which I enjoyed utter quiet. My imagination was free to spread its wings and take flight. An enticing figure often appeared in my dreams, although I never saw her clearly. The glimpses I caught of dark eyes staring out of a pale face always intrigued me, sending a shiver of excitement through my entire body, which always woke me from my sleep. This excitement wasn’t fearful—at least not entirely.




‘Fairest’ Blurb

I’m promoting ‘Fairest’ right now, for interested readers who might be stopping by this blog. 😉

From childhood, her eyes have haunted me. She cursed me at birth, to fall under a sleeping curse. Everyone is afraid of her. Everyone thinks she’s my enemy. Only I can’t think of her as an enemy. There are too many secrets surrounding her, too many silences. Who exactly is she—the dark haired, pale beauty who haunts the tower, my guardian, and my dreams? What is her truth? Is she truly a wicked witch? Or is she just a girl, as cursed as I am? I’m not afraid of her, even if I should be. Come with me as I visit my tower, get lost in the enchanted forest, and look into the magic mirror. Face my curse, when I face the spindle in her hands. Sing the words of a magic spell, while darkness looms over me, threatening to completely overcome me. For I refuse to be afraid, no matter what her magic changes me into.


‘Fairest’ Teaser

I promised I’d post a little teaser on ‘Fairest’, so here’s one below. 🙂

I grasped the mirror by the sides. Despite its large size, it was surprisingly light. I looked into it. My reflection gazed back. She smiled. Her lips were blood red.

I stared, as all the rosiness drained out of my skin, leaving it pale white. My hair darkened, turning black. No, not my hair. The girl in the mirror lowered her head. When she raised it, she was clearly the princess from the portrait. She opened her eyes. I realized they weren’t actually jet black, but a very dark blue. It was easy to see them as being darker, surrounded as they were by dusky, curling eyelashes.


‘Aissa and Polyxena’ Snippet

I’m missing #RainbowSnippets this Saturday, plus I won’t be around much tomorrow, either. I’ve decided to post a snippet tonight, instead. This is from ‘Aissa and Polyxena’, my m/m mythical tale of cross dressing. I pick up right where I left off last Saturday during #RainbowSnippets.
Beautiful he was, with hair too lustrous, eyes too luminous, and limbs too finely made to be mortal. An all too mortal sorrow cast shadows under his gleaming eyes, as he offered me a cup.

“Troile, child of Troy,” the boy said. His rosebud of a mouth trembled, as if my name tasted painful. My own mouth trembled in response. “Would you share my fate, as well as my heritage?”

Saturday Snippet

Welcome to #RainbowSnippets! Every Saturday, six sentences of GLBT fiction are shared and posted. They can be your own. They can be someone else’s. They just need to be GLBT.

Here’s another teaser from my m/m mythical tale of cross-dressing in progress, ‘Aissa and Polyxena’.

How did I come to drink from that cup? In a dream. I haven’t the gift of prophecy. Not as my siblings, Cassandra and Helenus did. The boy appeared in my dream, though. Not theirs.

Paula’s Prompts

This is my second response to @PTWyant‘s writing prompt, involving a squirrel, a graveyard, and a school. To see it, go to‘s Wednesday Prompts.

The mention of squirrels made me think of Thomas, a particularly nasty boy, who’s become the nemesis of all squirrels in ‘A Godling for Your Thoughts?’ He’s also become the nemesis of Danyell and Dayell, my two main characters in that story. However, Thomas is one of Seraphix’s chosen, so I needed to get into his head. Regardless of how ugly a place it might be. I found myself feeling a little bit sorry for him, as I wrote. Not terribly sorry, but a little.

The school was a graveyard. Every desk was a coffin, only the poor corpses weren’t allowed to rest. They sat up stiffly, hunched over their tombstone tablets, scratching at its surface with bits of lead.

The teacher was perched up on the biggest gravestone of them all. To normal eyes, he might look like a squirrel, but the corpse children weren’t fooled by his small, furry body, and his bouncy, fluffy tails. Their rotting eyes and empty eyesockets avoided his beady gaze. They scraped diligently at their tombstones, in spite of the rotting flesh falling from bony fingers. For there was no excuse for slacking off at school.

Even if you were dead.

“No rest for wicked children!” the teacher chittered. “Not after all the naughty things you did, when you were alive!”

How Thomas longed to pick up a rock and throw it at the teacher! He would have done it, if he’d still been alive. How many squirrels’ heads and bodies had he smashed in with a rock? His body was immobile, locked within this narrow, wooden coffin. Only his writing hand could move.

