Welcome to QueerBlogWed, a time to post and celebrate some queer in our blogs.
I’ll be continuing Unwilling to Be Yours in mine, the second prelude to Stealing Myself From Shadows.
Stealing Myself From Shadows is the first book in my Tales of the Navel/The Shadow Forest series. It’s currently under revision.
To invite readers to get to know this ambient fantasy universe based on Tarot card imagery, I’ve been sharing serialized preludes in segments here.
The first was Waiting for Rebirth. Unwilling to Be Yours is the second. The third is Be My Valentine…Snack.
Peter didn’t do too well in trying to take Christopher in his arms, but he’s not giving up…
“If you can feel passion for Damian, you can feel passion for others.” I infused each word with a fierce aggression, a merciless faith passed on and borrowed. “If you can feel passion for art, it’s only a matter of time, before true passion awakens in you.”
Christopher tilted his head to study me.
“Are those truly your words?” A tiny wrinkle dimpled his forehead, marring its smoothness.
I tried to smile and shrug the faith away. “My first lover said something like that to me.”
Not quite true. Paul hadn’t been my first lover, although in a way he was. He’d shaken up my state of being, returned me to an almost virgin state of heartbroken wonder.
“The sentiment is quite purple, but true.” I wasn’t sure if I was speaking of Paul’s words or my own. Perhaps both.
“Purple?” Christopher’s eyes widened slightly. “What do you mean?
“Flowery sentiments. ‘Ah, your eyes are like roses, caught within amethysts with the sun’s fire, yet every dewy petal drowns in its own tears.’ Overblown stuff like that, which makes the silly swoon.” I lifted my shoulders, again, dismissing the silliness.
Silly, like me. Purple prose often made me swoon, not that I’d ever admit it. “Such words are considered ‘purple prose’.”
“Oh,” Christopher brought his slender eyebrows down, deepening his frown. “Why purple? Why not rose, or pink?”
“I’m not entirely sure.” My own fancy wouldn’t allow me to leave things at such an honest response. “Perhaps a lady with purple tresses once wrote such words in purple ink.”
“Resulting in her prose becoming a purple legend.” Christopher’s softened, relaxing into something more natural. “I like that story.”
“Really? Because I can come up with lots of stories like that,” I said, warmed by his appreciation. “I can’t get enough of them myself.”
A low chuckle tickled at my ear, so low I could barely hear it. Or perhaps it was just the wind.