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[evdeanwriter]

Time is running out to participate in Duck Prints Press’s 2023 Pride Bundle fundraiser! Through July 28th, we’re offering two book bundles – one containing 14 short stories from our general imprint, one containing 11 short stories from our erotica imprint – with nearly 40% of the proceeds going to the Ali Forney Center and Transgender Law Center.

Since we listed these bundles on the 54th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, June 28th, 1969, we’ve raised $225.25 to donate! We’d love to increase that number, and with your help we can!

Check out everything you can get:

Titles in the General Imprint Charity Bundle:

A Mutual Interest by Alec J. Marsh

The Problem with Wishes by Annabeth Lynch

Let the Solstice Come by D. V. Morse

Warmer Lights by Era J. M. Couts

An Odd Gathering of Peculiar Cats by J. D. Harlock

Dead Man’s Bells by Nicola Kapron

Widow’s Black by Nina Waters

twin flames by nottesilhouette

A Shield for the People by Puck Malamud

Much Ruckus by R. L. Houck

Bubble, Bubble by Sage Mooreland

Settling Down by Theresa Tanner

Best Friends AND… by Tris Lawrence

To Fill My Cup by Violet J. Hayes

Approximately 35% of the $19.69 list price of this bundle will go to the charities.

Titles in the Erotica Imprint Charity Bundle:

Pas de Deux by Aeryn Jemariel Knox

Study Hall by Alec J. Marsh

A Safe Place to Land by boneturtle

Clerical Error by Dei Walker

In the Moonlight by E. V. Dean

We All Need to Get By by Lyn Weaver

The Fated Prince by Mikki Madison

Lust by Nina Waters

No One Right Way by R. L. Houck

Easier Than Expected by Samantha M. Piper

Urchin Juiced by Xianyu Zhou

Approximately 40% of the $19.69 list price of this bundle will go to the charities.

Looking for a big W this week? A small, queer indie press gets support, two wonderful charities get money to help queer youth, and you get great stories? Sounds like winning to us! So come visit Duck Prints Press’s webstore and get your stories now!

You can read all the details about us, the charities, and how this sale works by visiting the main post here.

[evdeanwriter]

From now on, Duck Prints Press will be publishing a new title each week – mostly short stories for now, and there’s loads of great stuff to come! The first of our weekly short story offerings is a delightful urban meet-cute featuring a pixie, a mortal, some delicious baked goods, and a dash of magic…

Title: The Problem with Wishes

Author: Annabeth Lynch

Genre: Modern with Magic

Rating: General Audiences

Relationship: wlw

Tags: british mythology, character is a barista, character is a pixie, character is a satyr, coffee shop setting, creature character, descriptions of eating, descriptions of food, fae and faeryfolk, greek mythology, meet cute, magical mishaps, new york city, past tense, pov third person limited, united states of america

Summary: It’s a day like every other at The Enchanted Cafae—a home-away-from-home and place of safety for the magical and mythological creatures of New York City—until a mortal walks in. Now Kade, part-owner and barista, has to figure out how to handle the intrusion.

Length: 5 pages/2,006 words

Price: 75 cents US

This story is too cute to skip – get your copy and read it now!

[evdeanwriter]

Canvas | Original Fiction; T

Fictober prompt #1: “I choose you”

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Trish and Seth were the coolest kids in middle school; so punk rock and not giving a damn. They chose to take Jane under their wing, the new kid, and she memorized the lyrics to all their favorite songs—some of them were like poetry, Jane liked those.

Trish helped her thrift the t-shirts with old British bands so that she could give all her goodie-two-shoes clothes to Goodwill. Seth taught her how to climb out of her window before they all snuck out to her first concert. The venue was stuffy and loud. Jane dripped in sweat and someone else’s beer, but she banged her head just like everyone else. Next time, she brought earplugs, but she never put them in.

The day Jane came back home with a mohawk on her head, mom looked like she was about to get a heart attack. Both about the hair and the stench of smoke. Jane and her best friends had shared a cigarette, while Seth was buzzing the long, mousy strands off the sides of her head. Trish used half a jar of hair gel to turn the chopped up top into thick spikes. Jane shivered when the wind grazed her bare skin.

She got grounded for the rest of the school year and half the summer. By the time August rolled in, Seth and Trish had a bunch of new friends they would be going to high school with.

Michelle was the type of girl who gets crowned the prom queen, not the type of girl who chooses to hang out with someone like Jane. But she needed help with literature classes, and Jane’s essay was loudly praised by the teacher that day. Jane didn’t mind writing two essays instead of one from then on, although making them sound like two different people was kind of tough. Still, she managed to squeeze the task in between shopping with Michelle, getting her hair bleached and nails done with Michelle, and sharing earphones with Michelle when they watched their favorite movies.

They grew inseparable and seen. When they walked down the corridor, the other students parted. Michelle taught Jane how to get perfect pics for Insta and how to flirt with the boys—but never keep them. Even when Jane got grounded for maxing out mom’s credit card, Michelle would sneak into her room through the window and tell her all the gossip from the parties she missed out on.

