British Flash
A revealing collection of short LGBT fiction
Edited by Josephine Myles, Alex Beecroft, Charlie Cochrane, Clare London and JL Merrow
Enjoy this entertaining collection of flash fiction stories, each one a short but sweet expression of what it means to be queer in Britain, past and present. All these stories reflect the iconic sights and national character of the British Isles: a taste of our idiosyncrasies and eccentricities, but also an unashamed representation of the love, loyalty and laughter of our people.
Follow the British way of life from historic villages to modern cities, from the countryside to the sea, through history and with a fantasy twist, in gardens, shops, campus and the familiar, much-loved local pub.
The stories cover universal themes of romance, desire, remembrance and reconciliation. The authors range from multi-published to up-and-coming, and they all share a passion for their characters, whether through great drama, erotic excitement, humour—or a combination of all three!
This anthology is a souvenir of the 2011 UK Meet, an occasion for GLBTQ supporters to get together in a relaxed setting to celebrate and chat about the fiction community they love. Find out more at: http://ukmeet.weebly.com/
British Flash
A revealing collection of short LGBT fiction
Edited by Josephine Myles, Alex Beecroft, Charlie Cochrane, Clare London and JL Merrow
Published by UK MAT at Smashwords
Benefits of Peace Copyright 2011 by Alex Beecroft, Ben’s New Colleague Copyright 2011 by Serena Yates, Commission and Omission Copyright 2011 by Charlie Cochrane, Escape to the Country Copyright 2011 by Stevie Woods, Giving It Up Copyright 2011 by Josephine Myles, Last Client Copyright 2011 by Jay Rookwood, Like a Girl Copyright 2011 by JL Merrow, Mouth Almighty Copyright 2011 by Victoria Blisse, Nessie Copyright 2011 by Caroline Stephens, Our Place Copyright 2011 by Clare London, Paint Copyright 2011 by Stevie Carroll, Prince Charming’s Buttons Copyright 2011 by Stevie Carroll, Reunion Copyright 2011 by Lisa Worrall, Slap and Motley Copyright 2011 by Sandra Lindsey, Sunshine Superman Copyright 2011 by Elin Gregory, They Who Come After the Stories End Copyright 2011 by Sophia Deri-Bowen, Thoughts in Spring Copyright 2011 by Mara Ismine, We’ll Always Have Brighton Copyright 2011 by Zahra Owens, While the Boys are Away Copyright 2011 by Lucy Felthouse, Worst Pub in London copyright 2011 by JL Merrow, Yesterday Upon the Stair Copyright 2011 by Erastes.
Cover art by Alex Beecroft
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the authors, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by these authors. Thank you for your support.
British Flash
The Worst Pub in London by JL Merrow *
Josh finds working at the Forlorn Hop duller than ditchwater—until a tall, dark stranger walks in and he's swept off his feet. Literally.
Our Place by Clare London **
How can you know someone through short trousers, spots and secondary education, and then when they’re a man and you’re still beside them, find some other yearning for them?
We’ll Always Have Brighton by Zahra Owens **
Two men meet on a cold and rainy day in Brighton They have a painful history and they have a hotel room—can they forgive each other before they go inside?
Commission and Omission by Charlie Cochrane *
Arromanches, 1994. Visits to the D-day beaches have become a pilgrimage for Stephen. He counts his life as starting in 1939 and finishing in 1944. Here.
Paint by Stevie Carroll ***
Her most successful art has been created on living human bodies, and at last she has found her muse: Layla. Now, working with a different type of pigment, artist and muse can create a work of art for their eyes—and lips—alone.
Ben’s New Colleague by Serena Yates *
When Ben Imberg's secret crush leaves for Scotland to be with his new boyfriend, Ben is devastated. Meeting Ron Linsley, the new head of the Science Department at the Komlos Foundation, however, gives him new hope...
Giving It Up by Josephine Myles *
Gay men can't donate blood without breaking the rules, can they? A student protester caught in the act is mortified to have to explain himself to the bloke he fancies.
Thoughts in Spring by Mara Ismine *
Ash is looking forward to a peaceful weekend—but a rook with other things on the brain messes up his plans and his house at the same time. Will Ash survive the weekend with his sanity intact? Will the rook keep its feathers?
Mouth Almighty by Victoria Blisse ***
Boyfriends Ben and Pete share everything, including their appreciation of good, local cheese—and the delicious young lady in the cheese shop who's more than willing to serve them!
Reunion by Lisa Worrall *
Toby had hated every second of school, so why on earth would he want to attend a reunion? Well, there was one reason—Mickey Hayes, the captain of the cricket team. But Mickey hardly knew Toby existed—or did he?
While the Boys are Away by Lucy Felthouse ***
Amelia's with Toby. Gemma's with Rob. But when the four of them go camping together, it soon emerges that Amelia and Gemma are more than just good friends!
Nessie by Caroline Stephens **
The thrill of a mystery no-one's ever solved has kept marine biologist Jude Hannigan in the Highlands for months. Now his time is up and his sunny home in Malibu calls. But quiet and sexy Callum McAllister might just tempt him to stay by the banks of Loch Ness—monster or no monster.
Slap and Motley by Sandra Lindsey *
Terry and John are old friends, new lovers. But Terry doesn't know everything about John—as an unexpected gift is about to reveal!
Like a Girl by JL Merrow *
Her name's Nina, and she punches like a girl. And what the bloody hell's wrong with that?
Last Client by Jay Rookwood *
Jon Brickman is strong. Jon Brickman is independent. Jon Brickman needs no-one's support.
Or so he thinks.
Sunshine Superman by Elin Gregory **
In the summer of ’68, Sam Yelf was young, innocent and knew all the words to Donovan’s ‘Sunshine Superman’ by heart. Forty-odd years on he might be a little hazy about lyrics but there are things, and people, whose memory will never fade.
