Queer Sci Fi has a new flash fiction anthology out: Rise. And there’s a giveaway.
RISE (Noun, Verb)
Eight definitions to inspire writers around the world, and an unlimited number of possible stories to tell:
An upward slope or movement
A beginning or origin
An increase in amount or number
An angry reaction
To take up arms
To return from death
To become heartened or elated
To exert oneself to meet a challenge
Rise features 300-word speculative flash fiction stories from across the rainbow spectrum, from the minds of the writers of Queer Sci Fi.
About the Series
Every year, Queer Sci Fi runs a one-word theme contest for 300 word flash fiction stories, and then we choose 120 of the best for our annual anthology.
Passed down in whispers and hands tracing hands through flour and faith. Never written down, paper being too precious for such a small spell, some might say. Like something must be loud to have worth.
A common myth, one that serves her quiet magic well.
She sits pretty in commonhalls and houses, empty eye-sockets and a cloak of harmless charm enough for most to dismiss her. Certainly, her weaving or kneading is all her pretty head can handle.
She listens, and her hands move. Each stitch another secret, gossip kneaded into every loaf.
—From Simple Recipes for Small Magics – Ziggy Schutz
It wasn’t the principles that Matt Harden objected to. The principles were fine: Limited planetary resources. Circle of life. The wrongness of playing God.
But, he thought as he spread the herbs on the basement floor in the prescribed way, the principles were bullshit when you were faced with reality. When the only man who’d ever held your heart was stolen from you by a moment’s distraction behind the wheel. When you never had the chance to even say goodbye. When your body in bed was as cold and alone as a corpse in a coffin.
When the night mist was clammy on your neck and the grave-dirt heavy on your shovel.
—From Principle and Reality – Kim Fielding
“He’s here,” Matt said, slamming the door behind him. “You ready?”
“Think so,” Rory said. He’d finished the salt circle, and quickly moved on to placing the candle in the center.
“Will this work?”
“It’s this or nothing.” Once Tiff told them she’d survived a run in with the killer known as The Hook, Rory knew they were as good as dead. Supposedly this bastard had been killed before, but he never seemed to stop. Much about The Hook seemed unreal, but Rory thought it was the only weapon they had – the unbelievable. Besides, they were gay; those characters always died first.
From Best Served Cold – Andrea Speed
“You do realize,” the nurse said gravely, “that without your parent permission form, this procedure can only be temporary.”
“I do,” Sharon said nervously. Sharon. That was a good name, right? Sounded like Shawn, but wasn’t. Was a girl’s name. A woman’s name. She liked Sharon.
“And that given your parent’s lack of support for this, there will be a counselor assigned to your home to ensure your safety?” The nurse continued, checking the talking points on her tablet with precision.
“I won’t need it,” Sharon said nervously. “They think it’s a phase, but they’re not, you know, hostile.”
From A New Day – Amy Lane
Author Bio
This year, 554 authors entered the Rise contest. 120 of them were chosen, and their stories are included in this anthology:
It’s hard to tell a story in just 300 words, so it’s only fair that I limit this foreword to exactly 300 words, too. This year, 454 writers took the challenge, with stories across the queer spectrum. The contest rules are simple. Submit a complete, well-written themed 300 word sci-fi, fantasy, paranormal or horror story with LGBTQ+ characters.
For our tenth year and ninth anthology, we chose the theme “Rise.” The interpretations run from rising bread to zombies rising from the grave, from sunrise to rising on feathered wings. There are little jokes, big surprises, and future prognostications that will make your head spin.
I’m proud that this collection includes many colors of the LGBTQ+ (or QUILTBAG, if you prefer) universe—lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, intersex, queer, and asexual characters populate these pages—our most diverse contest yet. There’s a bit of romance, too—and a number of stories solidly on the “mainstream” side. Flash fiction is short, fun, and easy to read. You may not fall in love with every story—in fact, you probably won’t. But if you don’t like one, just move on to the next, and you’re sure to find some bite-sized morsels of flash fiction goodness. There are so many good stories in here—choose your own favorites.
We chose three winning stories, five judges’ choice picks, and two director’s picks, all marked in the text. Thanks to our judges—Angel Martinez, Ben Lilley, Sacchi Green, Lloyd Meeker, and Diane Allen—for selflessly giving their time, love, and energy to this project. And to Ryane Candyce too, for editing.
At Queer Sci Fi, we’re building a community of writers and readers who want a little rainbow in their speculative fiction. Join us and submit a story of your own next time!
Lisa Oliver has a new MM paranormal romance trilogy out: The Magic Users of Greenford. And there’s a giveaway.
Lucifer Fireborn is a high magic user with a taste for the high life. He spends his days, along with his anchor brother Darwin, chasing the rogue magic users who don’t follow the rules all magic users live by. When his brother claims his own fated mate, and can’t anchor for Lucifer anymore, Lucifer has to find someone else to anchor for him, or risk setting everything and everyone around him on fire. But there’s a problem… Lucifer really doesn’t want anyone drooling over him, because that’s what people do.
Stefan de Marco is homeless again. Ranking as one of the highest scoring anchors in the country doesn’t count for anything when a man leaves his employ just so he can keep his pants on. It’s not the first time he’s been in that situation, and with his familiar Garrick, Stefan gets by. He was raised in the Trades Sector and he knows the value of hard work. When his path crosses with a desperate Lucifer, sparks fly, but not the ones Lucifer was hoping for.
Underneath it all is the insidious Brethren who believe high magic users should be able to use their magic without the grounding effects of an anchor. They seek to enslave or kill anchors in their bid to gain attention. Lucifer and Stefan have to find a way to work together to bring down the organization, but it’s not an easy thing to do when the two men come from different sides of the track.
The Magic Users of Greenford Trilogy should be read in order. It follows the one couple, Lucifer and Stefan, as they learn to manage their magic, and their love for each other in the face of adversity.
“Why would I be angry with you?” Stefan was looking steadfastly out of the passenger window. They were on their way to the airport, as planned. It was just their destination that had changed.
“You have to admit the situation with Foster was unusual. His anchor, Ethan was never found.”
“I doubt anyone ever looked for him. Ethan was just an anchor after all.” Stefan sniffed. “As for Foster, we got told, once we dropped him off at the facility Monty recommended, that the hexing case was under New York’s jurisdiction and therefore not our concern.”
“You weren’t curious about where his new anchor Helen got the hex?” Lucifer checked the traffic, and then risked a quick look at Stefan. Who still wasn’t looking at him. Catching Creed’s glance in the rear-view mirror, Lucifer got the impression the dog was judging him, too.
“I might have been, under different circumstances.”
Yep, Stefan was still angry.
“I mean, if my mate was still working as a Wielder of the Magic Sword, which was his occupation when I met him, and Foster’s case came across our desk as an authorized case, I would’ve jumped right on it with you. But, no, my mate told his boss, Ben, in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t be doing that job anymore. I believe you told him that afterour holiday, we were going to work at the Anchor Division.”
Stefan had an amazing memory. “Yes, I did say that.” Lucifer flicked on his indicator and took the turning for the airport. “But this case isn’t being investigated by the Council.”
“No. No, it’s not.” Stefan turned to face him then, and even out of the corner of his eye, Lucifer could see the hurt and anger on his face. “You’ve taken a case, on our behalf, from the one group of people who want to see people like me either subjugated, or completely wiped off the face of the earth.”
“If this is about the holiday…”
“What holiday?” Stefan didn’t have to raise his voice. He could snap out a sentence and make Lucifer feel as though he’d been whipped. “Are you talking about the holiday that you promised me nothing would get in the way of? That holiday?”
“I’m sure this won’t take long…”
“What the hell difference does it make how long this case takes? I’m not some spoiled society brat you have to appease with holidays and gifts. I’m from the Trades sector. I’m not afraid of hard work.”
“Then what…?”
“You really don’t get it. I can’t believe it, but you honestly don’t get it. Fine. Seeing as you clearly left your brain in your suitcase, I can tell you there are two things I’m upset about.” Stefan never used strong language, or interrupted Lucifer for any reason. But he was on a roll. “One. There’s the fact you didn’t consult me at all before you took the case. You reverted to Lucifer the arrogant ass, and made decisions for both of us, never once considering my feelings on the matter.
“And secondly, and by far the most important to my mind, did you miss the part when I said you’ve been employed by people who want to see me dead? Did you hear what they said about Technic? Council propaganda? Bad press? Excuse me? And that’s without the derogatory tones they used when they referred to me. How could you?”
Author Bio
Lisa Oliver lives in the wilds of New Zealand, although her beautiful dogs Hades and Zeus are now living somewhere else far more remote than she is. Reports indicate they truly enjoy chasing possums although they still can’t catch them.
In the meantime, Lisa is living a lot closer to all her adult kids and grandchildren which means she gets a lot more visitors. However, it doesn’t look like she’s ever going to stop writing – with over one hundred paranormal MM (and MMM) titles to her name so far, she shows no signs of slowing down.
When Lisa is not writing, she is usually reading with a cup of tea always at hand. Her grown children and grandchildren sometimes try and pry her away from the computer and have found that the best way to do it is to promise her chocolate. Lisa will do anything for chocolate… and occasionally crackers. She has also started working out, because of the chocolate and the crackers.
Lisa loves to hear from her readers and other writers (I really do, lol). You can catch up with her on any of the social media links below.
Hello and thank you so much to Author Anthony Avina and your wonderful blog readers, for letting me share an exclusive excerpt with you today from my Magic Users of Greenford Trilogy. This excerpt is from book three in the trilogy – Validate – and Lucifer has put his foot in it again. I do hope you enjoy it.
“You’re angry with me, aren’t you?” The question was a conversation opener and nothing more. Lucifer didn’t need to be a rocket scientist, or use his powers as a high magic user to realize his mate was furious. His mate’s anger throbbed through their bond like a boil on the point of exploding.
“Why would I be angry with you?” Stefan was looking steadfastly out of the passenger window. They were on their way to the airport, as planned. It was just their destination that had changed.
“You have to admit the situation with Foster was unusual. His anchor, Ethan was never found.”
“I doubt anyone ever looked for him. Ethan was just an anchor after all.” Stefan sniffed. “As for Foster, we got told, once we dropped him off at the facility Monty recommended, that the hexing case was under New York’s jurisdiction and therefore not our concern.”
“You weren’t curious about where his new anchor Helen got the hex?” Lucifer checked the traffic, and then risked a quick look at Stefan. Who still wasn’t looking at him. Catching Creed’s glance in the rear-view mirror, Lucifer got the impression the dog was judging him, too.
“I might have been, under different circumstances.”
Yep, Stefan was still angry.
“I mean, if my mate was still working as a Wielder of the Magic Sword, which was his occupation when I met him, and Foster’s case came across our desk as an authorized case, I would’ve jumped right on it with you. But, no, my mate told his boss, Ben, in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t be doing that job anymore. I believe you told him that afterour holiday, we were going to work at the Anchor Division.”
Stefan had an amazing memory. “Yes, I did say that.” Lucifer flicked on his indicator and took the turning for the airport. “But this case isn’t being investigated by the Council.”
“No. No, it’s not.” Stefan turned to face him then, and even out of the corner of his eye, Lucifer could see the hurt and anger on his face. “You’ve taken a case, on our behalf, from the one group of people who want to see people like me either subjugated, or completely wiped off the face of the earth.”
“If this is about the holiday…”
“What holiday?” Stefan didn’t have to raise his voice. He could snap out a sentence and make Lucifer feel as though he’d been whipped. “Are you talking about the holiday that you promised me nothing would get in the way of? That holiday?”
“I’m sure this won’t take long…”
“What the hell difference does it make how long this case takes? I’m not some spoiled society brat you have to appease with holidays and gifts. I’m from the Trades sector. I’m not afraid of hard work.”
“Then what…?”
“You really don’t get it. I can’t believe it, but you honestly don’t get it. Fine. Seeing as you clearly left your brain in your suitcase, I can tell you there are two things I’m upset about.” Stefan never used strong language, or interrupted Lucifer for any reason. But he was on a roll. “One. There’s the fact you didn’t consult me at all before you took the case. You reverted to Lucifer the arrogant ass, and made decisions for both of us, never once considering my feelings on the matter.
“And secondly, and by far the most important to my mind, did you miss the part when I said you’ve been employed by people who want to see me dead? Did you hear what they said about Technic? Council propaganda? Bad press? Excuse me? And that’s without the derogatory tones they used when they referred to me. How could you?”
