Bittersweet Seasons

A collection of unusual and touching gay romance stories. The set begins and ends with a Christmas tale.

Excerpt:

Fireworks


In accordance with the laws of his social class, Paul Coates left school at the age of fifteen to work in the same meat-processing factory as his father, who had put in a word for him. He was supposed to be grateful for this assisted passage into the world of employment, but he wasn’t. He hated the stench of carcasses, blood and bones and the feeling his life was labelled and packaged, much like the meat that left the factory. Only Rob Bowen, eighteen, friendly and funny made the long days bearable. He showed him the ropes and told him how to go on, helping him feel less awkward with his gently teasing jokes and ready smile.

In the November that Paul turned sixteen one of the girls in their section invited everyone to her twenty-first birthday party. It was to be held downtown in the old White Rose Pub, which nestled under an arch of Jubilee Bridge. Paul’s parents granted him permission to go, after all he was earning now and a working lad was entitled to some leisure.

Rob bought Paul a pint of Guinness, he would have preferred sweet cider but was too shy to say so. He soon got used to the heavy beer’s bitter taste, enjoying the way it made the world move into soft focus. Julie, the birthday girl, finally claimed a dance with Rob, taking his hands and pulling him onto the floor where she put her arms around his neck and he put his around her waist. They slow danced to Danny Williams singing ‘Moon River’ with Julie never taking her eyes from Rob’s face. Watching them through soft focus, Paul suddenly felt like crying.

Stepping outside into the damp air he wandered onto the bridge, leaning against its cold iron ribs. It was November Fifth and there were fireworks in the night sky, their passion and sparkle briefly reflected in the dirty flow of The Tees below. Closing his eyes, Paul pictured Rob and Julie dancing to Moon River, hearing the melody echo in his mind along with the distant thunder of fireworks. Tears squeezed past his closed lids, running down his face, chilling on his skin.

The years passed. Paul rose to a managerial position in the factory, got married and had children.

‘Remember, remember the fifth of November,’ Paul murmured the words of the ancient rhyme to himself, as he stood by a dark window watching the sky blaze in commemoration of a conspiracy foiled. He sipped whisky and allowed his mind to backtrack three decades to a November Fifth when he was just sixteen and kissed for the very first time. He closed his eyes in honour of the memory. It had been good, sweet and warm. He could taste it still and feel the excitement that soared through his body and mind. Rob had followed him outside, asked what was wrong, put an arm around his shoulders. They had looked at each other and then it happened, a tender kiss that should have led to a flowering of passion and a finding of self. It didn’t.

Julie came in search of Rob and she told what she saw on Jubilee Bridge that night, as fireworks flamed overhead. It got back to Paul’s father. Fireworks ensued. Rob was dismissed from his job and warned off. He was also dismissed from the parental home, and told never to return. He left the area and Paul never saw him again. Where was he now, he wondered, how had life shaped him? Had he too heeded advice and walked the straight and narrow path, or had he found the courage to own himself and to take joy in being who he was created to be?

A soft melody echoed in Paul’s mind along with the thunder of fireworks and an ache of longing to be sixteen again. Tears squeezed past his closed lids, running down his face, chilling his skin.

Accidental overdose of prescribed medication and alcohol, concluded the coroner at Paul’s inquest. No one questioned. Paul’s body was cremated, but his ashes instead of being cast free on the wind, as he had wished, were interred in hallowed ground beneath a slab of concrete, which bore his name and the legend: a contented family man of faith and love. He was confined in death just as he’d been confined in life.

The memorial stone remains barren all year, except in autumn when it’s closeted by fallen leaves. Just once, on a November Fifth, someone brushed away the decaying leaves and placed a single white rose next to Paul’s name.


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Peter and the Wolf

Rom-Com Short story by Cat

What's a man to do when his partner seems to prefer housework to sex?

Excerpt:

"PETER, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING NOW?" Will slapped the book he was reading down onto his knees.

A disembodied voice floated up the stairs and into the bedroom. "I'm just watering the plants in the hall, they're looking a bit dry. I won't be long."

"You said that half an hour ago when you were 'just' locking up and taking out all the plugs. I've read nine chapters of this God awful Space Wolf novel since then, and I still haven't discovered how wolf-men ended up in space."