Escape to the Country by Stevie Woods ***
It wasn’t to escape the pressure of a Season in London that Stephen and Andrew left town for the country. It was for the privacy, the freedom, in which they could express their love for each other.
Prince Charming’s Buttons by Stevie Carroll *
Ash slides between genders off stage as easily as changing from one role to another on stage. As both Jen's girlfriend and Colin's boyfriend and with their current production of Cinderella drawing to a close, Ash needs to take the next step in managing the two relationships.
Yesterday Upon the Stair by Erastes **
Old lovers, reunited. But the years they were apart have marked them both.
Benefits of Peace by Alex Beecroft *
In the balmy summer days of the 1930s, what could be more peaceful than punting on the Cam? But punting, Timothy discovers, is harder than it looks. Still, with a handsome English student to befriend, fortune favours the brave, does she not?
They Who Come After the Stories End by Sophia Deri-Bowen **
Everyone knows the great love stories: Jane Eyre and Mr Rochester, Rick and Ilsa, Scarlett and Rhett. But what of those stories that were thought of, but never written, the ones that lived only in daydreams? Meet Tup and Davies—two characters who might have been.
Heat levels:
* Perfectly Decent
** A Teasing Glimpse
*** The Full Monty
by JL Merrow
Josh flicked a beer towel at an imaginary cockroach then did it again, harder for good measure. It made a nice slapping sound on the bar. “This is probably the worst…” snap “…pub…” snap “…in London,” he sang aloud to the tune from Sweeney Todd, doing a little twirl behind the bar.
“Nice voice, but if you want to get mistaken for Helena Bonham Carter you’re going to need bigger tits,” a gravelly voice commented, making Josh drop the Bacardi Breezer he’d been using as a microphone.
“Shit! Ouch!” The bottle survived the fall, but Josh wasn’t sure his foot had. “Sorry,” he said, face burning as he tried not to hop too obviously. “I didn’t hear you come in. What can I get you?”
The stranger was tall, dark-skinned and way too heavy-set to have moved so silently. He looked Josh up and down with soft brown eyes that crinkled up readily at the corners. “I’m starting to wonder if it’d be safe to have anything here. You don’t serve pies, do you?”
Josh grinned back at him, feeling a tiny flutter in the region of his midriff at the sight of that smile. “Wondering what’s happened to all the customers, are you? No, it’s always like this here. They don’t call it the Forlorn Hop for nothing—all the old customers have died or moved away, and the new lot want something more trendy. We get a couple of old fogies in for a pint most nights—and I mean a pint—but during the day it’s as dead as the filling in one of Mrs Lovett’s finest. Don’t know how the old man keeps it open, to tell the truth.”
“Maybe it’s just a front. Drug deals in the tap room, prostitution in the lounge. Money-laundering on the side.” The stranger leered. “Maybe it wasn’t just beer you were offering me there?”
Josh allowed his eyelashes just a hint of a flutter. “We do have a comprehensive range of spirits and mixers,” he said coyly. “Perhaps if you told me what you like?”
“Well, I know it when I see it.” That dark smile was suggestion itself. “I’m Devlin, by the way.”
“Devlin? Sounds kind of naughty. I like that in a man. I’m Josh. So that’ll be..?”
“Scotch and soda. And one for yourself,” Devlin added, leaning a well-muscled forearm on the bar. “I hate drinking alone.”
“There’s a lot of things that are more fun with two,” Josh purred seductively, turning smartly on his heel and stepping towards the spirits. As he did so, he felt something under his foot. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just the lino. Whatever it was rolled away from him, taking his foot with it. Oh, yes. Should have picked up that Bacardi Breezer, was Josh’s last thought as the room tilted up and his head crashed into the edge of the bar.
****
When Josh woke up he had a hard time at first deciding whether he was hallucinating from concussion or just plain dead and gone to heaven. There obviously couldn’t be any other explanation for the fact that he was flat on his back with Tall, Dark and Insinuating bending over him, his full lips only inches from Josh’s own. “Wha’…”
“You all right there, Josh? Caught that head a nasty knock. I was just about to call 999.”
Josh blinked, and rallied. “Oh? It looked more like you were about to give me the kiss of life.”
Devlin sat back on his heels, smirking. “Wishful thinking, was it? Now, do you think you can sit up? Or do you want that doctor?”
“I’ll be all right,” Josh muttered, starting to push himself up. Strong hands reached out to help him, and Josh leaned into their support possibly just a little more than he really needed to. Devlin’s warm body seemed very close as he reached a sitting position, and Josh swallowed.
“Sure about that?”
Josh reached up gingerly to feel the back of his head. “Ow. Yeah, I’ll be okay.” He held up his palm to Devlin. “See? No blood.”
“Just because your brains aren’t actually spilling out of your skull doesn’t mean there might not be a serious injury there. Come on, I’m taking you upstairs for a lie down, at least.”
“But I can’t leave the bar!” Josh protested.
Devlin raised an eyebrow and cast a slow look around the pub. The only sign of life was a lost ladybird on a lampshade. A few dust motes twinkled lazily in a sunbeam whilst, in the distance, the slow rumble of traffic underlined the fact that there was a whole city out there teeming with people, none of whom wanted a pint at the Forlorn Hop.
“All right. So maybe it’d be okay if I took an hour or two off. But don’t you have a job to go to?”
Devlin answered with a grin that made Josh’s stomach flip over. “Nah. I just got a new job. Manager of this pub, as it happens. I’m your boss’s grandson. He wants me to take this place and turn it around—make it appeal to a younger crowd. Grab the pink pound.”
“You can grab my pink pound any time you like—well, more like a pound and a half, in fact,” Josh added modestly, if less than truthfully.
Devlin’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, yeah? I might just hold you to that. Course, any staff who want to carry on working under me are going to have to be flexible. Think you can handle that?”