End excerpt.
Have a wonderful day everyone, and a huge thank you again to Anthony Avina for allowing me to share my work here today.
R.L. Merrill has a new TED LASSO-inspired MM sports romance out: Everything’s Better With You.
Everything’s Better With You is a TED LASSO-inspired sports-themed funny romance featuring two guys who’ve pined for each other for 15 years while their careers soared and their bodies fell apart.
Retired quarterback and “nicest guy in the NFL” Leslie Payton met former college cheerleader-turned-reality-show darling Joe Judd fifteen years ago. They spent one magical night…talking. They’ve been pining for each other via text and phone calls ever since while their careers kept them geographically apart. When their alma mater recruits them to reinvigorate a flagging athletic program, Leslie sees his opportunity to finally have Joe close enough to see if their “what if” can become a reality. And the sooner the better before Leslie’s history of Traumatic Brain Injury catches up to him and he’s unable to be a true partner.
Joe has spent their years apart dancing in every gig offered to him, knowing full well the clock is ticking on his body’s ability to continue taking the abuse. Leslie wants forever to start now, and Joe doesn’t have that luxury, though Leslie makes him want things he’s never allowed himself to dream of with anyone else. But a lifetime of only feeling worthwhile for his performance ability makes him doubt whether he could ever be a good coach or enough of a partner for the best man he’s ever known.
As football and cheer coaches, they’re forced to be rivals in public, but behind closed doors, their chemistry is unstoppable. A wager triggers their competitive sides, but the secrets they keep come to light and present them with a seemingly insurmountable obstacle. Can they finally meet on the relationship 50-yard line and move forward as a team?
Warnings: discussion of past domestic violence that happens off page, not graphic
Joe Judd pulled his cigarette-smoke infested rental minivan into a spot in front of the imposing brick building that represented an important slice of his formative years. His ties to the place ran deep; his liberal arts education, his adult education, his physical education, all happened in this very place, and the building before him was a symbol of the chapter in his life that paved the way for where he was now.
Where am I?
Right. Spring Fling weekend. Greenvale College. Go Jackets!
This was the first year he’d returned to his alma mater for this momentous occasion since graduating in 2005. Joe left Ayre Valley, Iowa in his rear view mirror fifteen years ago and his life had been all glitz and glamour ever since. Okay, the minivan he was currently sitting in wasn’t glamorous. He couldn’t even pretend to be an old Hollywood starlet whose leading man lit his cigarettes for him. He’d quit smoking a long time ago, and the way this car reeked, it was a damn good thing he had. Everything else in Joe’s life was glitz and glamour, though.
And pain.
Ugh, the pain.
He turned off the ignition of the Chrysler and listened for the clunk clunk of the engine shutting down. The airport car rental place had given him their last available vehicle and charged him a premium since he’d wrongly assumed Kansas City, Missouri wouldn’t be so packed that he couldn’t land a nice Mustang for the two-hour drive up to Ayre Valley. The woman working the register let him know in no uncertain terms that his thinking was wrong.
The engine clunked once more and a grinding sound emanated from the other side of the dash as if the thing had given up the ghost.
He could relate. His body felt like that when he stopped moving these days.
At 36 years old, Joe had the appearance of a fit man in his twenties. He liked to think he resembled his beloved Porsche at home in West Hollywood rather than this current hunk of junk. Gleaming chrome and a flashy paint job on the outside gave people the impression that he was all power and sleek lines, when in reality, his engine needed an overhaul under the hood, and his shocks and struts had seen better days. He pushed his Porsche to the same limits he pushed his body and both protested loudly. Just like the minivan.
“Time to move before you freeze up like this piece of shit.”
He gritted his teeth and opened the door, feeling his lower back protest. He had to get his feet planted under him just right and push himself to standing, putting the least amount of pressure on his knees. Once he was upright, he arched his back and felt the L5 bulging disc, the torn tendon in his hip, and the stubborn rib that would not stay in place no matter how hard his chiropractor back in Hollywood pounded on it.
He let out a harsh exhale as everything settled into place and then he swung the door closed. It was a chilly April morning and he was glad he’d brought his wool coat and worn his fleece-lined jeans. He was just about to head up the walkway when he heard the rumble of tailpipes and the screeching of…heavy metal?
A ginormous four-by-four truck complete with a rack of lights and a winch mounted on the front grill kicked up gravel as it pulled into the spot next to Joe’s rental. The windows were tinted but he had a feeling he knew exactly who the monstrosity belonged to.
“Well, if it isn’t fancy-pants, twinkle-toes, Dance Machine’s own Joe Judd! I’ll be damned.”
The six-foot-five, long and not-quite-as-lean these days, blond-mulleted, monster-truck madman currently lowering himself gingerly out of the gas-guzzling giant was none other than Leslie Payton. Three-time Super Bowl-winning—now retired—NFL quarterback, championship university football coach, and fellow alum of Greenvale College.
The tremors running through Joe’s body had nothing to do with the temperature. No, this was a reunion long in the making, and now that he was here, he struggled to keep his snarky demeanor front and center.
“You always did know how to make an entrance,” Joe said, shaking his head. He strolled toward the back of his car to greet Les, who already had his hand out, seemingly just as eager.
“And you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Les said, taking Joe’s hand and pulling him in for a back-pounding bro-hug that made Joe’s teeth smack together. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”
Joe couldn’t either, honestly. He’d told himself he’d never come back here after graduation. The fact that he’d returned to the site of the best and most difficult years of his life was due entirely to the sheer amount of respect he held for Barry Payton—Leslie’s older brother and the new president of Greenvale College—and the complicated feelings he had for the man standing before him.
“I’m glad you could make it out. Barry was thrilled when you agreed to arrive early and meet with him.”
Joe raised an eyebrow. “I agreed to come for Spring Fling and the recognition of the cheer squad…am I missing something? Was there another part to the invitation?”
Les stepped back but didn’t let go of Joe’s hand, nor did he remove his other hand from Joe’s shoulder.
“I’ll let him explain it all to you. I’m just glad you’re here. Man, you look good.”
Joe did not miss the fact that Les’s gaze traveled hungrily over Joe’s body. Joe stood a little taller under the appraisal, glad he wasn’t the only one struggling with propriety.
“You just off a show?”
“Uh, yeah. Just finished choreography for the next season of Dance Machine and I’m headed from here to New York for a limited run of West Side Story.”
“When you’re a jet…doo doo doo doo doo,” Les sang, snapping his fingers. He laughed and pounded on Joe’s shoulder again, hard enough to make him stagger. “Oh, sorry, man. That’s great. I loved watching you on that live broadcast. You’ve still got those moves.”
Les’s smile held more wattage than all the lights in Levi Stadium, and Joe felt a blast of heat being the recipient of one of those smiles.
He had a flash of the first time he’d been the recipient of a Leslie Payton smile and how that night changed his life.
He watched my show. Joe fought to hide a triumphant smile.
Author Bio
Whether she’s writing contemporary romance featuring quirky, queer, and relatable characters or diving deep into the supernatural to give readers a shiver, R.L. Merrill loves creating compelling stories that will stay with readers long after closing the book.
Ro writes inclusive romance for the Happily Ever After collective, contributes paranormal hilarity to Robyn Peterman’s Magic and Mayhem Universe, and pens horror-inspired tales and music reviews for HorrorAddicts.net.
A mom, wife, daughter, and former educator, you can find her rocking out in her Bronco with Great Dane pup Velma, being terrorized by feline twins Dracula and Frankenstein, or headbanging at a rock show near her home in the San Francisco Bay Area! Stay Tuned for more…
Beck Grey has a new queer romance book out (gender-fluid, gay, trans), Love in the Pacific Northwest book 4: Free Me. And there’s a giveaway.
A gender-fluid cutie, a workaholic hottie, and a hookup gone right.
Blake
No romantic relationship could ever compete with my dream job. Sure, it gets lonely, but that’s what occasional hookups are for. Work-life balance? Who cares? I certainly don’t. Until chest pains bring me to my knees and land me in the emergency room.
It’s a wake-up call I can’t afford to ignore.
When my well-meaning family encourages me to make some major life changes, like hiring a meditation and physiotherapist, whatever that is, I’m worried enough to agree.
Imagine my surprise when my practitioner turns out to be the hookup I haven’t been able to forget.
Stef
What’s a fabulously vivacious gender-fluid beauty to do when stress is high and Prince Charmings aren’t lined up at their door? Head to the club to recharge my sparkle on the dance floor. I have no intention of hooking up with anyone. Hookups are not my thing.
Usually.
Then I see the slightly older hottie in the Tom Ford suit, and all my self-restraint goes up in a blast of glitter.
When it turns out he’s my new meditation client and my friend’s older brother, I’m sure the universe is messing with me.
Because mixing business with pleasure is a huge no-no.
So why does my heart keep shouting yes?
Free Me is a low-angst, opposites attract, worlds collide, contemporary LGBTQ romance about a hookup gone right. It contains no cheating, and a guaranteed HEA.
Warnings: Transphobia by a member of the LGBTQ community on a member of the community
About the Series:
Turns out, perfection isn’t a prerequisite for happiness.
Whether it’s risking your heart on a hookup, falling for your brother’s best friend, taking that second chance when it arrives, or pursuing a relationship that doesn’t look like everyone else’s — life is complex, but love doesn’t have to be.
Snarky, sweet and spicy, Love in the Pacific Northwest is a first person POV, low-medium angst, open door, contemporary LGBTQ romance series of interconnected standalones. No cheating and a guaranteed HEA every time!
I walk out to the bedroom balcony and look down at the patio. Blake is lounging by the pool in swim trunks and sunglasses, reading a book. He looks incredibly relaxed, and it makes my heart happy. “Hey, handsome.” He glances up and his face breaks into a wide grin. Okay, yes, we’ve been together for a few months, but his smile still makes my insides all melty and warm. “You want to come in and eat, or should I bring the food out?”
“Put on a suit and come down. This is my big plan for the day.” He gestures to the pool area and waves his book.
I lean my elbows on the railing and grin down at him. “If you’re trying to seduce me, it’s working.”
“Excellent. Step one in my evil plan is complete. Now come down here. I missed you.”
“Be down in a sec!” I hurry inside, strip out of my work clothes, then lather myself in the sunscreen that smells like coconut. Blake loves the scent, and I love how he nuzzles my neck when I use it. I pull on my tiniest black and white print swim briefs, grab a beach towel from the closet and the food bags from the kitchen counter, and hurry down to the game room and out to the patio. “Should we eat at the table or on the loungers like heathens?”
Blake glances up from his book and his eyes lock on my tiny swimsuit. I do a slow spin, giving him a good view of my ass. “Like?”
He pulls his sunglasses to the end of his nose and peers over them. “That’s new.” His voice is thick with lust. Oh, yeah. Mission accomplished.
“It is! And it’s so adorable!”
Blake licks his lips. “And so tiny.”
“I had a feeling you might like it.” I skip past him to the table and deposit the bags.
Blake practically growls and grabs my hips the moment I put the bags down. “Come here.”
I laugh as he manhandles me, hauling me close and inhaling my skin. He drags his nose across my abdomen and my cock stirs, eager to join in the fun, but my stomach growls with hunger. “Mmm. I’m fully on board with whatever you’re planning here, Darling, but we should eat before the food gets cold.”
Blake bites my hip. “We can heat it up.”
My laugh quickly turns to a gasp as his tongue teases above the edge of my suit. It’s all I can do not to press his head a few inches lower. “Blake, Darling, I have souvlaki and Greek salad.”
He hums and sits back, waggling his eyebrows at me. “You know I love Greek.”
I snort at his double entendre. “As do I, my darling. So let’s eat.” I wink at him. “Then we can eat.”
His chuckle warms every part of me. He pushes to his feet with a sigh. “If we must, we must.”
“We must.” I press up on my tiptoes and pucker up.
He obliges me, but turns my expected quick press of lips into a lingering kiss that curls my toes and has me second-guessing my stance on eating first. As I’m about to give in, he lets me go and pats my backside. “C’mon. Let’s feed you so we can move on to other enjoyable things.”
Author Bio
Beck is a non-binary writer of sweet, sexy, LGBTQ happily ever afters. Why? Because everyone deserves all the happy! They live in the Northeastern United States with their two adorable dogs.
Weekdays are spent working their day job, but nights and weekends are devoted to writing stories involving hot characters, favorite tropes, and happy endings. Any additional time includes reading, laughing with friends, drinking red wine, and playing D&D. If there’s cake involved at any point it’s a win!