He sneaked a glance at Oleander. Once, the other boy had had smooth, blue black waves of hair, falling down over a clear brow. Long lashes fluttered over violet eyes, which were quick to narrow with scorn at the sight of Thomas.

“Don’t call me pretty,” Oleander had once said, glaring down at Thomas. “The last thing I want is a troll like you to find me pretty.”

No, of course he hadn’t been pretty. Boys weren’t pretty. Boys broke and smashed things that were pretty.

“What are you staring at?” Oleander demanded. Formerly full lips were rotting and hanging off his teeth. Empty eyesockets stared back at Thomas. Oleander was dead, like everyone else here. “Do you still think I’m pretty?”

“Of course not!” Thomas said, with a scowl. “You’re dead and rotting, like the rest of us!” How marvelous to realize that Oleander with all his beauty and his sneers was no better than Thomas, in the end. He, too, was trapped in his graveyard, forbidden rest. “Not that you ever were much.” He longed to lift his hand and point his finger, but it was immobile. “Not that it would matter if you were. Boys can’t be pretty.”

“Ah, but you like them pretty, don’t you?” Oleander said with a rictus of a leer. “Thomas like boys pretty!” he called out. It became a sing song chant, as each body paused in its scraping to join in the chorus. “Thomas likes boys pretty! Thomas likes boys pretty!”

“Bet you wish you were pretty yourself!” Oleander yelled, breaking the chant. Part of his lip fell off. “Thomas wishes he was pretty!”

The chant changed, as everyone in the graveyard joined Oleander in his accusation. Decaying heads with half revealed skulls raised, caught up in the momentary energy to taunting someone else. “Thomas wishes he was pretty! Thomas wishes he was pretty!”

“Enough! Silence in class!” The squirrel’s squeak pierced through the chant, breaking it. Everyone slumped and scraped at their tablets, once more.

“Thomas, you’re to do lines!” the teacher chittered. “Write ‘Boys can’t be pretty, especially me’. Do it a hundred times!”

*You don’t have to.* The whisper carressed what was left of his bat ears, seeping into what was left of him. The voice sounded like Oleander, only it was sweet and gentle. *You don’t have to do any of this.*

“I have to,” Thomas whispered. How he longed to move his hands, to get out of his coffin. “I’m being punished. For killing so many squirrels. For being an ugly monster with bat ears.”

*Do you always do what you have to?* Tempting, oh, the voice was so tempting. *Or do you do what you want to? Isn’t there something you’ve always thought of doing, but never dared to?*

Oh, yes, there was. He stared at the squirrel, lording it over all of them, so small and superior. Why, it was just a squirrel.

“Yes,” he growled. Something small and cool was forming in his hands. It was a coin. He lifted his arm, only to see that his arm wasn’t rotting. It was covered with flesh, part of a living body. “Why do I have to accept any of this? It’s only real, if I believe in it?”

“Oh, you think that coin in your hand is real?” the squirrel demanded, but its tail flicked anxiously. For Thomas was bigger than the teacher. He always had been. “You think the life it will bring you is any more real than this?”

“Maybe not, but it’s got to be better than this,” Thomas said. He tried to get to his feet. Just moving was an effort, but he willed himself to rise. “At least it’s a life. Not being trapped in a coffin.”

“At least it’s a life,” the squirrel mocked, but its small body trembled. “Wake up, Thomas!”

“Yes, wake up, Thomas!” the voice said, only it was no longer simply in Thomas’s mind. It came from Oleander’s mouth, which was no longer a rictus of a grin. Full lips were appearing over the skull’s grin, returning the boy’s arrogant beauty. Only he was no longer so arrogant. He was smiling sweetly at Thomas. As if he cared. As if Thomas mattered. “Or better yet, dream another dream.”

“How?” Thomas whispered. His legs wobbled, refusing to report him. His hands clung to the tombstone. His own grave marker, with the lines, “Boys can’t be pretty, especially me.”

Were those really going to be his last words?

“No!” The cry exploded out of his throat, as he forced his wobbling legs to bear his weight. No wonder he was so heavy. He was still carrying the gravestone.

“Change,” the voice which was so much like Oleander’s whispered through Oleander’s mouth. Only it wasn’t Oleander. Or rather it was the Oleander who should have been, an Oleander whom smiled at him, when Thomas stupidly told him he was pretty.

Or better yet, he himself could be Oleander. Thomas would be that pretty himself. Not that he’d admit he wanted that. Not yet.

He hurled his tombstone at the squirrel. The small beast squealed, as it knocked him off the tombstone, smashing into bits. Blood ran down the rubble.

“You deserved that,” Thomas whispered. “Trying to tell me what I couldn’t, or couldn’t be.”