Queermance Anthology, Volume 2

by Queermance Anthology- Volume 2 [MM-FF] (retail) (epub)

  It was only Pam’s grip on his arm that stopped Jeremy taking a step back. ‘Ah no, I umm just walked my friends here.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t need to hear about the ghosts and vampires that inhabit this city?’ He waved his hand with a grand flourish, but did not break eye contact.

  Jeremy squirmed - not visibly, but something in the recesses of his mind ran fingernails down a phantom chalkboard.

  ‘Only two hours to walk the Quarter and learn some of its mysteries.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Jeremy said quickly. ‘Two hours is too long. I have to be somewhere.’

  ‘Have to be somewhere to meet someone?’

  Jeremy’s skin crawled, but the man laughed and gave him a low bow of release.

  ‘It’s all right honey,’ Pam said quietly. ‘You go and have fun with people your own age.’

  She patted his hand and slid her arm from his.

  Jeremy gave rapid-fire goodbyes and walked purposefully away from the well meaning couple.

  The jazz horn of a busker announced his arrival at Jackson Square, but he continued down the alley to—

  He’ll tell me.

  Christ met him when he rounded the corner of the cathedral or at least the towering shadow of a spot lit statue. It stopped him in his tracks, but he smiled and whispered to the outstretched arms, ‘I have somewhere I need to be.’

  Despite the early hour, Bourbon Street could be heard long before it was seen, with its raucous mix of boozed-up tourists and the steady thump of music from the bars that spilled them onto the street. Jeremy stood on the corner to look along the street at the turbulent mass of tourists and the party-minded; he was no more one of them than the men he’d shared fumbled and ultimately unsatisfying encounters with at home.

  A woman approached him wearing an appropriate “I got Bourbon faced on Shit Street” T-shirt. She might have been attractive if she hadn’t started her binge so early. Jeremy dodged her and backed away from the crowded crossroad.

  ‘Not here,’ he muttered and shook his head. ‘Not here.’

  He turned, looked down another street only to turn back again.

  ‘Which way?’ he pleaded, but his question was drowned in the blast of a car horn as the driver bravely - or foolishly - attempted to push through the intersection.

  Jeremy closed his eyes against the threat of tears and leaned against the solid brick wall of a bar.

  How do I do this?

  The throb of music and laughter inhabited the old bricks. It pulsed through his body until there was no room left for conscious thought.

  That was when Jeremy heard him.

  Away from them … find peace … find me.

  ‘I can hear you,’ Jeremy muttered ‘I’ll find you.’ He pushed his way through the growing throng of Bourbon Street with renewed determination and disappeared down a side alley.

  Jeremy wound his way through a maze of streets, turning this way and that, following an inbuilt compass. Suddenly, he stopped. The street he’d entered was little more than a laneway; there were lamps to light his way through the curling shadows of wrought iron and hidden doorways, but lights were no longer needed.

  Jeremy stood very still.

  All sound disappeared.

  The humid air weighed heavily on his shoulders.

  ‘I’m here,’ he said and flinched. His voice rebounded louder than any Bourbon band, and the alley answered it. The uneven cobbles shifted beneath his feet and the lampposts swayed in time to silent music. He staggered and hit a vine-strewn wall, but still the world around him defied logic. Jeremy closed his eyes. His equilibrium returned, but his mind’s eye witnessed the vibrant green tendrils of the vines weave their way across his body. He didn’t fight them. Tender shoots gently caressed his neck and unfurled pendulous white flowers. His lungs filled with their sweet scent and he sank back into the green mantle.

  The hum of a familiar tune echoed through his thoughts and he opened his eyes.

  ‘He’s here, isn’t he?’ he asked a fat ginger cat that sat with lazy indifference from a balcony across the narrow alley. A flick of its tail was the only answer.

  Jeremy smiled and stretched his arms along the wall until one hand touched metal. Jagged rust scraped the pads of his fingertips, but still he explored. A circle of iron moved under his touch. It twisted slowly and the vines fell away.

