#QueerBlogWed: Not Over Yet

On July 19, 2023, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt: “It’s all over except for the crying.”

This mythologically inspired bit of science fiction fantasy popped into my head as a result…

*It’s all over but the crying.*

I tried to block her, block the image she sent into my mind of my hair tangled on the floor, hiding my weeping face. It was a promise, a promise to make me cry like that once she found me. 

Electra gripped my hand. “Don’t listen to her. Iphigenia, don’t let her into your head like that.”

Easy for her to say. She’d never been as close to Klytamnestra as me. Our mother-origin had never shared so many of her thoughts and wishes with my sister clone as she had with me. 

As a result, Klytaemnestra had never been able to hurt or scare Electra as much as she could me. 

*I’m trying.* I spoke without moving my lips, allowing Electra’s strong arms to enfold me, to comfort me.

For all her strength, Electra couldn’t keep out Klytaemnestra’s voice. 

*Iphigenia.* The voice of our original self, whom Electra and all our clone sisters were based on crept into my ears as if she was right there, whispering into them. *There’s only so long you can hide. I’ll find you.*

I blocked out of the darkness of the room, anything in reality which might lead back to me. I visualized myself standing with my hair half-curled on top of my head, falling in ringlets around my head. It was warm enough to wear a loose gown within the open air temple, looking down at the cliffs of the sea. 

*My sacrifice.* Klytaemnestra stood beside me, glossy chestnut locks in the same style as my own. We might have been twins instead of clones. *Helen would have had me knock you into the ocean, to summon the waves. To bring me to her.*

*Why didn’t you?” I dared a sideways glance at my enemy. *As you say, my destiny is to die for you.*

*I prefer to keep you at my side than to sacrifice you, even if my choice enrages Helen.* She reached out to touch my cheek. *I will, however, make you suffer for your betrayal. For leaving me for Electra.*

I shut my eyes, pulling away from the fresh air back into the dark room. Back into Electra’s arms. 

“What is she doing?” Electra had a harder time speaking mind to mind that the rest of us, even though she could always hear me. *Is she trying to convince you to return to her?*

*She’ll have to try harder than that.* I wrapped my arms around her waist, breathed in the smell of my clone sister. *I told you. I chose you. I chose to go with you. Even if we have to hide, I’d rather be with you.*

“And I’d rather run than be her slave.” Electra hugged me back. “I’m so glad you’re here with me, Iphigenia.”

We held each other, unsure how long we’d still be free. Unsure when Klytaemnestra would catch up with us, find us on the backwater planet we’d taken refuge upon. 

No matter what she said, it wasn’t over yet. Not as long as Electra and I were together. 

Secondary Characters Speak Out: Quartz and Nimmie Not

A kobold sits in a sunbeam, light twinkling off the bells in his pointed slippers and cap as he kicks his feet against the crystal coffin he’s on top of. He winks at you all and begins to sing:

Welcome to Secondary Characters Speak Out!

If you’re feeling secondary, give a shout!

For stories aren’t fair

And readers seldom care

And scribblers are never there!

(Not entirely true, Nimmie Not. Speaking as both a reader and a scribbler, I always care and I’m there, even if I may not react as you wish.)

There’s an angry snarl from the motionless dwarf inside the coffin.

Quartz: Gah! Will you shut up?

Nimmie Not: Admit it, you love my singing, yes, you do! I’m freeing what’s trapped in your frightened heart, turning your grumbles into song. It’s hard for our scribbler for forget a song, is it not?

Quartz: Right. Unless it’s her own. Bet she’ll be forgetting after the first song that strikes her fancy. 

Nimmie Not: Is that so? We’ll just have to sing again!

Welcome to Secondary Characters-

Quartz: Enough! There aren’t any secondary characters. Not here. 

Nimmie Not: There’s you and me. (He claps his hands together.) Romantic, isn’t it?

Quartz: I hate to admit it, but we’re not secondary characters. 

Nimmie Not: Do you truly hate it, my daft darling in denial? 

Quartz: Fine. No, I don’t. Right now, this blog is ours. I mean mine!

Nimmie Not: Aww, my snoring sweetheart, right now this blog is ours, yes, it is. (He lays down, his cheek against the top of the coffin.)

Quartz: Right. (Still as he is inside the rock, is there a hint of redness in his nose?)

Nimmie Not: Right. You admitted you don’t hate this blog or being the main character in your own story. Let go of your denial. Don’t be an angry mountain king capable of only loving gold…or rocks.