Until the day the only gossip everyone at school was talking about were all of Jane’s secrets she only revealed to one person, her best friend—her ex-friend—Michelle. At least, there wasn’t much school to suffer through after that, and Michelle moved to LA to become a movie star.

Gregory was like a dream. Law major, handsome, well-spoken, smart as hell. The rich family was a nice bonus, but Jane didn’t care about that. She cared that—somehow—he chose her. On their first date, he took Jane out to a fancy restaurant, the kind with big lobster tanks in the middle. She helped him throw his first charity banquet and the hundredth party on his father’s yacht. For the spring break, he took her to Hawaii, where he surfed and she sunbathed all day, and partied all night. All the girls from her classes were so jealous.

Jane’s mom was, at last, happy with Jane’s choices, because she finally found the right company, a good guy.

And she looked great too, didn’t she? With all the designer clothes and the beauty treatments Greg paid for, with those whitened teeth behind her plump lips. She had to look great; look the part. Not just some eye-candy: she had to act properly and think like a high-class woman would, too. And that’s who she was. In the end, his family grew to love her, too.

By then, Greg loved the free-spirited artist, more, the one he’d been cheating on Jane with for months. She was exciting and spontaneous, she loved poetry, too. She wasn’t proper or high-class. And, most of all, she wasn’t boring—that’s what Greg called Jane when she caught him in flagrante delicto.

Greg made Jane move out of their apartment, into some crappy place she rented with her savings.

It was hard to get used to being all alone, with nothing but Jane as company.

Because Jane is… Who is she, exactly? The heir’s bride (not) to be? The prom queen’s best friend? The punk rocker who doesn’t give a damn? Her mom’s polite, well-mannered daughter?

Looking back, it’s easy to see the string of people coming into her life and overtaking it—all of it—just as she let them. She flocked to others like a bird with no sense of direction; her own North Poles. Once her empty canvas got painted over into exactly what they wanted her to be, they got bored of her and moved on.

Only good for anything when a work in progress—and never hers.

She looks into the mirror. Who is Jane? The mousy roots peeking out from under the golden caramel dye? The puffy eyes from crying, the paling skin, and the lips slowly regaining their old shape and size? She’s shedding the latest layer of herself. Her borrowed self.

Maybe living alone for a while is not such a bad idea? Just with herself, with Jane, whoever she is. Maybe she can discover who she is when she’s not someone else’s chosen girl. She can find out what she likes.

That she likes her hair with no product in it, but a banging winged eyeliner on her face. That she prefers silence to music, and hash browns to caviar. That clothes fit her best when they suit her mood, not her singular identity.

“I choose you,” she says to her reflection in the mirror, feeling only a little awkward. A small smile blooms on her face. “I choose myself.”

[evdeanwriter]

My goal for this #campnanowrimo was very low, but after months of drought I'd say 10k isn't bad. The banner is so pretty! https://www.instagram.com/p/Cc9XSDBI90M/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[evdeanwriter]

Here we go #nanowrimo2021 Truth be told, I don't really expect to hit the fabled 50k. But that's okay. This year, the point is to get myself back into proper writing. And hopefully come out the other end with a few cool stories to show for it ;) . #writersofinstagram #amwriting #writingcommunity #nanowrimo https://www.instagram.com/p/CVwUEiRICNZ/?utm_medium=tumblr

[evdeanwriter]

Rat | Original Fiction; M

Fictober prompt 4: “Fine, I give up.” cw: toture

-

All her instruments lie before her, cleaned and glistening in the sterile white light above her head. Her trusty bone saw, the brand new tongs, the scalpel so sharp it could split a hair in two, lengthwise.

It won’t be hairs that she’ll be splitting. It’s skin that will give up on the blade’s lightest touch, parting beneath it. The ravaged nerve endings will fire frantic signals into the brain, begging for help, begging for it to stop.

It’s going to be a fun night.

The scalpel is a good start. Elegant, painful, branding. There’s a reason it’s her favorite, after all.

It sits comfortably in her hand as she lifts it. The green iris of her eye reflects in its smooth surface.

She turns to the man in the chair. His limbs securely tied, the rope biting into skin as his muscles tense up. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as his eyes land on the blade.

She smirks. It might go quicker than she thought.

“So, Hudsley,” she purrs, closing the distance, “is there something you wanna tell me?”

“You can slice, and you can dice all you want—”

Hudsley’s mouth stretches in a self-assured smirk. As if she couldn’t see right through it, through the tension in his entire body, in the unsure glances at the scalpel. He’s very much scared.

“That’s the plan but”—she hums, pleasured—”you make it sound so exciting! I should get to it.”

Where should she start?

Go straight to the widest canvas of his chest—the buttons of his shirt popping off as the blade cuts their threads? His wax needs a touch-up but the tan from his recent business trip to Mallorca is the perfect shade of golden.

Or to his face where it hurts most—no, not physically but mentally—because sure, chicks dig scars, but not that kind, not that many? It would show off her work beautifully, earn some fancy plastic surgeon big bucks. And the sounds Hudsley makes as the cold, harmless side of the scalpel tenderly grazes his cheek are priceless.

