Fiona Glass: Jack O’Lantern

And finally, for Halloween itself, a little something from yours truly. A much shorter (and much sillier) version of this story first appeared in the Torquere Press newsletter many years ago, but last year I rewrote it as something a whole lot creepier (though hopefully still fun) and put it out to readers of my own newsletter. Now I’m sharing it with you, and I hope you enjoy it!

***

Cover art design: © Fiona Glass
Gold man © Leandro De Carvalho; Pumpkin © SzaboJanos, both on Pixabay.com

‛Ooh ooh… something something ghost town…’

            Xander sang along as he worked. The song was an oldie, from way back in the 1980s, he thought, when synths and painted faces were all the rage. He hadn’t heard it in years, but the radio station was belting out anything vaguely ghost-related ready for Halloween tonight, and he’d forgotten how catchy it was.

            The singing turned to whistling; he pursed his lips as he concentrated on carving Jack’s face into the giant pumpkin he’d bought earlier. The likeness wasn’t brilliant, but it was close enough to be recognisable: Jack’s upturned nose, his upturned lips, his ever-so-slightly slanting eyes. Eyes that could captivate a man with one sidelong glance, as Xander had discovered a good few years ago. Eyes that would look amazing backlit with candlelight.

            The pumpkin was set to be the centre-piece to the Halloween party buffet. They’d only moved in a few weeks ago, and it had been Jack’s idea to delay the house-warming until Halloween. ‛Fun theme,’ he’d said. ‛Cheaper, too.’ A man of few words, was Jack, but the few he used usually made sense.

            The ghost town song on the radio faded out, to be replaced by another oldie, Visage’s Fade to Grey. Xander knew that one better, and sang along again. The preparations were going well. He’d already set up the trestle table and the sound-system, and judging by the deafening racked of the radio the latter was working well. The neighbours wouldn’t thank him, but it was only for an hour or so—and tonight, with everyone chatting, they could turn the volume down.

            The pumpkin-portrait was pretty much complete, or at least as good as it was going to get. He’d caught Jack’s mischief surprisingly well after all. Those eyes… still captivating, even in vegetable form. It would be good if the real bloke was here instead, but work was work and he knew he’d have to wait. In the meantime, pumpkin Jack was as good a stand-in as he was going to get. He treated it to a kiss on the space where the nose would be, and set it aside on the trestle table with the other stuff. He’d already dragged a few chairs out from the kitchen in case anyone wanted to sit down, and he’d dug out the Christmas fairy lights and strung those in the tree and along the top of the fence. He’d cut bread and chopped salad and fixed candles in empty jars and set up the barbecue. By the time Jack got in from work they should pretty much be ready to go.

            ‛Looking good,’ said a voice just behind him.

            He jumped so hard he almost cut himself with the pumpkin knife. ‛Jack? You back already? I didn’t hear you come in.’

            ‛Not surprised. That radio’s loud enough to wake the dead.’

            ‛Yeah. Sorry.’ He twiddled the volume knob, and Fade to Grey duly faded into the background. ‛That’s better. Now I can hear myself think.’ Not that that was necessarily a good thing; he still had doubts about the house and how old and creepy it was. Jack loved it, though, so he needed to get over himself. He’d get used to it in time, when they’d unpacked, redecorated, and got all their own things in place. In the meantime… he shivered suddenly. Maybe a T-shirt, outdoors, at the end of October, wasn’t such a good idea after all.

            Or maybe it was. Two arms came round him as Jack treated him to a bear-hug and rubbed his arms. ‛You look cold.’

            ‛It’s chillier than I thought now the sun’s gone in. What do you think, though? I know you won’t get the full effect until it gets dark, but is it looking okay?’

            ‛Looks fine to me. The garden’s good, too.’ The hug got tighter, accompanied by a low throaty chuckle. The chuckle that said Jack was horny, and needed to do something about it—possibly right now. Under normal circumstances he’d have been happy to oblige, but now wasn’t normal. Now wasn’t normal at all…

            ‛Uh, we’re in the garden, remember. With neighbours’ windows and stuff. And our guests will be here in just a–’ He couldn’t finish. Jack span him round, still hugging, and kissed him lushly on the mouth. ‛Whoa,’ he said, doing his best to extricate himself. ‛Hang on. Stop it, you daft prat. We’ve got the rest of our lives for–’

            ‛Need you. Need you to be warm, so your warmth can warm me.’

            It was an odd thing to say, but Jack could be weird at times. Not seriously weird, just quirky and individual. It was one of the things that made him so loveable. That and his strength. He didn’t look particularly muscular, but he could lift Xander’s own weight as though he was a child. It made him feel safe, and cared for, and—yes—warm.

