WLW Rep and the Triple Six Mafia

I don’t read current science fiction & fantasy / SFF books, didn’t read much of ’em back in my day either.  But I am around some amateur authors inspired by and working in that genre, and sometimes for yuks I watch video essays about stuff I’m not actually interested in.  So I found out about these books by Piper CJ pitched with bi representation, that – aside from their other issues –  are just utterly failing to make the lady love happen.  Those links go to long video essays so skip ’em if you don’t have the time.  The point is that very hetero’d-out scenarios get the word count and lady love is some abstract distant thing that is there in theme but almost never on the page.

And with the young authors I know that try to make women-loving-women / WLW content in their own stories, be it bi or les, they often seem reticent or shy or perhaps just asexual about it.  That’s valid, but bi women and lesbians should get to have stories where the ladies are allowed to kiss more than once per five hundred pages, if that’s something they’re into.

Most of this music video by Triple Six Mafia is just bros posing in the cloughb, but there are a few bits with ladies touching each other affectionately.  Unlike much lesbian porn made for men, they don’t look at the camera in the middle of their scenes, to tell you this is for the benefit of men.  They’re just, hey, let’s look at each other with longing, let’s caress, and let’s do this weird drug out of baby bottles.  In so doing, this video has more affection between ladies than some entire books sold on the back of that premise.

This got me thinking about the gender-reversed scenario.  What if “fujoshis” (weird geek girls horny on the concept of gay dudes) went mainstream and made rap like this.  You’d see stocky women in polo shirts and khakis acting tough while gentle-eyed mans get all touchy-feely in slow motion.  I wonder if anybody has made that music video yet.

EDIT TO ADD:  Reminder, still doing my fundraiser up through April 21st (stopping early if I reach stretch goal ahead of then).  Make at least a three dollar donation and I’ll rhyme a word of your choice in a rap.  While I appreciate the contributions of people who have given generously,-I’d like to see more and smaller donations.  So far I only have four words to rhyme.  If I don’t make the goal, this rap will remain a text poem.  If I reach $500 I will record myself rapping.  If I reach $600 I will do a short video.  Help cover the wages I’ll be losing from this medical situation, thanks! –goal met, fundraiser closed.

MonsterHearts Days Nine Again, Six, and X

Monsterhearts is a 14 day event (named after a pervy RPG) wherein my writing group votes on a monster each day to include in a story concept.  As we marched toward Valentine’s Day, the theme was supernatural romance.  I didn’t make the deadline, but will see if I can put ’em all on the blog by the last day of this month.  I repeated Day Nine because I forgot I’d already done it when I went to collabo with my boyfriend on X amount of days.  Day X is a tradition of mine where I take all the prompts that didn’t win votes and roll them into a mega-prompt.

 

MONSTERHEARTS — DAY 9 — INANIMATE

CONTENT WARNINGS:  Splinters.  ‘Nuff said.

TITLE:  RUDEWOOD

CHARACTERS:  Corey Blighter is a genderqueer punk rocker who somehow turned the abuse of the world into a kink for getting insulted.  They meet a tree of the same enchanted species that spawned Pinocchio, once upon a time.  The tree is just rude and insulting to everyone who passes by, playing cruel tricks as much as its limited mobility allows.

PREMISE:  Corey makes the tree feel some type of way.  But is it possible for a rudewood to love?  They are made out of sap, splinters, and insult comedy.  The way they reproduce is by making humans so mad they cut the tree down, and this tree succeeds with a less twisted human than Corey.  The love must end.

THE HOOK:  Or must it?  Rudewood personalities can survive the chopping.  Corey can get the piece that has their lover within, and make some kind of a mannequin Gilbert Gottfried out of it.  Happily ever after, babe.

Cover art by me, ballpoint pen and Photopea.

book cover for concept "Rudewood"

 

MONSTERHEARTS — DAY 6 — INCORPOREAL

TITLE:  VOCALOVE

CHARACTERS:  The User, a similar character to me and Cubist’s MC from AIsaac, undefined and ambiguous via the narrow frame around the narrative.  Melpominy Muzik, a cheap Eastern European Hatsune Miku clone.

PREMISE:  The User finds an old CD of Melpominy in a used record shop in Hungary and tries to use her in their own music.  But the icon of the character, the sweet things she says within the program’s UI, could she be true waifu material?  How can she possibly have so much love in less than 700 megabytes?

THE HOOK:  One of those stories where you wonder if the lover is real or just a figment of the ardent one’s imagination, thereby a reiteration of the “Is it better to live in dreams?” theme.

Cover art by me, ballpoint pen and Photopea.

book cover for concept "Vocalove"

 

MONSTERHEARTS — DAY X — THE LOSERS: BEASTLY, DEMONIC, EXPERIMENTAL, FIERY, GIGANTIC, MINUSCULE, MUTATED, OVERPOWERED, SEASONAL, SHADOWY

CONTENT WARNINGS:  Bad Ending?

TITLE:  THE VICES OF DR. CARLO

CHARACTERS:  Dr. Vicente Carlo, a mad scientist.  Profesor Hector Olivares, his on-again off-again tempestuous gay lover.

PREMISE:  Dr. Carlo is a descendant of wealth, whose family avoided any revolutionary ire with delicate politicking during turbulent times, retaining those means with a low profile.  But generational inheritance can only last until a generation comes too dysfunctional to hold onto it.  Vicente is that man.  While he has the silver tongue of his ancestors, he has bizarre obsessions that spell his doom.

At the hacienda Dr. Carlo experiments with the intersection of science and the arcane and dark arts, with the often reluctant assistance of Profesor Olivares.  The profesor is more broadly travelled and conventional in his interests, bringing back tales of scientific advancements whenever he comes to town.  The doctor takes those tales and turns them into nightmares.

