#RainbowSnippets: Protecting the Lights

Welcome to Rainbow Snippets!

Every Saturday, those participating post and share six sentences of LGBTQ+ fiction on their blogs. It might be their own. It might be someone else’s. It just needs to be LGBTQ+.

To check out this wide variety of LGBTQ+ samples, to go…


For mine, Leiwell picks up where he left off on Me Me Monday, dreaming of his master in Protecting the Lights…this is slightly longer than six sentences, since I wanted to end at a good stopping point.


I’d be wandering the garden, surrounded by a rising mist, exploring the tangled rosebushes I’d allowed to grow wild, blocking any potential Doors Danyel and Tayel might find.

None of these obstacles could stop my master. He strode through them in his dark green robes, careless of the thorns.

I turned and ran before he could speak to me, my labored breath waking me to the wood of the kitchen table under my cheek.

Once I found myself inside the tower walls, descending a staircase to basement, hung with tapestries. People stared at me from the weave with familar eyes, tugging at memories which might not be mine.

My master stepped out of the cloth, separating himself from an image of a king sitting on a throne of bones and dead vines, all hardened into stone, leaving it empty.

“Take my hand, my darling.” He stretched out his hand, making his gesture half offer, half command.


#Me Me Monday: Protecting the Lights

Welcome to Me Me Monday! A day to promote, strut, and celebrate your Me-ness!

Leiwell might well feel like strutting, since he’s taller in the next part of Protecting the Lights, picking up right where he left off on Saturday for #RainbowSnippets…


I grew a little taller, looming over my younger brothers and Map, although I remained short than Dyvian.

Dyvian. How he haunted my thoughts. I kept imagining his face, acquiring new lines under his eyes, shadowed with sorrow.

This was when the tower on the hill grew more watchful.

The old ruin had always been on the hill, overlooking the garden and our cottage. Broken, missing its crown, it fired my childish imagination. How easy it was to see those mossy walls as once being the gleaming black and white stone depicted within the pages of Beyond the Door.

I used to take my favorite book down from our single shelf of pride in the cottage, comparing the ruin on the hill with the illustrations of a complete stone spire, stretching up to heaven with its white and golden tips.

Once upon a time, it had looked down upon a complete village, not a single cottage. Empty fields had contained other dwellings filled with people, but they hadn’t impressed me all that much. It was the tower which always drew my childish gaze. Its stone sparkled in the sight, gleaming with etherial lights, making the stars seem to dance around it at night. Those gleaming balls of color beckoned me, singing to me with sweet voices.

I no longer heard them. I had my little brothers’s voices, urgent and demanding, noticing a hundred little things to distract me from imaginary musings about the tower.

Perhaps this was why I didn’t notice the disappearance of Beyond the Door from our self.

“I got rid of it,” Map growled when I mentioned it. “I don’t want you reading it around the twins. We don’t need anything around the cottage, reminding us of that cursed wreck on the hill.” She glared up in the direction of said wreck, a challenge and a warning glittering in her black eyes. “It’s bad enough to have it squatting there, haunting us with its presence. No need to feed it any additional attention!”

How odd. I almost got the impression my mother was threatening the tower as much as warning me. I don’t think she discouraged it. If anything, the ‘wreck’ got even more alert and watchful after her little speech.

Not long afterwards, I started dreaming of my master.