            He put his own arms around Jack’s waist, rested his head against one broad shoulder, and breathed in the scent of shampoo and spice that was unmistakably Jack. Except that weirdly, Jack didn’t smell like Jack. He didn’t smell of anything much. That was… odd. Maybe it was because they were outdoors, or maybe he had a cold coming on. He hoped not. Nothing killed off a party with your mates like an attack of the sniffles or a hacking cough. And now they were snogging, so he’d probably pass it on to Jack.

            He leant into the kiss, loving Jack’s mouth on his, the sense of intimacy, of danger, even, of being so together in such a public place. The garden wasn’t huge and several houses looked straight down into it, and the thought of going further in front of an audience gave him a moment’s thrill. He wouldn’t risk it though. They might offend someone, and in a new place they needed all the neighbourly support they could get. Especially this new place, with its wonky walls and its staring windows and its general air of being old and unloved. Jack had taken one look and fallen in love with the place. He’d taken one look and thought about the work.

            In any case the kiss was making him uncomfortable. His face was clamped against the rough fabric of Jack’s lapel. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t really breathe. Faint fingers of panic began to play up his spine. This wasn’t like Jack. Jack might get over-enthusiastic sometimes but he never lost sight of Xander’s comfort or needs. He never took over. He never squeezed like this.

            Facing this way he could see the lantern he’d just carved, and the eyes were dancing with light. Jack must have lit the candle on the way past, but it was strange the way it gleamed. Almost as though it was alive, and looking back at him. Be with me, it seemed to say. Don’t struggle. Maybe he should do what it said. Hadn’t he just been wishing Jack was here? Wouldn’t it be good to go with the flow and let him take the lead? Wouldn’t it be better to… just… let… go…

            In the distance, at the other side of the house, the doorbell rang, almost as though it had heard his thoughts. Talk about saved by the bell… He roused himself from the fog that had enveloped his brain, and pushed at Jack’s chest. ‛Gotta go.’

            Jack’s reply was no more than a whisper, seeping into his bones. ‛Leave it. Stay here with me.’

            ‛God’s sake, Jack, it could be our guests. I can’t leave them on the doorstep.’ It was freezing out here. Goose bumps prickled his skin in sympathy.

            ‛They’ll find their own way in.’

            ‛No they won’t. The side gate’s buggered, remember?’ The catch was broken; they’d nailed it shut to stop it banging and keeping them awake all night. He remembered that, somewhere deep in the bit of brain that wasn’t completely asleep. It gave him the strength to wriggle and squirm until he’d escaped the crushing embrace. Jack’s hand still clutched at his fingertips, but he shook free of it and staggered towards the house as though he’d come loose at the knees. Jack sometimes did make him weak at the knees, of course, but this felt different.

            Come back… he thought he heard, or sensed. Even now, the urge was strong. Sod the guests. They could wait, just for a minute or two, while he went back to Jack’s eager embrace. He felt the pull; his progress slowed. Don’t stop, his own brain screamed at him. Keep going, get inside the house. The thought that he was running away from Jack almost brought him to a halt. This was the man he’d chosen to spend his life with, not a stranger or a Halloween ghost. And yet, for a moment, or more than a moment if he was honest with himself, he hadn’t felt safe back there. He’d felt, worryingly, as though he’d lost every last scrap of control.

            The house had an unfriendly feel to it as he dashed through the kitchen and along the hall. A feeling that said he was an intruder, that he wasn’t welcome inside these walls. That he wasn’t safe on his own. Please let it be our mates, he thought as he approached the front door, then stopped to compose himself. It wouldn’t do to let Tom, or Lizzie and Beth, or any of the rest of the gang see him as frantic as this. Not until he’d worked out why Jack was acting this way and what had gone wrong. Deep breaths. Wipe his palms on the seat of his jeans. Hope his eyes didn’t look as wild as they felt.

            The doorbell pealed again, insistently, and he could see a shadow the other side of the door. His heart thumped in his chest. He took a breath, grasped the heavy brass knob and turned. And felt his scalp prickle and the air leave his lungs as a grinning man with a clinking carrier bag pushed past him into the hall.

             ‛Surprise! Got off work early. Here’s the booze. Is there anything I can do to– Xander? Is everything okay? You’ve gone really pale.’

            The hall span, briefly, and Xander clutched at the smooth cold surface of the wall. Jack would have had plenty of time to nip round from the back garden—but how had he got through that nailed-up side gate? And who had rung the bell? Faint laughter echoed through the empty rooms of the house. Rooms that looked empty, but might be nothing of the sort.

            ‛Oh, I’m fine. Absolutely fine. Never better, in fact.’ He knew he was gabbling but couldn’t seem to stop. Relief flooded his limbs—relief, but also fear. His knees went weak all over again and he had to cling to the wall. All he could think of was the pumpkin, and the carved face, and those dancing lights in its eyes. Was he dreaming? Was such a thing even possible? Words tumbled over themselves in his head before spilling off his tongue. ‛It’s just that if you’re here, and not out there, then who the hell has been snogging me to death in the garden for the last half hour?’