Here is an Excerpt from Author Beck Grey’s “Free Me”
The pout gets more pronounced as I get closer. They’re obviously resigned to the fact that I’m here, and now taking full advantage. “I’m sick. I feel like poo and my nose is stuffy and won’t stop running, and you’d think that’s not possible, but I’m here to tell you it is.” I hold open my arms, food bags dangling from my fingers, and Stef walks into my embrace, tucking their face into my neck and sniffing. “I can’t even smell you, and that’s so sad. I love the way you smell.”
I kiss the top of their head and carefully close my arms around them. “Well, I brought food and some over-the-counter medicine for your cold. Hopefully, those will do the trick and you’ll be back to smelling me in no time.”
If they can hear the smile in my voice, they ignore it. “I’m miserable. And hungry. I don’t have the energy to be hangry.”
“Well, let’s go upstairs and I’ll take care of you.”
Stef leans back and looks up at me. “You will?”
“Absolutely. I can’t have you at death’s door.”
They nod. “I am, too. It’s awful.” They turn around and head for their apartment, which saves me the effort of hiding my grin. How can one person be so damned cute?
“So, how long have you been sick?” It’s been a few days since we’ve seen each other, but we’ve been texting and calling, and Stef hadn’t mentioned feeling under the weather.
They sigh dramatically as they fling their apartment door open. “Ages. Two days, I think.”
Looking around the apartment, I believe them. There are mugs and pots in the sink where it looks like they’ve made soup but not cleaned up. I set the bags of food on the counter and follow Stef into their room. There are tissues all over the floor and more empty mugs and bowls on the side table. Their laptop is in the middle of the bed, a movie paused mid-stream, and a half-eaten bag of lozenges open next to the pillows. Stef flops onto the bed, almost bouncing the laptop onto the floor. I can see I have my work cut out for me.
I take off my suit jacket and tie and carefully drape them over the sofa. It seems Stef hasn’t made it to this half of the room yet, so they should be safe. I roll up my sleeves and Stef groans. “No! No fair!” They wave at me. “Sleeve rolling!” They flop dramatically back on the pillows. “No being sexy while I’m sick. It’s so unfair.”
I look down at my forearms and laugh. “Excuse me?”
“Sexy forearms!” They sigh again. “Blake, how do you not know about the forearm thing?”
I shrug. “No idea how I missed that. I’m sorry.”
Stef waves a hand in my direction. “Fine. You’re forgiven.”
They’re bundled in a lump on the bed, complete with fuzzy unicorn slippers poking out at the bottom of the duvet, so I move the laptop to the other side and carefully unwrap them. “How about we eat something and then I’ll run a bath for you?”
The moan Stef makes would be lascivious if they weren’t actually sick. “Blake, you are a god among men.”
“Do you want to eat in the kitchen?”
In lieu of an answer, Stef groans and sits up. I reach to help them, but they stand and lean into me, head on my shoulder. “Thank you. For bringing me food, and medicine, and please don’t look at me too closely.”
I hold them tightly and kiss their forehead, which feels a little warm against my lips. “You’re still gorgeous, just in a real-person kind of way. You’ll always be beautiful to me.”
Stef settles against me. “Really?”
I nod. “Of course. Stef, you are gorgeous on the outside, but you’re also beautiful on the inside, and in my opinion, that matters more.”
They sniff. “How come I’m only beautiful on the inside?”
“I’m sorry?”
“There’s a scale. And you said I was gorgeous on the outside and beautiful on the inside.”
They sound like they’re pouting and I bite my lip so I don’t laugh. “Well, I didn’t know there was a scale. If you’ll tell me, I can rephrase using the proper terminology.”
There’s a pause, like they’re thinking it over and then they shrug. “All right. It goes nice, pretty, beautiful, gorgeous, stunning.”
“Mmm. I see. Well, You’re stunning inside and out.”
“Pfft. You’re just saying that because I’m sick. I look like heck.”
Liz Faraim has a new lesbian mystery thriller out: Pinned. And there’s a giveaway.
“Rowdy” Randy Cox, a woman staring down the barrel of retirement, is a curmudgeonly blue-collar butch lesbian, who has been single for twenty years and is trying to date again.
At the end of a long, exhausting shift, Randy finds her supervisor, Bryant, pinned and near death at the warehouse where they work. Upon the news of his death, she battles to find a balance between the joys of an exciting new relationship and the struggles of processing her supervisor’s unexpected passing.
The manner of her supervisor’s death leaves Randy unsettled and suspicious as she gets sucked into both a criminal investigation led by the police and an administrative investigation conducted by her employer.
As Randy seeks the truth, trust erodes, key friendships are strengthened, and more loss awaits her.
“Yeah. You wanna ride the canyon?” Bear asked as she ran her fingers through her wild salt-and-pepper hair. Buck and I both nodded. I stowed my snacks and slid on my helmet.
“Okay. Everybody’s all gassed up, right? Last gas station before the canyon is at the casino.”
“We’re good. Filled up before crossing the causeway. Now stand back,” Bear said as she did a Jackie Gleason style windup before hoisting her short leg over the saddle of her bike.
We’d ridden many miles together and I was happy to see that her bike, a massive 1600cc Road Star, which she had lovingly named Champagne, was still on the road.
Buck fired up her Harley with a bone rattling rumble. I reminded myself to ride in front of her. When I rode behind her the engine noise was too much. I paired up the Bluetooth and Spotify again and picked a 1980s hits channel. Van Morrison sang to me about tupelo honey as I pulled out behind Bear, with Buck taking sweep behind us.
As we rolled slowly by PJ’s, the checker was walking out of the front door, gazing down at her cell phone. She looked up just in time to knock me out one more time with her bright eyes and toothy smile, making my heart race. I had to force myself to focus back on riding as we pulled out of the parking lot onto the main road.
We dodged big groups of college kids on bicycles as we passed through intersections until Dairy Glen turned back into farmland. Long, ramrod-straight county roads that ran between tomato and sunflower fields took us to the next county. The coastal mountains rose in the distance, the only thing to break up the scenery of the flat valley floor except for the occasional barn, well pump, or windmill.
Before long the three of us were weaving our way through the green rolling hills of Capay Valley, the two-lane road gently curving around orchards and dormant row crop fields. I saw some farms with livestock, including a few llamas and emu. We passed through the small towns of Madison, Esparto, and Capay.
Around the bend we got to Brooks, where the small farmhouses gave way to the casino, looming large, overlooking vineyards and the foothills. A massive banner strung across the front advertised an upcoming big-name concert. After the casino we passed through Guinda, and the road narrowed further as the terrain changed from wide-open valley floor to canyon, with steep wooded hillsides. The temperature dropped several degrees in the shade of the hills.
I did my best to stay focused on the ride and the road, but the heart-stopping smile I had gotten earlier in Dairy Glen, those blue eyes locked on mine, were a big distraction. I hadn’t given any woman a second look in years, let alone have one get my heart and mind racing.
Bear cruised along, never in a hurry, taking the curves with ease. I checked my side mirror now and then to make sure Buck was still with us, her aftermarket exhaust pipes echoing through the narrow canyon. There were hardly any other vehicles on the canyon road, though we did pass a few packs of cyclists decked out in spandex, riding fancy road bikes. As we rolled by a group of bikes on a steep climb, I watched one guy’s chiseled leg muscles working hard to pedal. The lady in front of him blew a snot rocket over her shoulder and he didn’t even flinch. I was glad to have an engine between my legs and opened the throttle to climb the last bit of the hill.
At the top of the hill, we zoomed by another gaggle of cyclists, resting after their climb. They were all off their bikes, panting and sweating even in the cold. One lady was throwing up in the bushes. Her jersey said “Veni, Vidi, Vomiti.” The slogan rattled around in my brain, drawing me back to my father trying to teach me Latin as a kid. I figured it meant something like: I came, I saw, I barfed. Another lady stood by, leaning on her bike frame, totally unbothered, sucking on one of those goo energy tubes.
My fingers and toes had started to go numb from the cold despite wearing thick socks and boots, and winter riding gloves. While on a short, straight stretch I took my eyes off the road again to turn on the heated grips. I pressed the button and looked up just in time to see Bear dump her bike over farther than I thought possible. Champagne, nearly on its side, cut over into the opposite lane and back.
I scanned the road for the hazard and had just enough time to register a small rockslide, scree and baseball-sized chunks of rock bouncing down the steep hillside and onto the road. I spotted a small gap and rode straight through, pebbles pinging off my helmet and shooting out from under my tires. I checked my mirror and watched as Buck, who’d had the most time to respond, swung out wide and avoided the whole thing with little fuss. That was Buck for ya.
Bear parked in a turnout a few hundred yards up the road. I pulled in behind her to catch my breath. I yanked off my helmet and pulled the bandana down off my mouth, heart doing somersaults.
Bear slapped her chest and let out a roar that reverberated through the hills and down the canyon.
“Awooo! Jesus Christ! Did you see that, Randy?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t dump it. That was some fine goddamn riding.”
“Wasn’t my first time, won’t be my last.” She gasped and shook her hands out.
“Good thing you’ve been riding since before you could spell motorcycle.”
We laughed wildly, which helped me relax and steady myself as the adrenaline rush faded. Buck pulled in behind us, tires crunching on gravel, and killed her engine.
Author Bio
Liz has a full plate between balancing a day job, parenting, writing, and finding some semblance of a social life. In past lives she has been a soldier, a bartender, a shoe salesperson, an assistant museum curator, and even a driving instructor. She focuses her writing on strong, queer, female leads who don’t back down.
Liz transplanted to California from New York over thirty years ago. She now lives in the East Bay Area of California and enjoys exploring nature with her wife and son.
One moment, everything was fine. Just a normal, run-of-the-mill indie goth alternative rock show at the Leeds University Union on a Sunday afternoon in late April. Just a young band singing about the most angsty issues of the moment, playing less-than-commercial music that was a cut above the usual pop twaddle. Nothing out of the ordinary, really.
But then, things got decidedly odd, downright bizarre. Up was down, or maybe it was just an inverted up? The walls were closing in, or were they falling away very close by? It got very dark, almost brightly so. And the intense volume of the music was almost inaudible. If this was a part of the show, it was damned strange, but strangely appealing.
The band in question, the Mystic Wedding Weasels, was making something of a splash recently, and the hall was packed with young fans eager to soak up their particular brand of musical peculiarity, most notably in the figure of their enigmatic singer. And she seemed to be the source of this sudden oddness. At least, twelve-year-old witch Jilly Pleeth thought so.
Jilly couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see her favorite new band live, and she’d invited her friend Lluck along for the experience. He was half-human, half Indian Fae, all teenage attitude, and could affect the laws of probability in his favor. So, not your typical fourteen-year-old. She’d met him last winter during a rather crazy adventure involving an ancient Germanic forest spirit that wanted to eat his heart; as one does. Also, his long-lost mum was now dating Jilly’s best friend, a shadow with glowing red eyes; it’s a rather long and strange story.
In any case, returning to the matter at hand, everything had been as expected for the first few songs, when things shifted into all sorts of odd and back, but what was happening?
“Did you see that?” Jilly asked Lluck over the din of the current song, something about feeling dreadful in the face of ultimate despair.
“See what?” he half-shouted back at her.
“You didn’t notice how everything just went all… funny for a bit?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Everything just changed!”
“Changed how? What are you on about?”
“Something crazy strange is going on. It doesn’t feel normal.”
“All right, Ms. Witchy, I’ll take your word for it. But strange is the new normal these days, anyway, so who cares? Can we just watch the show, please?”
Jilly didn’t answer, but she remained unsettled. She turned her attention back to the singer, Chantz, at least that’s what she called herself. Jilly didn’t know her real name, if she had one. She looked to be in her early twenties, sported long black hair (with a streak of green-dyed tresses cascading down the right side of her head) and the obligatory black vestments: black dress, fishnets, black Doc Marten boots, long and wispy black shirt, open and trailing about her. But her voice was the real draw. It was enchanting, captivating; it drew in Jilly like a… spell. Jilly scrunched up her nose in that way that she always did when alarm bells went off in her head. Well, perhaps they were more like wind chimes.
She grabbed Lluck by the arm and yelled into his ear. “It’s magic!”
“Yeah, it’s all right isn’t it?” He bobbed his head up and down in time with the song.
She rolled her eyes. “No, you nitwit! Not the show, the singer.”
