Jeff Baker: Over the River and Through the Woods

I should have posted this on Thanksgiving really, but we’re still spending every spare minute at the new house – cleaning, unpacking and renovating (there’s more to do than we thought) – and we don’t yet have broadband there so I’m not getting as much desk-time as usual. Better late than never, though, and this is a lovely little tale from Jeff where a couple look back fondly on that dreaded ‘first time meeting the parents’. I’m reliably informed that this is loosely based on Jeff’s own experiences, and the picture is of the house where it took place!

***

            “I’m gonna hyperventilate!” I grumbled clutching the steering wheel.

            “No, you’re not,” Matt said, patting my leg there in the front seat of the old pick up. “You’ll be fine.”

            “Yeah, I’ll be fine when this Thanksgiving dinner is over with, Matt” I said. “I’m just glad it’s just Mom and Dad and you. Oh, geez!”

            “You okay?” Matt asked, getting concerned.

            “Yeah,” I said smiling. “Just nothing ever prepared me for introducing my folks to my boyfriend. Hell, they freaked when I bought my first car!”

            “Yeah, parents can be like that,” Matt said.

            “I’ve only been out to them since this Summer,” I said.

            “You had to come out, you had a guy moving out to Kansas from California to shack up with you,” Matt said.

            “You make it sound so dirty!” I laughed.

            “None of that at dinner,” Matt said, squeezing my leg perilously close to what I called “my functioning area.”

            “And none of that either,” I said. “Just Over-The-River-And-Through-The-Woods stuff. And speaking of which…”

             I turned onto the bridge over the gully and into the suburban neighborhood I’d grown up in.

            “Social note,” Matt said in a fakey announcer’s voice. “Mr. and Mrs. Woody Bulwar announce their son Jake is officially shacking-up with Matthew P. Garcia, formerly of Oakland, California. Introductions and announcements were made at the family’s annual Thanksgiving dinner where they…”

            “Oh, stop!” I said with a laugh.

            We both laughed, but I could tell my boyfriend was nervous too.

            Mom and Dad were waiting for us on the front porch of the split-level suburban house I’d grown up in. That first meeting went well, although I almost held my breath. Mom hugged Matt who was six-foot-one, she was five eight. My Dad shook Matt’s hand. Matt called him “Sir.” They insisted he call them “Woody” and “Linda.”

            “It doesn’t feel cool enough to be Thanksgiving,” my Mom was saying as Dad opened the door for us.

            “Baseball weather,” Matt said with a grin.

            I watched Matt taking in the room as Mom hung up his jacket.  A combination living room, dining room with a long table that could seat six at one end and a living room set up at the far end in front of the big, full-length window looking out on the backyard. A couch along the wall to one side of the window by a glass and screen back door and several upholstered chairs angled to face the window. There were binoculars perched on the low windowsill and  the bird book next to a lamp on the little table between a chair and the window. I wondered what Matt’s growing up had been like. He and his Mom and sister had lived in an apartment after his Dad bailed on them.

            My Dad had Matt sit down on one of the chairs by the big window and I was worried that he would start grilling Matt. Instead, they started talking about family get-togethers. Dad reminisced about the Thanksgivings when he’d been a kid, driving with his folks to his Grandparent’s farm outside of Kansas City. I didn’t sit down. I busied myself by pretending to examine the knicknacks in my Mom’s cabinet by the far wall, my hands jammed in my pockets.

            I wasn’t sure how they’d gotten on the subject of birthdays or parents. Then Mom called me into the kitchen, ostensibly to help her with something but more likely to keep me from pacing out in the living room.

            “Yeah, Jake was born a week after his Grandmother’s birthday so they always celebrated at the same time,” Dad was saying.

            I was in the kitchen, helping Mom pour the gravy when I heard Matt and Dad laughing.  I sighed with relief and I relaxed and I spilled some of the gravy on the floor. Everything’s gonna be all right now, I told myself, mopping up the gravy spill with a rag.

            We sat down to eat, Matt insisting on helping carry stuff out to the table, I told them there wasn’t going to be as much gravy as we thought and Mom laughed.

            I found out later that Matt had told him he’d never really known his father and that he and his Mom had the same birthday. And he’d told my Dad that he was a real father, the kind Matt wished he’d had growing up.

            We stayed another hour, which surprised me; our plan had been to show up, introduce Matt, make small talk, eat and get out of there. But we really didn’t want to leave. It really felt like Matt had been part of the family for years. He and I helped with the dishes and then sat down on the couch, feeling stuffed and talked and laughed with my folks until it started getting dark.

            Right before we got up to leave, Mom insisted on taking a picture of me and Matt, with the  camera she kept by the window to take pictures of the birds in the backyard. I managed not to groan, like I usually did when Mom pulled out the camera and aimed it at me.

            This time Mom aimed her camera at “us” and I liked being an “us.”

            And that first dinner was how things stayed. We’d usually go out to Mom and Dads, three miles away, for Sunday dinner and we’d always be reminded of that first Thanksgiving dinner, what, thirty years ago, now? That’s why we still love that picture Mom took. Our big smiles are partly smiles of relief that it all went well and that it’s over, and partly the same smiles we had every time we got together. We keep this picture because this was when it was all starting for Matt and me.

Addison Albright: Crazy Cat

Here at Glass Mansions we’re in the process of moving house, so things are a little chaotic and the zine has sadly been taking a back seat. I’m dashing in from packing boxes to add a new little tale from Addison, another of the flash fiction stories she writes to various word-or-theme prompts. This one had to include the words tea, fireworks, hay, and horripilation, and I tip my hat to anyone who can get that last one in a story without it sounding ridiculous! Which Addison has managed beautifully here…

***

Walter froze with his mug of tea halfway to his mouth, and held his breath as another burst of fireworks boomed from their neighbor’s yard, then winced when Arlo dug sharp claws into his thighs. Their neighbors had been setting them off every time the US team won an Olympic medal, so apparently another athlete had earned one.

Conrad jerked and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “borborygmus”—one of the medical terms he’d been studying for an upcoming test—but didn’t wake up. Walter blew out a relieved sigh, because the poor guy needed some sleep. Sadly, he was practically buried in books and couldn’t possibly be comfortable the way he was sprawled across the couch.