Quartz: How do you know about the mountain king?

Nimmie Not: Dearest daft one; the mountain king who married his gold is a legend, yes, he is. It was difficult to not know about him, especially considering his mountain was once the home of my Person of Interest.

Quartz: Right. Don’t you go spoiling our story…dearest.

Nimmie Not: (drumming his spindly fingers against the coffin) I wouldn’t dream of it, my bearded beauty, oh, no, not I! Not that you and I should let such silly kings ruin anything for you and I. Just step out of their way and their gold lust, allowing them to reach their inevitable end. 

Quartz: What are you babbling about?

Nimmie Not: Stories, my daffy darling, stories. Stereotypes of the sort our scribbler only pays attention to in passing. We must not allow her to get distracted from so easily, oh no!

Quartz: She’s easily distracted. Even now she’s getting distracted by real life cat drama. Will Sage or Cinnamon get the better box?

Nimmie Not: Hmm, what’s that? 

Quartz: Never mind. Just got a peep in the scribbler’s head. It’s a mess up there.

Nimmie Not: There’s always a distraction, sweet stubborness. (Nimmie Not looks up from the page at me.) Don’t let it stop you, scribbler. Write on!

Quartz: Aye, write on. Don’t stop.

…I’ll do my best. 

#RainbowSnippets: Fairest

Welcome to Rainbow Snippets!

Every Saturday or Sunday those participating post and share six sentences of LGBTQIA+ fiction on their blogs. It can be their own. It can be someone else’s. It just needs to be LGBTQIA+.

To sample different LGBTQIA+ stories, go to…

https://www.facebook.com/groups/RainbowSnippets

For my own, I offer a taste of Fairest with Rose continuing to question Oriana about the mysterious girl in the portrait…

“Who is she?” I studied Oriana’s face, marveling at the way it rippled between youth and age, making her seem old and young at once. 

Was this some kind of magic? Or was it something else? Sorrow, yearning, pity, and anger played across her countenance, becoming unique and unnamable. My simple fascination seemed to pale in comparison. 

Intrigued by what you’re reading? Want to read more? Here are buy links!

Nine Star Press: https://ninestarpress.com/product/fairest/

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Fairest-K-S-Trenten-ebook/dp/B0CNSL28YR/ref=sr_1_1?crid=26Q4LNG7UIVW2&keywords=Fairest+by+K.S.Trenten&qid=1701720288&s=books&sprefix=fairest+by+k.s.trenten,stripbooks,143&sr=1-1

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/fairest-ks-trenten/1123806892?ean=2940179155874

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/fairest-19

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1483368

Lonely Morning (A Shadow’s Reflection)

Here’s a special collaboration! A poem, inspired by and paired with Jacob Berghoef’s Lonely Morning in The Narrow Path collection. Check out his art gallery to see some exquisite images which inspire ambient fantasy and display the beauty in nature at…

https://www.saatchiart.com/account/collection/905947

I look at the dark trees standing sentinel amidst the purple shadows in Lonely Morning and I can imagine Christopher is about to step from the mists. Here’s a poem, written from his perspective…

Night gives way to purple shadow

The oblivion waiting beneath the trees

Born from the shadows, I’m embraced by the mist

Taking my airy steps into something more solid

Worlds await in the scattered fragments of light

A doorway awaits in the lavender thoughts

Scattered like leaves upon the forest floor

Memories which dreamers left behind to dissolve

I drink them like water, refreshed and invigorated

The coolness giving me a more solid form

Even if I dare not infuse my shape with too much of myself

Committing all of me to a single identity

I don’t need to fear it, not amidst the comforting darkness of trees

Ready to accept me back into mist and shadow. 

Like what you’re reading? You can check out my published works at…

http://www.amazon.com/author/kstrenten

#QueerBlogWed: Regretful Dream

On July 12, 2023, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt involving a sore leg, two hours, and a compass.

My father and I have the nickname of anti-compass due to our terrible sense of direction. As a result, I ended up the protagonist of this particular story. 🙂

I had a sore leg, a compass, and two hours. 

If you expect a compass to do me any good, you’ve seriously misjudged my talent for getting lost. 

The arrow pointing north began to spin, no longer able to focus. Being this close to me, being held by me sapped the device of its magetic power, any directional energy. 

I groaned, gazing down at the now useless device in my hand and began to limp in what I hoped was the right way to go (probably not). Yes, my leg was sore. Thank you, reality, for intruding while I’m trying to tell a story. Show some mercy for poor scribblers, please?