One Día de los Muertos (SEASONAL), Dr. Carlo used the power of dick to convince Prof. Olivares to help him contain the power of the heavens in a special battery.  But he doesn’t let the profesor know that the battery is full of satanic (DEMONIC) mojo. They harness a thunderstorm, draw the power of the heavens, but it combines with the power of hell, and the battery explodes.

Profesor Olivares is MUTATED into a rampaging BEAST that feeds on FIRE, heat, electricity, leaving blackened ruin in his wake. He sets off in pursuit of these things, burning up the nearest city and its inhabitants, one piece at a time. He becomes OVERPOWERED and GIGANTIC, bringing down the military.

To save his lover, Dr. Carlo must venture inside the broken battery. He takes an EXPERIMENTAL potion to become MINUSCULE, but runs afoul of SHADOWY demons that protect the strange realm of the machine, like an immune system. He takes a lot of hits, but eventually escapes into an unrecognizable region.

THE HOOK:  He has actually passed into Hell, and when the military takes down Hector with tanks, he meets his boy there.  “Oops, we both died. Better luck next life?”  They can be lovers in Hell.

Cover art by me, ballpoint pen and Photopea.

book cover for concept "The Vices of Dr. Carlo"

 

 

MonsterHearts Days Nine, Eleven, and Twelve

Monsterhearts is a 14 day event (named after a pervy RPG) wherein my writing group votes on a monster each day to include in a story concept.  As we marched toward Valentine’s Day, the theme was supernatural romance.  I didn’t make the deadline, but will see if I can put ’em all on the blog by the last day of this month.  These ones are collaborations with my boyfriend, The Beast From Seattle, aka Cubist Vowels, aka Joseph Kelly, editor and contributor to The Midnight Collection.

 

MONSTERHEARTS — DAY 9 — INANIMATE

TITLE:  THE VOICE

CHARACTERS:  Lonely man Tyler.  The Voice, a mysterious voice on the radio dial.

PREMISE:  When Tyler is upset by a song, he turns the radio dial to what should be static.  But he hears a compelling voice, and it seems to hear him.  They get to talkin’, fall in love, but gradually the nearest obnoxious radio station becomes more powerful, takes up more of the dial, overpowering Tyler’s love.

To get The Voice back, he must mess up that obnoxious radio station.  Maybe he blows up their tower, or pirates a rival radio station and changes its frequency.  But how can he have a happily ever after here?  I dunno.

THE HOOK:  Why is it passionate?  How can somebody love somebody else without a physical presence?  No idea what they look like?  No chance to be with them physically?  They’re on some Abelard and Heloise shit.

Cover art by me, ballpoint pen and Photopea.

book cover for concept "The Voice"

 

MONSTERHEARTS — DAY 11 — ARTIFICIAL

TITLE:  AISAAC

CHARACTERS:  The Protagonist, a sad person.  AIsaac, an art-producing artificial intelligence.

PREMISE:  The protagonist, a person who we know almost nothing about, is just pouring their feelings into prompts on an AI art generator.  The AI, named AIsaac, produces meaningful responses.  Though they have no words, only images, somehow that’s enough, and love happens.

THE HOOK:  Why is this passionate?  The protagonist initially is just experiencing joy at making interesting art happen with this tool, which, as far as they know, has no feelings of its own.  They pour out their heart just the same, which is both sad and cute in its way.  But what happens when the machine can return that affection?  How can one express love with nothing but images?

Cover art by me, ballpoint pen and Photopea.

book cover for concept "AIsaac"

 

MONSTERHEARTS — DAY 12 — CELESTIAL

CONTENT WARNINGS:  Alien Abduction.

TITLE:  BE NOT AFRAID

CHARACTERS:  Nicola, a laborer building a cathedral.  Hod, an alien being of pure energy.  The jerks, a bunch of alien scrublords who kidnap people, like those Fire in the Sky bozos.

PREMISE:  Nicola is working on the buttresses of a cathedral when some aliens abduct him to do experiments or just kick him around and stuff, in their grody spaceship.  While he’s running around the ship hiding in lockers like an indie horror game, a more kindly alien presence comes to him.

Hod is a being of pure energy who got stuck on the alien ship, but it can communicate telepathically with Nicola, and acts as a guardian angel until they can both be freed.  It can project an image of itself as human-like into his mind, and love can happen.

THE HOOK:  Lovin’ under the gun.  It’s not realistic for characters to have makeouts when they’re in mortal peril, but we all love that stuff, don’t we?

Cover art by me, ballpoint pen and Photopea.

book cover for concept "Be Not Afraid"

 

 

MonsterHearts Days Seven, Four, and Five

Monsterhearts is a 14 day event (named after a pervy RPG) wherein my writing group votes on a monster each day to include in a story concept.  As we marched toward Valentine’s Day, the theme was supernatural romance.  I didn’t make the deadline, but will see if I can put ’em all on the blog by the last day of this month.

 

MONSTERHEARTS — DAY 7 — NATURAL

CONTENT WARNINGS:  Fascist Elfs.

TITLE:  NIGHT OF THE SHINING HOST

CHARACTERS:  Sonny Kassaye, an Ethiopian Irish trans dude.  Conor O’Halloran, a leprechaun trans dude.

PREMISE:  Sonny is in a transmasc support group at a relatively rural college in Ireland.  One of the guys in his group is not much more than a metre tall, but very self-assured.  Turns out,  Conor is one of Mother Nature’s leprechauns, and he’s come back to rock and roll.  And trans his gender.

Anyway, some elves from the Seelie Court go all nativist and try to exterminate all fun-loving enemies.  It’s Night of the Living Dead but with elfs outside the cabin.  Conor uses leprechaun powers, I guess, and also a revolver with cold iron bullets.

THE HOOK:  Love under pressure.  Conor is all badass and cool, so Sonny is impressed.  But is it a good foundation to a relationship?  Sequels will tell.

Cover art by me, ballpoint pen and Photopea.

book cover for concept "Night of the Shining Host"

 

MONSTERHEARTS — DAY 4 — SHAPESHIFTING

CONTENT WARNINGS:  Paranoia.

