The Lone Star Collection
Page 1
Back of the Book
Finding My Muse
by Renee MacKenzie
Can books and bats team up to help Addison Wilde find her muse? Austin, Texas can be a truly magical place, if Addison can open her mind to the possibilities.
The Last Roundup
by Julie Cannon
Drifter Cabe Holloway offers to exchange work on Alice Wilson’s ranch for a few good meals. Alice expects Cabe to leave after he has gotten his fill of working for a woman. Unbeknownst to Alice, Cabe is unlike any cowboy she has ever known.
Meeting Miranda
by MJ Williamz
A sexy bartender at a lesbian bar in Houston, Rhett has had her share of women; however, there is something different about the beautiful Miranda. Does Rhett really stand a chance of having a night with her? Or more?
A Lone Star
by Lacey Schmidt
The new sheriff, Arnika Verne, finally arrives at Venn Jules' beloved Space Port. She's in time to help save the tidal generator; but is love or survival the real trouble?
Lasso
by Carsen Taite
Bounty hunter Luca Bennett’s latest job takes her to the streets of Austin where she enlists the help of an unlikely cast of characters to rope in an elusive fugitive.
The Heartbreak State
by Barbara Ann Wright
With the magical power to fill anyone with lust, Jack is poised to become the queen of Gold Rush California. All that stands in her way is Miss Shepherd, a Pinkerton agent and the one woman whose love could turn Jack from a life of crime.
The Couchie Couch
by Annette Mori
A gauche couch with a plump pink vagina in every section and two best friends who secretly pine for each other. What could possibly go right? Find out in the outrageously funny tale of friends to lovers.
Weather or Not
by Jaycie Morrison
A Scouting Girls’ weekend camp out might be the perfect opportunity for a dyed-in-the-wool Texan and a California transplant to learn whether or not the chemistry between them is real, assuming of course, that the weather cooperates.
Cowgirls Aren’t Allowed
by Stacy Reynolds
While on assignment, a photo journalist finds herself attracted to one of the rodeo competitors. Small town culture dictates what cowgirls are allowed to do. Will the two women break the rules?
Not Likely
by VK Powell
New homicide detective, Cass Jeeters, takes her first flight to Dallas and finds love in a most unlikely place.
Under the West Texas Stars
by Yvette Murray
Sandy Randle is on a camping trip in Big Bend country seeking to find the rare pompom agate. When the high mountain desert works its magic, Sandy discovers much more than colorful specimens for her rock collection.
Remember Me
by Del Robertson
Historian Taylor Whitlock thought she knew the whole story behind the fall of the Alamo, until Alison Lindley Parker challenges her with startling evidence that could rewrite history. A timeless romance between star-crossed lovers, Sarah Lindley and Bailey Bowen step forth from history to plead…Remember Me.
The Lone Star Collection
© 2018 by:
Julie Cannon, Renee MacKenzie,
Annette Mori, Jaycie Morrison,
Yvette Murray, VK Powell,
Stacy Reynolds, Del Robertson,
Lacey Schmidt, Carsen Taite,
MJ Williamz, Barbara Ann Wright
Affinity E-Book Press NZ LTD.
Canterbury, New Zealand
1st Edition
ISBN: 978-1-98-854928-6
Editor: Sapphic Reading Group
Cover Design: Irish Dragon Designs
Production Design: Affinity Publication Services
All rights reserved.
No part of this eBook may be reproduced in any form without the express permission of the author and publisher. Please note that piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights and is illegal.
This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgments
The Lone Star Collection is an all-volunteer endeavor made possible through the efforts of the Lone Star Literary Society, the Sapphic Reading Group, Festival authors, and Affinity Rainbow Publications. The idea of an anthology fundraiser was conceived a couple of years ago. The project became feasible when Affinity offered to be the publisher.
When a call for stories was issued, Festival authors enthusiastically responded, sharing their time and creativity with us. The story submissions were reviewed and/or edited by Sapphic Reading Group members: Ann, Barbara, Diana, Erin, Maggie, Melanie, Stacy, Trish, and Yvette.
The final step in bringing The Lone Star Collection to fruition was handled by the wonderful women of Affinity Rainbow Publications. Thanks to Erin O’Reilly for her expertise in formatting; to Nancy Kaufman (Irish Dragon Designs) for the incredible cover art; and to JM Dragon for her patience and advice in guiding us through the business end of getting the anthology published.
Lastly, we would like to acknowledge the supporters of the Annual Lone Star LesFic Festival. Your enthusiasm and generosity are our raison d’etre! Happy 10th Anniversary!
Yvette Murray
Dedication
We honor the wonderful authors and publishers of lesbian fiction. Your stories entertain us and validate who we are.