I passed by a castle covered with briars. Many people had written about this particular castle, including myself. I couldn’t help pausing, giving it a second glance. 

Flowers bloomed between the thorns. It was a pretty display. I took a deep breath, smelled the roses. 

“What do you want in this cursed place?” A woman with silvery blonde hair dressed in green robes regarded me with blue eyes very like my own. 

“To give the one lying in the castle’s tower a happy ending.” I paused, studying the woman in front of me. “A slightly different happy ending than other versions of her have found.”

“And who are you to want these things?” She lifted her chin in a show of arrogance I knew only too well was a mask for fear. 

“You know who I am, Oriana.” I smiled, feeling for her as I always had. “You were born from my scribbles, even though you’ve existed in other forms.”

“You have only two hours, scribbler.” A faint smirk touched with melancholy played about her lips. “How can you possibly get to where you’re going? Especially with your sense of direction.”

I winced at this. Even my own characters noticed my terrible sense of direction. Still I was a god of sorts in the Cauldron, being the creator of the stories (and poems) which bubbled here, so I raised my chin as well. 

(Did I mention this was also a mask for fear for me? Oriana has a lot of my own characteristics.)

“Technology has improved enough to help many whom are lost in my world.” I looked down at the useless compass in my hand, rendered useless by the ambient magic I’d let loose in this place. Oops. “Perhaps this has magic as well.”

As if in response to my words, the compass began to vibrate beneath my fingers. I let it go, only to see it hover in midair. 

The compass changed shape, transforming into a butterfly with scarlet markings. 

“Perhaps it has.” Oriana’s smirk turned into a more genuine smile. “You’re not far from where you wish to go.”

I nodded to her and started following the butterfly whom had fluttered into the trees on the path ahead. These trees clumped together, casting shadows. Those shadows, even the trees seemed to swim in my sight. 

I’d written about these trees. Other artists captured them in their work, the way they wove into other elements than earth and wood, playing with air, fire, water, and the imagination. 

I’d need to stick to my path in this forest, but I was following the butterly. Fortunately it didn’t flutter fast, beating its scarlet wings in tolerant amusement of my limping. 

Fine. I was real. I was middle-aged. I was slow. It occurred to me that I could have manifested as something or someone faster moving in the Cauldron, but I’d come as my real self with all my limitations. Silly, unimaginative me. To think, I was sustaining this place. Happily my imagination far outstripped my flesh. 

The shadows whispered in the breeze, promising me things; youth, health, offering it to my loved ones as well as me. All I had to do was step off the path and embrace them. 

Right. I’d created these hungry buggers. I’d as soon step off the path as have Quartz recite purple prose. (That wasn’t a threat, Quartz.)

There was a distinct “Harrumph!” from the trees and the shadows scattered. Maybe Quartz’s shadow was wandering from its crystal coffin. It didn’t seem interested in talking to me so I moved on. 

More shadows waited ahead. These pleaded with me: “Scribbler, when is my time? Scribbler, when are you going to write about me? You’re not getting any younger, scribbler. Scribbler, answer me!”

“Oh, shut up,” I growled, breaking out into a sweat. They were right about all those things. I could only write so fast, but I wasn’t writing fast enough. I kept walking, guilty thoughts racing like rats in my head. Due to it being this particular place, shadow rats actually manifested outside my head, scampering off in search of cheese, gingerbread, or willing nutcrackers. 

The sun was blinding at the end of the path where the trees parted. I was sorer than ever, yet some of my pain disappeared at the sight of her. 

She was waiting for me at the end of my road. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said, staring at her. It was hard to see her face. My memories kept swarming around her countenance, obscuring the sight of it. 

We were still too close to the Shadow Forest, but if we weren’t so close, I’m not sure if this meeting would have been possible. 

“I know.” I tried to smile, ignore the ache in my chest at being this close to her. “It’s been more than two hours.”

“A lot more. It’s been a lifetime.” Her voice was that of the little girl I’d once known. “Why didn’t you write back to me? Why didn’t you keep in touch with me?”

I wake up from my dream of being in my own Cauldron as Danyel has in many stories I’ve posted here. In my own bed, only instead of being next to a twin, I’m with my husband and a pile of (temporarily) peaceful cats at my feet. 

I’m the sole one awake at this dark hour. Everyone else is sleeping peacefully, even Sage. My leg is sore from a journey which was only a dream. 