TITLE:  MARY PUCK

CHARACTERS:  Sonny Kassaye, an Ethiopian Irish trans dude.  Mary Puck, a pooka.

PREMISE:  For meritorious service to the lower class faerie folk, Sonny has been allowed to walk their faerie paths.  He is a college student by day, faerie anthropologist by night – when he can bear the weirdness.  It turns out several of the faeries he interviewed in that capacity were all the same girl, a compulsive shapeshifter who can assume any shape – human or animal or hybrid.  But she never wears the same face twice, and she’s fallen in love with him.

THE HOOK:  Sonny’s relationship with Conor was dashed upon the rocks of circumstance, and being flexible in attractions, he is amenable to Mary’s courtship.  Sometimes she’s a man, sometimes a woman, sometimes etc.  But how can you love somebody without a consistent face or voice?  Just a rotating cast of hyperactive manic pixie dream weirdos?  It’s a dramatic affair.

Cover art by me, ballpoint pen and Photopea.

book cover for concept "Mary Puck"

 

MONSTERHEARTS — DAY 5 — PARASITIC

CONTENT WARNINGS:  Drowning, Suffocation, Abuse Mention.

TITLE:  KING KELPIE

CHARACTERS:  Sonny Kassaye, an Ethiopian Irish trans dude.  Patrick Donovan, King of the Unseelie Court, a kelpie.

PREMISE:  Sonny’s relationship with Mary Puck ended in tears, but the king of the rough-hewn faeries swoops in to love the pain away.  Problem is, the king is a kelpie, a breath vampire who keeps nearly killing the hapless human.  Also, he’s kind of abusive.

Surprise, this is a story about how Sonny got back together with Conor.  Outraging the king by stealing his human intended, Conor becomes an enemy of the UnSeelie Court.  Dashing feats of derring-do ensue.

THE HOOK:  The part with the Parasitic Monster is a passionate love.  In his most human-like form, Patrick is a huge muscly man, so it’s hard not to get fired up by the erotic powers of the big body.  But who wants to have their breath literally taken away?

Cover art by me, ballpoint pen and Photopea.

book cover for concept "King Kelpie"

 

 

Rap Battle

This rap ain’t got composure like a whack-ass thesis

Your boyfriend’s on ma caque like a monkey rhesus

I’m processed in the thigh bags like urine and feces*

You know the label’s fucked that they had to release this

that’s all i had.  sorry.

*only works if you pronounce “urine and feces” like Max von Sydow in Dune (1984).

MonsterHearts Days Two and Three

Monsterhearts is a 14 day event (named after a pervy RPG) wherein my writing group votes on a monster each day to include in a story concept.  As we march toward Valentine’s Day, the theme is supernatural romance…

 

MONSTERHEARTS — DAY 2 — DEMONIC

CONTENT WARNINGS:  Horror Content, it’s a Spoopy Event Yo.

TITLE:  DER HEXENFLUG

CHARACTERS:  Young Marthe and demonic Dorothea.

PREMISE:  Marthe is invited to an artist’s commune in the Black Forest, and joins for the prospect of relative freedom from a repressive sexist culture.  But freedom was a trap!  The patriarchs were right, libertines are really demons that wanna drown you in devil sauce.  Dorothea seduces her with lust, of course, but also the power of flight.  There’s something about flying naked through the summer night that gets her ronks off.

THE HOOK:  Like Leánnan last year, there’s the romance of the succubus.  Is this sinister creature capable of genuine affection?  Marthe doesn’t know, but it feels like it.  It’s so passionate.  But then, it has to be a ruse, to drag her soul into hell.  When she lets herself be taken into the night sky by Dorothea, who knows if she will disappear into the darkness forever?

Cover art by me, ballpoint pen and Photopea.

book cover for concept "Der Hexenflug"

 

MONSTERHEARTS — DAY 3 — NAUTICAL

CONTENT WARNINGS:  Colonizers Depicted Romantically, at Least Not Actively Colonizing as of Moment in Story.  Also War, and the Usual Horror Content.  Body Horror?  Sure, why not?

TITLE:  MEN OF WAR

CHARACTERS:  João and António, young Portuguese sailors who are star-crossed lovers.

PREMISE:  The characters are separated for most of the story, which won’t do for a romance.  Probably this could be accommodated with past / present intercutting.  In the past, the poor boys join a Portuguese merchant ship out of economic desperation.  They fall in love.  Classic sailor goof.  Then a Spanish ship attacks, killing everybody onboard.

João survives drifting on a hunk of wood until rescued.  Heralded for surviving those bastardy Spaniards, he goes to work in an admiral’s office.  He finds out Spanish ships are mysteriously having their crews wiped out by an unknown malefactor.  The admiral is cool with Spaniards dying, but wants to know why, for strategic reasons.  João volunteers to investigate by going undercover in the Spanish navy.

Meanwhile António survived by being mysteriously resurrected by an aquatic hive mind, a massively overdeveloped physaliid cnidarian.  He is incorporated into the hive mind, but empowered with lethal stinging tentacles, he crawls aboard Spanish ships in the night to kill everybody.

THE HOOK:  João’s Spanish ship is attacked by António and the lovers are reunited.  It’s cool, but it seems António is suffering more than just his monstrous condition.  They discover his vengeance is harming the hive mind, and he must return to sea.  Can João convince him to give up his vengeance?  If he does, will they be forever parted?

Cover art by me, ballpoint pen and Photopea.

book cover for concept "Men of War"

 

MonsterHearts Day One

Monsterhearts is a 14 day event (named after a pervy RPG) wherein my writing group votes on a monster each day to include in a story concept.  As we march toward Valentine’s Day, the theme is supernatural romance…

MONSTERHEARTS — DAY 1 — ELDRITCH

CONTENT WARNINGS:  Disability as a Plot Device, Theosophy

TITLE:  TULIP MY TULPA

CHARACTERS: Zach, a cool guy who can barely move and cannot speak.  Tulip, a being with her own spiritual reality, born from his mind.