But, Walter didn’t want to risk waking his husband by moving him. Although—he glanced at the time on his phone—it was past ten o’clock, so maybe he should try to get Conrad to move to their bed instead. Except once he woke up, he’d probably resist that sound advice and go back to studying.

Walter sighed and sipped the tea. When he reached to put the mug back on the side table, Arlo evidently got tired of being jostled and jumped down. With his lap free of cat, Walter stood and stretched.

Conrad snorted a couple times and settled into a snoring pattern, so Walter liberated the pencil from his hand before he hurt himself with it, and couldn’t resist landing a light kiss to Conrad’s brow after successfully removing his glasses.

He walked to the window. It was a clear night, and the first quarter moon was still visible in the western sky. The night was peaceful despite the occasional jarring burst of fireworks from the neighbors.

He wasn’t sure what triggered the sensation—maybe some slight sound that registered only with his subconscious—but the hair on the back of his neck rose, and he turned in time to see Arlo crouched in attack position, his fur bristled, and his tail swishing tightly behind him. That wouldn’t have been a problem if Conrad hadn’t been the cat’s unsuspecting target. Or rather the loose thread at the hem of Conrad’s shirt shifting idly in the breeze of the ceiling fan.

“No Arlo,” Walter whispered. The cat’s hind legs trembled as he reared. Walter was too far away for any kind of physical intervention. “Don’t you do it,” he hissed. “No no!”

Arlo leapt and landed with a piercing meow, sharp claws extended, right on the doomed man’s lap. Conrad jumped about a foot in the air and shouted “horripilation,” of all crazy—but oddly appropriate—things. Another one of those words from that list he’d been studying.

Not the reaction the slow-witted cat had expected, judging by the way he tore out of the room, bouncing off a wall in the hallway before the noises of his hasty exit came to a sudden halt in their bedroom.

“Sorry,” Walter said. “You okay?”

“I’ll live.” Conrad put a hand on his heart and flopped against the back of the couch. “Christ, that cat is crazy.”

“You picked him out.”

Conrad huffed, but the corners of his mouth twitched up. “Don’t remind me.”

He reached for one of the books surrounding him and raked a hand through his thick dirty-blond hair. “How long was I out?”

“Not long enough.” Walter knelt beside him and patted his knee. “You’ve got all weekend to study. How about we hit the hay, and you can get a fresh start tomorrow after a good night’s sleep?”

Conrad placed a warm hand over Walter’s and grinned. “Or we could ‘roll in the hay’ instead of ‘hitting’ it.” He turned on his puppy dog eyes. “After that jolt I really need some help to fall back asleep.”

Walter laughed and helped Conrad stand. “Nut. Come on.”

Jeff Baker: Remembering the Corner Bar

This is another fascinating slice of American TV history in general, and gay representation in particular, from Jeff. I never cease to be amazed at how many US TV shows I’ve never heard of (probably because only a tiny handful have ever made it across the pond to the UK) and how many of them had a tenuous connection to the gay community. So, for another forgotten gem, read on! (There’s no photo for this one – as Jeff himself explains in his article, there are very few pictures from the series left in existence…)

***

            There actually isn’t a lot to remember about “The Corner Bar,” a short-lived ABC network sitcom which played in the summer during 1972 and 1973. It may be remembered today for it’s one tenuous Gay connection; The show was the first American comedy to feature an openly Gay character as a regular; Peter Panama, played by busy character actor Vincent Schiavelli. And there is much more footage of Schiavelli in his other roles (such as the Subway Ghost in the movie “Ghost”) than in this vanished sitcom. It has never been rerun and the only video clips available are of the opening credits of the series’ two seasons.

            And therein hangs a tale.

            “The Corner Bar” premiered in June 1972, right around the time Watergate was beginning. The Nixon-era scandal would attract more attention than the show which was a “summer replacement series,” a program given a tryout over the summer season in hopes of scoring a regular place on the network schedule.

            The show was set at “Grant’s Toomb” (yes, that’s how they spelled it!) a local New York City bar run by Harry Grant (hence the name) played by Gabriel Dell. According to comments on the Internet Movie Data Base (IMDB) the show was very well-written and had a little of the feel of the ancient “Duffy’s Tavern” radio show with a bit of the social conscience of then-popular shows like “Maude” and “All In The Family” with diverse characters including the aforementioned Peter Panama.

            Peter Panama does not seem to have had any episodes built around him, but he was there for nine episodes. “Representing,” before the word was used. There are no clips of him only pictures so I can only guess at the nature of his character.  A 2002 USA Today article on Gay TV characters (linked to the Wikipedia entry on the series) mentions Panama as “a flamboyant set designer.” but from the nature of the show Peter Panama could probably hold his own with the others in the show and his lines were probably well written and well delivered by Schiavelli.

            “The Corner Bar” played out its handful of first-season episodes in 1972 and was brought back in the Summer of 1973, but with a different cast. Schiavelli and Dell were gone and in their place were new owners Mae and Frank, played by Anne Meara and Eugene Roche.

            There was a new set of regulars in that second season, including future “Barney Miller” star Ron Carey as an actor named Donald Hooten. No word on whether the character was gay but the clip of him adjusting his ascot in the opening credits seems to hint at the possibility. But curious viewers will probably never know.

            One last item of interest; According to IMDB, the series was inspired by a bar across the street from the ABC Studios and its owner was the inspiration for Gabriel Dell’s character. And the exteriors of Grant’s Toomb were shots of the actual bar.

            Last call!

            Next time in this series; one of the gayest moments at a much more successful television watering hole, one where everybody knows your name…

Skip James Hanford: At Auction

This mildly kinky little spec fic story from Skip, otherwise known as Jeff Baker, is unusual and surprisingly creepy. It may not feature ghosts, witches or pumpkins, but it still works really well in the run-up to Halloween! Hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

***

Pic credit: Jeff Baker

            Junior year at College there was a Charity Auction held at the Gay bar on the other side of town. And I was up for bid! It was essentially one of those “Bachelor Auctions” you see on TV except they called it a “Slave Auction,” and a couple of the guys were in leather harnesses. That was the kind of bar Daddy Velvet’s was. It was all for a charity for LGBT youth but I had another reason to be there.