  The gate swung inward, despite the loud complaints of the rusted hinges, to reveal a small overgrown courtyard garden. A spiral of brick paving led to a moss covered white fountain. The water was still, but the white flowers of the vine had found their way to the top tier. He walked slowly to the fountain and touched one of the delicate blooms.

  ‘You’re here, aren’t you?’ he asked quietly even though his heart already knew it was true.

  ‘I’m here.’

  The perfume of the flowers filled him.

  ‘I have waited a long time,’ an accented voice whispered just behind his ear.

  Jeremy shivered at the breath that touched his skin. ‘You’re real this time?’

  ‘I have always been real.’

  A hand pressed lightly against Jeremy’s back then slid smoothly around his body to cover the pounding heart.

  ‘Who are you?’ Jeremy whispered as those familiar lips brushed against his neck.

  ‘You will know me again,’ came the cryptic reply. ‘Look at me and know me once more.’

  Jeremy had waited for that moment for as long as he could remember, but when the offer came he hesitated. ‘Will the dream end once I’ve seen you?’

  Another kiss and Jeremy felt the lips smile before the man stepped away. ‘That dream will end, but the rest of our dreams can begin.’

  With a shaky breath Jeremy turned and every fibre of his being ached with the weight of years past. Blue eyes brighter than any he’d ever seen held his and they knew each other. Jeremy reached up and touched the porcelain skin. His fingers recognized the angle of cheekbone, the impossibly smoothness of the cheek, and the gentle curve of full lips.

  ‘I know you,’ he whispered and, although he could not place the man in any of his history, the lonely void that echoed through his life was filled. Memories flooded in. Memories of times spent with the man he touched; of secret rendezvous in summer meadows and languid nights in feather beds.

  Jeremy finally said the name that teased his tongue, ‘Marcus.’

  Marcus smiled and the points of sharp teeth caught a shard of moonlight that dodged the clouds, but Jeremy wasn’t afraid. He remembered their embraces and the blood he gave his lover. He remembered their vow to always be together no matter how the world changed around them.

  ‘So much time has passed,’ Jeremy said while he threaded his fingers through the long dark hair. ‘But you waited for me.’

  ‘I felt you when you were reborn and I no longer simply endured the years. I had hope and waited until you grew.’

  ‘It will work this time.’ Jeremy said softly.

  ‘I do not fear it my love. I was young in my change and could not bring you over, but I am stronger now. You died in my arms with your blood on my lips and I believed I would end too until I felt your soul bid me wait for you. So I waited through many human lifetimes until your warmth reappeared, and I knew.’

  Jeremy leaned in and kissed the soft mouth, allowing the lethal fangs to spring droplets of blood from his lips.

  This time it will work.

  PURPLE FOREVER

  Scott Thornby

  Muscles straining, lungs burning, Yvonne pushed herself to one last burst of effort and flung herself over the finish line.

  It took several yards for her momentum to slow and when it did she sat on the ground to catch her breath, only to pull herself upright a few moments later to shake off the weariness. The actual result of the race, though, that was another matter. That would take much longer to shake off.

  She wiped at her forehead to pull the sweat from her skin as she headed back to the finish line. The indignation burne
d in her belly. She had come second, a respectable result, but not the one she had aimed for.

  The little red ribbon the teachers pinned to her track uniform seemed like a badge of shame. Red was for runners-up. She wanted the coveted blue, the mark of a winner, not the scarlet flag of not-quite-good-enough.

  Yvonne put on her best smile, though, as the winners were announced. She had promised her mother to do that, no matter what the result was, because good girls always smiled - even when disappointed.

  Most regional schools had a paddock nearby for people’s horses and Yvonne’s primary school was no exception. The track had been set up in this field; flat enough for such a purpose and marked out with white paint and coloured flags. Along one side of the field was a grassy bank, upon which the collected students and teachers of three different schools now sat and cheered, along with a few scattered parents who had come to wish their children well. It was not the first inter-school sports day that Yvonne had attended but it was the first she had been brave enough to compete in.