The ache in Josh’s head seemed to have magically receded, and even the faded velvet on the barstools was looking brighter. “Oh, I’m pretty good at handling things,” he said, clutching onto Devlin for support as he stood up. “Why don’t I take you up on that offer of a lie down upstairs, Boss?” He smiled coquettishly, and very carefully didn’t let go of his new manager. “And then I’ll show you just how flexible I can be when I’m under you.”
JL MERROW is that rare beast: an English person who refuses to drink tea. Having grown up by the seaside, she also loathes fish and chips. She read Natural Sciences at Cambridge, where she learned many things, chief amongst which was that she never wanted to see the inside of a lab ever again. Her one regret is that she never mastered the ability of punting one-handed whilst holding a glass of champagne.
She writes across genres, with a preference for contemporaries and the paranormal, and is frequently accused of humour.
Website (including free reads section): http://www.jlmerrow.com/
Blog: http://jl-merrow.livejournal.com/
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/jl.merrow?ref=profile
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2980235.J_L_Merrow
Some of JL Merrow's other books:
Pricks and Pragmatism
Camwolf
Sex, Lies and Edelweiss
Muscling Through (July 2011)
Wight Mischief (November 2011)
Snared
Tortoise Interruptus
Dulce et Decorum Est
A Ghoul Like You
Stroke to His Cox
by Clare London
Surely it’s the stuff of fiction alone?
Can you really spend years growing up with someone, in and out of their house, sharing school benches, sledging, swimming and stealing sweets from the corner shop, and yet still want something more than friendship? I used to laugh when people said it happens in real life. How can you divorce the magic from the mundane? How can you know someone through short trousers, spots and secondary education, and then when they’re a man and you’re still beside them, find some other yearning for them?
Enough questions. I never said I knew the answers.
Our mothers fell pregnant at the same time, giggling and marvelling about the whole thing together. Our families lived in the same street and we were born only a month apart, bursting into the world, upturning our families in just the same way. Two underweight, squalling, red-faced baby boys. Our parents shared all the details, all the shock, all the amazement.
Ben and I were always together from then on.
We were at the same school, had the same kind of pushbike, negotiated the same pocket money by pretending the other one got more. Ben’s dad turned his garden over to vegetables and fruit, and we spent most of our spare time there. The sweet smell of soft fruit in season was fantastic. The vegetable beds were separated from the house by a high hedge, and we’d hide behind it, unseen by anyone in the house, sharing apples and raw runner beans. It was “our place”. We read gaming comics, harassed spindly spiders and played ball up against the wall of the shed.
The raspberries were always the highlight. We raced to be the first to pick. Ben would ‘accidentally’ knock some fruit from the canes, pretending they were wastage, but I’d catch them as they fell and then we’d eat them. Or he’d struggle with me, laughing, mock-punching me in the belly until he snatched his own share. We didn’t eat them as much as cram them into our mouths, the tart sweetness bursting on my tongue, the dribbling juice staining Ben’s lips.
Later in years, we were cool, bored teenagers. We read girly magazines because you were meant to, hiding them in the back of the greenhouse where the spiders now kept guard for us. We tried to keep the loamy soil off our fashionable boots, and the ball games gave way to hand-held screens. We still stole apples and beans, though, and lay behind the hedge together on weekend afternoons. In the summer, we took off our shirts, puffing out our expanding chests, peering for blossoming hairs between the nipples.
One time, Ben got badly sunburned. Desperate to transform our pale English skin into a golden, Californian-style tan, we were impatient and greedy for as much of the fitful sun we could get. It was a shock to see him nearly in tears. He needed me to keep smoothing cream over his chest, to ease the pain and the shivering. The skin was hot and so red, it reflected on my palms, the heat soaking into me as I massaged him. He bit his lip; glanced up at me. The red seemed to reflect in his eyes, too.
I don’t think I knew, then. There was just a small, awkward flame flickering inside me, quickly extinguished by embarrassment.
We both chose the same college and a cheap flat-share with other aimless, bemused students. Daily life consisted of not enough money, thick text books, and courses that were fun but probably wouldn’t lead to a glamorous career. We drank too much, and were bereft if a weekend wasn’t full of parties. The parents were alternately frustrated and proud of us.
And at home alone, our newly-adult life was spent on battles for the bathroom, avoiding chip pan fires, fighting over the remote: the need for independence warring with the need for company. And Ben always with me.
Many conflicting feelings bubbled inside me.
In the summer break we visited the families together. I met Ben in his garden for a secret smoke, sitting on sacking behind the hedge, returning to “our place”. We bitched about harsh lecturers, bad music and the price of a pint. And about the predatory, clinging nature of girls. No girl had clung to me any longer than a couple of hours at a party, but Ben apparently had more experience. He didn’t seem all that fussed.
He blew out the smoke from his cig and the wind caught it, whipping it into my eyes. I was caught unawares, coughing.
“Shit, Terry.” Ben laughed, but when my eyes started watering he looked worried. He grasped my chin and pulled my face around to face him.
“I’m fine.” His hand was firm. I wished I’d felt it more often than I had. Not in fights, in games, in high-fives. But in other ways.
I knew, then.
“You’re staring at me.” He frowned. “And why the hell are you blushing?”
He was as familiar to me as myself: I’d gazed at him more often than my mirror. I knew his shape and size, the flicker in his eyes and the set of his jaw. And yet…I felt I knew nothing. It was like someone new inside me, clambering up through my comfort zones, twisting my emotions, challenging my self-confidence. Wanting.
I kissed him. A silly, clumsy kiss, tasting smoke trails in his mouth, licking his lips so they shone red. Just like the raspberries. But much, much sweeter.
He didn’t punch me; didn’t pull away. He was silent for a long time, his eyes fixed on me, and his own cheeks flushed. Then he offered me another cigarette. I took it. His hand was shaking slightly.
“You’re red, too.” I sounded hoarse, like when my voice first broke, when we’d laughed at each other’s squeaks.