Advertisements
Tim Rayborn has a new queer urban fantasy out (bi, lesbian), Qwyrk Tales book 3: Chantz.
Qwyrk can’t get a break. Spring is springing, but she’s stuck breaking up drunken faery fights as Beltane approaches. She really wants to take things to the next level with her possibly-probably-girlfriend Holly, but she keeps coming down with a chronic case of chickening out.
And now, her best human friend, Jilly Pleeth, has had a rather odd encounter. While attending a concert by her favorite band, the Mystic Wedding Weasels, Jilly was amazed by their enigmatic singer, Chantz. There’s something downright magical about her voice, something so magical that an evil force from outside this world wants her for nefarious reasons. But will Chantz succumb to its lure?
Chantz is the third in a series of four novels about the comic misadventures of a group of misfits at the edge of normal reality in modern northern England, a world of shadows, Nighttime Nasties, eldritch screaming horrors, appalling neo-Shakespearean sonnets, undead corvids, an abundance of verbal sparring, and… Qwyrk is not an elf, all right? They’re just silly!
After a few minutes of meandering on campus, she found a rather expansive and tree-filled enclosure marked by a sign reading “Welcome to St. George’s Field.” Seeing as she could lose herself in its trees, this place would suffice. Wandering in, she found herself strolling through a historic cemetery, which appealed to her gothy aesthetic sensibilities. She sat herself down on a stone bench not far from some centuries-old headstones and tried to focus, to think, to something.
She closed her eyes, trying to recall the feeling of the power flowing through her.
“What are you?” she whispered.
For a time, she felt nothing. Sighing in frustration, she opened her eyes. The field was mercifully unpopulated today, so she decided to risk singing a little tune, an old Irish folk song. She couldn’t remember where she’d learned it. She couldn’t remember much of anything before the last couple of years, to be honest. But there it was, stuck in her head, so she called on it.
It was a simple melody with a short verse and a chorus. She didn’t even know all the words, but that didn’t matter. She just sang the bit she knew over and over. It was soothing, comforting, and connected her to something, as if stirring a memory. She closed her eyes again, allowing it to wash over her. For the first time in a while, she formed a genuine smile. Not a big smile, mind you, she did have her reputation to think of, after all.
As she neared the third repeat, something happened. She heard a voice in her head, one that contrasted with her own. It was more like a momentary flash of sound, in a language she didn’t recognize. It didn’t make her stop singing; in fact, she wanted to continue. After she sang another verse or two, and she heard it again, like a call across some great gap. But was it far away in the distance? Or maybe in time?
How does that even make any sense?
Intrigued, she kept singing, but lowered her voice so as not to attract any onlookers. It would be just like someone to come up in the middle of it and ruin the whole experience, with their chattiness and insipid curiosity.
As it turned out, she was indeed interrupted, but not by any passersby who should have been minding their own business. In her mind’s eye, she saw a face. The face of an old woman. She had long, disheveled grey-streaked hair, and her complexion was wan and weathered, with dark shadows under her eyes. There was almost something cool about her. The face was obscured, as if peering through a fog, and Moirin couldn’t gauge its intent. She wasn’t imagining it; her imagination was good, but not this good. The woman opened her mouth as if to say something, but no words emerged, and if she were the one speaking those foreign words, Moirin wouldn’t have understood her, anyway.
The old woman smiled, but it was an odd smile, and not really a happy one, more like sinister grin. She seemed to want something from Moirin. The smile grew bigger and stretched to unnatural proportions. Her eyes began to lighten, not just the pupils, but the whole of her eyes, greying at first and then fading into a milky white.
Moirin’s heart raced. She stopped singing and gasped. Whatever this thing was, she wanted nothing to do with it. She tried to open her eyes, but they were heavy, almost as if she’d been drugged. Her ears seemed to close up, and the world around her disappeared. She shook her head and tried to stand up, but just like her eyes, her legs no longer worked. She started to panic and opened her mouth again, not to sing but to scream, shout for help, something. But no sound escaped.
The face sneered at her, perhaps enjoying her helplessness. It became ever more twisted and grotesque and opened its mouth again, almost in mockery of Moirin’s inability to do so. A low-pitched wailing sounded from the old woman, a mournful call that seemed to portend something awful. It rose in pitch and volume to a full-on cry, a tuneless and wordless plaint that sounded like something out of an older time. It shook Moirin to the core, but the more she heard it, the more it seemed to invite her, to draw her in, even to tempt her. Whatever the ill intent of this creature invading her mind, and however frightening its call, Moirin felt oddly at home. She began to surrender to its lure, to its awful and seductive pull.
Author Bio
Tim Rayborn has written an astonishing number of books over the past several years. He lived in England for quite some time and has a PhD from the University of Leeds, which he likes to pretend means that he knows what he’s talking about. His generous output of written material covers topics such as music, the arts, history, the strange and bizarre, fantasy and sci-fi, and general knowledge.
He’s also an acclaimed musician. He plays dozens of unusual instruments that quite a few people of have never heard of and often can’t pronounce. He has appeared on over forty recordings, and his musical wanderings and tours have taken him across the US, all over Europe, to Canada and Australia, and to such romantic locations as Marrakech, Istanbul, Renaissance chateaux, medieval churches, and high school gymnasiums.
He currently lives in Washington state (where it rains a lot), surrounded by many books and instruments, as well as with a sometimes-demanding cat. He is rather enthusiastic about good wines, and cooking excellent food.
I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
A royal Prince and a small-town high school student discover they are identical twins and tackle the challenges each faces in author Eric Geron’s “A Tale of Two Princes”.
Advertisements
The Synopsis
#1 New York Times bestselling author Eric Geron delivers whirlwind wish-fulfillment in this story of a closeted crown prince and an out-and-proud cowboy who discover they were separated at birth.
Edward Dinnissen leads a charmed life. He’s the Crown Prince of Canada, gets the royal treatment at his exclusive private school, and resides in a ritzy mansion. He thrives off being the perfect prince as he prepares for the Investiture Ceremony on his eighteenth birthday, the final step in his role as heir—and Canada’s future king. But this closeted Crown Prince has just one tiny problem: he’s unsure how to tell his parents, his beloved country, and his adoring fans that he’s gay.
Billy Boone should be happy with the simple life. His family’s ranch is his favorite place in the world, he loves his small town, and his boyfriend is the cutest guy at Little Timber High. So why does it feel like something’s still missing? Maybe it has to do with the fact that this out-and-proud cowboy feels destined for something more . . .
When Edward and Billy meet by chance in New York City, they discover that they are long-lost twins, and their lives are forever changed. Together, will these twin princes—“twinces”—be able to take on high school, coming out, and coronations? Or will this royal reunion quickly become a royal train wreck?
The Review
This was a truly compelling and entertaining LGBTQ-driven read. The author did an amazing job o balancing the emotional character development with the drama and glamor of Royal and the Royal family. The unique story addition of a Canadian Royal Family and the twist on the classic Parent Trap/long-lost twin trope added depth to the narrative that was both wildly engaging and thoughtful. The magical setting of New York and Canada’s royal property was a great juxtaposition to the calm and serene beauty of the Montana countryside.
To me, the heart of this narrative rested in the rich character development and the inclusivity that the author’s story provided. The way the author tackled the fears and hardships of both staying closeted and being out as a gay teen, let alone a gay teen in the public eye, was greatly represented by the brothers and their unique backgrounds. The drama that ensues as the pressures of royal life and the line of succession, as well as scheming behind the scenes and subtle yet passionate romances, made this a truly compelling story.
The Verdict
Memorable, emotionally-riven, and thoughtful written, author Eric Geron’s “A Tale of Two Princes” is a must-read LGBTQ YA novel of 2023. The heart of this story and the gripping story of two brothers, a shocking backstory, and the emotional depths of the themes, from lost loved ones and family secrets to battling homophobia and accepting oneself for who they are, make this a book I couldn’t put down. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!
Rating: 10/10
Advertisements
About the Author
Eric Geron (pronounced: jur-ON) is the New York Times bestselling author of The Hocus Pocus Spell Book, Poultrygeist, and Bye Bye, Binary, along with numerous other titles, including the New York Times bestselling Descendants novelization under the name Rico Green. He earned his creative writing degree from the University of Miami and spent many years at Disney as an editor of New York Times bestselling books. He currently resides in New York City. You can find him on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and TikTok @EricGeron and on his website at ericgeron.com.
“Handsome and charming? How is Canada’s perfect royal son possibly still single?”
Travis Romano, Dean of Admissions at The Juilliard School here in New York, gives me a meaty handshake. A gigantic grin plasters his face and his green eyes crinkle at the corners. He shifts his stance as if hoping the photographers will be able to capture a few good shots of this moment. It’s the same irk-some question I’ve been dodging since the day I went from “Royal Tot” to “Royally Hot.”
The clanging of crystal quiets as a hush falls around the dean. A Silicon Valley tech guru sets down her glass of Bor-deaux to lovingly place her hand on her husband’s arm. The president’s son gives me a cheeky grin. Everyone within a three-metre radius is now silent, impatiently waiting to hear how I’ll respond.
For a moment, I imagine telling everyone the truth: “Guess what? I’m gay! And I don’t want to marry a woman and one day have babies to continue the royal bloodline.” But I’ll never say that. It’s too important to my parents—and all of Canada—that I follow in their footsteps.
And as next in line to the Maple Crown, it’s too important that I be a good king for my people one day.
EDWARD
“Handsome and charming? How is Canada’s perfect royal son possibly still single?”
Travis Romano, Dean of Admissions at The Juilliard School here in New York, gives me a meaty handshake. A gigantic grin plasters his face and his green eyes crinkle at the corners. He shifts his stance as if hoping the photographers will be able to capture a few good shots of this moment. It’s the same irk-some question I’ve been dodging since the day I went from “Royal Tot” to “Royally Hot.”
The clanging of crystal quiets as a hush falls around the dean. A Silicon Valley tech guru sets down her glass of Bor-deaux to lovingly place her hand on her husband’s arm. The president’s son gives me a cheeky grin. Everyone within a three-metre radius is now silent, impatiently waiting to hear how I’ll respond.
For a moment, I imagine telling everyone the truth: “Guess what? I’m gay! And I don’t want to marry a woman and one day have babies to continue the royal bloodline.” But I’ll never say that. It’s too important to my parents—and all of Canada—that I follow in their footsteps.
And as next in line to the Maple Crown, it’s too important that I be a good king for my people one day.
So, I’ll never find true love. That’s the cost of my destiny, and I’ve accepted it. Besides, I’m already married—to tradition.
MAPLE CROWN RULE 57: Never discuss matters of the heart.
To cover my nervousness, I flash my signature sugar-sweet smile—one befitting the Crown Prince of Canada—at the attentive crowd on the dance floor, letting them drink in the seconds. Over the Juilliard violinists playing softly in the back-ground, I answer the dean’s question about how I’m possibly still single with one deadpan word:
“Midterms.”
Some people chuckle while others begin a chorus of aaaaaaw. The platinum maple leaf brooch on my jacket lapel sits heavy on top of my heart. It identifies me as the Crown Prince of Canada, but it’s also the lock of the box I’m trapped in-side. The truth is, I’m single because I’m a closeted gay guy…and I’m a closeted gay guy because I’m the Crown Prince of Canada.
I keep smiling at the crowd, even though the many faces staring back feel overwhelming. I’ve been gone from the public eye for almost a year, so of course everyone is excited to see the “reclusive” Crown Prince return to the limelight. They don’t have to know that “reclusive” actually means I’ve been grounded this whole time, and all because of how poorly I acted at my seventeenth birthday party.
In the fallout, Mum and Dad grounded me for the rest of my junior year, then ordered I be sent away to New York City for my senior year. I’ve been here for six months, cooped up between my family’s private Upper East Side residence and a stuffy private school. Sure, there was public scrutiny over my parents shipping me off to New York, but they passed it off as an opportunity to strengthen their tight bonds with Canada’s closest neighbour to the south. No need for anyone to know I had been grounded and sent here as punishment.
Luckily, all my efforts to be a model prisoner have paid off, and my parents have just decided I don’t have to be grounded for the rest of my senior year. Tonight they’re giving me the chance to prove I really can be a model Crown Prince. And of course, I promised Mum and Dad I would be on my abso-lute best behaviour. After all, the Investiture Ceremony is in a couple of weeks, which means I have to prove that I’m fully prepared to be heir to the Maple Crown, aka the Canadian Crown. I know I’m ready. I’ve been training for it since I was a child. But I still need to convince the 38,346,809 people of Canada—and the rest of the world too. No pressure, right?