  Enough of a breeze blew so that it fluttered and snapped the school flags that flew above each collection of children, but it failed to lift the suffocating summer heat, stirring the air around like an oven. The grass was baked the crispy brown-yellow of Sunday roast potatoes and the Australian sun beat down like a hammer.

  The clean blue and white of her school’s flag - Millsborough State Primary, the hosting school of the sports day - called to her like a beacon.

  The year was 1963 and Yvonne Walter was nine years old. She was a quiet girl, more fond of running around the track than chatting to her peers. She liked to feel the sunlight on her skin, faintly olive thanks to an Italian grandmother and lightly burnt from the unforgiving weather. It gave her some measure of satisfaction to feel her ponytail, jet black and curled naturally into ringlets, bouncing against her shoulders. Her hazel eyes were keen and ever so slightly long-sighted.

  Yvonne was a gangly girl, whippet-thin from running, taller by a full hand than most of her fellow students. Many of the girls in her class already called her a stick figure and, far worse, Weird Walter. Going near people only seemed to make it worse and so, with a child’s simple logic, she avoided others when she could.

  That was why, when she arrived at her school team’s banner for a checkin with the captain and P.E. teacher, she made her exit quickly. Yvonne nodded as Mr Collins told her that second place was fairly good, not too bad, ‘as long as you tried your best, Walter’, and then gave her permission to sit under the trees for a while.

  She jogged off toward the windbreak that stretched along a third of the paddock’s perimeter, a line of tall, old pine trees that blocked the view of the field from the closest of the school rooms. Plenty of children climbed in those branches when it was recess and lunch time but now, thankfully, it was quiet.

  The dirt underneath her backside made a soft paf sound as she sat down heavily, breathing in the cool air of the shade. The quiet gave Yvonne a chance for peace in which to berate herself properly for not winning the race.

  ‘That’s a nice ribbon,’ came a voice, breaking into her self-critical reverie. Yvonne sat up nervously; she had thought the cool shade to be empty, apart from sticks and dirt.

  She looked into the pleasant round face of a short girl about her own age wearing the uniform of Ashfield Primary School, one of the visiting competitors. The green tartan dress seemed far better than the hand-me-downs Yvonne had inherited from her older sister, Deborah. It was a normal uniform, not a sports outfit, the clothes of a spectator.

  What drew Yvonne’s attention most was the hat crammed down on the girl’s head. It was wide-brimmed and bore Ashfield’s colours - green and grey - but looked two sizes too big and was fastened underneath with a rather serious-looking knot.

  ‘Hello,’ the girl tried again, ‘I said that’s a nice ribbon.’

  ‘I, uh,’ Yvonne stuttered, unsure how to proceed.

  This girl was technically The Enemy, though the way Mr Collins had talked to them about The Enemy she had been led to believe they were a lot nastier than this girl seemed to be. Yvonne wondered if spectators were The Enemy or whether that just applied to competing athletes.

  ‘Thanks?’ she tried.

  This seemed to satisfy the behatted girl, who nodded curtly, the brim bobbing up and down a little comically. Noticing Yvonne’s stare she tugged at the thing with a sulky expression.

  ‘It’s a stupid hat. I shouldn’t have to wear it but the teachers said to.’ The girl’s voice was heavy with annoyance.

  ‘Why’d they say that?’ Yvonne asked, curious but uncertain as to whether she should be.

  ‘I did a thing to my hair.’

  ‘A thing?’

  ‘And my teacher grabbed me and it left a bruise,’ the girl continued, pulling the sleeve of the dress up and showing the distinct yellow-brown of a healing bruise over the bicep, about the size of a grown man’s thumb. ‘He made me go back home. Mum had to cut my hair, you know.’ Her eyes were wide with sincerity. ‘They almost didn’t let me come to sports day.’

  ‘What did you do to your hair?’ Yvonne asked, still not clear what a “thing”’ was.

  The Ashfield student fidgeted for a few moments. Then, glancing around just in case a dastardly teacher was lurking in wait especially for this moment, she pulled the hat off.