Her question remains, haunting me. Why didn’t I keep in touch with her? Why did I let her slip away?

Of all my regrets, this one is the worse. She may be married herself now with a rich life filled with the many activities she grew accustomed to at a much younger age than I did. 

I wonder if she thinks of me. If she misses me as I often miss her. 

I’ll wonder this for the rest of my life. 

Conversations with Christopher: Quartz (and Nimmie Not)

Christopher finds himself in a familiar forest clearing. A crystal coffin gleams in the center, clear enough to see the dwarf lying very still within.

There’s a chuckling sound coming from inside, mingling with the snickering of the wind. 

Quartz: Heh, heh, heh!

Christopher: Hello, Quartz. Pleased with yourself? 

Quartz: (without moving his lips or anything else) Hah! Don’t start. You’re at the Cauldron every week. 

Christopher: Except for the week when you’re here. You’re here now. 

Quartz: Yes, I am! You know what it’s like, being here.

Christopher: We’re just bubbles about to pop along with everyone and everything else in this bloggy space. 

Quartz: Heh, bloggy space. I like it. 

Christopher: You’re in a good mood. I’m guessing this has to do with your story moving forward. 

Quartz: Don’t even think of spoiling it.

Christopher: Why would I spoil it? I’m happy for you.

Quartz: Right. 

Christopher: All right. I’m also jealous. As I’ve told you, Stealing Myself From Shadows is my story, but I’m a secondary character in The Hand and the Eye of the Tower. 

Quartz: Maybe I should have you back for my blog. 

Christopher: Maybe you should. We share the same scribbler, some similar story elements.

Quartz: Right. My story was a lot simpler. All the scribbler had to do was remove some unnecessary obstacles. 

Christophers: Obstacles create conflict and energy in a story. Much as they madden me, they have helped me to move forward. They’ve helped you, too. Besides, isn’t it satisfying to overcome them?

Quartz: I’m not talking about obstacles for you or me. These were in the scribbler’s way.

Christopher: The poem and the rock hunt. 

Quartz: Exactly. She’s returned to the heart of my story.

Christopher: The cuckoo clock and the crystal coffin. Hence your title; Of Cuckoo Clocks and Crystal Coffins. 

Quartz: I keep hoping the scribbler will think of a better title. 

Christopher: It sounds like that title got her back on track.

Quartz: How did that ruddy clock and this ruddy coffin become so important?!

Christopher: They were in Fairest. 

Quartz: The coffin, yes. The clock just had a cameo, though I’m worried that ruddy kobold has plans for the cuckoo. 

BAMF!

A spindly little man appears in a cloud of yellow smoke on top of the crystal coffin. Bells jingle on his red cap and green slippers. 

Nimmie Not: (for that whom the little man is) Oh, so I’m a ruddy kobold, now, am I? After you kissed me under the Christmas tree, yes, you did!

Quartz: Gah!

Nimmie Not: My bearded beauty, you shan’t escape me now, no, you shan’t!

The little man begins to kiss the rock facade between himself and Quartz’s face.

Quartz: Gah! We’ve got company! 

Nimmie Not: (stopping to pout) So? He’s just a shadow.

Christopher: Hello, Nimmie Not. 

Nimmie Not: (turning his pout in the shadow’s direction) Christopher. You’re not flirting with my dwarf, are you?

Quartz: What?!

Christopher: Not intentionally. 

Nimmie Not: I’ll have you know he’s all mine. He agreed to be my bride last Christmas. 

Quartz: As if! Being a bride is human thing!

Nimmie Not: (puffing up with indignition) It most certainly is not! 

Quartz: Fine. It’s still too human for me!

Nimmie Not: Why should humans have all the fun? I’ll take as a bride whom I wish and you, Quartz, are my destiny, yes, you are!

Quartz: I don’t do weddings!

Nimmie Not: Now that is closer to the truth, a truth you fled from, a dwarfish wedding. 

Christopher: What? What is he talking about?

Quartz: I hate weddings!

Nimmie Not: Can you see and catch the lie, little shadow? How can he hate weddings if he’s never been to you?

Christopher: A lot of people hate things they know nothing about. They’re just scared by stories. 

Nimmie Not: Ah, but once upon a mountain kingdom, my shy sweet fled from one. 

Quartz: Don’t listen to him. It wasn’t mine.

Christopher: Whose was it?

Quartz: The mountain king’s. He decided to marry his gold.

Nimmie Not bursts out laughing. 

Quartz: Oh, shut up. He was the king. 