            I’d kind of been dating Chris Rand for two months. We’d been friends since we were Sophomores. He was cute; 5’ 11”, Asian-American with nice muscles (he worked out) and a bit of a tan and a nice smile. When he saw me wearing my Pride shirt he’d asked me out for coffee. That had been a year ago, and what with work and school we’d never really done anything but kissed. Especially since the school may have been LGBT friendly but the dorms were kind of prudish when it came to anybody making out. But Chris and a buddy of his rented an apartment and the buddy was away for that week so Chris and I hit on a plan; I’d do the auction, Chris would bid on me and take me back to his place for some fun. With Chris in charge.

            The basement was dimly-lit except for spotlights on the raised stage where the bar had bands and where the auction was taking place. I wasn’t in leather, I was in a tight pair of bikini underwear and a pink tank top. My build was more soccer player guy. Lean with blonde hair, kinda good-looking White Boy. Wolf whistles when I walked on stage. Through the cigarette smoke I could see Chris who grinned and pumped his fist in the air and hollered “All right, Ty!” Chris had my wallet and keys or I would have had a second bulge.

            “All right,” said the Emcee. “Next up we got Tyler! He’s a Junior at Millington College, who is looking for a good time. Who wants to start the…”

            And that’s when my eyesight went blank for a moment and I felt woozy, like I was in a fast-falling elevator. In another instant it stopped and I could see but I thought I’d probably fainted.

            It was the same dimly-lit room, same stage but the crowd was different. The smoke smelled different and the audience were wearing multicolored robes, except for a few naked, muscular young men I saw in the crowd. I saw Chris; his face was shocked, he glanced down at himself, seemingly surprised to find himself in one of the robes. I looked over to the side of the stage; tall man in a dark, skintight outfit to my right holding a long, thin pointer. I glanced to my left. This bar had the same mirror on that side of the dance floor. My jaw dropped. I had the same face and hair but I was a lot more muscular. I glanced down at myself; washboard abs, a scar on my left arm, words I couldn’t read tattooed on my right.

            And I was stark naked except for a metal band tightly encircling my package at its base, with a small blue light flashing to one side.

            “What the Hell’s goin’ on,” I started to say starting to walk off the platform. There was a blinding flash of pain from my crotch and I doubled over. The man in black touched my chest with the pointer and there was another sting of pain and I straightened up.

            “Stand still, stay quiet and hands to your sides, slave,” he said. I realized this was no joke. He went on, pointing at Chris.

            “You put in a bid on this slave.”

            “Uh, yeah,” Chris said.

            “Does your bid still stand?” The man asked. “This is his second go-round. If nobody buys him this time, he goes to a work farm,”

            “My, my bid stands,” Chris said.

            “Anyone else?” the man asked looking at the crowd. “You’re payin’ a lot of money!”

            “He’s worth it,” Chris said.

            Oh, God, thank you, Chris, I thought.

            “Going once, going twice…”

            My vision fuzzed-out again and I felt the same grogginess. Things were back to normal. I glanced at myself in the mirror; I was me again.

            “Okay, how much am I bid?” the Emcee said.

            I glanced at Chris. He looked shocked. He was glancing at himself to see that his clothes were back to normal. I realized that it had really happened and Chris remembered it too. Nobody else had been in that elsewhere, just us.

            “Uh, fifty bucks!” Chris said raising his hand.

            There were a couple of more bids and Chris wound up paying one hundred and ten dollars for me. I just wanted to get off that stage.

            In the crowd Chris and I hugged. He asked if I’d seen the nude me with the thing around my, well, thing. I nodded. He paid the Emcee and we got out of there fast.

            That night we just held each other in bed and kissed. Chris asked me if I knew a lot about parallel worlds.

            “Only from TV,” I said, kissing him again.

            “I guess tonight, one of those worlds crossed over with us at Daddy Velvet’s.” he said.

            “Yeah,” I said. “What do you think happened to, you know, the other Chris and Tyler?”

            “I dunno.” he said. “I hope they get out of that place somehow.”

            But to be safe, we never set foot in Daddy Velvet’s again.

Summer Flash Fiction Challenge #8: K L Noone

Okay, I admit it – summer is long over here in the northern hemisphere and I should have posted this story days (or even weeks) ago. Blush. What can I say? Real Life insists on getting in the way. But the story’s a doozy so hopefully you’ll agree it was worth the wait. This is the last of the challenge pieces (until next time we do something similar) and it takes the spiral staircase photo for inspiration. Over to you, K L…

***

Staircases and Stories

Somewhere in the 1920s, in a Southern California hotel…

The staircase curled and curved, vertiginous, spiraling. Each loop held arched doorways to hallways, spinning mysteriously away into the hotel’s depths. The sinuous line of the rail—only one, and too low for comfort, Perry decided—formed a dizzying spiral. It tugged at his eyes.

The depths also tugged at his hat. He straightened, standing on the artistic architectural rooftop walk.

Unsafe, definitely. They’d need some extra security, more agents, before the Senator rolled into town for that vote-stumping visit. Between the roaring parties and the flapper girls in sparkling dresses and the winding layout of this decadent outskirts-of-Hollywood hotel, Perry was starting to think they might want to rethink the whole choice of venue.

In his professional opinion. As a U.S. Marshal.

Even if this particular job, far from chasing down bootleggers and fugitives, might be easy work. Checking security, advance evaluations of the location. A pity assignment, a plush one, while his leg healed from San Diego’s shootout and those vicious bullets. It mostly had healed, by now.

He eyed ominous narwhal depths again. Nope, still a problem. Lots of hideouts, in those twists and turns.

Movement caught his eye. A young man, slim and elegant and disheveled in the way of bright young people, had emerged from one of the doors along the upper walkway, the most expensive rooms. Hatless, his hair shone gold as a baby sun, in defiance of cloudy weather; Perry noticed the color, noticed the slim strong lines of the young man’s forearms under rolled-up shirtsleeves, and then got annoyed with himself for noticing.

The baby sunshine wandered over to the staircase, leaned both arms on the top railing, gazed down. Murmured, “Well, I could certainly murder someone on those stairs…”

Perry swung that direction. “You could what?”