PREMISE:  Zach was living the cool guy life until the motorcycle accident and the traumatic brain injury.  Living at home and barely alive, his mom the medical woo-meistress talks to him about the things one can do with their mind.  Things like creating a real separate person from yourself, with whom you can keep company while too crippled to speak aloud.

He does the deed, creating a tulpa in his mind named Tulip.  She’s great, in a way, everything he wishes he could be.  But Tulip does have a mind of her own, one bent to love and nurture Zach.  They realize at some point the esoteric spiritual exercise has granted Zach the possibility of recovery from his locked-in state.  But there is a cost.

THE HOOK:  Zach’s mind-body connection is toast, but if he replaces his own mind with that of Tulip, he’ll be able to speak and move more normally again.  But to do that, he’d have to let his own mind dissolve completely.  Tulip loves him too much to let him do that, but also loves him too much to let him stay locked-in forever.  What’s a girl to do?

Cover art by me, ballpoint pen and Photopea.

book cover for concept "Tulip My Tulpa"

The Sext in the Collection

Not many comments on the latest edition of The Midnight Collection, or the excellent literature I excerpted from it for your delectation, well, OK.  Now I’m posting my sleazy BDSM soap opera story from the book.  Written under my pencil-moustache-having nom de plume Caesar Train Magenta, it was a fun time.  Check it out, or continue to whiff on these beauteous pearls I cast about your swiney hooves.  (I kid, I kid.)  My post here is going to have the start of the story, with a link to where you can finish reading it on The Midnight Collection’s website.  If you love or hate the story, or love expressing your opinion even when that is “meh,” leave a comment either here or there…

them thornbloods

“Thornbloods” – Joseph Kelly, 2022

THE IMMOLATION OF THE THORNBLOODS

Caesar Train Magenta

Content Warnings (Spoilery?):  Ableist Language, Abusive Relationships, Alcohol and Drug Abuse, Body Fluids, Capitalism, Child death/endangerment, Classism, Confinement/Bondage, Death of Loved One, Domestic Abuse, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Abuse, Fire, Infidelity in Relationships, Insects, Misogynistic Language, Nudity, Paranoia, Poisoning, Sexism, Sexual Content, Sexual Harassment, Slut-shaming, and Swearing.

December 8th, 1928.  The three came into the cavernous foyer of the Thornblood lake house, once known as “The Lily on the Lake,” to some romantic soul.  But on that day, there was no romance left in the hearts of the two surviving Thornbloods.  And who could say what was in the heart of their brilliant third?  The cold silver light threatened to turn the world to ice outside the massive bay windows.

The last of the Thornbloods, Kent and Mabel, were powerfully built for their respective sexes, a natural strength that required little exercise to maintain.  Their companion, Patricia Coltheart, was comparatively lithe and narrow.  They all had black hair and fair skin, paled considerably by the season, still red at the nose and ears from the icy wind of the road.  Kent’s hair was turning to slate at the temples, Mabel’s was cropped like a flapper’s, but thick waves laid it less fashionably flat.  Patricia’s long, spiraling locks flowed like water with her every move.

Nobody removed their coat, though Mabel flapped the furry lapels to let some heat in.  It was scarcely warmer than it had been on the drive there, and no servants would be present to stoke the furnace.  “Kent,” she said to her brother, “bring that firewood along with us.  The Twelve Point Parlour will be quickest to heat.”

“Naturally.  Perhaps you and Patricia can bring food and drink for all?”  He hoisted a bundle of firewood from a series of low racks.  It was conveniently tied with a thin cord of hemp, and noticing this, he grabbed another.

Patricia twirled in place and stamped her feet.  “Let’s heat this icebox.  Let’s burn it to the ground.”

“Let’s not,” said Mabel.

Kent said nothing.  Indeed, he nearly let his burden fall to the floor, so appalled was he that Patricia could forget the circumstance that had led them all to this bitter occasion.  Or had she forgotten?  She was the love of his life, and yet as cruel as the Devil.

As if cued by that thought, she let slip from her cuff the riding crop that she carried every day of her life, and waved it at him like casting a spell.

July 1st, 1927.  The roll-up curtains in MacCaulay Tower were still hooked down against the dusk’s orange light, though the fierce winds of lofty elevation were quickly stripping away the summer heat that had choked the office workers all day.  The great white ceiling lamps remained dark and grey; less fiery sources of light gleamed from the few desks where work continued.

Mabel lounged in an office chair, legs crossed and bouncing a shoe at the end of one foot, ginger ale in hand.  Kent leaned on the edge of a desk, nursing a small glass of coffee liqueur between exchanges, in no special hurry.

“We keep doing these rounds,” he said.  “I can’t quite fathom why you’re still at it.”

“My businesses are as much a part of the Thornblood portfolio as are your own.  Father would not have appointed one of his children to manage them if he wanted to let them die.”  She was serious, though smiling gently.

For his part, Kent was still amused with the game, like driving her mad at croquet when they were children.  “If Clayton’s will go out of business without the use of a press, why not find another?  MHP is a crucial advertising connection for at least three of the entities under my umbrella.”

“Then you understand the value of it, and why another would not do.”  She spun in the chair and rested her legs on a desk, so she could lose her sight in the orange haze of the curtains.  “Father must see some value in having us compete like this, but the very object of our competition today is something to save cost on competition.  Isn’t that—”

“Shh, just a moment, Mabe.”  Kent called to one of the clerks.  “Steven, turn up that radio.”

“Oh?”  The old man raised the volume dial, though he wasn’t sure why the broadcast was of interest.  Something about a fancy art museum party for the riche less nouveau than his own family.

Mabel asked, “The Gala?”

“It is.  How novel that we can know what our family is doing without the use of a telephone.”