Christopher: Could he do such a thing? Marry his gold?

Quartz: No. It didn’t last. The gold turns into this rippling, liquid ghost thing which embraced him and solidified around him. 

Christopher: Really? 

Nimmie Not: Truth can be stranger than fiction, leading fiction to be twice as strange. 

Quartz: Nothing was left of the king but a golden statue. Goblins attacked the king’s hall right after. 

Nimmie Not: So exciting, yes it is!

Christopher: What happened? 

Quartz: My brothers and I left in a hurry. We’ve stayed away from large communities of dwarfs ever after. 

Nimmie Not: My poor, damaged dwarf. Our wedding shall be nothing like that. This I vow.

Quartz: Right. Letting you kiss me isn’t the same as agreeing to marry you. 

Nimmie Not: I won’t give up, no, I won’t. Not until you say yes.

Christopher: I’ll leave you two alone. 

Mist rises under Christopher’s feet to crawl up his legs. 

Quartz: Don’t go!

Nimmie Not: Please do!

The mist envelopes the boy, swallowing him, only to vanish. 

Nimmie Not: Alone at last, my delectable dwarf. 

Quartz: Too bad! Christopher is gone. Looks like it’s the end of the blog. 

Nimmie Not: There’s always next week. (grins, showing a mouthful of sharp teeth)

Quartz gulps. 

If you’d like to see more of Quartz and a lot more of his family, check out Fairest at…

Nine Star Press: https://ninestarpress.com/product/fairest/

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Fairest-K-S-Trenten-ebook/dp/B0CNSL28YR/ref=sr_1_1?crid=26Q4LNG7UIVW2&keywords=Fairest+by+K.S.Trenten&qid=1701720288&s=books&sprefix=fairest+by+k.s.trenten,stripbooks,143&sr=1-1

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/fairest-ks-trenten/1123806892?ean=2940179155874

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/fairest-19

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1483368

His own story, Of Cuckoo Clocks and Crystal Coffins is a work in progress. 😉 

#RainbowSnippets: Fairest

Welcome to Rainbow Snippets!

Every Saturday or Sunday, those participating post and share six sentences of LGBTQIA+ fiction on their blogs. Those sentences can be their own. They can be someone else’s. They just need to be LGBTQIA+.

To sample different LGBTQIA+ stories, go to…

https://www.facebook.com/groups/RainbowSnippets

For mine, Oriana will continue where she left off last week in Fairest…

“It’s unreasonably cruel to expect a young girl to do so, even if she is a princess.” 

She stepped into the room, filling my sanctuary with her presence. Everything seemed a little smaller, a little grayer. “No one can blame you for wanting time for yourself.” 

Staring at the painting, she murmured, “I should have expected her to be waiting for you when you took the time.”

Intrigued by what you’re reading? Want to read more? Follow the buy links!

Nine Star Press: https://ninestarpress.com/product/fairest/

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Fairest-K-S-Trenten-ebook/dp/B0CNSL28YR/ref=sr_1_1?crid=26Q4LNG7UIVW2&keywords=Fairest+by+K.S.Trenten&qid=1701720288&s=books&sprefix=fairest+by+k.s.trenten,stripbooks,143&sr=1-1

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/fairest-ks-trenten/1123806892?ean=2940179155874

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/fairest-19

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1483368

#QueerBlogWed: The Golden Bond

On July 5, 2023, P.T. Wyant offered at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt involving panic, a jewelry store, and a handshake.

This poem was the result…

All he offered was a handshake

Even though he offered to meet you

Right here in the jewelry store

Appraising that golden ring

Perfect for a man’s finger

Your hand in particular

How he savored the panic you tried to hide

The protest that you don’t need a ring

Even though your heart flutters

At the very sight of the gold

It’s easy to picture it on your finger

How you tremble at the bond it entails

Still he ought to give you more than a handshake

A sideways glance to see if anyone is looking

You’re his hidden treasure he keeps out of sight

Working up the courage to bring you into the light

Perhaps this ring is his way of coming out

Opening up only if he can have you

Otherwise he may just shut the closet door

Keeping the rest of the world outside

You were meant to walk in the light

You’ve been forced to shroud yourself in darkness

Don’t be afraid of the gold on your finger

Not if the bond is one you desire

Just make certain it’s your heart’s desire

Before you slip it on. 

Conversations with Christopher: Queer Cheer

He’s a ghost among many airy figures, yet the air hums with their passion, enthusiasm, and the sheer joy of being so close together. 