The sunshine jumped, blinked in confusion, laughed. His eyes were blue, the most blue Perry’d ever seen anywhere, lakes or skies or oceans. The grey of his vest, the white of his shirt, only made the hue brighter: a simple expensive setting for twin sapphires. “Oh, I just meant this would be marvelous for that—it would look like a fall, those steps are so treacherous—and perfect for a getaway, nobody’d ever be able to follow—”

Perry took a step closer. Let his long coat swing open. Watched the young man notice the gun. “Got any plans I should know about?”

“Ah.” Those gemstone eyes evaluated the revolver, came back up to Perry’s face. “I suspect we’ve managed to start off on some sort of wrong foot, haven’t we.”

“Don’t think we’ve started anything as of yet. Why’re you planning to murder someone?”

“Why do you have a gun? Are you planning to murder someone? Right here? Now?”

“Not unless you annoy me enough.” For some reason this made the young man grin at him. Impudent. Irritating. Perry scowled. He’d been told he had a good scowl. Darkly intimidating. Lantern-jawed. Effective. “Deputy U.S. Marshal Peregrin Gardner.”

“Oh, well, then I positively shouldn’t’ve been talking about murder.” The bit of sunshine smiled more. Perry did not want to find him gorgeous, and did, and reminded himself that criminals could be extremely charming. Attractive. Blue-eyed and winsome, even.

Criminals might also stay in one of the Bell Court’s most luxurious top-floor suites and dress in silk shirts and stroll out the door onto the rooftop walk as if they owned the place. It was possible.

The young man put out a hand. “Patrick Ellery. Though you might know the name P.R. Ellery, possibly.”

Perry stared at him. “P.R. Ellery.”

“Yes?”

“The crime novelist P.R. Ellery.”

“If you might’ve been wondering why I was plotting a murder on the stairs.”

“You’re too young to be P.R. Ellery.” Who’d authored multiple novels, had at least one of those newfangled moving pictures just come out based on the aforementioned novels, and wrote breathless bestselling words about thieves and conspiracies and secret societies and underworld gangsters.

They weren’t terrible. Perry had read one. Out of curiosity. Okay, two. Maybe three. He had some thoughts about the depiction of double agents in The Nine Curses of Night. Unrealistic, for one. He’d had to find a copy of the sequel just to be annoyed at it.

“Thank you very much, Marshal, I’m twenty-seven years old as of yesterday, and I wrote The Secret Serpent when I was nineteen, so it’s been a busy eight years.” Those big blue eyes were positively laughing. His voice was warm, too. California native, Perry guessed, born amid sun and sand and Tinseltown dreams. “How old are you?”

“Older than that. Being a writer doesn’t make you not a suspect.”

“If I was planning a crime, would I tell you about it in advance? Also, are you looking for a suspect? Can I help?”

Perry grumbled, “No,” and folded his arms. Shifted weight. Leg twinging. Aches in his hip, his thigh, above his knee. Three impacts, that’d been. He wasn’t in his twenties anymore, either. Not by at least four years. “And you might tell me. To divert suspicion.”

“No you’re not looking for anyone, or no I can’t help?”

“Both. Go back inside and write something, then.”

“Why, are you planning to watch? To prove that I’m a writer? Also, you can call me Patrick if you want.” Patrick paused. Looked Perry up and down once more. Lingering. The sort of look that held an invitation, if a man wanted to read it so. A suggestion, an appreciation. Not subtle, either. “I don’t mind if you do want to watch.”

Perry’s skin felt hot. Shivers. Awareness. He did not tend to be obvious about his own wants—he could find ways, places, an old friend or two he knew could keep a secret—and he did not, as a rule, have gorgeous young men looking at him, alone on a wind-whipped rooftop near a perilous view, and smiling like that.

So blatant. So unashamed. Hell.

He managed, “Thought novelists didn’t like people looking over their shoulders.”

“Oh, I can write anywhere. I always did, growing up.” Patrick had ended up closer to him. Leaning back, elbows propped against the railing. Casual, luscious, consequently dangerous. “My father owned a hotel—a nice one, too, a lot like this—and I grew up around the guests, the staff, everybody who came and went. I’d sit around and watch people and make up stories.”

“Don’t lean back like that. Why’re you here? Thinking about murder on a staircase? With the Senator’s visit tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to fall. I’m here because yesterday was my birthday, I wanted to get away and write for a while, and I like fancy hotels.” Patrick did a little head-tip at him. Golden hair tumbled. “There’s a Senator visiting? And, does your leg hurt? Honestly, seriously, not me trying to seduce you, would you like to come in and sit down? I’ve got coffee, tea, some decent whiskey that I shouldn’t admit to having…”

“I don’t care if you’ve got private liquor. Personal possession’s not illegal, anyway.” Perry put a hand on the railing. Next to Patrick’s hip. In case of a sudden loss of balance. Which could happen.

Not because he cared. Not because he wanted to. Not because, despite himself, he liked freedom and blue eyes and a challenge.

“Yes, which is why this particular hotel has somehow managed to have everyone pretend that Mr Bell just throws a large private party every night for all his friends.” Patrick scooted a hand over, balanced more precariously on the railing. His little finger brushed Perry’s, over wrought iron. The spiral of the stair fell away behind him. “So you’re doing reconnaissance, Marshal.”

“Something like that.”

“And I’m a suspect?”

Perry could feel every breath of air in his own lungs, every brush of wind at the nape of his neck. Every ripple of heat, where their fingers touched. As Patrick looked up at him. “Starting to think someone needs to keep an eye on you. Trying to lean over and fall down staircases, a secret whiskey stash, a famous author up here by yourself on a rooftop…”

“Don’t forget inviting dangerous men with guns back to my room.”

“Just the one gun, and you’re a menace to society.”

“So I’ve been told. It’s a very nice room, Marshal.”

“Is it?”

“Maybe afterward,” Patrick said cheerfully, “I can help you with reconnaissance, I’ve got lots of ideas about these stairs and those doorways and places where a gunman could hide,” and he was ridiculous and beautiful and clever and fearless, and he smiled when Perry closed a hand around his wrist and squeezed. Tightly. “Ah, you do want my help.”

“Maybe I do.” He ran his hand along Patrick’s arm, exploring, capturing. They remained alone up here, at the top of the spiral: the place where the world swirled and moved, up and down, from the rooftop to the ground and back. “You did say it was your birthday, didn’t you?”