The sound was tinny with painful spikes in volume.  The technology had some way to go.  —And with that, the red carpet has been rolled up, folks.  Anybody outside, well, they’re outside.  But through the magic of radio broadcast, you are inside the Gala with us tonight.

“Doesn’t feel the same to me, pal.”

“Mabel, shh.  Just give me a moment.”

Those great families of industry and finance, the Gettys, the Fords, the Thornbloods, and more.  Ho ho, and what’s this? Seems little Marcia Thornblood has turned this photo shoot into a game of hide and seek.  The cameras won’t be catching her tonight.

Kent chuckled warmly.  “It is like we’re there.”

“No, Father saw to it that we’d be busy little beavers, wasting our youth in office towers on nights like this.”

“You’d rather be keeping an eye on the scamps?  You know if you were there tha—” he stopped himself.

Smoke is indeed from an incident with the flash photography.  Wow!  That sure is spreading fast.  Fire has just shot up the drapes at a fantastic rate.  We’re— A clanging alarm sounded, making the broadcast impossible to hear.  Each clang violently pierced the air, and Steven quickly reached to turn the radio off.

“Don’t!” Kent shouted.

Steven was horrified, but he had no choice.  He understood the need for it, and kept the radio on, pressing hands over his ears to blunt the agony.

Without noticing they had risen, Mabel and Kent were both on their feet, staring at the radio, hoping for some relief from the mounting terror.  The clang sounded twenty more long seconds before it cut to a single even tone, then a different announcer’s voice, clearer than the first.

We apologize for the technical difficulty we just experienced, but there seems to be an emergency taking place at the Miller-Brooks Gala tonight.  We will bring you a proper report as soon as possible.  For those of you just tuning in, there seems to have been a fire at the Miller-Brooks Gala tonight, cutting off our broadcast from the event.  We will bring you a full firsthand account of these events shortly.  In other news—

“What other news?” Mabel seethed.

“Get your jacket.  We’re going.”

December 8th, 1928.  The lakehouse’s electricity was well protected, the Thornbloods personally paying to have every risky junction cleared of trees en route to the power station.  They had lights, but with the central heating already installed, nobody had seen fit to put in modern radiators.  Unless somebody was willing to shovel coal in the basement, or call a servant to do the same, most of the great house would remain winter cold.

They did not want to call a servant.  This was to be a tête-à-tête between the siblings, to settle their business conflicts once and for all.  Patricia was only there to keep Kent’s bed warm, the old-fashioned way.

The light buzzed to life in the kitchen, a false vision of warmth that could not be felt in that room.  Patricia skipped past Mabel, who moved more cautiously.

“Why so lively?”

“Just glad to be free from the damned automobile.”  She twirled, and seeing nothing of interest, her eyes came to rest on Mabel.  “How long do you suppose it will take Kent to stoke the fire?  He’s a real city boy.”  She shrugged her coat off bare shoulders.

“Please.  You won’t get me in the mood with a line that mentions his name.  Find a wine that we won’t despise, okay?”

Patricia pouted, turned to the wine rack, and hooked a bottle at random with the looped head of her crop, tugging it out of the cubby.  It nearly fell to the floor, but she snatched it out of the air deftly.

“Perfect vintage for you two,” she said.  “Sour grapes.”

“Expect a sour weekend,” Mabel said.  She went about gathering food with lifeless motion, all practicality and no art.

Patricia slid behind her like a phantom, craned her long neck to whisper in her ear.  “There’s more than one way to heat up the place, Mabel.”

“I’m here for business.  Blow.”

“Auggh!” Patricia snarled.

Mabel could hear the crop slap on the counters, over and over again, but she did not turn.

July 7th, 1927.  The Lily on the Lake basked in a mild summer heat, the light of the morning sun made a mirror of the water, and the natural beauty of the scene doubled.  Mabel and Kent stood at the end of a patio overlooking the lush tableau, drinks in hand.  The sounds of servants laboring were not loud, but it was enough to make the frogs and birds more shy than they might otherwise be.  The buzz and trill of insects accompanied the conversation.

“I keep saying it, and I can’t stop myself,” Mabel said.

“You can’t believe it’s real, I know.  It’s the Greek chorus in my mind as well.  How could they all be gone?  And here we are.”  He sipped his drink.

“If the Thornbloods were to be culled, we should all have died.  Does it mean something that we didn’t?”

“Nothing means anything.”

“Mm-hm.”

They watched the lake.  Dragonflies vied for their attention and received none.

Mabel spoke.  “We could give it all away.  So many far-flung cousins would love that.”

“I’ve thought of it, though not earnestly,” Kent said.  “It’s a shame the little ones will never see the fruit of our labors.  I suppose one or both of us should look into making heirs?”

“All children look like kindling to me now.  I can’t imagine one living to adulthood.  Strange how one’s expectations can be so inverted.”  She hung her head.

He reached a comforting hand closer along the railing.  “That’s grim, even for you, Mabe.”  He leaned down to catch her eyes.

She looked up wearily, then raised herself again.

They were close.  An embrace hung in the air, a possibility of connection, of family.  They looked into each other’s eyes, small and viperine, and they realized that whatever kinship existed between them had truly died in that fire.

They understood each other, and understood they were brother and sister no more.

December 8th, 1928.  The Twelve Point Parlour was named for the tremendous mounted head of a stag, high above the fireplace.  The points of the great beast’s head touched the ceiling, which was lower than most of the rooms on lower floors—hence easiest to heat with the fireplace.

Even so, Kent’s work had barely begun when the women arrived.  The electric chandelier’s glow was feeble, lost in the innumerable shadows of the archaic Victorian-rustic decor.  It seemed to brighten when Mabel shut the heavy velvet curtains against the white world outside.

Patricia plunked the wine down on a coffee table and lounged into the chair nearest Kent.  The crop fell across her lap.  “Dearest, must we provide all the warmth in this room?”