Jeff Baker: Halloween 2020

Here’s another short poem set during Halloween, but one with a difference. It took me a while to get it – until I really sat up and took notice of the date in the title (above). After that, I realised just how true, and just how poignant it was. Thanks, Jeff!

***

Pic credit: Filip Mroz on Unsplash.com

There is a full Moon, orange and bright

            Rising over the rooftops, part of the ancient clock

            Timed once in a generation or so to light the way

            For neighborhood children, garbed in finest shrouds

            Clothing of superheroes or cowboys, bags in hand

            The sacred rituals of Halloween

            But this October Thirty-First is different from all others

            Even those during the Wars, for fear is not make-believe

            And masks have a different meaning this dark, mad year

            Doors are shut, children inside, candy unused

            Spirits of the past swirl the empty, moonlit streets

            The night belongs to witches.

Anne Barwell: Safe House

Another little blast of creepiness for Halloween – and this one is scary enough to have given me the shivers! Actually, it reminds me of the sort of ghost stories that turn up on the BBC at Christmas, and is easily good enough to be one of them. Anne typically writes about vampires, werewolves and humans in her Shades of Sepia series. Find out more here.

***

Pic credit: Jan Jakob Nanista on Unsplash.com

“We’re running out of time.” Kon placed his hand over mine, his dark skin in stark contrast to my pale white. 

“I know, my love.”  I kissed the top of his head.

The old house stood before us, beckoning, offering hope to a people fleeing a dying world. Its windows gleamed in the moonlight, the grounds around it overgrown, and wild.  Abandoned, yet not forgotten.  Not if the stories about it were to be believed.

“It looks more like a castle than a house.” Kon tilted his head, as though listening to something beyond my human senses.  “There’s something there, I think but—”

“You’re the psychic,” I reminded him.

“But not a medium.”  Kon frowned. “Lyssa would have—”

“My wife is dead,” I said quickly, not wanting her memory to come between us, although she’d told me to move on once she’d gone.

“You’re a good man, Samuel.  Her death wasn’t your fault.  She knew you loved her.”

“Let’s explore.  Make sure it’s large enough.”  There weren’t many of Kon’s people left. He’d come to Earth looking for new home for them, and found me.

He hesitated.  “All right.”

The front door swung open, inviting us inside.  I squeezed Kon’s hand. 

“I’ll check upstairs,” he said. “You stay here.”

The large clock on the mantelpiece caught my attention.

Tick.

Reality tilted.

Tock.

Blood dripped down the walls.  Someone screamed.

“Run!”

I sprinted up the stairs. “Kon!” 

His expression blank, his arms outstretched, he reached for something I couldn’t see.  Tears ran down his face.  “They’re all dead.  We’re too late.”

Something brushed my skin.  I shivered, yet couldn’t move.

My breath hung in the air, caught as we were.

A man chuckled. The room plunged into darkness. “No.” His whisper caressed my mind. “You’re both just in time.”

Jeff Baker: Billy Gonzalez and the Day of the Dead

Real life got in the way yesterday so I’m a day late posting the next offering in our Halloween celebration – a spooky little number that’s actually about the Mexican festival of The Day of the Dead, but works equally well for Halloween! As Jeff himself says, “I started writing about Billy Gonzalez and his knack for stumbling into the weird about twenty years ago. I pulled him out of the closet a few years ago. I am a lot more white-bread than he is but we are both Bi. Hope you enjoyed his latest adventure!“

***

Pic credit: Kenny Eliason on Unsplash.com

 “C’mon, Billy! Whaddya got to lose?” Schuyler said with a grin. “It’s your heritage!”

 My great-grandparents emigrated from Mexico a century ago. But my Dad grew up in New York City and my Mom was from some weird little town in Indiana. They met in college in the Midwest. Me, I grew up where I’d gone to college in Wichita, Kansas. I wouldn’t be back at the college  that last week of October if it hadn’t been for Schuyler.

 Schuyler Rowley was with the school’s Alumni Association and I’d kind of crushed on him during our largely-closeted school days and we’d gone out a couple of times in the five years since. But now he was standing in front of me in a skeleton costume. And he had another costume for me. Complete with full-head skull mask.

“It’ll be fun!” Schuyler said. “We dance around in the Quad during the party and we can do some partying afterwards. It’s for the Scholarship fund, remember? And we can go out later…”

“Yeah, yeah. Hand me the skull,” I said, feeling like Don Juan in that play about Hell.