Dean Romano claps me on the back, wagging his finger at me with a cloying smile. “Well, we look forward to the day you find the perfect girl.” The rest of the group applauds po-litely and clinks their glasses.
I sigh inwardly. Since forever, Mum and Dad have said the same exact thing to me whenever the topic of the future queen has come up. I want to tell my rapt audience that I’m only seventeen years old, and therefore in no rush to marry anyone, obviously. But I’m used to near-total strangers interrogating me about my love life, so I wink at the dean and then add, “I promise that you’ll be the first to know.”
MAPLE CROWN RULE 16: Maintain civility in social settings.
The semicircle of men and women—okay, mostly women—tightens around me, countless sequined arms and shimmer-ing bare shoulders swarming me like voracious sea creatures. My Adam’s apple presses against my stiff collar. “Who knows?” I add, my sultry smile fighting a twitch as I reach up to loosen my tie. “Maybe I’ll meet someone special here tonight.”
MAPLE CROWN RULE 46: Make everyone feel heard
Charity balls are a royal pain in the derrière, but also an unfortunate requirement, along with cutting ribbons and giv-ing speeches. With the Dinnissen monarchy still so new, my parents work tirelessly to endear themselves to the Canadian public, which is still forming opinions on our family as its new fledging figureheads—and as soon as I graduate in June and return home to Canada, the full weight of that responsibility will fall upon my shoulders as well.
Though I suppose I can’t be too upset with my parents, or as the British press has dubbed them, Canada’s “Maple Syrup Sweeties.” Tonight, they’re off at some admirable conference with our prime minister. Actual important stuff that doesn’t in-volve schmoozing with politicians and celebrities. Well, maybe still some schmoozing—Mum always books her reflexologist before traveling with the PM. Then again, I can’t complain about standing in for them tonight. I’m still just so glad my time of captivity is finally over.
“To Prince Edward finding true love!” Dean Romano’s wife, Rebecca, lifts her crystal champagne flute toward the chandelier, and everyone echoes her words, then drains their glasses.
I manage to keep smiling. Her toast is yet another painful reminder of something I’ll never have…true love. But that’s the trade-off that comes with getting to be king one day.
It’s more exhausting than I remembered to keep pretending I’m something I’m not. I really need to get a breath of fresh air.
Excusing myself, I turn away and scan for the back doors of the Grand Ballroom—combing through a choppy ocean of barons, dignitaries, dukes, and celebrities. All resplendent in sheer gowns and sleek black ties. All elated to speak to me. But I don’t care about any of them. I only care about one per-son. Where the hell is Neel, anyway? To think I call him my best friend. And where the hell is the exit?
Gord Lauzon, Canadian secretary to Dad and my personal adviser since I was a child, is laughing up a storm with a group of people against the ballroom’s gilded wall. Like always, Gord looks sharp in a luxury suit and tie, his head freshly shaved and gleaming white. He was Granny’s ex–private secretary who now controls the press office, acts as the vital channel of com-munication between my parents and the Canadian govern-ment, and manages my day-to-day. Gord also works as liaison to the Institution—or “Firm”—that keeps the Royal Family running like one big business. He was delighted my ground-ing presented him with a chance to ratchet up his royal lessons. That is, after he got over the sour taste it left in his mouth.
He meets my eyes through his bold-framed glasses. After six months of him being my New York City babysitter, aka my parents’ eyes on me, I can tell he’s checking in. He subtly extends his arm, pressing fingertip to thumb, our signal for asking if everything is copacetic. I doubt anything foul will happen in this historic hotel’s grand old ballroom, other than me breaking a heart or two, so I return the gesture and he nods in understanding. Though, if I’m being honest, I could use his help to point out the exit door.
I check my timepiece and realize I’ve only been here for an hour. I used to be so good at wowing the crowds at these fundraisers. I’ve got to get back on top of my game. That is, after I take that much-needed brief break.
“Well, if it isn’t Canada’s Golden Child,” says a sly voice in my ear.
Suddenly, I’m being suffocated by a thick cloud of vanilla perfume as I turn to take in the full lips and chiseled cheek-bones of Sephora’s latest global ambassador, aka Lady Sofia Marchand, aka Fi, aka my frenemy since childhood. In an exquisite seafoam-blue couture gown with enough tulle to make Cinderella jealous, she looks every bit an ethereal fairy tale goddess.
Click!
The event photographer trips the shutter of his camera be-fore I can even utter a greeting. Seamlessly, Fi throws her head back in laughter as if I’ve just showed her the most hilarious GIF in the world. Instinctively, I tighten my core, relax my shoulders, and flex my chest.
MAPLE CROWN RULE 13: Have a royal presence.
Gord once told me that the best way to have perfect posture was to pretend someone was pulling a string right up through the top of my head, like a puppet. I was five. That’s me, all these years later: Perfect Puppet Prince Eddie, aching mouth unhinged, grin and all.
And Lady Sofia knows just how to pull my strings. With British aristocracy on her mum’s side and descending from French nobles on her Canadian dad’s side, Fi’s been one of my Crown-approved acquaintances since we were kids at Ash-wood Elementary in Ottawa. For years, we’ve attended the same polo and equestrian summer camp, the same celebrity birthday parties, and the same VIP meet-and-greets backstage at sold-out concerts. It’s painstakingly evident that our par-ents are hoping for a romantic spark, but Fi and I are less like maple syrup in milk and more like oil and water. I thought we might be rid of each other when I moved south of the border for my senior year, but no such luck. Her parents put her into St. Aubyn’s Prep as soon as they heard I would be attending, which she didn’t seem to mind.
Click!
“Well if it isn’t New York’s hottest crown-chaser,” I mut-ter out the corner of my mouth.
“Given how elusive you are, it’s no wonder I haven’t caught it yet.” Fi laughs—cackling this time. “It’s only a matter of time.” She perches one hand on my shoulder while lightly clasping it with the other, her front leg shifting to elegantly eclipse her back leg. She’s all fair skin tinged pink, peachy cheeks, silver-highlighted collarbones, and smoky cat eye.
Click!
Behind the photographer a few yards away, I spy a huddle of girls my age clamouring for my attention, hopping and waving their arms about. I’ll have to deal with them soon, I’m sure.
MAPLE CROWN RULE 52: Every person is important.
That includes the fangirls. Ça va. Beside me, Fi drops her sculpted arms and shoulders back, puffing out her chest. “What’s it been, nearly a year since you’ve hit the social scene? Glad your ’rents finally let you off the short leash.”
I smile very sweetly, keeping my eyes trained ahead. “As am I.”
Click!
“I can’t wait to get even more photos with you at the gala on Thursday night,” Fi continues. “I assume you’ll be there.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
The photographer lowers his camera and nods, as if to say he’s captured enough. Bien.
Fi faces me and talks through her smile. “My work here is done. It’s been real, loser. See you in school!” Then she turns to the photographer. “Make sure you tag me—that’s Sofia with an f.” She scoffs to herself. “As if he doesn’t already know that.”
MAPLE CROWN RULE 101: No personal social media accounts.
So, that’s a thing, albeit fairly new. My Royal Family has general verified accounts instead, of course. At my last check, the @CanadianRoyals had 20.6 million followers. And pho-tos of me happen to get the most likes.
I look past Fi, lingering despite her goodbyes, and inad-vertently lock pupils with one of the girls in the huddle, who takes the fleeting eye contact for an invitation. Gathering her black gown, she rushes forward. Her gaggle of friends follows with hungry expressions, flocking my way in a V-formation.
A crushing weight settles on my chest. Although the pressure of being a royal is ever-present, at least when I was grounded I didn’t have to deal with this level of people-pleasing.
Nodding toward the girls, Fi scrunches up her delicate nose. “Good luck with that.” She flashes the crowd an enchant-ing smile, flips her long ombré hair, and strides down a non-existent red carpet while all heads turn her way and another photographer flails for her attention.
Well. That’s Lady Sofia for you, je ne sais quoi and all.
“Your Royal Highness!” says the girl in the black gown, who appears to be squatting in what I suppose is her attempt at a perfunctory curtsy. “Sir, may I get a photo with you, too?” I freeze, trying with all my might not to roll my eyes. Members of the Royal Family must always be gracious. “Of course, mademoiselle!” Growing up with a French-speaking nanny clearly rubbed off on me—along with remedial French lessons at school.
“Thank you!” she squeals, then turns to her posse and mouths, Mademoiselle! She angles her phone overhead, and I see my brow wrinkling on-screen.
MAPLE CROWN RULE 102: No selfies
Another recent rule. My grandmother and the family matri-arch, the queen of England, managed to officially deem self-ies as unfit for royalty. Too common. Too vain. I agree with some of the Maple Crown Rules inspired by Granny’s original ones (the Buckingham Crown Rules). But a lot of the tradi-tional values that any Royal Family thrives on are woefully backward.
C’est comme ça.
I gesture at the event photographer still hovering nearby. “Shall we have him take the photo? I trust my friend here will do a fine job capturing your beauty.”
“Oh, of course, sir!” The girl titters abashedly and tucks her phone into a sequin clutch. We assume the position while her friends look on, capturing every moment behind their screens. Others move in to watch too, unwittingly revealing the exit behind the photographer. He snaps a few shots and then walks over, showing us the photos.
I smile in approval, then I rely on an old standby and wave to an invisible friend across the packed ballroom. “I’m terri-bly sorry,” I tell the growing cluster of waiting girls. “I must step out for a brief moment. I’ll be back very soon! I promise.”
MAPLE CROWN RULE 18: Depart at the right moment
Technically I also broke the rule Royals don’t apologize, but I can typically let that one slide. I am Canadian, after all.
Flashing one last dashing smile, I make my escape. The good ol’ Flash-and-Dash. Works every time. I spin on my heel and bump into a table, sending plates and glasses chattering like teeth (how unlike me!), then course-correct, making my way toward the exit. In my periphery, Gord excuses himself from his coterie of raucous socialites and follows, a long shadow tethered to my every stride, while I search for that pesky in-visible friend who conveniently can’t seem to stay in one place, weaving in and out and greeting the crème de la crème as I go.
“How are you?” I call to a NASA astronaut. I wave at a Scot-tish minister. “Hello there! Smart-looking kilt!”
“Salut! Comment va votre famille?” I ask the French ambassa-dor. I crank my megawatt smile up to an eleven for the prime minister of Japan. “Sumimasen,” I say.
MAPLE CROWN RULE 36: Royals should speak multiple languages.
For everyone else, I use my nod/twinkle-in-eye combo that’s friendly, but also too intimidating for anyone to do more than reply with a wave, smile, or nod. Otherwise, they’d be on me like flies on maple syrup. I reach the exit, soar through a series of doors, and maneuver past the black-and-white-clad waitstaff wheeling out carts of teacups. Everybody is so busy, they don’t even notice me in all the hubbub. I push a swinging aluminum traffic door, stepping past the bustling kitchen, and take a flight of steps down to a door leading to a break room reeking of what I can only assume is the smell of old coffee where I know no one will find me.
It’s empty, except for a guy my age in a worker’s uniform sitting at a rickety little table, gazing at his phone. I drop into a folding chair at a table in front of him, loosen my tie some more, and let out a whoosh of air.
I’m safe. For now.
“Oh!” he says with a start, nervously pushing back his bangs.
“Can I help you? Are you lost?”
“I’m fine. It’s okay that I’m in here, right?” I ask.
His glimmering eyes dart around. “Umm, normally they’d make me kick guests out for…reasons.” He suddenly notices my maple leaf brooch, and blushes. “But it’s cool! I won’t tell. Your Royal Highness, sir,” he adds hastily.
I almost begin to disclose why I’m hiding out in the first place. But then I remember.
MAPLE CROWN RULE 77: Only share what is necessary.
It’s technically: Only share with your subjects what is necessary, but I’ve truncated it. I don’t have subjects. At least, not yet.
I nod. “Perfect. Thanks.”
“D-do you want some privacy?” he stammers. He stands up to leave, and his phone falls from his hand. It skitters across the warped linoleum, coming to a rest at the tip of my shiny black patent leather shoes.
I pick it up and hand it back to him. “No, no, it’s fine. Stay. I just needed a tiny break. I’ll be out in a jiffy.” I give the break room a cursory scan, eyes sweeping cabinets, a sink, a small white fridge. “Do you have any food? I’m famished.”