“Yesterday. Are you offering to be my present?”

“You were here alone?”

Patrick’s eyebrows went up, golden demon-swoops. “I’m not really a suspect, am I?”

“No.” He was doing this wrong. It’d been too long. He did not know how to flirt, how to smile at, a sparkling young man. “I was just wondering why. When you’re…you.”

“Ah. Famous crime writer and all.” Patrick’s smile went more wry; a line or a pleat appeared in the sky of his gaze. “No, no lavish parties, none of that. I’d been trying to work on the next book, I told you. A getaway. Inspiration. In comfort, because I’m a shameless hedonist, but it’s just me and the words.”

And no family, Perry thought. No mention of that hotel-owning father, or anyone who might want to share a celebration. He said, “Well, if you and the words want company…” and let himself look, let himself indulge. Making it, yes, obvious.

Because he wanted this. Because he did want this, here and now, whatever it was.

Maybe, he thought when Patrick smiled, maybe he could have this. Maybe they both could, this day, this afternoon. A possibility. Something new.

Patrick moved, suddenly; Perry grabbed for him, and realized that Patrick hadn’t been falling, only turning more his way; but the end result was that no one tumbled down the staircase and Patrick ended up in his arms, both of them startled and willing, eyes meeting.

The wind tugged his coat around both their legs.

Patrick said, laughter in his voice, “So you’ve heroically rescued me from falling to my doom, Marshal Gardner…”

“Peregrin.” He took a deep breath. “Perry.”

“I like this story,” Patrick said. “My room’s right over there. And I’m definitely feeling inspired.” He even winked.

Perry, to his own surprise, laughed. And thought about ups and downs, stairs and secret doorways, perilous unknowns; thought about danger and temptation, and chance meetings, and the hopeful blue of Patrick’s eyes, and the way a single step could change the world.

“Go on, then,” he said. He had a hand on Patrick’s arm, learning how that felt, the bright slim shape of him. “Show me what you want. In our story.”

Summer Flash Challenge #7: Kaje Harper

My fun photo of the sand sculpture contest seems to have proved popular with shapeshifter writers. Uh, that’s writers who write about shapeshifters, not writers who shapeshift themselves. At least, I assume so. Better ask Kaje, who penned this fun twist-in-the-actual-tail little story for our summer challenge! I loved the model trains. And the places:

***

Lurking

I was basking in the late evening sun when I heard them approaching. A tingle of warning prickled down my tail. Magic.

I kept my eyes closed. There were plenty of magical folk in the world and some of them might well enjoy a walk through the sand-sculpture garden. Maybe the humans forgot to close the gate properly tonight. No reason to be worried yet.

The footsteps paused near me. A deep voice whispered, “Here. The magic-detecting talisman glowed brilliant red as I passed this spot.”

“Could it be?” A woman’s voice. “An actual dragon, after so long searching?”

“Cleverly camouflaged,” the man said. “Hiding in plain sight. How else could a firedrake get a few days to laze in the sun without ordinaries becoming alarmed, or one of us hunting him for his hoard? I wonder how many years he’s done this? The sand-statue competition’s been around for ages. And we’re the first to notice.” There was glee in his tone. I’d have smiled, if I wasn’t holding frozen so as not to shift my sand.

“Do you think he’s asleep? How do we—” Her voice dropped low, but my hearing is acute. “— capture him?”

“I have a stasis spell. Cost me a ton but it should hold him. Then we can brush the sand off him, and get the dolly from the truck. Roll him right out of here. Easy peasy. No one’s guarding sand sculptures. That chain on the gate that we cut was the only security.”

“How does the stasis spell work?”

“I have to toss or drop the token onto the dragon’s body.”

“Will it be effective through the sand camouflage?”

“The mage I bought it from said yes, as long as it lands within an inch of his scales. I just have to place it safely where it won’t fall off.”

“Are you sure?” The woman sounded nervous. “What if he wakes up? You know— dragon, fire. Is it worth the risk?”

“Are you kidding me? A dragon’s hoard is worth millions. Maybe billions.”

I smirked to myself, because not every dragon hoards jewels or gold. Some hoard books, rocks, petrified wood, children’s toys. I imagined them going to all the trouble of locating, binding, trapping, and ransoming, only to end up with a giant collection of model trains. Not that I’ll let it go that far.

Their steps approached. They probably thought they were being silent, but I could pick up the shifting of grains of sand under their feet. Closer, my pretties. Closer. I probably shouldn’t have been enjoying this, but I’d spent a boring day covered in sand to win a bet from my boyfriend and this was the most entertainment I’d had.

The heavier of the two sets of footsteps approached. Clothing rustled. A tiny exhale of effort, a shift of the air. Then the man said loudly, “Yes! Landed it right where I wanted it. Come on. Let’s brush off the sand and get a look at his scales. I heard some dragons have solid gold scales too.”

“Are you sure he’s frozen?”

“He’s not moving, is he? Watch.” Three steps, a rasping sound, and a patter of falling grains.

Then the woman said tentatively, “How deep is that sand layer?”

“I don’t know…” The man sounded uncertain.

Showtime. With a loud hiss, I reared my head back, scattering the green-painted sand off my neck and whipping my head around to clear my eyelids. Opening my jaw wide, I showed them the gleaming rows of my white teeth. I wished I could roar and whirl gold eyes at them, the way a dragon would, but my gaping maw and dead-black eyes were probably threat enough. I snapped wildly at the two humans— a big, dumpy-looking man and a thin middle-aged woman. A lash of my broad tail whacked some of the spine and half a wing off the sand-built dragon sculpture. Oops.

The humans shrieked and scrambled backward. One more lunge, the sand cracking off my back, and they broke and ran, the woman not waiting for the more lumbering man behind her. I chased them to the gate for the fun of it, although I was careful not to whack any of the other sculptures. Some of them were very cool.

The humans sprinted to a big waiting truck and peeled away from the curb. I stopped at the gate to laugh after them. Which probably looked like more threat. It takes an expert, like my boyfriend, to tell angry from amused when I’m in scales.

Speaking of whom…

I ambled back to my spot in the sculpture garden. The little patch I’d shared with the dragon shape looked much the worse for wear, green sand, white, and natural jumbled in heaps. Oh well, with the chain on the gate cut, the caretakers would chalk it up to vandalism.