The Quad, the big patio between the Library and the Gym was lit by electric lights and flickering torches, but I guessed those were just to keep the bugs away. Grinning alumni were seated at tables with skull centerpieces. The menu included candy skulls and a lot of Tex-Mex. There was a band playing on a makeshift stage. Skull decorations everywhere.

Schuyler gave me a thumbs up and we walked around the edges of the Quad; dark costumes with a white skeleton printed on the front. I’d never done anything for The Day of the Dead before, but my cousin’s family had. Sort of a cross between Memorial Day and Halloween. I looked around and waved at a little kid seated at one of the tables who was staring at me with wide eyes. I grinned, forgetting that I was wearing a skull mask with a built-in grin. I looked over and saw Schuyler by the snack table goofing with a couple of guys I remembered from school.

I looked over towards where Father Bernau was sitting with some big-pocket alumni and saw a third figure in a skeleton costume standing behind them, partly in shadow. I didn’t recognize him; I thought there were just the two of us. The third skeleton backed into the shadows of the tree and building.

The evening went on. The crowd seemed to be enjoying themselves and the late October evening was warm and pleasant. I’d helped myself to a candy skull and then I saw that third skeleton peeking behind the big tree by the shadowy corner of the new library. I glanced around and saw Schuyler kidding around at a table on the other side of the quad. Yup. Whoever that was, it wasn’t Schuyler. Munching the candy skull I walked over and found the third skeleton in the shadows of the building.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m Billy Gonzalez. Class of…”

Then I stopped. The figure had moved far enough out of the shadow so I could see what I thought was a black costume with a skeleton design on it, well, it wasn’t. It was a skeletal figure standing there. I glanced up, no wires, no nothing. I made a gurgling noise. If this was a trick, it was a very good one.

The skeleton turned and walked into the deep shadow of the wall. It turned its, well, skull to look at me and I would have sworn it’s grin broadened. I could just make out the brick wall which the skeleton passed through. I backed away from there fast, tripping over one of the big tree roots and then scrambling to my feet.

I remembered stories I’d heard about the Old Library being haunted. Somebody joked that had been the real reason they tore it down and put up the new one, not the structural problems with a 100 year old building. I realized I had probably been standing where the Old Library had been. I staggered over to where the snack table was and grabbed a can of beer. I didn’t care if I was supposed to wait.

Then I heard something behind me.

“Hey, Billy!”

I jumped. I spun around, glimpsed a skeleton standing there. I screamed and tossed my beer into the air. It landed with a splat on a nearby table.

“Hey, what the hell’s with you, man?” That was Schuyler in his skeleton outfit. At least he didn’t say I looked like I’d seen a ghost.

Well, it could have been a lot worse. I stuck close to Schuyler for the rest of the evening and afterwards we went out for coffee. The college had rooms in the dorm for alumni from out of town and I’m sure Schuyler and I could have grabbed one, but that night I did not want to stay on the same campus as that skeletal figure I’d seen by the Library.

Kaje Harper: Halloween

And now, as the saying goes, for something completely different. Well, not completely, obviously – we’re still doing m/m romance, we’re still doing short fiction and poetry. But since we’e on the run up to Halloween at the end of the month, I thought it would be fun to post a whole load of spooky little stories, poems and bits and bobs to get us all in the mood. Look out for a range of naughty and/or spooky little numbers in the coming days, but first up is this absolute gem of a poem from Kaje Harper, which makes a serious point underneath the rhyming fun.

***

Halloween

There can be isolation in a crowd.
And silence, though the music shakes your bones.
Slurs can be heard, though never said aloud,
And sneers can hit as hard as mobs fling stones.

I thought, this once, my choices were set free.
That anything I dared to wear would fly.
But from the sharp disdain they aim at me,
I see that I was wrong, the more fool I.

A masquerade means something to this group
That isn’t freedom just to be yourself.
They’re stilted, formal, kept within the loop
Of pretty, boring, het, and pure top-shelf.

My choice of lace and fishnet raises brows.
The corset gathers stares of pure disdain.
That pretty nun looks like she’s making vows
To cut me, if I speak to her again.

I’m far too proud to turn around and go,
Too stubborn to admit this is a fail.
I stalk up the grand staircase, give a show,
And put one high-heeled pump up on the rail.

Yeah, I’m in drag, so bite me if I care
For all your proper stuffy upper-class.
There’s not a single person here would dare
To wear the skirt that’s showing off my ass.

I toss my head, and blur my eyes to miss
The way they turn away and sip champagne,
And whisper to each other, mutter, hiss,
“We never should invite him here again.”

A warm hand on my shoulder makes me jump.
I turn, and see a tall guy standing there.
He says, “Hey, gorgeous, wanna blow this dump
“And go somewhere where we can breathe the air?

“This lot may have the money and blue blood
“But you can’t tell me they have any fun.
“I’d like to share some nachos and a Bud,
“And then maybe a dance. You up for one?”