  Only a little sun shone through the leaves of the pines above the pair but what little dappled the girl’s hair showed it to be a shining, vivid purple. It had been cut close to her head, a rather brutal trim that made her look a little boyish, and the girl’s cheeks glowed red with her embarrassment.

  ‘Wow.’ Yvonne had never seen anything like it.

  ‘It was that stuff in the bottle,’ the girl complained, ‘that my Nanna had to make her hair all nice. She’s got grey hair because she’s old, but she has this stuff in a bottle that makes it nice and I hate my hair, it’s all blonde and boring, but I put too much in my hair and then I didn’t rinse it out because it was already past bath time and when I woke up it was all over my pillow and my hair was purple and it wasn’t my fault,’ she finished, apparently without the need to breathe. ‘You have lovely hair,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘all black and shiny. My name’s Christine, but I like Chrissy.’

  ‘Uh.’ Yvonne considered her options. ‘I’m Yvonne. My friends just call me Von.’

  ‘Can I be your friend?’ Chrissy asked.

  ‘Um, sure,’ Yvonne agreed, pulling herself to her feet.

  Chrissy looked up at her, a serious expression on her face, and Yvonne felt nervously like she was being inspected for flaws. Finally, though, the shorter student leaned forward and hugged her around the waist.

  ‘Good,’ Chrissy noted, satisfied, ‘we’re friends.’

  After securing Chrissy’s hated headgear back into place, the pair sat back down in the shadows for a while, trading stories about life at their schools and their homes. Christine, unlike her new friend, was an only child and her parents were textile workers from a town to the east of Melbourne, while Yvonne came from the south-east. Chrissy liked apples while Von favoured oranges. Yvonne loved track races but Christine adored art. Both of them liked horses and neither of them had one.

  Yvonne disliked talking but Chrissy had no problem filling the gap until the taller girl felt like contributing and so, in their own way, the two were well suited. When she had to run races, Yvonne could see Chrissy clapping for her just as she did her fellow Ashfield students and it made her smile. She even won a hurdle race and got a blue ribbon to pin alongside her red one.

  The two hugged as the day drew to a close and Yvonne gave Chrissy her address so they could write to one another. They promised they would do so and for two full months the promise held, a letter every week arriving to one or the other.

  Over time, however, the letters became increasingly rare and then ceased altogether. Neither could say for sure, even years later, who failed to write back in the end, but it hardly matt
ered. The letters did stop and the two fell out of contact, as children will, without much thought of it.

  Christine Daley leaned into her violin as she played, taut bow drawing out the rich tone of the instrument in a process which, to its player, always seemed a little like magic.

  She could feel her violin as if it were a living being - vibrating with its breath, responding to her like a well-trained pet or a dear old friend. Chrissy had put in countless hours of practice and now it seemed as if the two of them were playing together as one.

  The final notes played, the last echoes falling away, and Christine lowered the bow as applause filled the silence where her music had been.

  She had almost forgotten the crowd of people in the hall beyond those glaring lights up above. Chrissy stood and curtseyed neatly, the applause buoying her, before she quickly stepped off-stage.

  She had changed since she was at Ashfield Primary.

  Christine was still short for her age but now, at fifteen, she had grown outward as well. She curved at bust and hip, the effect pronounced enough on her five foot, two inch frame that she drew glances every day from her male classmates. Lips had filled into generous shapes, light golden blonde hair spilling down her back, sky blue eyes sparkling and bright.

  Her high school teachers worried that the girl’s��� advanced shape may prompt the boys at her school to tempt her into immoral acts, but boys were not to Chrissy Daley’s tastes.

  She had worked out when she was thirteen that the growing interest she had in the girls around her echoed their growing fascination in boys. She kept it quiet; rumours flew about the horrible things that the boys did to “sissies and fags” and whatever gay boys were suffering, the lot of a lesbian, she imagined, was unlikely to be any better.

  Her music gave her solace, a way to distract herself from the feelings that she knew were forbidden. Her violin was unlikely to get her into trouble. Her mother still remembered that embarrassing hair rinse incident six years ago.