I shifted back to human, dug in the sand for the baggie containing my board shorts and phone, and dialed. “Hey, Rick,” I said when he answered. “You win.”

“Seriously?” His voice warmed the part of me that’d taken a human as a mate. “It’s an hour to sunset. You couldn’t manage one more hour?” His tone shifted from teasing to more serious. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing important,” I told him. I tried one-handed to fix the sand-wing on the dragon but it crumbled further. Nope, that thing’s toast. “It just seems silly to waste an evening I could spend with you. The stupid sun doesn’t set until nine-thirty. Come get me?”

“Sure. Ten minutes?”

“Then we can shower together and I can get all this sand out of my places.“

“I’ll help you wash your places,” Rick promised.

My naked dick perked up at that thought. I didn’t mind sand much, even in human form. Mud, sand and water were, after all, my elements. But a long shower with Rick was the best. “See you soon.”

After I hung up, I thought about putting on the shorts. But this was a secluded location behind the privacy fence that hid the sculptures from view outside the grounds. No one was watching, and… Shifting back to scales, I hissed and lunged and beat that sandy dragon sculpture into a heap of rubble. Then, rearing up, I planted both front feet on it, leaving deep clawed footprints in its remains.

A new sculpture. Ordinary reptile beats mythical reptile.

I wondered what the curators would make of that scene in the morning, and snickered, although the sound came out a low rumble.

Shifting back to skin, I brushed off what sand I could, pulled on my shorts, and tucked the phone in one pocket. Feet bare in the sunwarmed sand, I turned for the gate. But a token flashed at me from the jumbled dragon bits. The mage’s stasis spell. Using the baggie, since plastic contains most spells, I scooped up the gold coin, wrapped it securely, and pocketed it next to my phone. Bonus.

Out of a mischievous impulse, I turned and jumped onto the pile of dragon-sand, planting both my bare footprints deep beside my clawed ones.

No one would interpret that correctly. My kind wasn’t on any of the traditional lists.

With my acute hearing, I picked up the approaching sound of Rick’s old beater. I sauntered toward the gate, trying to turn my grin into something suitably innocent. Not that I’d fool Rick.

But damn, it’s fun to be an alligator-shifter.

Summer Flash Challenge #6: K L Noone

Using the sand sculpture picture as a prompt, Kristin has come up with the following, utterly sweet tale involving dragons and medieval castles and sand between the toes and ice cream and… well, you’ll just have to read it to find out!

K L herself says, “‘Summertime’ is a little bonus story (contemporary, m/m) for Wes and Finn from my seasonal short stories series – they’re engaged now, and Finn likes people and the beach and the entire world, and Wes tries not to worry too much…”

***

Summertime

Wesley Kim had not, historically, been a beach person. Unfortunately, his fiancé was.

He watched Finn, across sun and sand. Gold and blue, sea and sky, Finn’s summer-kissed hair and tropical eyes. Fitting in, right at home. Finn Ransom had always been a Southern California surfer-boy, growing up with sand under his toes and salt on his skin, both in real life and on everyone’s sitcom television screens. Even more than that, he’d always been simply nice: the sort of boy next door who’d smile and assist an elderly neighbor with her groceries, and if he got into trouble it would only be the result of impetuously doing a favor for a friend in need, or keeping someone’s secret if they asked, or caring too much about a local community cause.

That’d been a plotline of more than one episode. Wes admittedly hadn’t seen them all. Sometimes he wondered whether he should, given that he was marrying former teen idol Finn Ransom; but then he thought that might be weird, and anyway he had seen pretty much all of Finn’s more recent work, those cautious come-back roles, supporting actor parts in some impressively prestigious films.

Wes had even been on a red carpet or two. Not something he’d’ve ever guessed would be part of his quiet medieval-history professor’s life.

Like so much, since meeting Finn, he thought; and watched his fiancé some more. The sun beat down on his head, his shoulders. The Venice Beach summer tasted like oceans and sunblock and sea-salt, when he breathed.

They’d ended up wandering into a sand-sculpture competition, of all things. Wes could see a dragon, an alligator, a few less defined shapes, taking form. Finn, who loved every random piece of the world, had immediately bounded that direction and plunged into chatting with sculptors, asking questions, gesturing with animated hands, befriending artists and judges and probably the sand-alligator too. A few people had recognized Finn Ransom and asked for pictures, which had started a tiny ripple effect of curiosity, so the few was slowly becoming more.

Finn looked back Wes’s way. Waved happily, feet buried in warm sand, arms very tan against the turquoise of his tank top. Like Wes, he was wearing jeans, because they’d been expecting to stay on the boardwalk, the pier, flatter walking areas that were easier on his left knee and those hidden silver-scar reconstructions. That resolution had lasted until the first shiny distraction. Wes fully expected to have to brush sand out of clothing, and their car, and wherever else it snuck into.

He also expected to have to help, later. A massage, a heated wrap, painkillers, support. Sand was notoriously uneven. Finn hadn’t brought the cane.

And Finn was now making beckoning motions at him. Wes, not currently in a sand-competition circle and not good at talking to people outside of lecture halls, tried to wave back with a no please come back over here on stable ground and I’ll buy you ice cream message.

Finn pointed at the dragon sculpture. And then gave him enormous tragic kitten eyes, exaggerated, irresistible.

Wes sighed. Tried to roll up his jeans enough to avoid sand, a futile effort. Picked up his shoes and Finn’s abandoned flip-flops, and picked his way around the competition space, not disturbing anyone, eyeing a supposedly medieval castle that looked more like a Disney fantasy than any proper twelfth-century construction. “Do you need more sunblock?”

“I was pointing at the dragon.” Finn considered this. “Do dragons need sunblock? Oil, maybe. For scales. Anyway, Wes, this’s Luis, he’s organizing this whole sand sculpture event, and that’s Bethany, she’s one of the judges, and they’ve been doing this for like six years, and that’s awesome, and also we had an idea, oh, sorry, Luis and Bethany, meet my fiancé Wes, he’s perfect and I adore him and he knows about medieval dragons and decorative jewelry.”

“Hi,” Wes said to the organizers. They beamed at him.

