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…
inspirationcauldron 