Christopher almost jostles two men, his elbow passing through them. They’re so engrossed in kissing each other, they don’t notice, exuding a ruddy glow of lust. 

He backs up into a couple of women with high-necked collars undone, holding glasses of amber wine in their hands. 

Christopher: Um, excuse me?

The women giggle, taking no offense. The liquid in their goblets sloshes, giggling right along with them. 

Many people in costume, finery, and a variety of hats gather around a punch bowl of amber liquid. As Christopher draws nearer, he can almost feel Damian’s presence, the ghostly touch of his hand. His ears prickle with warmth and a soothing coolness, making him wonder if Danyel and Tayel are nearby, although he can see no sign of the twins. 

Someone lays a hand upon Christopher’s shoulder. He turns to face a majestic figure in a gown of flowing sea green. A light illuminates a smiling face, welcoming him. 

For a moment, he thinks it’s Gabrielle, his mother before him, exuding that glow she usually conceals beneath a veneer of eccentric humanity. 

The Figure: I’m not your mother, Christopher, although we are allies at times with a similar purpose.

Christopher: Who are you? You seem familiar, yet I feel if I’d met you, I would have remembered. 

The Figure: No, you wouldn’t. I have a way of slipping away into the pools of dream people leave behind in the Shadow Forest, although I leave them smiling. 

Christopher: Is that a riddle?

The Figure: Perhaps. I’m known in this place as Queer Cheer. Your scribbler knows me well. I danced with her in this place or a place very like it. 

Christopher: (blinking) You know as well as I do this place isn’t real.

Queer Cheer: What bubbles in the Cauldron is like what I serve to my guests. The taste varies and changes, refusing to be locked into something which can be defined as real. Someone else can always deny it.

Christopher: What do you mean?

Queer Cheer: What we remember, what we cherish in our memories may not exist in another memories. To them, it may never have happened. Perhaps it didn’t. This doesn’t mean the memories aren’t precious. Never dismiss the contents of the Cauldron, Christopher, or the punch bowl. 

Christopher: That sounded like another riddle or perhaps a moral?

Queer Cheer: Take whatever you wish from my words. This is a celebration, not a lesson.

Christopher: Cannot lessons be celebrated?

Queer Cheer: (chuckles) You’re an interesting boy. I can see why you’re a favorite of our scribbler.

Christopher: (blushing) Did she say I was a favorite?

Queer Cheer: (with an arch of her eyebrow) She was a little pre-occupied, enjoying the dance.

Christopher: No one is dancing now. 

Queer Cheer: We were dancing when she wrote a poem about this very event. 

Christopher: I think she’s a little embarrassed she didn’t polish up her poem a bit when she had the opportunity, make it more worthy of the moment. 

Queer Cheer: This doesn’t mean the moment wasn’t special or that we’re not special.

Christopher: (ducking his head) I suppose not.

Queer Cheer: (chucking him under the chin) We are her creations, Christopher. We live only in her imagination, yet she choses to spend a portion of finite life with us. Never forget that.

Queer Cheer, the people around Christopher, and the punch bowl begin to fade away. 

Christopher: (watching them vanish entirely) I won’t. 

This time, he’s the one left behind, standing in the mist. He turns to face me, looking at me with eyes swimming with liquid color, mingling like dappled light on water. 

Christopher: I won’t. 

Even if my characters are works of fiction, only existing in my imagination; I appreciate the sentiment. Sometimes I can tell myself things through them which are difficult to admit to myself. 

I’m grateful for my characters. They’re a cause for celebration. 

Come and celebrate with me, with Queer Cheer, and the other creations which exist in the Bay Area Queer Writers Associations’s imagination…

#RainbowSnippets: Fairest

Welcome to Rainbow Snippets!

Every Saturday or Sunday those participating post and share six sentences of LGBTQIA+ fiction on their blogs. It can be their own. It can be someone else’s. It just needs to be LGBTQIA+.

To sample different LGBTQIA+ stories, go to…

https://www.facebook.com/groups/RainbowSnippets

As for mine, Oriana was making an entrance and I’ll get out of her way…;)

Lines of care, loss, and sorrow wrinkled a once lovely face.

The full realization of my selfishness hit me like a blow to my chest. How I must have worried everyone, sneaking off. Here I was, gazing into the eyes of the enemy like a lovesick fool. 

I looked away, painfully ashamed of myself. 

“No one can master perfection.” Oriana responded to my shame, as if I’d admitted it out loud. 

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