I drop the pose, and take my first real breath
And tell this stunning guy, “Fuckin’ hell, yes.
“All I’ll get here is disapproved to death.
“But are you up for a man in a dress?”

He shares a grin and says, “I think I’m up,
“For anything you might want me to be.
“Let’s grab some beer served in a plastic cup
“And you can shake that skirt-clad ass at me.”

The vampire in the custom-tailored tux
Looks down his nose at us as we go by.
My man says, “Hey, you know that when he fucks,
“He’s just as dull in bed. I swear, no lie.”

I laugh, and feel his hand warm on my back
And all the rest of them just fade away
I start designing the delicious snack
I’ll feed this guy, ’round noon, on All Saints’ Day.

Chris Quinton: Call of Duty

I’ll leave Chris to describe this heart-warming story-with-a-twist because she can explain so much better than I can! Track down more of Chris’s work at her Facebook author page.

“Call Of Duty started out as a couple of double-drabbles on my defunct [temporarily, I hope] website. Rewritten and expanded, and sharpened up by the editing and beta’ing of the rather splendid Kaje Harper and my friend Gayle. These short-shorts are a skill set that needs a lot of honing as far as I’m concerned. They’re fun to do, but tricky, and I thank the Gods for KH and G.”

***

Pic credit: Deposit Photos

Justin Adams ignored the bustle around him and stared into the distance, lost in thought. He had so much to do, but all he could think of right now was Leon and wonder what would have developed if timing had been better. His chosen career was of vital importance and not just on a personal level. Now, his new promotion would, of necessity, ensure more changes. Justin sighed and took out his phone. He knew that Leon would have his phone turned off during lectures, but he’d leave a brief message. That would be more personal than a text, at least. The major downside was that this wouldn’t be the first date he’d cancelled at short notice with no real explanation, and Leon had lost his usual calm the last time. Harsh words had been said, though they were soon smoothed over.

“Hi, Leon,” he said. “I’m sorry, lover, I have to go away for a week, maybe more, so I can’t make our date this weekend. Can we reschedule? I’m sorry,” he added lamely.

Four months ago, Leon Bronski had walked into his life and had rapidly become an integral part of it. Not that Justin’s professional priorities had changed, of course, but…

They’d met on his first visit to the private athletic club near his new apartment, and the attraction had been instant. The man climbing out of the pool had untidy prematurely gray hair and eyes the blue of summer skies, and was probably five or six years older than him, maybe pushing forty. Justin had automatically checked out the spare, angular body first, but those eyes had snared him the moment their gazes met. The wryly humorous twist to the man’s wide mouth acknowledged his interest, but when that quirk became a smile so warm and friendly, Justin was hooked.

“Hi,” he’d said. “I’m Justin. I hate to say something so cliché, but do you come here often?”

“I’m Leon, and I was about to ask you the same.”

And that was that.

They’d swum a dozen lengths, matching each other stroke for stroke, then showered, changed and met in the bar for coffee. They talked generalities: sports, movies, music, and found a lot of common ground. Justin hadn’t mentioned his job and didn’t intend to, but Leon had no such reticence. He lectured in Political Science at Washington’s American University.

Given the nature of his own profession, Justin had long since learned to be cautious. Not for him were the anonymous hookups and one night stands. Oh, the Powers That Be officially knew his sexual orientation, and there were some guys in other departments he could spend a few hours with when the need arose. It hadn’t been an obstacle in his career, and prospective blackmail would never be a problem he’d have to face.

He’d taken a chance with Leon, and now, for the first time in far too long, he wanted more. Much more, and by all the signals Leon had put out over the last few weeks, so did he. Sex with Leon was better than good, and much to his surprise, so was the companionship. Simply put, they were in synch on so many levels. Justin didn’t want to lose any of it, but the pressures of his career could well end everything.

Justin gave himself a mental kick in the ass. Concentrate! Now, more than ever, he needed to be sharp. Lives could depend on him, not least his own. Afterward, when he got back, he’d explain as much of the situation as permitted, and hope Leon would understand, give them a chance to explore their embryonic relationship. That steadied him as nothing else could, and allowed his years of training to take over.

The forms were filled out, files signed off and handed on to his replacement. A final debrief, then he was being ferried to the rendezvous to join his new team. Once there it was a case of hurry up and wait. Justin spent some of the time on last minute checks of the communications equipment and weaponry. They’d already been passed by Tech Support, of course, but he never left such things entirely to others.

Justin wished he’d told Leon how very important he’d become. Too late now. The signal flashed and with his team at his heels, he strode across the tarmac and up the metal steps.

“Welcome aboard Air Force One, Commander Adams.”