One of his eyebrows quirks in bewilderment. “Oh, you didn’t get a chance to eat?”
“At a charity event like this one? Too much schmoozing. Not enough eating. As it goes.”
He lets out a little laugh. “Let me see what we have.” He vanishes up into the stairwell, then comes trundling back down a minute later with a tray of miniature desserts: everything from frozen mochi and mint sorbet to macarons and bonbons with gold leafing on top.
“Super!” I pinch up a pink mochi and pop it in my mouth. “Have one.”
He hesitates, but after darting a glance at the door, he selects a pale green one. “Staff isn’t supposed to eat these,” he says, but he bites down on it anyway.
“Look at us,” I remark. “Me trespassing in employee break rooms and you eating forbidden mochi. We’re breaking all the rules.” We both laugh. “So, you work here? Aren’t you in high school like me?”
“Yeah. But I just work nights. I’m saving up for college. My uncle got me the job. He’s a cook here.”
I take another mochi. Double chocolate. A favourite. “Do you cook too?”
“I try.” He laughs, running his hand through his shiny black hair. “What about you?”
Best not to share how all of my meals are prepared for me at the risk of sounding elitist. Instead, I grin. “Can you keep a secret? I’ve been working on a chocolate chip cookie recipe that puts Pierre on Park’s to shame.” I pass it off as a joke, but I actually spent all winter experimenting on just that recipe—along with original recipes for fresh new takes on profiteroles, cream puffs, and croquembouches.
The guy laughs again, briefly covering his mouth. “I bet.” “I’m serious.” I select a bonbon from the tray. “It’s rather ag-onizing being a foodie when you’re the next leader of a coun-try whose biggest culinary claim to fame is gourmet poutine.” His expression turns contemplative. “Hey, didn’t Canada invent the Twinkie?” “I rest my case.”
The guy chuckles and combs his fingers through his hair once more, then locks eyes with me. “I never expected to meet a royal, let alone, well, you. Sorry, you just seem so…normal.” Reddening, he adds, “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t… It’s just, you seem so chill. It’s like hanging out with…a friend from school.” He tucks a strand behind his ear, his eyes downcast, his cheeks practically puce.
“Don’t worry about it. I get it.” I swallow. I don’t know why, but my throat has decided to go bone-dry. “It’s easy to talk to you too. Do you get that a lot?”
Silence falls.
My stomach drops as soon as the words escape my lips. Do I sound like I’m coming onto him? What am I babbling about to this stranger?
But much to my relief, a smile washes across his face like sunlight.
I’m wondering what to say next when—
Slam!
The break room door bursts open, and I hear the voice of my best friend. “Edward! There you are!”
The worker and I jump with a start, stepping away from one another as if we were just caught hiding a dead body.
In struts Neel Singh, aforementioned best friend who also happens to be the son of Zubin Singh, Indian ambassador to Canada.
Let me tell you about Neel. People think I’m charming, but Neel can get them eating out of the palm of his manicured hand in seconds—including my parents, who bizarrely enough think him being in New York with me is a good thing. He grew up all over the world, but stayed in Ottawa long enough for us to become best friends, a relationship which fully crystallized after we built a snowman with a creatively placed carrot. Thank goodness it melted before my parents or Gord saw it. And now, he’s in New York for his senior year too. Only Neel could con-vince his parents that he should move to another country for his last year of high school. I guess he griped enough about being separated from his best friend that they eventually caved.
But in this moment, with the worker’s eyes still locked on mine, I’m kind of wishing Neel’s parents had kept him in Ottawa.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Oh, now you decide to show up. Where were you forever ago when I was looking for you, mon chum?”
Neel glances at the worker, whose name I wish I knew—que c’est gênant—then back at me, grinning. “Oh, you’ve made a new friend?”
“Shut up,” I growl so low that only Neel can hear me. He knows my secret and I trust him to keep it, but sometimes what he says in front of others makes me sweat.
He ignores me and walks across the break room. “Hi. I’m Neel. It’s so nice to meet you.” He pumps my new friend’s hand, lingering for far too long. He has a knack for being overly friendly. And there’s no denying Neel looks suave in his tailored black suit, crisp white button-up that contrasts nicely against the warm bronze undertones of his brown skin, and bow tie that perfectly matches his silk pocket square. Probably a look he “borrowed” from the runway he walked in Milan. The perks of being incredibly wealthy and good-looking.
“Nice to meet you too.” The guy looks from Neel to me, flashes a timid smile, and scurries from the room before I can utter salut.
Neel shoots me a knowing smirk then starts washing his hands at the sink. He ditched me all night, only showing up to barge in and scare off my new friend. This is low, even for him.
“Can you believe they had no vegetarian options?” he asks incredulously. “Meat pies for as far as the eye could see.”
“Seriously, where have you been? I needed you,” I say. “And how did you find me?”
He dries his hands on a dish rag then snatches up a bonbon. “I have my sources,” he says through a mouthful.
I glare. I could murder him. Use industrial-strength kitchen cleaner to hide the evidence.
“Fine.” Neel sticks his thumb into a vanilla mochi, then jerks it in the direction of the door.
Right on cue, Gord sets foot into the break room, looking less than pleased. “Your Royal Highness.”
Rolling my eyes at Neel, I give Gord the signal that all is well.
But as Neel rests a hand on my forearm, I’m no longer sure. He’s got that look in his eye. “I’m bored of the ball, so I’m thinking we leave before the raffle and silent auction. Besides—” he beams his radiant smile “—there’s a private shindig taking place now at Beauty and Essex—no nonsense this time. Say you’ll come? Great! Let’s go.” Neel hooks his arm in mine and twists in the direction of the door.
He may have made the Forbes 30 Under 30 Asia list, but right now, he’s number 1 on my naughty list.
I plant my feet. “Sounds sweet, but I’d rather not end up grounded again.”
Neel grips my face, pleading. “Please? Pretty please with maple sugar on top?”
I pry his fingers off. “Tempting,” I say, “but I’m afraid I’m immune to your charms, my friend.”
He grins impishly. “I’ll do your AP Chem lab homework,” he says in singsong.
He knows that’s my Achilles’ heel. I sigh. “You better not make me regret this.”
Gord clears his throat. “Sir.” He slowly shakes his head.
Neel knots his fingers together pleadingly. “But I’ll have him home by midnight, G!”
I raise an eyebrow. “Who are you, my fairy godmother?” With Neel, “midnight” means 4:30 a.m. Neel’s dad still lives in Ottawa, his mum’s in India, and he has no chaperone here, so he’s pretty much a free agent. The notion of “curfew” is not something he’s well acquainted with. While Neel’s par-ents are barely even aware of his zip code, mine like to be in the know, even with being busy running and continuing to establish a somewhat new form of monarchy. Hence, Gord, who I’m practically closer with than my own father.
Gord picks a piece of invisible lint off my jacket. “I don’t advise it, sir. Your parents gave me direct orders—your name is not ending up in the tabloids.” He straightens my brooch. “Again,” he adds tartly.
It’s true. Dad did say leading up to this event that if I had one more bad run-in with the press, he was going to revoke my going-out privileges for good.
Neel gasps and clutches his chest. “What happened last time was not his fault.”
Gord turns on Neel. “You mean when His Royal Highness was photographed setting off fireworks for his birthday party on a yacht in the Ottawa River? A little stunt that burned down half the trees on the waterfront? You’re both lucky it didn’t launch a media blitz.”
I feel myself blushing. “I didn’t know it was illegal to set off fireworks from a yacht, pour l’amour du Christ!”
At this response, Gord clenches his jaw. I know what that means. This conversation is over.
Neel knows it too. He screws up his mouth in defeat, and sighs. “Bye, bharˉa.” His nickname for me, “brother” in Pun-jabi, never fails to pull at my heartstrings.
I clap a hand on his shoulder. “Have fun for both of us?”
Neel eases back into his radiant smile, eyes playful again. He winks. “Oh, I always do.”
“Prince Edward! Prince Edward! Over here!”
Paparazzi surround us, cameras flashing, as we step out into the Manhattan night. A frigid breeze buffets down the ave-nue, fluttering awnings. My chauffeur holds open the door to my black town car as I duck inside, exchanging the icy air for blissful artificial warmth.
Camera lenses take aim, yards from the tinted windows. Good luck getting a decent shot. The paparazzi here truly are as ubiquitous as rats on subway tracks. Not that I’ve ever taken the subway.
Gord buckles into the passenger seat, and the chauffeur pulls the car onto 59th while the paparazzi give chase, shouting my name. Before kicking me out of Rideau Hall, Mum and Dad never failed to remind me that the paparazzi in New York would be documenting my every folly, unlike in Canada where the industry isn’t quite so rabid and boundaries are better re-spected (other than the Daily Maple, the source for most Royals- related reports and rumours). Going out and about, acting like a delinquent in New York would not only mean my family would find out about it, but the rest of the world as well. Given Mum and Dad’s own distaste for paparazzi, they must have felt pretty desperate to have sent me here, but it’s been quite ef-fective. That, and being under Gord’s constant supervision.
We cross the intersection, leaving Central Park behind us, its naked treetops illuminated by city lights. From the front seat, Gord turns up the radio volume and soft classical music plays. He knows it’s one of the few things that relaxes me. I lean back, take a deep breath, and pull out my phone.
A million Google alerts pop up. What? Of course I have a Google alert for my own name. I need to know what people are saying about me after my reentry into the party scene. It’s mostly just gossipy tabloid stories, an occasional fashion mag-azine editorial, and the inevitable message board comments perpetuating age-old rumours and adding to tired conspiracy theories. When it comes to the relatively new Canadian mon-archy, people love trying to spill royal Earl Grey tea.
Just before I was born, Mum and Dad fled across the pond to Canada in hopes of escaping the scrutiny of the English press. Waking up to a new disparaging headline every day about Mum being a lowly commoner from Canada was un-tenable for them—not to mention being baited and badgered by slimy photographers wherever they set foot. My parents had even been prepared to leave the Royal Family and relinquish their official titles—anything to help put an ocean between them and the snaky British tabloids.
A while back, there was a movement to one day replace Granny with a homegrown Canadian Royal Family, but noth-ing came of it. Our current situation was the result of an agreement with the Canadian prime minister at the time. Apparently, he recognized that Canadian love for the Royal Family was good for business. (Our official merch alone con-tributes greatly to Canada’s bottom line.) The fact Dad was born on Canadian soil before growing up in England made him a natural fit for Canadian king.
On my phone, I’m idly poking around popular royal hashtags and notice that someone has reposted, for the zillionth time, that old and super famous long-range paparazzi photo of my parents arriving home at Rideau Hall with bundled-up newborn me. It was the first time the paparazzi had caught a glimpse of The Canadian Royal Baby. Given my mum’s ner-vousness about paparazzi, my parents had hidden out at the super private Hôpital Royal Jolee in Montreal for the birth, far from where anyone expected them to go.
It’s one of the only photos of me as a child to have gotten out. To no one’s surprise, it was from a wily and out-of-town photographer who wasn’t afraid of being blacklisted. Since that day, my parents have held an iron grip on our private lives, only slightly loosening up the photography ban when I en-tered high school a little over three years ago. (Hello, People magazine cover shoot!)
Despite her secretly difficult pregnancy, Mum appears healthy, rested, and as much a fashion icon as ever in the photo, step-ping out of a town car in a formfitting dress with the traditional maple leaf tartan pattern. Dad cradles me in a blanket woven with the same fabric. I’ve seen this photo so many times that I know it by heart.
I tap back to my notifications. Many of the alerts swirl around the topic of me at tonight’s ball, with a few official photos starting to surface, most showing me on the red carpet, hands in pockets. The one of me with Fi is already trending. Just as she’d hoped.
I let out a sigh. It does little to release the familiar feeling of pressure and expectation building in my heart and chest. The whole world is watching, commenting on my every move. I have to uphold the royal Dinnissen glory, or our Canada goose is cooked, because there’s a lot to live up to as Crown Prince, aka Prince Royal. Mum and Dad had the perfect modern-day fairy tale love story: prince meets born-and-bred Cana-dian commoner and falls in love. People have always eaten up and adored their story, even with its darker, nearly-stripped-of-their-titles side to it.
Suddenly, the heat in the car has become stifling. I crack the window for some fresh air.
As much as I love the perks of being Crown Prince, sometimes I want to throw all the rules out the window. But when ever I get that urge, I remember the fiasco that was my seventeenth birthday party. I’ve learned my lesson. And what choice do I have? I’m trapped.