Table of Contents
Finding My Muse by Renee MacKenzie
The Last Roundup by Julie Cannon
Meeting Miranda by MJ Williamz
A Lone Star by Lacey Schmidt
Lasso by Carsen Taite
The Heartbreak State by Barbara Ann Wright
The Couchie Couch by Annette Mori
Weather or Not by Jaycie Morrison
Cowgirls Aren’t Allowed by Stacy Reynolds
Not Likely by VK Powell
Under the West Texas Stars by Yvette Murray
Remember Me by Del Robertson
Finding My Muse
Renee Mackenzie
The path before me carves a route under the concrete arch near one of the abutments of the Ann W. Richards Congress Avenue Bridge. I glance up as I approach, repositioning my backpack where it has drifted uncomfortably to one side. The arch bridge spans across Lady Bird Lake. It is early in the afternoon, and the underside of the bridge, along with the sky around it, shows no sign of the display of airborne acrobatics that will occur in a few short hours. Well, I think as I take a deep breath, the muted smell of bat guano is one such sign. Once the bats fly out from their sanctuary under the bridge, the smell will be stirred up, and will be much more noticeable.
April is early in the year for them, but there will still be an impressive number of the flying creatures, even if not the 1.5 million here in peak season. Springtime in Austin means bats and bluebonnets. I’d gone to the hill country outside Austin the day before, thinking that the colors of the Indian paintbrush and bluebonnets would be just what I need to jumpstart my muse. Unfortunately, I’d felt only a tourist’s admiration for the flowers, not a tingling, wild passion that would drive me to Mother’s studio to paint.
I am pathetic. Protégé Addison Wilde can’t paint a landscape of flowers in any style or medium, let alone a work of photorealism—perhaps depicting an individual blossom, maybe with a bee hovering above it, that looked so real that when you bent toward it you expected to smell the flower or hear the buzz of the bee’s wings… Nope, not happening.
>
If Mother could see me now, first she would wonder aloud how it was even possible to need a muse, let alone lose her when you work in photorealism. After that she would smirk and say that’s what happens when you go against the grain… sometimes you get splinters. “Addy, Addy, Addy, I guess you finally got your splinter,” I say out loud to myself.
Mother was trained in abstract expressionism. I was trained from an early age to be her mini-me. My childhood was spent watching Mother with her huge canvases, bright acrylics, and mega-ego when all the right magazines touted her as an artistic genius. I was simultaneously encouraged to stay in Mother’s shadow and to earn my own art chops, depending on Mother’s mood.
I attended college to study economics, a compromise between my parents. Mother was of the belief that if I had a backup plan, then I would need a backup plan. Father was much more practical, wanted me to have other interests outside of art, and a solid college degree to round me out as a person.
While studying business and economics, I also hung out with the art crowd, including my first lover, Therese, who indoctrinated me (Mother’s word) into the world of photorealism and—Gasp!—oils. I really wasn’t just rebelling; I truly did fall in love with photorealism and was powerless when interest in painting in any other style or medium just sloughed away. Mother’s reaction… “Why don’t you just buy a camera? Photorealism doesn’t take any heart or vision. As an artist, your job is to interpret reality for your audience, not spoon-feed them. Do your job!”
Increasing Mother’s hurt, Father left her right after I graduated college. I showed her more compassion than she did me a year earlier when Therese found a new student to entice away from their chosen medium and style. So, with her flair toward the dramatic, Mother used her heartache as her muse and painted a lot in the six years since.
I recently received my first mention in a national art magazine as the up-and-coming photorealist to watch. I’d read that paragraph over and over, even though Mother hadn’t acknowledged it and Bethany, my girlfriend of five years, had rolled her eyes in response to my enthusiasm. The next month, Bethany broke up with me, and Mother had an interview in the same magazine in which she dismissed photorealism as unimaginative and nontransformative. Was that even a freaking word?
And now, Mother is in Paris for a year, and I have been drafted to stay at her house to keep an eye on things. “Since you’re practically homeless anyway,” she’d added. Bethany kept the apartment we once shared, so Mother wasn’t too far from the mark with that barb.
When I’d arrived in Austin the day before, I went to Mother’s and drifted from room to room until all that remained to visit was her studio. I walked in and inhaled deeply. I was hoping that the distinct smell of Mother’s acrylic paints would make me tingle all over, would prove to be the catalyst to finally overcoming the wall of paralysis that had formed around my muse. When that didn’t happen, and instead I found myself standing in the middle of the space feeling nothing but fear and self-disgust, I left. I went to a hotel and checked in, knowing I really couldn’t afford the expense, but also that I could not handle being in that house with all of Mother’s art and energy.
I am walking downtown, in particular to the bat bridge, in an effort to clear my head. It is growing warm, and I am glad for the exertion of walking, slight as it is. As I wander under the bridge, the hard surface of the path turns to dirt and a chain-linked fence lines it on both sides. They quite obviously don’t want anyone climbing on the abutments. I glance up at the underside of the bridge and am both relieved and disappointed that no bats are visible. It’s considerably cooler in the shade of the bridge, and I imagine that is one reason the bats make their home here.