* * * *

“–the President on the way to crisis talks with Germany’s–“ Leon hit standby on the remote, not interested in the fleeting image of his President’s familiar form climbing the steps of Air Force One, followed by the security detail. He had a crisis of his own that was far more important than international relations.

Where the fuck is Justin? And why isn’t he answering any calls? That voicemail of a week ago had reminded him again of how little he really knew about Justin Adams. As for the final, “I’m sorry…” Had that been a hint of the classic, “It’s not you, it’s me,” brush-off? Leon swore and threw the remote onto the couch.

He’d been sure that something special was happening between them. They had enough in common that their differences seemed like perfect synchronicities. And Justin was hot. Brown of hair and eyes, average height, average build–until he stripped off, then all that well-proportioned muscle made him anything but. His features, too, were pleasant rather than strikingly handsome, yet every time he smiled Leon was mesmerized.

Abruptly Leon froze. Something… He’d seen… He lunged for the couch and grabbed the remote, flicked through channels until he found another news station. Once more the President climbed the steps. So did the security, and there at their head was Justin.

Leon understood immediately. Love and pride caught in his throat. He’d be there when Leon returned. They would make this work.

Jay Mountney: Five TV cop shows that could have been m/m

We seem to be developing quite a theme here with movies and various TV series that we feel could (should?!) have had a gay element to them. This time, it’s cop shows, many of which had a strong element of bromance in the past. I agree wholeheartedly with the first on the list, which is why I’ve chosen a scene from that one to illustrate the article (and yes, this is an actual screenshot from an actual episode)…

Feel free to add any others you can think of in the comments section – I’m sure these can’t be the only ones.

***

Following Jeff Baker’s article on TV shows that could have gone m/m, and after some comments on FB, here are my ideas on the subject.

Most cop buddy shows would qualify. Nowadays, at least one of the following would, I think, have been given an m/m slant. None of them were, of course, which is almost certainly due to the period when they were originally made, but we wondered why there were no current cop buddy shows. Presumably there is no need to show ‘bromance’ in an era where gay detectives are considered ‘acceptable’ as in The Long Call (recent British TV cop drama based on books by Anne Cleeves, author of the Shetland and Vera series). We also agreed that there is probably enough fanfiction out there to satisfy most people who want m/m versions of cop/law-and-order programmes. I confess to writing in the three Brit show fandoms and reading avidly in the US ones. Obviously, other shows spring to mind but I’ve restricted myself to five, mostly because those are the ones I’ve watched in their entirety!

For possible re-imagining I would nominate:

The Professionals. Brit TV series about guys working for CI5 which is a kind of MI5 but fictional.

Starsky and Hutch. US TV series featuring cop duo.

Lewis. Brit TV series featuring cops in Oxford with lots of glamorous locations.

Hawaii 5.O. American series, first shown a long time ago then reimagined as a new series. 5.O is a kind of special police department with a cop and a navy SEAL. Again, at times the locations steal the show.

Spooks. Brit TV series with a multitude of characters in MI5.

K. L. Noone: Victories

Most of our stories so far have been quite short, but here’s a slightly longer one for a change. ‘Victories’ is a sweeping, beautifully lyrical tale set in Roman Britain, featuring a Roman commander and the native British leader who’s asked to meet him… If it whets your appetite for more of K. L.’s books and stories, why not visit their website to find out more?

***

Pic credit: Silvano on Pixabay.com

Marcus stands by the tower’s window, naked. His toes are cold against old waystation stone; his back shivers in the night, or maybe that’s wonder, or maybe dread, or maybe some emotion he can’t yet name.

He gazes out into the dark, not turning round to look at the bed, at the man in it. He feels the weight of those eyes as well, though Boudi says nothing.

The forests and hills of Britain lie softened, at the moment, by night and fog and diffuse silvery light. The moon’s just past full, now: partial, poised, changing. The soft greys and blacks make this foreign land feel almost like home: not the sun-drenched capital of Rome these days, a crumbling empire of feasts and circuses and heat-baked walls and squabbling politics with daggers behind backs, but his own home, decades ago, where he’d been born. A quiet estate, that’d been: vine-wreathed, water-flowing, green and gold in summer. His fingers remember the touch of plants, of grass, of earth.

The British forests are green as well, in the night. Emeralds in shadow. Like the decisions he’s made, or not made, or helplessly turned into, with the crackle of taut words and the challenge in bright blue eyes and the sudden press of Boudi’s mouth against his.

It’d been easy, then. Clothing shed, bodies bared. A tumble into bedding, rough and makeshift, though they had not cared. Boudi had kissed him again and pushed him down amid the bedclothes, and Marcus had gasped “Yes—” when those blue eyes paused to ask the question, and then he’d said it again, yes and yes and yes, and he’d let Boudi take him and take him apart as he dissolved into shuddering pleasure.

He doesn’t know, now, whether he’s lost or won. Or if that’s even the question.