Ben laughed softly, now. A far more mature sound. And, thankfully, happy. I leaned back against the hedge, smiling. It was “our place”.
And now it was our time, too.
CLARE LONDON took her pen name from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with the weekly wash, waiting for the far distant day when she can afford to give up her day job as an accountant. She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic and sexy characters.
Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter 3 stage and plenty of other projects in mind . . . she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home.
All the details and free fiction are available at her website. Visit her today and say hello!
Website: http://www.clarelondon.co.uk
Blog: http://clarelondon.livejournal.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/clarelondon
MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/clarelondon
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/clare_london
Good Reads: http://www.goodreads.com/clarelondon
GLBT Wiki: http://bookworld.editme.com/clarelondonbooks
by Zahra Owens
It’s bloody cold and I keep thinking I should have worn a winter coat. I guess I’m spoilt by the warmth of London and the memory of how Brighton was never cold to me either, simply because I always had you to keep me sheltered from the rain and wind.
I’m sitting on the bench of the pavilion, our pavilion, where we always used to go to look at the sea. The old burned-down pier is to my left and the newer one, cluttered with shops selling Brighton rock and toffee, and noisy from the arcades and kids’ rides, is beyond that. I look up at the hotel, at the window of the room we always took on our trips here. My suitcase is in that room. Only yours isn’t there. That’s the only difference.
That and the fact I’m freezing my bollocks off.
I step off the pavilion and onto the pebble beach where I walk to the water’s edge. I crouch down to pick up a pebble with a strange stripy pattern and remember how you always used to look for flat ones you could throw into the sea, making them bounce off the water, skipping through the waves. I decide to hang on to this one.
“Want me to make it skip over the water for you?”
I turn around and my heart leaps. I blink a few times against the watery sun, trying to work out whether I’m dreaming you, because I didn’t hear you approach.
“There’s too much wind,” I manage to say. “The water surface isn’t flat enough for it to bounce.”
You smile and I forget that I’m freezing cold.
“You know I can make any stone skip, as long as it’s flat enough.”
“You can,” is about all I can say when you take a step closer to me. I take a deep breath and wrap my arms around my body, trying to stop myself from leaping right into your embrace. You’re wearing that inside-out sheepskin coat I hate so much, but I know exactly how warm it is, since I always used to bury my hands into it when we hugged, here on our beach, and that’s how you kept me warm.
As if you’re reading my mind—something you were always good at—you unbutton your coat and open it, inviting me in.
“Just to keep warm,” you say. “No strings attached.”
I nod and step closer, wrapping my arms around your thin frame while you wrap the coat around both of us. Immediately your heat floods into me and I catch your cologne-free scent and ignore what it does to my body. You’re taller than me and as you put your chin on top of my head I’m reminded of that even more than when I looked up at you earlier. We still fit well, though.
“You should let him fatten you up,” I say, trying to sound emotionless, and almost succeeding. “You’re even skinnier than you used to be.”
“I just go running now; don’t do weights anymore, so you know it drops off me then.”
“And he doesn’t feed you the way I used to?” I ask, realising I just gave away the fact I still miss you like nobody’s business.
“For him to feed me he has to be around,” you answer softly.
I look up at you, but you’re staring at the water and I realise how much sorrow there is in your gaze.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I try to untangle myself from your arms, but you’re holding me so tightly I can’t.
“He was a fling.”
“A fling you left me for. You moved out of our flat to be with that fling.”
Now you do let go and I step back. You’re still not looking at me.
“I knew it wouldn’t amount to anything even before I moved out.”
“But you still did it.”
“You were so angry with me. With reason.” You say that last line looking directly at me. There’s a deep line across your forehead and I want to wipe it away like I always used to be able to. “I wanted to give you time to cool off.”
“I would have forgiven you, you know,” I say, realising I’m not lying. “You were honest and admitted you’d been cheating without me having to find out. I was pissed off with you for about three days, and then I wanted you back, but by then you’d left. I thought you’d moved in with him.”
You shake your head. The dark line over your eyes is still there.
“So why did it take you four months to call me?”
You shrug, silently admitting you don’t have an explanation.
“At least you called,” I say, taking your hand. To my surprise it’s cold and I wrap both my hands around it. You look at me and give me that tentative smile I like so much.
“Let’s go upstairs to warm up,” I suggest. “We can talk some more there.”
You follow me and I know I want more than to just talk. I want to hold you and undress you, lay you down on the crispy white linen of the hotel bed and kiss you. I want to touch your almost flawless skin and watch how you give yourself to me without prejudice.
The bed creaks as we sit down on it and when we kiss, however chastely, it’s like coming home.
“I know it’s presuming a bit, but I brought condoms,” I say.
“It’s not presumptuous,” you answer. “The reason I called is because I hoped you’d take me back.”
When I nod, the crease over your eyes lifts.
We slowly undress each other and fall into a familiar pattern as you lie down on your stomach and look at me over your shoulder. It doesn’t matter that you are older than me, and almost a head taller. I know you want me inside of you and that is the only place I want to be.
ZAHRA OWENS was born and raised in Belgium and therefore not a native English speaker. English is the only language she can imagine using for writing fiction, though. Being a typical only child, accustomed to being with adults most of the time, she sought ways to channel her wild imagination and m/m romance with a twist was perfect for that.
She has a weak spot for flawed characters and imperfect bodies, or maybe it’s just her sadistic streak coming through. You be the judge.
Website: http://www.zahraowens.com/
by Charlie Cochrane
Arromanches, 1994
Only now is Stephen’s white hair a true indication of his age; it turned prematurely grey fifty years ago, here. No-one in the family enquires about it any more. What happened to him, why his life changed, remains an unasked question among many unasked questions. Like the perennial, “Why did you marry me if you don’t love me?”