The ground crunches slightly under my feet, and I realize it’s composed of something finer than gravel, yet coarser than what I would call dirt. In my mind I’m naming the colors—burnt sienna and raw umber of the fallen leaves and path, the light gray with charcoal shadows of the abutment—but am saddened that I haven’t mentally begun to mix the pigments into the desired shades.
Something catches my attention. The shape and color stands out amongst the earth tones and soft lines of the tree detritus on the other side of the fence. I wonder if it is the remains of a bird’s nest from which the item protrudes.
I squat and stick my hand through one of the openings in the chain-link. My arm is not quite long enough for me to reach what I now see is something metal. I pull off my backpack and sift through its contents for something to extend my reach an inch or two. When all I come up with is a tampon, I glance around to be sure no one is watching, and use it to pull the item close enough to grab with my fingers.
A bird or bat takes flight nearby, and my fingers tingle where I make contact with the metal. I pull it through to my side of the fence and stand up.
I shove the tampon into an outer pocket of the pack to dispose of later and hold the item loosely with just my fingertips. It’s a pendant attached to a black cord. I step out from under the bridge and examine the necklace in full sunlight. I use my index finger to wipe away some of the filth and see that it is a metal—pewter, perhaps—pendant on a simple black cord. When the smell hits me I realize it is bat guano or bird poop I am chipping away from it. I want to drop it but grip it tighter instead. I ignore the stench and concentrate on how the figure of the nude woman makes me feel hopeful and creates warmth low in my gut.
“It’s a goddess,” I whisper.
A group of cyclists approach, and I shove the goddess into my denim shorts’ pocket, the dirtiness of it feeling wholly inconsequential at that moment.
I walk up the stairs towards E. Cesar Chavez Street and head in the direction of the parking garage where I’ve left my Honda Civic. Before I cross the street, I see a cafe with funky tables and chairs out front and make a mental note to check it out the next time I’m downtown. But then I am drawn to a flier taped to the window of the cafe. It’s an advertisement for a free literary festival. “Lone Star Lesfic Festival,” I read out loud.
“If you’re at all into lesbian writers, you should go.”
I’m momentarily confused, and then realize a woman is talking to me. “Oh?”
“Yes, it’s an annual event. I’m going in the afternoon, after my shift here,” she says, indicating the café with a nod.
“Yeah, maybe I’ll check it out.”
She hands me a flier like the one in the window. As I take it from her, she says, “Maybe I’ll see you there.”
It flits through my mind that she’s flirting with me, but I quickly dismiss the thought. I cross the street to the parking garage and place the flier on the front passenger seat before navigating out of the structure that suddenly feels too claustrophobic.
I return to the hotel room I’d rented after fleeing Mother’s house when the studio mocked me. I pull the goddess pendant from my pocket and scrub it with soap and water. In a fit of genius, I heat water in the coffee pot until it is scalding hot, then soak the entire necklace. I do this several times, until I feel confident that it has been duly sanitized. Then I pat it dry in a towel and tie it around my neck.
For a long time, I stand in front of the mirror staring at the reflection of the goddess adorning my chest. Then I undress and climb under the heavy bed covers.
†
My dreams swirl in a kaleidoscope of sensory stimuli. I hear a rooster and smell stale alcohol. Pastels bleed into an orange and red sunset, against which is silhouetted a boat and its trail of sea birds. I am startled by how clear, how familiar, the images are. Instinctively, I know I’ve dreamt of the Florida Keys, but I’ve never been there. I open my eyes, and it takes several seconds for me to remember I’m in a hotel in Austin, hiding from Mother’s critical energy back at her house. The details of my dream bear down on me.
I climb out of bed and look over the flier for the festival one more time, knowing that I’ve had every intention of going since the moment the piece of paper settled in my hand.
The shower fee
ls like warm rain on my skin. Not all hotel showers are created equal, and this one is just the right pressure and temperature. I scrub the goddess and her cord again as the water cascades down my chest, leaving a trail of soapy water over my breasts, across my stomach, and to the triangular patch of closely cropped hair between my legs.
As I scrub myself, I close my eyes and marvel at how good my fingers feel against the heated flesh. It’s been a long time since I’ve allowed myself the comfort of self-love, and I use the fingers of one hand to spread my labia while the fingers of the other work over the slickness of my desire until my body trembles, and my legs nearly give out. My moan of release turns into laughter, and I am in awe at how good it feels to touch myself.
After I dry off, I stand in front of my suitcase and try to decide what to wear. I feel nervous about going to a literary festival when I haven’t read a novel in years and can’t even remember having read anything that classifies as actual “lesbian fiction.” I tell myself all I have to do is walk around, buy a few books, and at least show my fellow Sapphos some support of their artistic endeavors. Maybe the artwork from the book covers will awaken something inside me. I finally decide on an orange, sleeveless shirt and khaki shorts.