“So we did have an idea—oh, hi, yes, I can totally sign that, are you sure you want me to, if it’s your sketchbook? If you’re sure—” This fan was bashfully holding out a book, with a half-done drawing of the sculpture competition; Finn asked their name and complimented the detail of the art, genuinely impressed by skill. The fan gazed at him with starry eyes. Wes understood completely.

“Anyway,” Finn said, keeping more weight on his right leg than his left, Wes’s hand now automatically at his back, “so we all thought it would be fun if you and I sort of joined in as guest judges? Not making the decision, I mean, I’m so not a sculpture expert and they’ve got actual judges who’ve done this before, but Luis said it would be good for the attention, and I thought, well, you know things about historical castles and also adornment and textile culture?”

Wes glanced at Luis, who smiled sunnily. Finn did the hopeful-kitten expression even more hopefully, and shifted weight a fraction, readjusting.

Personally, Wes suspected the initial suggestion had been more to do with actor Finn Ransom and that resultant attention, versus the presence of an unexciting medieval historian. That second part would’ve been his fiancé, wanting everyone involved. He said, “I don’t know…”

“They’re really almost done,” Finn said, “it won’t take that long—oh, look at the alligator, look at the detail on those teeth—” The sculptor of the alligator inflated with pride. “And it’ll be fun!”

“We were going to find the bookshop,” Wes tried. “And I’ll buy you fancy artisan ice cream.”

“We can still do that, only after?”

Bethany volunteered, “If you agree to help out, we can send someone to get you ice cream!”

“Finn,” Wes said, and let the hand touching Finn’s back touch a little harder, a question, a worry.

Finn looked at him: softer, understanding, eyes bluer than the horizon. “I just think it’ll be neat. But we can go find books if you want.” He meant it, too.

Wes put the arm around him, this time. Kissed him lightly. Eyed the dragon, the alligator, the sand castle, the less defined shapes. “The tail on the dragon’s too short for good weight distribution. The scales look interesting. Intricate.”

Finn’s eyes lit up.

“And that crenellation work on the castle is crooked. Terrible for practical defense. I like the color they’ve got on that alligator, though; it stands out.”

“I love you,” Finn said.

“You’re going to sit down,” Wes said, “in between looking at sculptures. And someone’s finding you ice cream. They did offer.”

“We absolutely did,” Luis put in, with the eagerness of a youthful organizer sensing publicity and social media opportunities. “Would you like chocolate, or mint, or lemon-honey, or lavender? And we’ve definitely got beach chairs! And do you mind if our event photographer takes pictures? Only a few, I promise, but it’ll be so exciting for our competition!”

“Go ahead,” Wes said. Finn was smiling at him, and the afternoon was light and bright and sparkling as the rhythm of the sea. “Send us copies, maybe? And I kind of want a closer look at that dragon.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Finn said, “so do I,” and kissed him, while sand got between Wes’s toes, and waves shimmered in the background, and sculptures and sculptors made art around them.

Summer Flash Challenge #5: Fiona Glass

And here’s my own answer to the flash fiction challenge, using the sand sculpture picture I took a few years ago on Morecambe promenade. You’ll remember me saying when I posted Jay Mountney’s story a few days ago that our minds clearly worked along similar lines. Now you can see why! I swear that we wrote these stories completely independently of each other – we didn’t see each others’ work, or even talk about it.

I’d hoped to write a scene involving Derek and Avery from ‘Feathered Friend’, but couldn’t make it sound anything other than implausible. And then these two sprang to mind, and the rest is history. I hope you enjoy this small slice of fantasy.

***

It was my own fault. I shouldn’t have let him kiss me. I blame the heat. It had been building all morning; that mid-summer stuffiness that often leads to a thunderstorm.

No thunder today, but it did stoke my fire, and Tom’s too. I could tell by the way he nudged me while we walked. Step, step, nudge. Step, step, nudge. And a conspiratorial grin.

It was the grin that did for me. That and the heat. The sun beat down from its zenith, baking the tarmac on the promenade. Even the breeze was hot, bringing a tang of salt and fish that made my stomach rumble suddenly.

He heard, and laughed, and nudged again. ‟Getting peckish?”

‟Yeah. Sorry.” Midday was dangerously close. People talk about the full moon but the sun on Midsummer’s Day has the same effect – and it’s way more powerful. I could already feel the pull. And then he kissed me, warm lips tasting of coffee and ice-cream, soft against my own.
Love’s true kiss, the movies call it. It acts like sun through a lens, heightening everything. Muscles stretched, bones re-aligned, the pain-pleasure of the change gripping every inch. There was no way of stopping it. But I couldn’t shift here, with so many people around. ‟Tom?”

‟What? Oh, Lord.” He could probably see it happening. ‟Behind the awnings, there.”

There was a dead spot where the stripy fabric of two different wind-breaks met. I dashed for the gap. Just in time. What went in was a man. What came out was a full grown alligator. Teeth. Claws. Scales. Snapping jaws. Way too obvious. I needed to hide before someone reported a dangerous escaped reptile to the RSPCA. Nudging my snout against Tom’s ankle, I alerted him to what was wrong.

He read my mind. ‟Over there. They’ve got a sand sculpture contest going on. Some of them are pretty lifelike. Can you hide out there?”

I looked. There was a dragon, and a life-sized mermaid, and a yacht. And a long, narrow strip of empty sand where an alligator might stretch out. Nobody was looking. I waddled across as quickly as I could, and dug myself in. There. Perfect. My armoured back would cope with the pounding sun, while the cool damp sand protected my belly and legs. I grunted, and squirmed myself down.

‟Looking good there, buddy.” Tom grinned. ‟I can hardly tell. Are you okay? I’ll be back around midnight to pick you up.”

I grunted again and did my best to grin. With an alligator’s jaws the result was probably terrifying, but I saw the gleam of amusement in his eyes. Those eyes. I wanted to kiss him again. I’d have to wait until nightfall, though. If folk saw teeth anywhere near Tom’s face they’d think I was eating him. I sighed. Thought of night, and blessed darkness, and Tom’s mouth against mine, properly. And hoped he’d make it snappy coming back for me.

‟Damned kiss,” I huffed, and settled down to wait.