Now he’s old and canny enough to employ selective deafness. He doesn’t hear when the girl at his arm says, “Why do we have to visit this field, grandfather?”
How can he explain? Would he start with that grey day in 1939, the rain streaming down the windows of a poorly lit room where he and two dozen other men were waiting to offer their services to their king and country? How there was another young man, budging up on the bench so he could sit down and saying, “Welcome to the madhouse.”
How can Stephen say, “My life began then, in that room, when David smiled and I took my place at his side. It ended here, in this field.”
He’s never told anyone how much he enjoyed those weeks of officer training with David in the same billet; how could he keep his voice from betraying all his heart has hoarded away?
If his granddaughter said, “Did you make any friends, grandfather?” could he trust himself to say, “Yes, Lucy. There was one in particular.”? Surely it would come out as, “Yes, Lucy. There was one and I loved him with all my heart. As I never loved your grandmother.”
“Dad says you were involved right on the beaches along this coast.” Lucy shakes her head at the enormity of it all. She’s watched ‘The Longest Day’ a dozen times, trying to imagine her grandfather there, in the thick of it, but no amount of watching films or reading books has prepared her for the reality.
Stephen has selective memory, as well as selective hearing. If he concentrates he can pretend he has no recollection of crossing the channel that long day, seeing the French cliffs looming and the angry flashes of coastal batteries. But he vividly remembers every moment of his week’s leave at David’s home the month before.
When Lucy takes his hand he can imagine it’s David slipping his wiry little paw through Stephen’s and whispering. “See that big white cloud against the azure sky, Stephen? That’s England, set in an azure sea. And the black cloud overtaking it is this damn war. But the black cloud will pass, I promise.”
Stephen can see himself laughing, calling David every sort of an idiot, not wishing to tempt fate. They’re serving together, they’re in love, and they have a big, soft bed to make the most of. No wonder the past is a better place in which to live.
“Can you see the ruins of the harbour, grandfather?” Lucy points out to sea, where jagged teeth of metal and concrete prove that the events here were real, not something that exists only on newsreel. Stephen’s eyes may not be what they once were, but he sees perfectly well. He knows the blue skies over Normandy are the colour of David’s eyes, the barley mirrors David’s fair hair. And there’s a poppy growing exactly on the spot, the place where the final words, “Go on without me,” were lost against gunfire and the howling of shells. Stephen couldn’t mourn then; he’s more than compensated since.
“Shall we go to Bayeux now, grandfather?”
He nods.
****
The drive takes long enough for Stephen to pretend to doze.
“Why did you marry Charlotte when you didn’t love her?” David’s voice rings in his mind, as it has sounded there ever since Stephen took his wedding vows.
He mentally rehearses the arguments. “I was lonely. She was kind, a friend when I needed one. I had no heart left to give, so why not settle for companionship? She never asked why my spirit seemed to be taking much longer to heal than my body.”
He hears David again, reproaching him. “You used to ask me if I loved you and I always said I do. Because I could never say those words to you elsewhere.”
Stephen shivers at the phrase, associating it all too clearly with the words he spoke at his wedding, the vow he resolved to keep but never meant. How could he say in truth that with his body he worshipped Charlotte? It was a lie, like all the other lies he spoke to her—sins of commission and ones of omission.
At Bayeux they find the grave easily enough. Lucy retreats, aware that she is no longer needed. Stephen kneels by the headstone, tracing the words with his fingers. D. R. Murray Hampshire Regiment Age 27. David’s almost an old man among his neighbours here.
Stephen kisses the cool, white stone, shuts his eyes and waits. He’s dreamed of this moment thousands of times, dreamed of feeling a steadying hand on his shoulder, rising from knees which will no longer hurt, hearing David’s voice, See, all will be well, and touching that beloved face once more.
Stephen feels the hand touch him, but his legs are still stiff and the voice which speaks is young and female. Fifty years are not yet enough.
As CHARLIE COCHRANE couldn’t be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her usual genre is historical gay fiction, with increasing forays into the modern day. Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.
Drop her a line at cochrane.charlie2@googlemail.com to sign up for her fortnightly newsletter or find her at one of her haunts:
Website: http://charliecochrane.co.uk
Livejournal: http://charliecochrane.livejournal.com
GLBT Wiki: http://bookworld.editme.com/CharlieCochrane
Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/charliecochrane
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000878813798
by Stevie Carroll
Dip the brush into the pot, wipe off the excess, draw a carefully planned swirl up her thigh. Repeat for her other thigh. Change colour, draw an oval around the soft swell of her belly. I’ve done this a thousand times, easily more than a hundred with her, but this time it’s different. This time the art we’re creating is just for us.
My first commercial pieces were for anatomy text books. Flat, lifeless paintings depicting the inner workings of the human body. It was a natural progression for me to use a real body as my canvas. Now I gave the anatomy students a full-sized, three dimensional demonstration of bones, sinews, muscles. The theoretical translated to the practical.
I used all shapes, sizes, ages of models: painting on them, learning their similarities and differences along with the students. I showed which delicate structures were covered by healthy pads of fat, and which were only separated from the outside world by a thin layer of skin. I followed the courses of blood and lymph, sketched out the geography of bones, calculated the forces required to move each body part.
With time my work reached a wider audience, and I became more experimental. I used the full palette of colours available to me: adding in all those not found within the body. I highlighted the curves where body parts met and intersected, tracing and redefining external anatomy rather than internal. I showed off my living canvasses in galleries, on catwalks, outside Covent Garden Market. I won awards.
And then I found my muse.
All my models have been beautiful, even the men, but I never fell in love with one before Layla arrived on the scene. There were girlfriends, of course, from late-adolescent fumblings in college rooms through to the very grown-up ‘champagne in a hotel room and see what happens’ sessions after award ceremonies. My partners were fellow artists, publishers, gallery owners, sometimes even women from outside the circles I mixed in. Never models. Not until Layla.