He puts out a hand, touches the uneven edge of the window.

This small round tower’s old, older than Boudi and the ragged but newly organized British resistance forces. Boudi had chosen it as a meeting-place. Marcus had looked at the letter—neatly written, short and to the point but flawless in language and style—and had weighed it thoughtfully in one hand. Some of his own men had laughed, surprised that a native Briton could read or write at all; some had wondered aloud whether it was a trap. Boudi would not have needed that; his forces had become more than a harrying nuisance, over the past months, and Marcus’ own letters to his own commanders—pleading for more support, for men, food, supplies—had gone unanswered.

He had looked out at the forests of Britain then, too, from the height of the garrison wall. He had thought about the earth, and about homes, and about the men who, the last time he’d had leave, had come to arrest his unarmed gout-ridden literary father for writing a poem mildly critical of the Empire, and the way those men had threatened that his mother might be next, pregnant or not, if she were not silent.

He’d gone back to duty; he’d gone where he’d been ordered. But he’d remembered, as he did now, a time before he’d known the weight of armor on his shoulders and a sword-hilt in his hand.

And now: here he stands, at the outermost edges of the Empire, having been told to pacify the wild borderlands, the men and women who simply wanted to live free.

He’d agreed to meet with Boudi, the man who’d been his irritant and his equal and the thorn in his sandal. He’d answered yes then as well.

He should pick up his armor, his cloak, his short sword. He should turn and point that sword at Boudi’s heart. Instead he’s broken all his soldier’s vows, all his oaths, and his body aches with the knowledge of pleasure and use and what’s either grief or release, an unmooring. He feels untethered, emptied out, alone.

From the bed, Boudi says, “I have also made a choice, tonight.”

Just that, only that; but it’s enough. It’s a reminder, not a question: Boudi has indeed made a choice, having taken an enemy commander to bed, having allowed Marcus to touch him and caress him and wonder at him.

Marcus is not alone in this: neither of them is.

He turns from the window. Moonlight spills clear over the newly-explored territory of Boudi’s skin, bare amid furs and blankets; Boudi’s sitting up, watching him. That tumble of red hair is darker in the night; the blue tattoo-swirls along one arm are less strange and more familiar now that Marcus has run a hand along them, learning, discovering.

Boudi had been younger than he’d expected, not a youth but younger than Marcus himself, and perhaps more brilliant, having earned his people’s loyalty and not given a post due to his uncle’s political position. Standing at the tower’s door, he’d been a presence, an astonishment, a short and vivid flare of flame. No wonder his people followed him; even without a word he’d commanded the meeting, the tower space, the hilltop. Marcus had felt his breath catch, involuntarily.

Boudi had said then, in Marcus’ own language, forthright, “This cannot go on.”

Marcus had said, looking down at him—Boudi was shorter than his own tall broad-shouldered height, though somehow that didn’t seem to matter—and in full agreement, “You are outnumbered and we are better equipped; we’ll be lenient, if you surrender.”

Boudi had laughed. “I’ve seen your wagons. What’s left of them. And we’ve raided your grain storage, your depots, your treasury. No, you won’t defeat us.”

“Are you so sure of that?”

“I’m sure I don’t want to lose another man. Two was too many, last time. One was too many, to begin with.” He’d poured wine—liberated, Marcus noticed, from those aforementioned stores—and waited, allowing Marcus to choose a cup. He’d put out a small table, in the circle of the tower: bread, cheese, dried apples. Generosity. “It’s not poisoned; that’d be a waste. It’s a lovely vintage.”

“It’s from near where I grew up.” He’d taken the cup on the left. Watched Boudi across a table, time, brittle cracking convictions. This man, this leader, who could bring a Roman legion to a halt and then successfully melt away into the night—who spoke like a senator of old, one who loved his people—a young man who could outmaneuver enemies with ease but considered even one death to be too many—

He’d said, “If you think you’ll win—”

“We will. We only have to outlast you. We know our home; you won’t find us.”

“If you think you’ll win, why meet with me? Why speak of peace?”

Boudi’s eyes had met his, sharply blue, angry that Marcus did not seem to understand this. He’d said again, each word a declaration, “I don’t want my people, or even yours, to die.”

“No,” Marcus had said, with the sense of speaking truth to a thunderstorm, a hurricane, a fate that’d swoop him up and spin him away. “No, neither do I.”

He’d moved to pour them both more wine, amid suggestions of a temporary truce—no harassment on either side, freedom of movement, even mutual assistance should the need arise. Boudi had moved as well; they’d ended up standing too close together, a breath away, a danger and a promise and a breath held on edge. Boudi’s hand had lifted; had touched Marcus’ arm.

Marcus says, in the moonlight, “Would you choose differently, now?”