Gord is always telling me that it’s much easier for Canada to get rid of our monarchy than to further change it. I can hear Gord reciting Maple Crown Rule 1, drilling it into my brain like he has my entire life: Duty to the Crown above all else.
I open the faceless alias Instagram account, aka Finsta, that I secretly made for myself—mostly to drool over slow-mo videos of people frosting cakes or pulling gooey, piping-hot cookies apart, and to read baking “top tips” from my favourite maître pâtissiers, or master pastry chef—Chef Pierre—who regularly unveils his latest innovative desserts at his culinary school in Paris that end up on the menu of his world-renowned bakery-café here in New York.
Of course, there are also the gay couple accounts I peruse, with varying arrays of cutesy, saccharine selfies. I want what they have.
As I scroll, I can’t help daydreaming about going back to the break room, letting the cute guy pull me up onto one of those rickety little tables, his lips parting as we press against each other…
I can never tell a soul, let alone the world, about my petit secret.
I am absolutely certain that if I were to come out, the powers that be would find a way to strip me of my title. I can’t let that happen. Do I sometimes wish I could have a normal life that allows me to settle down with a nice guy? Yes, I do. But not more than I want that crown. Besides, it would break my par-ents’ hearts if their only son didn’t succeed them on the throne.
Sure, my family has had their own fair share of secrets. Hell, here are more secrets than rules (and if you couldn’t tell by now, we have a lot of rules). My Royal Family tree isn’t with-out its rotten apples—or rotten maple leaves, to keep things on brand. But I may just be the worst. A blight, the one to petrify the family tree so that not a single leaf remains cling-ing to its ancient branches.
It’s bad enough that the Firm and current conservative government share a little-known penchant for wanting to streamline the Royal Family, meaning the three of us could be stripped of our titles at any moment.
Selfishly, abdicating the throne would alleviate me of the immense weight to remain in the closet. But I couldn’t do that to my parents, even if I could find a good way out, and there isn’t one—out of the closet or out of the monarchy. After the stunt I pulled at my last birthday, Mum and Dad have felt like the three of us are in danger of losing our position in Canada and being sent to live out the rest of our days in a drafty, for-gotten castle in Cornwall.
But my parents won’t have to worry about the monarchy dissipating to the Chinook winds. I was raised to be Crown Prince of Canada, destined to fulfill my royal birthright. Even if it does mean no love life.
To bear a crown of power is to be alone, right?
I press my nose to the cold window glass, hearing ambu-lance sirens blaring in the distance. Normally, traditions im-posed on the heir to the throne wouldn’t be a huge problem. Except, well…
UNSPOKEN MAPLE CROWN RULE: Don’t be gay, eh?
DAILY MAPLE ONLINE
THE ROYAL ROUNDUP
March 2, 06:23 a.m. ET
PRINCE EDWARD SIZZLES BACK INTO THE SPOTLIGHT
by Omar Scooby
Welcome back, Eddie! After ten months of skirting the spotlight following his seventeenth birthday debacle, the Crown Prince of Canada slides back into the social scene with a rare appearance at a star-studded gala.
Entering the ballroom last night at the Plaza Hotel, the Crown Prince of Canada was a sight to behold—wowing in a tailored suit and titillating partygoers with his wit, charm, and majestic magnetism. The world has truly missed seeing that hundred-watt smile. The Daily Maple spoke to an insider about what it’s like for him, being a teen heartthrob.
When asked about any details surrounding the highly anticipated Investiture Ceremony, our close-to-the-royal-family insider went mum. What has the prince got up his hemmed silken sleeves? We hope to find out and see a whole lot more of him—and his winning smile—in the coming days.
RELATED STORIES
King Frederick Speaks to Prime Minister of Singapore
Queen Daphnée Promises to Lower Housing Costs
Canadian Prime Minister: Hottest Politician Alive?
I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
A thief, a guardsman, and an initiate priestess must work together to stop a world-altering threat unlike anything they’ve ever seen in author J. Scott Coatsworth’s “The Dragon Eater”, the first book in the Tharassas Cycle series.
Advertisements
The Synopsis
Raven’s a thief who just swallowed a dragon.
A small one, sure, but now his arms are growing scales, the local wildlife is acting up, and his snarky AI familiar is no help whatsoever.
Raven’s best friend Aik is a guardsman carrying a torch for the thief. A pickpocket and a guard? Never going to happen. And Aik’s ex-fiancé Silya, an initiate priestess in the midst of a magical crisis, hates Raven with the heat of a thousand suns.
This unlikely team must work together to face strange beasts, alien artifacts, and a world-altering threat. If they don’t figure out what to do soon, it might just be the end of everything.
Things are about to get messy.
The Review
This was a captivating and thrilling blend of sci-fi meets fantasy. The space opera narrative felt somehow natural in all its glory, and the author did an incredible job of having just the right amount of imagery and atmosphere to really bring the reader into this alien world. The ways in which the characters see this fusion of the ancient magics they’ve always known with the emergence of this alien technology and scientific discovery was so driving to read and played into the concept of destiny and discovery very well.
For me, as always with this wonderful author, the heart of the narrative rested in the fantastic character development that brought this fantasy and sci-fi world to life. The LGBTQ+ themes and relationships that are explored, especially the budding romance between Raven and Aik, are inviting and inclusive, giving readers a romance to root for and telling it in a natural way for the narrative. The tension that arises when Silya joins the group and the humor of Raven’s friendship with the AI companion Spin he brings on his adventures create a great balance within the narrative. The introduction and inclusion of the chilling “Spore Mother” are great teases for the future of this series as well.
The Verdict
Captivating, thrilling, and entertaining, author J. Scott Coatsworth’s “The Dragon Eater” is a must-read space opera sci-fi meets fantasy novel and a great first chapter in the Tharassas Cycle series. The cliffhanger endings that leave the core group on their own paths by the book’s end and the spine-chilling tease of the Spore Mother’s continued evolution will have fans hanging off of the author’s every word, eager to dive into this imaginative world once more. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!
Rating: 10/10
J. Scott Coatsworth has a new queer YA/Crossover Sci-Fantasy book out – The Dragon Eater, Tharassas Cycle book one. There’s a giveaway, and a free book with purchase too!
Raven’s a thief who just swallowed a dragon. A small one, sure, but now his arms are growing scales, the local wildlife is acting up, and his snarky AI familiar is no help whatsoever.
Raven’s best friend Aik is a guardsman carrying a torch for the thief. A pickpocket and a guard? Never going to happen. And Aik’s ex-fiancé Silya, an initiate priestess in the midst of a magical crisis, hates Raven with the heat of a thousand suns.
This unlikely team must work together to face strange beasts, alien artifacts, and a world-altering threat. If they don’t figure out what to do soon, it might just be the end of everything.
Things are about to get messy.
About the Series:
The Tharassas Cycle is a four book sci-fantasy series set on the recently colonized world of Tharassas. When humans first arrived on planet, they thought they were alone until the hencha mind made itself known. But now a new threat has arisen to challenge both humankind and their new allies on this alien world.
Preorder and Get the Prequel Free
I’m giving away the prequel, Tales From Tharassas, with all preorders – it contains The Last Run, The Emp Test, and a brand new short story the Fallen Angel. Just order the book and email me a proof of purchase at scott@jscottcoatsworth.com, and I’ll send you the book on release day (March 16th).
Spin’s voice echoed in his ear. “This is a bad idea, boss.”
“Shush,” Raven whispered to his familiar.
He needed to concentrate. Cheek and jowl against the smooth cobblestones, he held his breath and prayed to the gods that no one had seen him duck under the sea master’s ornate carriage. The setting sun cast long shadows from a pair of boots so close to his face that the dust and leather made him want to sneeze. Their owner was deep in conversation with the sea master, the hem of her fine mur silk trousers barely visible. The two women’s voices were hushed, and he could only make out the occasional word.
Raven rubbed the old burn scar on his cheek absently, wishing they would go away.
“Seriously, boss. I’m not from this world, and even I know it’s a bad idea to steal from the sea master.”
Though only he could hear Spin’s voice, Raven wished the little silver ay-eye would just shut up.
The hencha cloth-wrapped package in the carriage above was calling to him. He’d wanted it since he’d first seen it through the open door. No, needed it. Like he needed air, even though he had no idea what was inside. He scratched the back of his hand hard to distract himself from its disturbing pull.
An inthym popped its head out of the sewer grate in front of him, sniffing the air. Raven glared at the little white rodent, willing it to go away. Instead, the cursed thing nibbled at his nose.
Raven sneezed, then covered his mouth. He held his breath, staring at the boots. Don’t let them hear me.
A shiny silver feeler poked out of his shirt pocket, emitting a golden glow that illuminated the cobblestones underneath him. “Boss, you all right?” Spin’s whisper had that sarcastic edge he often used when he was annoyed. “Your heart rate is elevated.”
“Be. Quiet.” Raven gritted his teeth. Spin had the worst sense of timing.
The woman — one of the guard, maybe? — and the sea master stepped away, their voices fading into the distance.
Raven said a quick prayer of thanks to Jor’Oss, the goddess of wild luck, and flicked the inthym back into the sewer. “Shoo!”
He popped his head out from under the carriage to take a quick look around. There was no one between him and the squat gray Sea Guild headquarters. It was time. Grab it and go.
He reached into the luxurious carriage — a host of mur beetles must have spent years spinning all the red silk that lined the interior — and snagged the package. He hoped it was the treasury payment for the week. If so, it should hold enough coin to feed an orphanage for a month, and he knew just the one. “Got it.”
“Good. Now get us out of here.”
A strange tingling surged through his hand. Raven frowned.
Must have pinched a nerve or something.
Ignoring it, he stuck the package under his arm, slipped around the carriage, and set off down Gullton’s main thoroughfare. He walked as casually as he could, hoping no one would notice the missing package until he was long gone.
“We clear?”
Spin’s feeler blinked red. “No. Run! They’ve seen you.”
Raven ran.
Author Bio
Scott lives with his husband Mark in a yellow bungalow in Sacramento. He was indoctrinated into fantasy and sci fi by his mother at the tender age of nine. He devoured her library, but as he grew up, he wondered where all the people like him were.
He decided that if there weren’t queer characters in his favorite genres, he would remake them to his own ends.
A Rainbow Award winning author, he runs Queer Sci Fi, QueeRomance Ink, and Other Worlds Ink with Mark, sites that celebrate fiction reflecting queer reality, and is the committee chair for the Indie Authors Committee at the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA).
She awakened, feeling the dual tug of gravity. The world pulled at her from below, and two moons exerted their force on her from above, their demands filtered through numerous layers of igneous rock.
What am I?
An explosion of memory stunned her, shaking her to her nascent mycelium where they anchored her to the hard, rocky ground. Past lives flooded her, teeming in her mind, jockeying for attention.
Angrily she stuffed them away, not ready to face them yet. There were more important things to attend to first.
Where am I?
The hard, black crust of her spore shell cracked, and she extended a blood-red pseudopod to explore her surroundings.
The world around her was cold and dark, a large space devoid of light and life. She was all alone.
Withdrawing into her shell, she folded in on herself with a shudder.
She dipped into her troubled memories, skimming the surface. They supplied the answer. One of her foremothers had come here long before, descending from the frozen void to this alien world, carrying the hope of her people with her.
A new home.
The suppressed memories — a wealth of information and wisdom — bubbled just beneath the surface of her mind.
I have a past. No … that wasn’t quite right. It’s not mine.
But where were the others? She was all alone in a cold, strange place, but most importantly she was alive.
Why am I here?
Her memories called for her attention.
She contemplated them for a moment. They represented the past — someone else’s past. Did she really want to let it guide her?
Then again, she needed knowledge if she were to survive in this strange new world. Her foremothers had clearly failed. I can learn from their mistakes.
Decided, she pried the lid off that seething cauldron. Knowledge flooded her, wiping away her ill-formed conception about who and what she was and replacing them with certainty. Memories and ideas flowed through her like a tsunami, carrying with them the stench of failure from her foremothers. There were gaps — she knew that immediately, but still the sheer volume of them was overwhelming. The tide soaked her, a broken and mangled account of what had come before.
When it passed, she began to absorb all that she had learned. At last she knew who she was.
I am the spore mother. The last of her kind, with a chance to remake the world for her people, the Aaveen.
And one thing more.
This has all happened before. She wasn’t the first of her kind in this desolate place, but she was the only survivor.