Layla. Even the name is evocative of a muse. Her dark, dark skin shows up my colours to perfection, and her lush, firm curves give me vast, unexplored areas on which to ply my trade.
I put my brush down and stand, my knees cracking, then stretch my arms up towards the ceiling, arch my back like a cat.
She bends forwards, the colours of my lines fast-dried and smudge-resistant, and dips her finger into one of my colour pots. Straightening, she raises her finger to her lips, slides it seductively into her mouth, sucks away the colour.
“Blueberry?”
Today we’re painting with white chocolate and fruit pigments. I long to lick my lines off her soft warm skin, but not yet.
Layla has other ideas.
She takes hold of my collar, and pulls me towards her. I taste blueberries and white chocolate on her lips. Gripping my collar with one hand, she unbuttons my shirt with the other. Then she slides it off my shoulders, and pushes it roughly down my arms. It’s barely hit the floor before my bra joins it.
Cupping one hand around the back of my neck, Layla leans over, and dips her fingers into a pot of creamy milk chocolate. She draws a warm circle around each of my pale breasts, then another, finishing with a third pair of rings that leave barely a millimetre between their edges and the areolae of my nipples.
Layla brings her fingers up to my mouth, and I suck each one clean in turn, greedy, wanting to taste more of her. She keeps hold of my neck, as she ducks down to lick away the patterns she so recently drew. First the outer circles, then the next, then the inner ones. She carefully avoids my nipples until every last spot of chocolate has been consumed.
I arch my back, pushing my breasts into her face, demanding she pay them better attention.
She starts to work on my nipples, still with one hand on my nape, dampening her forefinger with her tongue, so that one can mimic the movement of the other as they tease and caress. Then a pinch from thumb and fingers, a slight twist before they release. First on one side, and then on the other. She raises her head, releases me, and I drop to my knees in worship.
I start at the inner point of her knee, working my way up the lines I drew on her thighs. Lapping with my tongue, I strip away my art to the naked skin—the blank canvas—beneath. One leg, then the other. I lick the coloured chocolate from the grooves where legs meet torso. I apply more chocolate—bright strawberry pink—to the inside folds of her labia, and to the hood of her clitoris.
I pause, waiting for the chocolate to cool and thicken, listening to her breathing. I blow gently on my art, and her breath speeds up, hitches, grows shallower. I run my tongue over her folds, the familiar taste of Layla mingling with the more exotic white-chocolate-strawberry of my paint. I suck all the paint from her clit, and its colour increases. I probe inside her with my tongue, searching out the flavours of her arousal. No chocolate here: we never got that far this time.
One day I want to fill her to the brim with chocolate, and drink it all from her. Consume every last drop of Layla-flavoured chocolate.
Layla sinks to her knees in front of me, and we kiss. She strips me, all the while exploring my mouth with her tongue, her hands exploring the areas they uncover.
We slide to the floor together, joining, tangling in a three dimensional abstract like nothing I could ever capture.
I push into her, and her fingers answer with pressure on my clit. Pinching, rubbing, pulling. Drawing out every last fragment of emotion.
I curve my fingers, stroke the very depths of her soul, search for that one perfect spot.
Then she’s biting, clawing, stretching me wide open.
I’m free-falling, pulling her over the edge with me, scattering paint and paint pots across the studio floor. Bright coloured stars spread across white linoleum, mimicking the intensity of our passion.
We lie together sated. Warmed by each other’s bodies, content as cream-filled felines. Artist and muse. Where one ends the other surely must begin, but the lines are constantly blurred and there is no true delineation.
Born in Sheffield: England's Steel City, and raised in a village on the boundary of the White and Dark Peaks, STEVIE CARROLL was nourished by a diet of drama and science fiction from the BBC and ITV, and a diverse range of books, most notably Diane Wynne-Jones and The Women's Press, from the only library in the valley. After this came a university education in Scotland, while writing mostly non-fiction for various underground bisexual publications under various aliases, before creativity was stifled by a decade of day-jobs.
Now based in Hampshire, Stevie has rediscovered the joys of writing fiction, managing to combine thoughts of science fiction, fantasy and mysteries with a day-job in the pharmaceuticals industry and far too many voluntary posts working with young people, with animals and in local politics. Stevie's first published story, 'The Monitors' (in Noble Romance's ECHOES OF POSSIBILITIES), was long listed by the 2010 Tiptree Awards jury.
Stevie currently has multiple projects on the boil, including at least two novels, a novella and several short stories. Updates on all of these are currently to be found at Stevie's Livejournal, although a website is in the planning stages and will go live towards the end of the year if not before.
Livejournal: http://stevie-carroll.livejournal.com/
Email: stevie.carroll@dormouse.myzen.co.uk
by Serena Yates
This story is set just after the end of Rescuing the Librarian (New Horizons, #1).
Why did the nice guys always have to leave? Ben sighed and cast another longing look at Anton’s empty office, wishing the sexy older librarian who’d been head of the Science Department hadn’t quit. Not that Ben could blame him. The gorgeous Scottish actor who’d walked in here three weeks ago had stolen Anton’s heart faster than Ben could’ve blinked. Anton had quit his job, worked his two-week notice and was about to move from Santa Barbara to Scotland. Ben couldn’t even imagine travelling that far. But moving there permanently? Anton was a lot braver than Ben wanted to be.
He shuffled some of the manuscripts from one end of the work table to the other. Working for the Komlos Foundation as a research assistant was far less fun with Anton gone. Most of Ben’s work had been for the Science Department but he was reconsidering that. As a research assistant he had some choice about the work he did.
“Please tell me you’re my new research assistant?” The deep voice with a very pronounced English accent coming from right behind him made him shiver.