“I appreciate that, darling, but I’ll have this going soon enough.”  He jabbed at the smoldering logs with the poker.

Mabel set the food down, then took a seat, using her coat as a blanket.  “I think we’re all regretting the decision to leave the servants home.  I would kill for warm meat tonight, and that is surely not going to happen.”

Kent shrugged, still focused on the pitiful flames.  “Solitude has its own kind of luxury; people like you and I are rarely able to partake.”

“And yet you brought your frail filly.”

Patricia slapped the crop on her thigh for attention.  “You know I’m no frail.”

Mabel scowled but pretended no injudicious innuendo had just slipped the girl’s mouth.  “I’m sure she’ll keep you entertained, but we’re not here for pleasure.”

“We all need a little restorative now and again,” Kent said.

Patricia asked, “Who will restore you, Mabel?”

March 14th, 1928.  “Her name’s Patricia Coltheart,” Steven said, adjusting his white gloves.  “Perhaps the crop is a reference to the horse in her name.  She’s certifiable, pal.”

“But she does look remarkable.  You’d remark that, right?”

“Certainly.  I’m old, but not dead, as they say.”

“I didn’t mean to imply anything crass,” Kent said, smirking.  “But I would like to see her face more often.  Any chance she’s looking for an office job, at the executive level?”

“I doubt it, but no harm in introducing yourself.  And I say, shouldn’t you be married by now?  Courting a society girl may quell rumors, and you might get something out of it as well.”

“You’re so blunt tonight, Steven.  But convincing.  I’m convinced.”

The blue silk drapes around the ballroom sparkled with sequins, but otherwise the room was white from floor to ceiling.  The band played lively jazz and young people danced.  Kent was irked to see his sister at one of the tables across the floor, to know she’d be watching his every move.  He downed his drink and subtly sniffed a little cocaine from a trick cuff.

On the floor, he stopped a few paces from his prize with a click of the heel and a smile to express interest.  She was just dancing with a girl—a friendly thing, not too heavy to break it up.

Still, Patricia didn’t pay him much attention, until the other girl cried, “That’s Kent Thornblood!” and practically flung her at him, before dancing away.  Patricia tucked the riding crop under her arm and took short, halting steps toward him.

Kent chuckled, barely audible above the music.  “I can cut a rug too, you know.”  He took her hand and began to move.  He was a tall, powerful man, with a thick jaw and stern brow to match.  His may have been the manliest Charleston of the decade and well executed.

Aside from the mystery of her equestrian accessory, it was a conventional and coquettish courtship that evening.  In the end, she accepted an invitation to visit MacCaulay Tower.

Mabel watched it all.

March 16th, 1928.  Raindrops snaked down Kent’s office window in a mad dash.  The golden office lamp vied with the badly occluded sun for dominance and the light washed out to a dark neutral mood.  He had been leaning against his desk in a casual pose, Patricia standing before him, but he had suddenly become quite still and tense.

“This shirt.”  His shirt’s top buttons had been ripped free by a careless swipe of Patricia’s riding crop.  “This shirt cost more than everything you’ve ever worn.”

She held the offending implement behind her back with one hand and made a girlish gesture with the other.  Her dress was a common enough design for young women, but unusually funeral black.

“This shirt?”  She looped an arm around his neck, pulling so close he could feel every hot breath on his ear.  Then she gripped his collar and pulled, ripping it completely away.

Kent trembled with confused rage.

She wrapped the collar around her neck and pinched it shut, affecting a man voice.  “I’m Kent.  I do big business all day.  It’s very important.”

He pawed at his chest foolishly until he composed himself and pointed at her angrily.  “This game is all very amusing, yes, but how can I leave the building in this state?  And what they think of me, they’ll think twice as poorly of you.  You do understand how the talk works, don’t you?”

“And you worry too much about the future.”  She bounced the riding crop once more in both hands.  “Do you want to come, or don’t you?”

Kent was floored again, hands gripping the edge of his desk.  “I beg your pardon?”

Patricia cocked a hip.  “Do you desire sexual release, you starched collar?”  She underscored the insult by pointing the crop where his collar had fallen to the floor.  It still struggled to maintain the shape of a thick neck.

Kent couldn’t speak, his body trembling again, but he mouthed the words, “I do.”  His eyes were soft and fearful.

She laid the head of the crop against his exposed skin.  “Then you will do everything that I tell you to do, and you will thank me for it…”

READ THE REST HERE,

Or purchase the whole Midnight Collection e-book through Ko-fi.  A physical copy in paperback will be coming soon.  And lastly, you can just read the collection for free at the Collection’s website.

The Best in the Collection

No comments on my entries to the latest edition of The Midnight Collection, OK.  Now I’m posting what I consider to be the best story from the book.  Written by Joseph Kelly, it well embodies the theme of Bitter Cold, and is just unusually well-written fiction.  How am I dating this guy?  Check it out.  My post here is going to have the start of the story with a link to where you can finish reading it on The Midnight Collection’s website.  If you love or hate the story, or love expressing your opinion even when that is “meh,” leave a comment either here or there…

man in snow

“A man walking in the snow” – Engelhart, 1904

THE ICE BOX

Joseph Kelly

Content Warnings:  Ableist language, Child death/endangerment, Death of loved one, Depression, Disease, Horror Content in General.

In this country, the seasons were so wonderfully distinct.  You’d never mistake the autumn woods for those in late summer or early winter, with the leaves a vibrant patchwork and the grasses a uniform gold.  The blooming swamp irises would not let you imagine it was still March, and the dense blanket of snow would stay until the first crackling, melting days of spring.  Because of this, Granddad could never forget his daughter died in early autumn.