Summer Flash Challenge #4: Jackie Keswick

I hoped to get this posted a couple of days ago but Real Life (TM) has been getting in the way as usual. Better late than never, though, and it’s still technically summer for at least another fortnight so here’s the latest story in our summer-themed challenge. This one is a brief teaser from Jackie’s ongoing A Balance of Magic series, from the third book, ‘Claimed’. It was inspired by our staircase photograph (as will become obvious). I love the tension, and the idea of a collapse caused by too many memories. And I’m guessing you’ll have to wait for the book to find out Tenzen’s fate!

***

The Weight of Memories

The floor shifted with a jolt that sent Tenzen stumbling. The archive creaked and groaned as if something was fighting, stretching, reaching inside the cliff. Tenzen crossed the hall to the spiral stairs and looked down.

At the base of the staircase, where there had only been narrow halls barely large enough to stand in, yawned an enormous chasm.

When Sandro had shared Yuvine powers with everyone who could make use of them, the archive had created a hall for new memories. It was how the archive had worked since Jumon had built it, but the new space was cavernous and as yet empty.

And the weight of 10,000 years of Yuvine history was loading a ceiling not able to support them.

Faults raced up and down the cliff walls. Abused rock faces cracked and sheared. Then the staircase shuddered and heaved and Tenzen whirled and sprinted up the stairs, suddenly aware of the danger.

While his garden housed souls, he couldn’t die, but there was no rule that said a death god could not be buried under a mountain. The idea didn’t appeal to him.

Cracks zigzagged along the walls as he took the stairs three at a time and cursed the wards that forbade him to step out of the archive and into his garden. Rocks fell, in a trickle at first, then in a rolling rumble. Scrolls filled with memories cascaded from shelves where they’d rested for thousands of years. And the yellow glow from Jumon’s lighthouse turned murky in the dust.

Tenzen had just reached the third large hall, the one that had formed with the Lugano clan, when the spine of the spiral staircase snapped like a twig and the lighthouse collapsed on top of him.

Summer Flash Challenge #3: Jay Mountney

A new entry for the challenge that makes thoroughly inventive use of the sand sculpture pic. In fact, Jay and I are obviously on the same wavelength as you’ll see later on when I post my own story. This one is lovely, and very cute. I hope you all enjoy it!

***

Simon put his camera away and spent time simply enjoying the sand sculptures. He liked the sandy ones best – the old bookseller, the proud lion and the mermaid. He didn’t care as much for the coloured ones. The alligator was, for him, too green. But the dragon behind it… Simon loved dragons.

Later, after working on his article, he was aware of a storm gathering. Would the sculptures still be there the next day? He had to see the dragon again. He couldn’t save it from the rain or tide but he could at least admire it one last time, so he headed for the beach.

Most of the exhibits were in a sorry state. The alligator was presumably enjoying a final swim in the sea, and others were disintegrating quickly. The dragon seemed to be dissolving as he watched but then he saw a ripple in the sand. Where there had been a dragon there was a young man. A very naked young man, skin almost the colour of dry sand, eyes and hair like wet sand, and an expression of extreme annoyance on his rather beautiful face.

“Do you need help?” Simon wasn’t sure why he’d asked, but he sensed some kind of need.

“Not unless you have some spare clothing in that backpack.” The voice was deep and rich, with a hint of fire. “Where’s Jake when I need him?”

This was clearly rhetorical, so Simon simply pulled his swimming trunks out of his backpack. He always carried them in case he needed to wade out for a better picture angle.

The young man pulled them on. “You’re a saviour,” he said. “I don’t want to be arrested for indecent exposure.”

Simon just kept looking at the young man’s skin, most still exposed. There were very faint marks, like scales, bolder in places that would normally be covered by clothing.

At that point, someone else came rushing up. Jake, Simon assumed. At any rate, he was clutching an armful of jeans, tops and shoes.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he gasped. “Are you OK Dirk?”

“Thanks to the good Samaritan here, yes,” was the reply.

Simon introduced himself and wondered how he could prolong the conversation but needn’t have worried.

“You’d better come home with me,” said Dirk, now dressed in blue jeans and a white shirt. “Then I can return your swim trunks.”

Jake seemed to vanish into the rain and a bemused Simon followed Dirk to a perfectly ordinary flat near the seafront. As he let them in and put the kettle on, Dirk said the least he could do was offer coffee, and then explained that he and Jake were artists. They entered the sculpture exhibition every year.

“The alligator was Jake’s. I expect you saw it,” he said.

“Yes, it was very g…green,” said Simon, unable to lie.

Dirk grinned. “The bookseller was mine,” he said, and this time Simon was able to express genuine admiration.

He told Dirk about his article and photographs then when Dirk frowned, said, “But you don’t need to worry. I didn’t photograph the dissolution and wouldn’t dream of mentioning what I think I saw.” “What you think?” Dirk sounded amused as he brought coffee cups to the seating area near a window overlooking the beach. “Jake always covers me with sand and promises to bring my clothes. That way I can bask in the sunshine instead of having to change at night. It’s my annual treat.” He sipped his drink. “I’m not sure why I’m admitting anything but I sense you like dragons?” He made that a question and Simon just nodded. “Anyway,” Dirk continued, “the storm was a surprise. The exhibition was supposed to finish tomorrow, not today. I’m glad a dragon-lover came back to see us at the end.”

He stood up, graceful but somehow powerful in his movements, and without a trace of self consciousness unfastened his jeans and let them drop. There he was, sand-coloured, scaled and gorgeous, wearing just a thin shirt, most of the buttons undone.

Simon’s brain seemed to think breathing might be optional.

“Like what you see?” There was laughter bubbling up from burning depths. Simon could only nod, yet again.

“Good,” said Dirk. “Because, Simon, I think I’m going to add you to my hoard.”

Belonging to a dragon, Simon thought, might just be the most extraordinary but wonderful thing in the world. There would be conversation to be had, where he would live and whether he could continue as a journalist, but just then he felt he had come home after a long time away.

The storm was truly raging now, and a flash of lightning showed Dirk shimmering between his two forms. The contents of the flat shimmered too, morphing between normal furniture and a pile of gold.

Beyond the thunder Simon heard Dirk laugh for sheer joy, and then heard himself joining in until between them their peals drowned the rumbles and the rain.