Ben turned around and had a hard time not dropping his jaw at the sight of the man who’d just entered the central work area outside the librarians’ offices. The stranger was at least six feet tall, had broad shoulders and chest muscles stretching his white shirt to capacity. He looked like an athlete, with long muscular legs that were showcased to advantage in somewhat tight jeans. His short, straight brown hair matched the colour of his eyes, and his smile was infectious.
“Um, yes?” Ben wasn’t supposed to be any one librarian’s research assistant, but he’d sure like to make an exception in this case. The man was too yummy for words.
“You don’t seem too sure about that.” The stranger’s smile broadened as he held out his hand to shake. “I’m Ron Linsley, the new head of the Science Department. I’m here as part of the exchange programme with the British Museum.”
“I’m, er…” Ben automatically took the offered hand, shaking his head in an attempt to clear his brain of the lust he’d suddenly fallen into. “Ben Imberg, one of the research assistants here.”
Soft warmth surrounded his fingers and all he could do was stare as they touched for the first time. Ron’s eyes twinkled as he caressed Ben’s wrist with his thumb. Shivers of desire raced from Ben’s hand straight to his cock and his eyes widened. He’d never had this strong a reaction to a man. His crush on Anton was suddenly and decidedly a thing of the past.
Much too soon the handsome man let go and stepped back.
“I’m glad to meet you.” Ron looked around. “Which one is my office?”
“That one.” Ben pointed to Anton’s old office.
“Thank you.” Ron paused. “I’m sorry about turning up early, but I wanted to take a look around before starting work on Monday.”
“That’s okay.” Damn, could he sound any more stupid? This was not the way to make a good impression on his new colleague.
Ben couldn’t tear his gaze from Ron’s back as the man walked into the office, looking intent on taking charge of his new domain. His behind, with a strong back and an extremely well-formed ass, was just as attractive as his front.
Damn!
Ben had to force himself to look away from the tempting sight and return to work. There were only a few more manuscripts to get ready for the new exhibition on Monday, and he intended to be done and out of here by four PM, if not before. After all, it was Friday, and staying around Ron for longer than necessary would only lead to more embarrassment.
Barely two hours later, Ron emerged from his office. He’d made a few calls, had asked Ben to tell him where to obtain office supplies and secretarial services, and had reorganised some of the files. Not that Ben had been watching.
“Would it be okay if I asked you to give me a tour? I’m not sure I remember it all from last week’s interview. Horrid sense of orientation, I’m afraid.” Ron had a surprising ability to make puppy dog eyes when he wanted something.
“Sure.” Ben rose from his chair and grabbed the last two pieces needed to complete the exhibition on the second floor. “I’ll put these where they belong during the tour. You’ll see where the exhibition on Darwin’s life will open on Monday.”
“Do you expect many visitors?” Ron followed him into the narrow staircase used by employees to get down to the exhibition floors.
“The usual, I guess.” Ben’s brain definitely wasn’t working at full capacity. Hell, the man’s presence at his back made him break out in a nervous sweat. He could swear Ron was ogling his ass. Yes!
“Is that good or bad?” Ron sounded amused.
Ben used his keys to open the door and stepped aside, intending to let Ron go first. Ron shook his head and held the door for him instead. Gorgeous looks and a gentleman too? Please, let him be single.
Half an hour later they were done with the tour. Ben was ready to throw himself into Ron’s arms. The man’s sidelong glances, subtle touches and open flirting were driving Ben crazy.
“Would you like to join me for tea?” Ron turned around when they’d reached his office. “I’d like to get to know you better, and nothing beats afternoon tea for having a nice, relaxing chat. Very British of me, I’m afraid.”
“I’d love that!” Ben was more relieved than he’d admit out loud. “And there’s nothing wrong with being British.”
“Marvellous.” Ron grinned and led the way outside.
Maybe the old saying about a window opening when a door closed, or something like that, was true? Looking at his new colleague, knowing the interest went both ways, Ben realised Anton’s leaving had not been a bad thing after all. Apparently, new colleagues could sometimes be even nicer than their predecessors.
Ben smiled as Ron took his hand and they started walking towards his car. Ron definitely showed promise.
SERENA YATES is a night owl who has loved reading all her life, and is now a full-time writer. Male/male romance is her passion, and her work ranges from the romantic to the erotic, from short stories to novels. Whether the story setting is contemporary, sci-fi or paranormal, she guarantees a happy ending.
Website: http://www.serenayates.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/serenaequalityyates
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/serenayates
Good Reads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show2964333.Serena_Yates
Email: serenayates09@googlemail.com
Also by Serena Yates
Celestial Justice series at Silver Publishing
Eye of Scota: Cináed at Dreamspinner Press
Keeping You series at Dreamspinner Press
Max’s Italian Romance at Total-E-Bound
Men of Riverside series at Total-E-Bound
Mistletoe Science series at Dreamspinner Press
New Horizons series at Total E-Bound
The Cake (with A.J. Llewellyn) at Total-E-Bound
The Magic Thieves at Total-E-Bound
Workplace Encounters series at Silver Publishing
by Josephine Myles
I downed the lukewarm tea and wolfed the custard cream biscuit, desperate to get outside before Josh arrived.
Too late. There he was, clipboard in hand. As I descended the steps he turned in my direction, his eyebrows rising up to meet his artfully messy fringe.
I don’t think I’d ever seen anything ruffle his poise before.
I took my place next to him and pulled the clipboard out of my bag. The petitions rustled in the breeze, showing me the “Donation Not Discrimination” headline in a rapid flicker. I wasn’t going to explain myself. I didn’t have to, did I? I was here, doing my bit for the university LGBT society.
“Didn’t think you’d be the type,” Josh said, his gaze fixed on the mobile Blood Donor Unit—basically a giant camper van wheeled here to drain us civic-minded students of our vital fluid. He tutted and I bristled.
“What d’you mean? I’m not a type.”