No walks together through the crunching leaves that season, only bitter mourning indoors, the curtains closed.  She had died so quickly, along with her husband.  Their bedroom remained untouched since then, their bed still unmade from where they were lifted by nurses.  Granddad installed a lock on that door so his granddaughter wouldn’t go wandering in.  There was nothing in there but a few humble possessions, and blood-stiffened handkerchiefs.  But their memory remained.  The scent of their illness dissipated, replaced by the scent of the little imported soaps she used, shaped like flowers and seashells.  Granddad threw them in the bin with glassy eyes, then took the bin away from the house.

They had fallen ill so quickly, then died far from home, never to return.  In Granddad’s youth, his mother had died in her own bed, surrounded by family.  Now people were just cut from your life.  One final glimpse in the coffin, then gone.  It left a terrible anticipation, like they might walk through the door any moment.  That he would wake from this troubled dream, back to how things were before.

And the little one, of course, had to feel it even more.  She had never known life without her parents.  Those first few days, she would sit by the door, staring at the solid wood.  She would mumble ‘I know’ to his reminders that they were not returning.  But she kept up her ritual, even after the second trip to leave flowers on the graves.  He allowed her; what else could he do?  She gave up once the snow began to fall, closing the season and that part of their lives, killing the timid hope that curled up in their hearts.

Granddad returned to his workshop and all the usual chores when the neighbors’ kindness dried up.  No more sweet lebkuchen and warm spätzle delivered by rheumy-eyed matrons.  No offers to watch the little girl to give him a break.  She was darling, an angel, but she was still too small to be left alone while he worked all day.  Nor would he want to leave her alone.  He stayed up an entire night to move her playroom into his workshop.  She could be beside him as he worked, her squeaks and shouts no longer an annoyance, but a comfort.

Long ago, he had climbed on roofs and repaired broken pipes, but now his work had to be seated.  And once, he had considered himself retired, doing his tinkering as a mere hobby to keep himself occupied.  Now it was a livelihood with his children gone.  He built and repaired tools for the neighbors.  Maybe they just paid him out of pity, though his work truly was well-crafted.  Too well-crafted, perhaps.  Once he built a hammer, it would last a lifetime—why buy a second one?  The men would mumble about giving it to a relative, goaded on by their soft-hearted wives.

He asked around the village whether someone might like a dollhouse for a little girl.  A rocking horse?  Some sturdy wooden blocks?  But children preferred toys from the fancy shop in town, not the outdated creations of an old man.  So he took his tools and his granddaughter out to neighbor’s houses to repair their attic steps, and nail down new baseboards to keep the mice out.

One afternoon, the two of them arrived to the Bürgermeister’s daughter’s house.  Her expensive ice box had broken, and it seemed a waste to purchase a new one, though they could surely afford it.  These days, a man came around to sell blocks of ice, a convenience compared to venturing out into the ice caverns to chip some off yourself.  All the middle-class families wanted their own ice box now.

A putrid smell hung in the air, and the windows of the fine estate gaped open.  The lady of the house rushed out to meet them.

“Forgive the smell.  The goose rotted.  That’s how we knew…”

Inside, the icebox lay on its side in a pile of wet rags.  The delicately carved trim looked so extravagant, but he could see the cracks in the joints, the sloppily joined seams.  The lady fetched him a stool, and he sat with a quiet grunt of pain.  Looking closer, he found the drainage hole—so roughly cut it was half clogged with splinters.  He puzzled over it, tapping with the hammer, seeing what had gone so wrong.  There was no point fixing it, the wood inside being so cheap and splintered.

“It’s such a shame,” the lady said, bouncing his granddaughter on her knee.  “So much money.”

“It’s a simple design,” Granddad said.  “One could make something like this out of an old cabinet.  They put too much effort on the exterior.”

The woman’s eyes brightened.  “You can make anything, can’t you?  I bet you could make one for half the cost?”

He thought to scoff, but there really couldn’t be much to it.

That evening, he rocked in his chair, a notebook on his lap.  He twirled his pen, pondering the design.  He didn’t have a factory or specialty tools, but if he could build a cupboard, why couldn’t he build this?  His granddaughter sneezed as she stacked her blocks, and he rushed over to fuss with her.  Her little hands were pink and cold.  It had grown a bit chilly, hadn’t it?

He spent long hours, and had to purchase ice from that smarmy city-man to test it, but he developed a prototype.  He could store soup for days, keep the leftover bits of dinner he usually fed to the garden.  But an old man and a tiny girl didn’t eat much, and leftovers wouldn’t keep their stove burning all winter.

As much as he hated to, he invited the grannies and aunties to the house, let them chatter away and poke and squeeze his granddaughter.  They marveled at his design as he showed them how clean it was, how easy to change out the old water, how much longer their ice would last.  There were two orders by the end of the night.

It was hard work, and he wished he’d come up with the idea years earlier, before arthritis stiffened his hands, back when he had the energy to saw and hammer and move bulky furniture.  He had no means to cart the things around, so he would have to assemble them in the neighbors’ houses.

His granddaughter had been whining for him to play with her, wanting him to sit his creaky body on the floor and watch her move her dollies around.  He would have loved to, but he only had so many wakeful hours in the day, and they needed to eat, to stay warm.  One evening he found her twirling a dolly with a strangely patterned dress—white, splotched with dark brown flowers: a bloody kerchief.

He took it from her as she cried.  The forbidden bedroom door gaped open, his step stool dragged close for little hands to reach the knob.  She had learned to open the lock.

There was no putting it off now.  He gathered up the old possessions, took the dirty linens to the trash, sold the costume jewelry for a pittance.  The room was empty, save for the bare bed, and the chair he’d sat on as he cared for them.  All traces of them were gone, besides a few trinkets he kept in a drawer with a sturdier lock.  It was like another death.

Snow filled in the yard, and now he had to bundle up the little girl if she wanted to follow him as he worked.  She kept losing her mittens, and he’d hunt around to find them abandoned on a snow drift.  He scolded her, said her fingers would turn black and fall off if she wasn’t careful.  His own fingers were a bit precarious too, with clumsy mistakes of his hammer and weary work with the saw.