"It can't be that awful if you've read nine chapters of it," said the disembodied voice reasonably, adding, "anyway, you can’t possibly have read nine chapters, not in half an hour. You must have just skimmed it, you always do that and it's cheating. No wonder you miss important details. It's probably explained how the wolf-men got into space and you've skipped over it. Go back and read it properly."

"Peter, are you actually coming up tonight, because I'm already up and I want to be down, on you, preferably before my vigour goes the way of all things and turns to dust."

"And the Barry Manilow Prize for romantic lyric of the year goes to William Jones for his lovely song: wanna go down on you before my vigour is through."

Despite his irritation Will smiled, calling, "come up to bed, smart arse."

"I'm nearly done now. I’m just cleaning the stained glass panel in the front door and then there’s the Yucca in the living room to water."

Yucca! Will sighed and picked up the garishly jacketed novel again, reading the heading: 'In The Grim Darkness Of The Far Future There Is Only War!' He had to admit that it did indeed sound rather grim, but as long as there was sex, as well as war, it might not be too bad. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as he heard the unmistakeable drone of the hoover coming from downstairs. Whereas in his case, In The Grim Darkness Of The Here And Now There Was Only Housework... and no sex!

Resisting a primeval urge to gallop downstairs and drag his partner back up them by the scruff of his neck, he flopped back on his pillows, covering his face with the book.

"I really wish we hadn't chosen a dark blue carpet for the hall, it shows all the bits. I thought I was never going to get it clean." Peter made an appearance in the bedroom at long last and smilingly lifted the book from Will’s face. "I'm all yours now. As they say, all good things come to he who waits."

"Too late," Will opened his eyes. "Joey Stefano and some of his mates called by while you were carpet cleaning and we had a gangbang, it was filthy! They sucked me dry."

Peter dropped the book back over Will's face in disgust, "you are a shit sometimes, Will. You've got no patience, all you think about is yourself. I hope poor departed Joey satisfied you, because you're not having me as a living dessert."


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Unmarked (Waterman) by Dusk Peterson

BLURB

Meredith is from the Eastern Shore of the Bay. Carr is from the Western Shore. . . .

This 100,000-word omnibus contains all the current stories in Waterman, a historical fantasy series and retrofuture series inspired by the Chesapeake Bay oyster wars, boarding school rivalries in the 1910s, and 1960s visions of things to come.

EXCERPT

Somebody slapped Meredith's head; his House cap, which he had won after twelve terms on the Third House's footer team, fell off and was trampled by a boot. Somebody else tugged at his uniform, announcing that he should be dressed in a servants' uniform, not a students'. He heard cloth rip and had a moment to wonder where, out of his small allowance, he would be able to find the money for a new uniform.

Then someone said, "Watch out! It's the Head!" and everyone fell silent.

Fletcher turned, looking annoyed rather than concerned. While Rudd hated being disturbed, he was unlikely to cane a fellow prefect within the Third House for ragging Meredith. If a prefect from another House had been ragging Meredith, that would have been an entirely different matter, of course; the Third House protected its own against outsiders.

It even protected a student whose status as a master had not yet been determined by the courts.

So Fletcher looked merely annoyed; then his annoyance deepened as he saw which lad the other students had parted to make way for. "Get the bloody blades out of here, Carruthers," he said. "You're in Third House territory. We don't welcome dredgers here."

The Head of the Second House didn't reply immediately. Master M Carruthers (nobody had been able to figure out why he only had an initial for his first name) was generally acknowledged to be the most popular youth in the Upper Seventh. At the beginning of term, there had been competition amongst the younger second-rankers of his House over who should fag for him, even though it was Carruthers's choice to make, not theirs. Meredith could not remember who had won the competition in the end; the decision had been made around the same time that Pembroke decided to have Meredith fag for Rudd. Meredith had been too aghast at the idea of fagging during his Seventh Form – fagging for Rudd, of all people – to pay attention to Second House gossip . . . though in moments of honesty, he had been forced to admit to himself that the competition to serve Master Carruthers had been of some interest to him.

Now Carruthers took a moment to look over the gang. Unlike Pembroke, who would have dealt with such a matter by giving everyone an icy look, there was no expression on the face of the Head of the Second House. Carruthers had always been a difficult young man to read. His voice was also quite bland as he said, "You're disturbing my House with your noise. I have first-rankers studying for their university exams. Indeed," he added in that same bland voice, "I was under the impression that this was also the study period for the Third House's first-rankers. And class time for nearly everyone else." His gaze lingered for a moment on Jeffries, who was beginning to look nervous.