Josh turned and looked down his nose at me—impressive seeing as how he was a good six inches shorter. “A liar.” He stared pointedly at the dressing in the crook of my elbow, his expression strangely disenchanted. “I thought we’d all agreed that we had to go along with the exclusion policy and register our objections by protesting. Not by cheating the system.”
I rolled my sleeves down. “I’m not a bloody liar. Anyway, I never voted. That was your idea.”
“You never objected. You were the first to volunteer for the early shift.”
Yep, I couldn’t deny it. But then again, hopeless though it was to think a trendy Art student like Josh might be interested in a nerdy lunk like me, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to stand alongside him for a couple of hours. I even booked myself the earliest donor session, reasoning I’d be out of there and innocently accosting people with my petition by the time he joined me. Looked like he wasn’t as much of a lazybones as I’d thought.
I was about to open my mouth in defence when a group of students wandered past and Josh chased after them for signatures. I waited by the entrance to the unit, listening to his spiel about the homophobic assumption that all gay men were promiscuous. He got his signatures, the girls huddling around him to show their support. Two of the earliest to sign walked past me and I heard one complaining “Such a waste!” as her companion giggled.
Was Josh promiscuous, I wondered? The way he was talking, you’d think not, but then he dressed so provocatively, all tight jeans and flamboyant, skinny-fit retro shirts. All that leather jewellery. And I’d seen him flirting down the Student Union Bar with at least twenty different blokes. Not that I was keeping count or anything.
Well, okay, maybe I was. I’d only ever seen him leave with a couple of them, though, and that could have been for any number of innocent reasons.
I ambushed a lecturer on his way into the unit and got his signature. When I looked up Josh was by my side, a glimmer of respect in his eyes.
“Nice one. We need to get the lecturers on board with this too.” But then the disappointed look was back. “I’m still pissed off with you, though.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak in case I blurted out something that would mark me out as a total loser.
I was on my second page of signatures when it happened. Josh was explaining exactly what the exclusion criteria were to a puzzled looking foreign student.
“No, what it means is that any man who’s had sex with another man can’t ever give blood. Never, ever again. We’re not talking fancying them or kissing. We’re talking anal or oral.” Josh made gestures to illustrate his point and I thought I’d pass out. Best blame the loss of blood.
Josh continued: “Even if you use a condom. Even if you’ve only had one committed partner for years and tested negative. The only gays who can give blood are virgins.”
“I don’t see what is problem,” he replied, his words stumbling with confusion and a heavy Spanish accent. Josh huffed and turned to me.
God knows what was on my face right then, but understanding dissolved the frown on his.
The Spaniard made his escape as Josh stared. I flushed and studied my clipboard.
“You really weren’t lying, were you? You’re a virgin.”
“Shut up!” I hissed, as a passing couple turned to gawk.
Josh’s crooked smile broke out. The one I’d been hoping to have directed my way for months. Why the bloody hell did it have to be here, like this? Couldn’t it have been over drinks in the bar?
“I’m not a virgin,” I said. “I’ve just never done it with a bloke.” And okay, I’d only ever done it the one disastrous time with a girl, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.
“Hey, that’s fine. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m not ashamed.” This time I really was lying. I felt the heat in my cheeks and was amazed I had enough blood left to blush.
Josh smirked. “You know, you’re really cute when you’re embarrassed.”
“Fuck off,” I mumbled. I think what I meant to say was, “Take me, take me now!”
Maybe he understood me anyway.
After Beth and Rosie turned up to take over from us, I stalked off towards the library.
“Matt! Wait a minute.” Josh rushed up to me, his barnet all windswept and dishevelled. “I, uh, I was wondering . . . Do you fancy a drink?”
I looked down into his wide blue eyes. Was he nervous too? I wanted to say yes but couldn’t make my mouth form the words.
“Please?” he asked, placing his hand on my arm.
“I don’t think the bar’s open yet.”
Josh raised his eyebrows. “And I don’t think you should be boozing after just giving up a pint of blood. I meant coffee. There’s this great little café I know and they’ve got this exhibition of photographs of bridges. I thought you might like it, seeing as how you’re studying engineering.” He gave me a shy smile.
I grinned and took his hand.
As we walked to the bus stop, side by side, it suddenly occurred to me that I was probably going to have to give it up. Donating blood, that is.
Their loss, my gain.
Eccentric Englishwoman, absent-minded mother, proud bisexual, shameless tea-addict, serial textile craft hobbyist, iconoclastic logophile and writer of homoerotic romance—JOSEPHINE MYLES is all these things at once. She has held down more different jobs than any sane person ever should, and is fundamentally rebellious, preferring the overgrown yet enticing path rather than the wide and obvious one.
Jo once spent two years living on a slowly decaying narrowboat, and was determined that she would one day use the experience as fodder for a novel. It may have taken a few years, but she got there in the end. She usually does. Barging In, her first novel, will be released by Samhain Publishing in September 2011.
Visit Jo’s website for steamy free reads and regular blog posts.
Website: http://josephinemyles.com/
Livejournal: http://josephine-myles.livejournal.com/
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Josephine-Myles/194637190559079
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3499509.Josephine_Myles
Email: josephine_myles@yahoo.co.uk
by Mara Ismine
Bang. Thud. Scrabble. Clatter. Thump.
Ash stared at the kitchen window as he processed the afterimages of a large black bird and an even larger branch which had appeared momentarily. He sighed and cast a last glance at the spring day outside. This glance was not full of appreciation—it was full of blame.
Ash opened the back door. There went his hopes that he had been imagining things. The large rook on the patio strode towards the door with the twiggy bough in its beak. The striding didn’t work too well with the size of the branch. The progress was more of a drunken stagger as the branch resisted by jamming in every crevice between the paving stones.
“Shall I take it?” Ash asked, after one particularly bad disagreement between bird and tree limb. The rook dropped the branch long enough to caw and fluff out its feathers, adding a peck when Ash reached down. “Okay, I won’t touch your precious twig.”
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