The neighbors sent their young sons to help deliver the bulky wood and heavy tools.  The young men would scoff and snort at his attempts at conversation, rushing ahead with their long legs to leave him shuffling behind.  His granddaughter had become just as sullen as those young men, too fussy to come with him to his work.  No matter how he explained, she could not accept his long hours away as important for their survival.  But she was big enough now to stay alone, wasn’t she?  She was a big girl who could play with her toys while he was gone for just a couple hours.

One evening he returned late, the moon gleaming on the thick snow.  He was longing for nothing more than a soak in the bathtub.  The gate was parted.  He approached, dumbly fussing with the latch, mystified.  Had he left it open in his rush?  The terrible realization dawned on him, and he didn’t even stop to look inside the house.

He dashed around as quickly as he could with his stiff knees, crying out her name.  The snow was falling fast, but he could still catch traces of footprints leading out of the yard.  The way he’d come, his heavy boots stomping over them without even noticing.

He prayed it was just her coat lying in that snow bank, but he knew.  Her shoe had gotten stuck on a tree root, and it hadn’t occurred to the poor thing to just pull it off.  He shook at her, pawed at her frozen white face.  Her eyes were closed, frost matting the lashes.  No pink in her lips, her cheeks.  She’d kept her mittens on for once.

He rushed back home with her in his arms, mind spinning.  How?  How?  He had locked the gate, he was sure of it.  And how had she gotten outside at all?

The front door was unlatched too, a little chair pushed against it to reach the knob.  He laid her in front of the fire, shuddering.  He fell to his old knees, grimacing with the pain as he lay his ear against her chest.  Listen, listen… listen for anything over the creak of the old wood, of the crackling of the ice outside, of the drip-drip of the coming spring thaw.  Anything, a mouse’s peep, the tiniest flutter… No breath came from her blue lips.  He lifted one of her eyelids and revealed the pale, lifeless eye.

They would come take her.  Not even to the hospital—straight to the little box they’d bury her in.  He might not survive to see that moment; his old heart threatened to pound itself to death.  The fire burned beside them, melting the flakes in her lashes.  He gazed at her, imagining the chill blue fading from her face.  What would be left then?  A goose, left to spoil?

He bundled her in his arms.  He couldn’t let them take her from him.  She was all he had, and all he could ever hope to have again.  He stumbled out into the snow and laid her in a soft drift.  Spring was coming, and everything would melt.

There was still wood in the shop, enough for another cabinet, at least a small one.  He hauled the boards out into the yard and got to work.  His body screamed for rest but he couldn’t leave her out in the open that way, out with pecking birds and scuttling insects.

It was enough.  He could refine the seams later, make sure not even the tiniest insect could crawl inside.  His heart kept hoping that she would waken, that she would cover her ears and wail about Opa making such a racket with his hammer.  But she was still as a doll, even as he laid her in the little box, and tucked her in with handfuls of snow.  A puffy white comforter for her rest.

He kept the box close to the house and stayed in his freezing workshop, scribbling out plans.  A stupid old man could figure out an icebox, but what was he hoping to invent now?  An icebox where the ice never melted?  And what then, if he could even manage it?  Keep her sad little body forever, locked away like a trinket in a drawer?  He wept into his hands between his fits of labor.

The next morning, a knock to his door woke him in a startled fit.  That damned ice-man was back, bragging about his wares.  You could preserve a goose for a month with this…  Selling ice in the dead of winter!  Granddad rebuffed him and stalked back to his workshop.  But a thought began to turn in his mind.  The ice cavern was cold the whole year, especially the deeper you went…

READ THE REST HERE,

Or purchase the whole Midnight Collection e-book through Ko-fi.  A physical copy in paperback will be coming soon.  And lastly, you can just read the collection for free at the Collection’s website.

All the Dollars, Genre Edition

Capitalism is about every business needing to maximize profits at all times, at the expense of quality, of careers, of productive businesses themselves, of individual lives, of communities, of art and intellect, of the continued existence of the human species, etc.  I don’t much cotton to it.

Something wiser people than I have remarked on, or expounded at length, is that this has the effect of reducing consumer choice.  That might be small potatoes compared to it reducing the life expectancy of the human race, but it’s not nothing, and it’s what I’m talking about at the moment.  Briefly.  This will be a total driveby.

I’ve been reading Paperbacks From Hell by Grady Hendrix, mostly for the pictures.  It’s an art book of schlocky horror book covers, but also a history of the industry, artists, and writers.  Some combination of tax law and corporate greed led to the destruction of the mid-tier book market in the ’90s, and more relevant to my point here, led to trend-chasing and the death of entire genres.

It was never about public desire to actually read this or that.  It was about the money men’s perceived need to put all your money on the winning horse, to hedge no bets.  When Silence of the Lambs blew up, supernatural or scifi horror was chucked in the dustbin of history.  It couldn’t get published without a select few author’s names on it.  It was serial killers or thrillers, for the spooky end of the book rack, or nothing.

I haven’t finished the book yet so I don’t know if it mentions the way book stores don’t even have a horror section now, but they do have a supernatural romance section, boy howdy.  Anyway, all these genres are ridden into the dirt like so many Dr. Strangelove bombs, leaving the public tired and wired.  We still have needs for artistic and intellectual stimulation that are not being met, interests The Man has deemed unprofitable.

And thanks to cultural balkanization driven by social media, it’ll be pretty hard for The Man to keep these gravy trains on track.  Disney’s historically recent media monopolies seemed like they could rule forever, but those profits are sure to get limp over time.  What then?  For us, the consumers of media, we have our rabbit holes, our communities, our own trends that flicker this way and that like cat’s tails.

I don’t know if I have anything to say with all this.  It’s just what was on my mind.  I’m going to self-publish a supernatural horror action-adventure sometime soon-esque, and that would’ve been among the casualties of this mess, once upon a time.  Who’s to say what will happen with it now?