"It's none of your bloody business," Fletcher replied. "This is the Third House; get out of our waters."

"Or we'll fetch the Oyster Navy," giggled someone else, and several more of the students laughed.

Carruthers ignored them. "It's my business if you're disturbing the study time in my House. Fletcher, you're a prefect. If you're not willing to keep order here, I'll have to go to Rudd. He's with Pembroke right now, isn't he?"

Fletcher's face went suddenly blank. Several of the first-rankers shuffled in place, exchanging glances. If there was anything one learned in the Third House, it was that Rudd disliked being disturbed when he was alone with Pembroke. He was inclined to cane any student who knocked on his door during such times. And since Carruthers was the Head of another House and therefore could not be caned by Rudd . . .

"Oh, dwell forever in afterdeath," snarled Fletcher, stepping away. "Come on, fellows. The Head Prefect of the Second House is too dainty to be able to stand a little noise. I guess we'll have to protect his gentle ears."

Carruthers gave the faintest of smiles, saying nothing. Several of the students glanced at each other, and then all of them were laughing, not at Carruthers, but at Fletcher. Everyone there had seen Carruthers on the playing field.

Fletcher looked as though he would explode like a footer ball, but one of the other first-rankers, still laughing, pulled him away. The rest of the crowd dispersed, leaving Meredith kneeling dishevelled on the floor.

He stared up at Master Carruthers. The Head was dressed in his flannels, having evidently been in the process of changing from footer, for his calf-length boots and bare knees were spattered with mud. The mud clung to the fine hairs on his thighs. His jersey was opened two buttons at the top, showing a sheen of sweat in the hollow of his neck.

Hastily, Meredith lowered his eyes, then remembered, too late, that this was as foolish an act as staring. Now warm with confusion, he raised his eyes till he could see Carruthers's face.

Carruthers had an unremarkable face. That was what everyone said. Unlike his father, he was neither handsome nor striking; the first time you passed him on the street, your gaze would glide right over him. His appearance was in no way special—

"You may stand up, if you like."

Meredith found himself on his feet before he knew he had moved. Carruthers's voice always did that to him, on the rare occasions that the Head took passing notice of him. Meredith would have been ashamed of his reaction, except that half the other lads in school had similar tales. Nobody had been able to figure out what magic lay in Carruthers's voice. It wasn't in the wording, for if any other master had spoken his words, those words would have sounded merely polite, almost deferential. Nor did Carruthers speak with a tone of aggression, like Rudd. His voice was . . . it was. . .

"Is that your cap?"

Masterful. That was the word for it. Meredith hastily grabbed his cap from the floor and then, since the cap seemed only a bit dusty, placed it on his head.

"Master . . ." Carruthers made the word into a query.

He swallowed and forced himself not to lower his eyes. "I'm Meredith, sir."

"Master Meredith – yes, of course." And oh, how glorious a happening – there was no mockery in Carruthers's voice as he spoke Meredith's provisional title. "Where is your liege-master? Is he in class?"

"No, sir. My liege-master is Master Pembroke."

"I see."

There was something in Carruthers's voice that made Meredith dip his eyes again. He felt a flush of shame spread across his face at his action. He wasn't sure where to look. Not down – he knew that much, had known that much since the first week of first form. But staring straight into the eyes of the heir to the Second Landstead would be far too bold. He tried looking halfway up, but that simply left him with a view of the jersey clinging to Carruthers's torso.

"Your arm is scratched. Do you have anyone besides your liege-master who will take care of that for you?"

He could not have said why, at that moment, tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes. He shook his head, hoping that Carruthers would not notice this sign of weakness.

"You'd best come with me, then." Carruthers turned and, without another word, made his way to the door leading out of the Third House.

Meredith actually hesitated a moment, an act that would have earned him amazed stares from any other lad who had received an order from Carruthers. Nobody was in sight to witness his hesitation, though. Feeling like a hooked fish, he hurried after Carruthers.

o—o—o

"Unmarked" is available in Waterman Omnibus.

Dusk Peterson at GLBT Bookshelf.
Love in Dark Settings Press at GLBT Bookshelf.