Ready to face the world at last, she burst out of her spore, her red crown expanding in the dark place just as her memories had expanded in her mind.
She had a purpose — to transform this world for her own kind. The spore mothers who had come before her — who now were her — would guide her.
I am so honored to share this exclusive excerpt from author Mary Rundle’s “Darkness Master”, the 10th book in the Blackwood Pack series. I hope you will all enjoy this as part of OWI’s latest blog tour.
DARKNESS MASTER AUDIO/Mary Rundle
Hi, I’m Mary Rundle and thank you so much for hosting me as part of my audiobook blog tour for Darkness Master, Book 10 in the Blackwood Pack series and narrated by award-winning Nick J. Russo. Today I have an exclusive excerpt from the book where Fated Mates, Alex, Sawyer, and Glenn, eventually find each other along with their HEA in a story full of startling twists, turns, and adventures. Please enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Advertisements
“You know, I never expected to find my mate, even after my brother found his. Mainly because I don’t have anything to offer a mate. My twin got all the brains, Robin got all the talent, Hunter is a born leader, Mason is a genius when it comes to numbers…so you see, all I have is my…my…”
“Your ability to learn quickly?” murmured Alex.
“Pfff…right, my ability to learn quickly, which, if yesterday was any indication, it’s not something I can count on anymore.”
“Are you giving up already?” asked Alex.
“Honestly? I’m not sure and that’s a feeling I’m not used to. If you ask my brothers, they’ll say I’m easygoing…and they’re right…to a point. Hunter told me I was asleep when I was born. He said I looked like I didn’t have a care in the world.”
“But that’s not true, is it?” Alex asked.
Advertisements
Pausing for a moment, Sawyer replied, “What do you mean?”
Alex’s fear kicked in again. Challenging an alpha wasn’t a good thing, something he learned early on. Calling on his fox’s hearing, he listened for any indication Sawyer was getting ready to attack him for his insolence. When all he heard was his mate’s even breathing, he let out the breath he was holding. But now he was once again unsure how to go on. Shifting from foot to foot, he weighed the options: whether to answer honestly or be polite and make up a harmless lie that would placate Sawyer.
The lack of response from Alex was unsettling, making Sawyer lean his forehead against the door. He was surprised at his mate’s question, wondering how he already knew so much about him; only Mac knew his easygoing attitude was hiding his insecurity. All through his youth, he was always the forgotten one. With nothing making him unique, he was stuck in the middle between Mac and Robin, both of whom outshone him. Oh, he knew his parents loved him, but they didn’t fuss over him like they did when Robin wrote another song, or Mac aced all of his tests. Once again he found himself lacking, but this time, the pain pierced his heart when he realized Alex’s decision to reject him was because his mate had figured out who he really was.
Tears formed in his eyes as Sawyer ran his hands over the door. There would be no mate for him…no one who believed in him…no one who would find something worthy in him and, more importantly, no happily-ever-after Quin believed in so strongly. The Fates fucked up and now he was left to pick up the pieces and move on. Snorting softly at that idea, Sawyer knew it would take a long time to get over this rejection, if ever, because he wasn’t going to get another chance. No, thatmuch he knew…there was only one fated mate.
Brushing aside his tears, Sawyer stood up, trying to get himself under control. Glancing up through the tree leaves surrounding the campsite, he let out a sob, cursing the soul-destroying pain in his chest. Losing a mate he never expected to have shouldn’t hurt so much, but it did and he wondered how he’d survive it. Alone, far from the family he needed right now, but that, too, he’d fucked up on. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He knew his sorrow would cause his twin to feel concern. Mac! I need Mac! But his brother was busy with his own life, while Sawyer had been cast adrift, left behind…someone who had nothing to offer his mate. And the worse part was he had no one to blame but himself. Shaking his head, Sawyer stepped away from the trailer, stopping briefly only when his wolf howled for his mate. Then he slowly walked away from the campsite, heading for his motorhome.
Lifting his hand to cover his mouth when he heard Sawyer’s cry, Alex knew his silence had caused his mate’s pain. Sorrow coursed through him, and tears began to fall at the hurt he had inflicted. It wasn’t who he was—and yet, it was—all because he’d allowed his fear to get the better of him. The snap of a twig alerted Alex that his mate was now further away from the trailer. Turning around, he moved the curtain slightly, peeking outside to find where Sawyer was, only to see the back of his mate heading toward the woods. Grabbing his chest as the deep pain of his mate leaving nearly cleaved his heart in two, he fell to his knees, making his fox keen for the loss. He couldn’t let it happen. Why, he didn’t know, but somehow, he knew letting Sawyer go would be the worst decision of his life. He rose, then taking a deep breath, he opened the door. Stepping outside, he called out, “Alex…my name is Alex Fouché.”
Mary Rundle has a new MM parnormal audio romance out: Darkness Master.
This is part of a continuing series by Amazon International Bestselling Author, Mary Rundle – reading the previous titles is advised. Readers will enjoy catching up with members of the Blackwood Pack and reading about what is happening to them as the pack does what it does best ̶ caring for one another and helping shifters everywhere.
Pursuing his dream, Sawyer heads to LA for some sun, waves and surfing lessons. After a disappointing day of surfing, he heads back to his campsite and meets Alex, his Fated Mate, who runs away, valuing his freedom more than anything else.
After the death of his wealthy, domineering father, Alex is can finally shed a lifetime of restrictions. Leaving New York City, he sets out on a long, cross-country RV trip, unaware that an overnight stop in a Los Angeles campground will yield not one Fated Mate, but two! Shocked at meeting Sawyer, Alex rejects him, vowing never to be under the thumb of any Alpha mate.
Glenn, a career secret agent, is also in LA to seek help from his friend, Ghost, a surfing instructor, in his quest to find who is responsible for kidnapping Glenn’s mother and other rare shifters. After meeting up with Ghost, Glenn discovers his Fated Mate is Sawyer, his friend’s current surfing student.
After the three mates finally meet, each has to face up to some hard facts about their past and present lives before coming to an understanding that leads them to find love and happiness with each other.
Astounding surprises, rare and unique gifts, an action-packed mission, and many unexpected twists and turns make this passionate love story by Mary Rundle impossible to put down once you’ve read the first page.
Sawyer studied his mate, wondering why Alex kept bringing it up until it suddenly dawned on him. “Hey…if you’re worried about not being a wolf, trust me, it won’t matter to any of my brothers…just like no one cared that Hunter’s mate is a dragon.”
Alex’s eyes widened. “A dragon? Really?”
“Yup…so you see…it won’t be a problem,” Sawyer said, setting his fork down. “So you’re a fellow New Yorker. How did you end up in California?”
Shrugging, Alex studied his empty plate. “I wanted to see what was beyond the place I grew up in.”
“Hey, I get that…it’s why I decided to look at the bright side when my brother said we were going to visit our cousins.”
Looking up sharply, Alex asked, “You haven’t gone anywhere either?”
“Nope…well, I did live in California when I was very young, but my father moved us back east when he took over our pack from his father…so I really don’t remember much from that time.”
“And you haven’t traveled since then?” asked Alex.
“Uh-uh. I didn’t go to college like some of my brothers and my father never brought me along when he traveled for pack business…so, nope, the trip out here was pretty much my first time anywhere.”
“Do you like it? You know…traveling?” asked Alex.
“Not the way Hunter did it. We drove straight through, and it was boring as shit…even though I tried to get him to stop along the way to see some of the touristy stuff.”
“Oh, I did that!”
“Oh yeah? Which was your favorite? Oh wait, I bet it was the giant ball of twine!” Sawyer exclaimed.
“What? No! Is there really such a thing?” asked Alex. Then, throwing his paper napkin at Sawyer while shaking his head, he said, “You’re full of bullshit.”
“Me? Never!” Sawyer exclaimed. “It’s in Cawker City, Kansas. Here…I’ll show you.” Opening his browser on his phone, he searched for it, then finding the site, Sawyer handed the phone over to his mate.
Quickly scanning the web site, Alex looked up and grinned. “That’s freaking amazing! And in August, there is a ‘Twine-a-thon’ where more twine is added to the ball.”
“Told ya.” Smirking, Sawyer took his phone back. “So, you missed that on your trip out here…so what did you see?”
Laughing, Alex said, “I was too busy stopping at national parks like the Grand Canyon. I spent almost a month there…it was just amazing. It’s so different when you are standing there in person, looking down and seeing millions of years of geological history, instead of looking at a photograph. I did all of the touristy stuff and then there were days, I just sat on the edge and stared at it, trying to commit it to memory. It truly is breathtaking.”
“I take it that’s your favorite place?” Sawyer asked.
“So far, it is…but then I haven’t seen the Redwoods yet,” grinned Alex.
“Me neither, even though they aren’t that far from my cousins’ place,” Sawyer said, gathering up their dishes. “What are your plans for today?”
Frowning slightly, Alex considered his mate’s question. What he was going to do was head to see the Pacific Ocean because he wanted to see if it was different from the Atlantic Ocean. When he left New York, he arrived in Cape May just in time to find himself on the outskirts of a tropical storm. Sitting on the beach, watching the wild waves crash ashore, Alex was mesmerized by the wind while watching the low hanging, heavy, gray clouds move across the sky. It spoke to his soul like nothing else ever had. The next day, after the storm had passed, he went back, but this time sat in the water among the steel-gray waves as they tumbled ashore. He’d never experienced anything like it, and he ended up staying a week at the Jersey Shore, spending hours a day at the beach.
“Hey…hello, are you there?” asked Sawyer. “What’s on for today?”
Shaking his head slightly to clear the memories from his mind, Alex replied, “Today is a relaxation day. Since I spent the last two days driving, I planned on spending the day at the beach.”
“Sounds great…let me put this inside. Do you want me to drive, or would you rather do it?”
Grateful his mate had given him a choice, Alex said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll drive.”
“Not at all. Gimme a few minutes to change, okay?”
Waving his hand at the motorhome, Alex replied, “Go ahead…I’ll be right here.”
Giving his mate one of his trademark grins, Sawyer stood before grabbing the dishes and turning to head for his motorhome.
Alex stared at Sawyer’s ass, admiring the flexing muscles as his mate opened the door and climbed the stairs. Blocked from seeing anything more when the door closed, a low moan escaped from his throat as he tried to reign in his lust. It was something he’d never felt before. Wondering if the feeling had something to do with being fated mates, Alex cursed himself again for not paying more attention to his classmates’ whisperings after the lights went out. But in all fairness, he never expected to have a mate…especially because he was so odd. His mind flitted back to Sawyer, wondering if his mate knew what he was…and if he didn’t…should I tell him? And what happens when I do…will he reject me then? So maybe I should tell him right away so if he doesn’t want me, I can just leave and go to Palm Springs like I planned to.
NO! The rarely heard voice was so loud, Alex covered his ears as fire roared through his veins, removing any doubt about what to do. Glancing up at the motorhome door, he was surprised to find it still closed since he was certain Sawyer would have heard the voice. But when the door remained shut, Alex was relieved that his explanation could wait. Sighing, he knew it really didn’t matter when his mate found out because the results would be the same. No one ever wanted him…not even his father…and it would be the same with Sawyer. Imagining the disgust on his mate’s face when the truth came out, Alex never heard the door open.
Author Bio
A few years ago, I wrote my first book, Dire Warning. Readers loved it and I was on my way to chronicle the Blackwood Pack, seven brothers who are gay wolf shifters in search of their fated mates—stories about love at first sight with twists and turns, angst and humor, romance and adventure and, of course, happy endings. Since then, the pack has expanded, allowing more stories to be told and different paranormals to be included. The series has become, as one reader described it…an “Epic Saga.”
Now, eleven books later, Blood Prophecy, has just been published. I love the M/M paranormal genre because it gives my imagination a lot of territory in which to roam. My mind can really run wild and come up with some amazing stuff when it doesn’t have to stay inside the box. My story ideas come to me as if they were being channeled by my characters, all of whom I love (except for a few villains). They are eager to recount their lives, loves and adventures, and are not reluctant to let it all out when it comes to revealing steamy details. My writing style is free-wheeling and uninhibited and my readers tell me they love it that way; that it makes them feel like they’re right in on the action and a member of the Blackwood Pack.
I live in the Northeast and love the beautiful change of seasons, my husband, and our quirky calico cat, though not necessarily in that order. I read a lot (good for the mind) and love gardening (good for the soul). And I’m always happy to hear from my readers and can be reached through Facebook, my private Facebook Group, Twitter, Instagram, or my website.