“You mean now that we’ve done this?” One hand sweeps a gesture across the rumpled disaster they’ve made of the bed. Both ember-dark eyebrows go up. “I might choose my own bed. More comfortable. Less designed for temporary shelter.”

“Tell me you didn’t plan this.”

“I didn’t, but will you believe me?”

“I might,” Marcus says, window at his back, wild Britain at his back and also here before him, sitting up naked and beautiful in a waystation bed, with tangled auburn hair. “If you say it again.”

“I did not,” Boudi says, “come here with the intent to seduce the honorable commander into agreement regarding a truce, using the wiles of my body.” He pauses. “How was it?”

Marcus, not expecting that question, blinks at him. “It was…” Glorious? Bewildering? Earth-shaking, upending everything I thought I knew? “Pleasurable.”

“Only that? I’ll have to try harder next time.”

“Next time…” Without thinking, he crosses the room, sits down on the bed. Their shoulders, hips, bodies touch. Boudi is solid, warm, amused, an anchor. Marcus says again, “Next time?”

“I can’t let you leave with only pleasurable. Was I your first? With a man.”

“Not—no.”

“Second?”

Marcus exhales. Shuts his eyes for a moment. Lets himself lean just a fraction more weight against the sturdiness beside him. Boudi has answers, experience, gentle teasing, even; Boudi has certainty, and perhaps Marcus and all those shattered oaths can borrow some, for a moment, only for a moment.

And two firm arms wrap around him, and Boudi tugs them both back down into the uncomfortable bed under moonlight, not letting go. He says against Marcus’s temple, “Second, then; I was right, wasn’t I? To answer your question, earlier…no. No, I would not choose differently. I would still fight for my people, and I would still write to the commander, a man I have heard is a good man, and ask to meet with him, and I would still choose to lie here in this bed with him, because I think that yes, he is a good man, and I believe that.”

Marcus swallows hard, once, twice. A belief. In him. Said with that same certainty.

So perhaps that is a place to stand. Like stone. In moonlight. A window, open. A joining-together. Peace. Possibilities.

The bed is not so uncomfortable, with Boudi holding him.

He says, “I think I may be choosing this as well,” and feels Boudi’s smile; he looks up, so that their eyes meet.

Boudi says lightly, a shared joke between them, “You think you may be?”

They both know that answer by now, but Marcus says it anyway because some words need to be spoken aloud, so he does, giving them voice, saying, “I am choosing this, with you,” and this time he kisses Boudi first, while the silver pale light spills across them both.

Meet the Contributors #3: Ellie Thomas

And now a fun little Q&A from Ellie, who plots both books and how to get more bookcases! Ellie writes mostly historical m/m romance, with occasional forays into contemporary, and you can find her, and her books (and presumably her bookcases) at her website. Take it away, Ellie…

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How many bookshelves are in your house?

Currently, five, although I’m mentally calculating how to squeeze in a sixth or even a seventh…

How do you research for your book?

See Question 1! Like all authors, I find the internet invaluable for fact-checking, and there are some sites that I regularly haunt for research, but there’s nothing as satisfying as gleaning knowledge from a book. That’s what I convince myself while I’m plotting to buy bookshelf no. 6.

Which of your books were the most enjoyable?

Twelve Letters, a Regency romp, released in July, was a real joy to write as the words and ideas simply flowed. I wish writing was always like that! When the submission call was announced to celebrate JMS Books’ Twelfth Anniversary in July, I was initially intrigued by the idea of writing a story based on the number 12. But then, as I had more than one WIP already lined up, I decided to be sensible and give it a miss. Naturally, I woke up the next morning with a fully formed story idea in my head.

What comes first, the plot or characters?

It’s chicken and egg for me. With Twelve Letters, I could clearly picture Jolyon Everett, my MC, standing on the steps outside his London lodgings in the early morning, clutching two letters and rushing off to prevent his best friend Ben Harding from engaging in an ill-advised duel. So the characters informed the plot, and the plot dictated the characters!

What is the significance of the title?

Twelve Letters is pretty self-explanatory, especially in the context of the submission call theme. But the follow-up story, Queer Relations, seemed so obvious for a historical story, that I was genuinely surprised that there weren’t already a whole heap of books with that title! Like Twelve Letters, the story is an ensemble piece about a small group of gay men in Regency London. So the title not only refers to their romantic relationships but also the main storyline revolves around my main character, spoiled brat Percy Havilland and his reaction to a massive scandal that involves his (mainly appalling) family.

How many plot ideas are just waiting to be written? Can you tell us about one?

Since these characters have taken roost in my head (I blame Percy!) Book 3 in the series, Coming of Age, will be out in November and continues along similar themes of family issues and developing relationships for my crew. I’m already starting on the fourth (and possibly final) story, where there might be a subplot involving a Napoleonic spy…