Fire in the Desert by Lydia Nyx

Blurb: Garrett Thomas is one of the world’s leading cryptozoologists. When he gets a tip a dragon—the holy grail of his field—has been spotted in the Sahara desert, he jumps at the chance to locate and document this elusive creature. As further incentive, his old college friend—and lover—Keegan Richards is currently on an archeological dig in Egypt. Keegan possesses a powerful supernatural ability called the Mystic. When Garrett sees his old flame after a year of separation, he finds not only has Keegan’s power increased so he has full command of the element of fire but he’s grown a thousand times more beautiful and exotic. After Garrett has a strange and erotic dream about him, Keegan inexplicably grows cold and tries to send Garrett home with his mission unfulfilled. Garrett stays in Egypt, however, and when he finally enters the dragon’s lair, he finds what he’s looking for—but not the way he expected.

Excerpt: Two weeks before venturing to the desert, Garrett received an email from a colleague who told him a group of nomads saw what they claimed to be a dragon in the Egyptian Sahara. Garrett, one of the world's leading cryptozoologists—a title meaning little, according to his father—jumped at the opportunity to investigate such a claim. No known lizard-like creatures in deserts grew to the size described, so even if the animal wasn't a dragon it was certainly a new species. In a magnificent coincidence, he received a letter from Keegan a week before the email saying he was on his way to Egypt. Garrett hadn't seen him in nearly a year and hoped he could contact him when he arrived in Cairo. Contact him he did, and Keegan agreed to lead him into the desert with a band of nomads who had taken him on as a sort of shaman. Garrett was ecstatic at the news. His own adventures with strange creatures paled in comparison to Keegan's tales of the world—though, the strangest creature Garrett ever met, really, was Keegan.

By evening, Keegan had bathed, eaten, and spoken with the people, who'd gathered around him like children around a storyteller. As Garrett sorted through his pack—carefully examined for scorpions beforehand—in the tent he and Keegan shared, Keegan entered. Garrett wore a sweatshirt and jeans, as night in the desert could get very cold. Keegan seemed unaffected by the temperature. He wore linen pants, a pair of sandals, and nothing else. Garrett wondered if his power kept him warm.

"Cold?" Keegan asked with a smirk. He knelt by his own pack, his back to Garrett. A tattoo crawled down his spine, starting somewhere beneath his long, sun-bleached hair and extending downward to the top of his pants, the work exquisitely intricate, an interwoven design of many colors. A torch outside the tent flap cast flickering light on Keegan's skin, making the colors shine iridescent. The lines moved with the subtle flexing of Keegan's muscles.

"That's new," Garrett said.

Keegan looked over his shoulder. "Huh? Oh, my back?" He looked away. "Yeah."

"When did you get that done?"

"A few months ago." He rose and turned. He held a shirt but didn't immediately put it on. The torchlight twinkled off the twin rings through his nipples. Those were new too. Garrett tried not to focus on how attractive he was, even more so than when they were in school together. Garrett had a job to do, after all—even if he had come there hoping for a little something else.

"Still working on your canvas I see," Garrett said. "Every time I see you it's a new tattoo or piercing. You'll never get a job in the real world." He said the last bit with a mock-fatherly tone.

Keegan rubbed a hand over the snake around his arm. "I don't think I'm going back to the real world. As much as I love archeology, I'm leaving the field."

Garrett looked at him in disbelief. "You are?"

"There's much more to this world than we ever imagined at Cornell." Keegan pulled his shirt on, a plain white t-shirt, so tight it clung to the sculpted landscape of his chest and abs. "I think you know that better than anyone, Garrett. I can't work in a structured system anymore."

"What about your travels? Your adventures? You couldn't give those up; I know you! You want to see the world."

"The world is bigger than what I can see now, working under measly grants." Keegan grew stoic. "You shouldn't have come here, Garrett."

Garrett's bewilderment increased. "Why not? This is what I do. And besides, I get to see you. I haven't seen you in ages!"

"It's dangerous."

Garrett laughed sarcastically. "I've been handling dangerous creatures for a long time, Keegan. A dragon? That's the holy grail of my field! My grants come from people with "special interests," but if I found a dragon and could document it? The scientific community would come crawling back to me to apologize! I wouldn't need to beg on the doorsteps of eccentric millionaires."

Keegan shifted his jaw. His gaze met Garrett's, the gleaming blue depths of his eyes capturing the torchlight, and then he looked away. "I just don't want you to get hurt," he said.

"Keegan, I know what I'm doing." Garrett rose, smiling, and grasped his shoulders. Indeed, he felt warm. "Trust me."

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