No, scratch that. Where it hurts most is down, down, down, past his navel, past his alligator skin belt and obnoxious buckle. She presses on the softness through layers of linen and cotton-polyester blend.

She jolts back right as piss starts to wet them through.

She scrunches up her nose in disgust. “Now, that’s just unsanitary.”

She’s used to it: snots, piss, or worse. Wouldn’t be a good torture with a proper mix of bodily fluids. They don’t move her. But a healthy dose of shame won’t hurt.

She’s not touching that area though. Back to his chiselled face it is.

Just a tiny nick over his cheek bone.

“Fine, I give up!” Hudsley squeaks. “I’ll tell you everything, I don’t care. Covering their asses isn’t worth it.”

Her eyebrows ride up—she knew Hudsley is spineless but she didn’t expect him to break this quick. Must be a record: most of her guests stay for at least a few cuts.

“Good decision,” she says, setting her scalpel down, swapping it for a cotton swab. “But you see, I was already pretty sure who the rat was.” She leans close and wipes the blood streaming down his face. Who says she can’t be nice? “And you just confirmed it for me.”

“What are you talking about?”

He’s almost convincing, but the tension in his jaw gives him away.

“You know very well, Hudsley,” she coos and playfully boops the tip of his nose with her fingertip. “You are so not gonna enjoy the visit to the boss’s office.”

[evdeanwriter]

Renée Vivien, from A Woman Appeared to Me, tr. by Jeannette H. Foster

[evdeanwriter]

Black Church, Iceland by Andy Lee

[evdeanwriter]

Bob Hicok, from “The Days Are Getting Longer”, Elegy Owed

[evdeanwriter]

The Other Side, Dean Cornwell, 1918

[evdeanwriter]

“My body takes on sadness the way lily pollen stains everything. / Accidentally, gently, permanently.”

— — Cynthia Miller, from Honorifics

[evdeanwriter]

Pretty | Original Fiction; T

Fictober prompt 5: “I’m not saying I told you so…“

-

A loud cry that comes from the bathroom has Mia dashing before she can think. The most awful scenarios pop into her head, like Joan slipping on the tiles and getting hurt.

When she swings open the bathroom door, she lets out a sigh of relief: Joan is safe and sound. She’s standing in front of the mirror, a mortified expression on her face and a pair of scissors in her hand.

It’s hard not to notice what caused the distress.

Her forehead is adorned with what’s supposed to be bangs but is at least half an inch too short, uneven, and split sadly in the middle. The long, black, chopped of strands that used to frame her face now lie in the sink.

Mia bites her lip to stop herself from chuckling. There’s no need to add insult to injury. But then, Mia had warned Joan that trying to cut her own bangs won’t end well ever since Joan came up with this brilliant idea.

“I’m not saying I told you so…”

“Shut up,” Joan blurts out, dragging her fingers through the bangs, as if that could fix it.

It doesn’t do much: the strands still go where they want to go and the middle is still shorter than the sides, as if Joan pinched it all in front of her nose and hacked at it. Which, of course, is exactly what she did.

And now she’s lifting the scissors again, a longer strand pinched between her fingers.

Mia grabs her wrist to stop her.

“Hold up, let me do this.”

She knows nothing about haircutting, but she apparently knows much more than Joan does. The best she can do now is even it out and hope it will grow back to a respectable length in sensible time. Or maybe she should go ahead and buy Joan a bunch of cute bandanas.

Joan closes her eyes, letting Mia work her dubious magic, though her fingers fiddle with her bracelet nervously.

A few minutes of careful, calculated snips later, Mia takes a step back to assess her work. It’s not the most flattering look, but it’s not awful, either.

This time when Joan looks in the mirror, a small, relieved smile plays on her lips. The bangs look kinda cute on her, in a quirky way. Somehow, as she always does, Joan makes it work.

“It’ll have to grow on me,” she says with a wink and the pun makes Mia groan.

“You’re so damn lucky you’re so pretty.”

[evdeanwriter]

[evdeanwriter]

Stairs | Original Fiction; T

Fictober prompt 3: “I’ve waited for this.”

-

A mere flight of stairs separates Valia from her goal. Every fiber of her being tells her to run for it, but she holds back: the moment is too grand for something as indignant as a jog. Her steps are majestic, the dull thuds of her trekking boots echo in the ancient, sprawling chamber.

She should have brought her blood red heels for this moment; she’s already the villain of this story, she might as well look the part.

None of that matters. The only thing that does is there before her, closer with every step. All that sacrifice finally paying off: years of research and training, a small fortune spent on the chase, a couple of lives too.

A relationship. Love.

But what is love compared to the power she’ll gain?

The last stair and a long stone path lay before her. At the end of it, the altar. The rays of noon sun descend through the skylight and reflect in the opalescent crystal sitting at the heart of it.

It’s so close it must be a dream.

Valia gets no farther than a few yards when a rustle behind her stops her.

“That was fast,” she says, a smirk playing on her lips, even though there’s no joy in it.

“You know I can’t let you do it.”

Cursing herself in her thoughts, for taking the slow and elegant route, Valia turns to face the last obstacle in her way.

“And I won’t let you stop me, Dei.”

They’ve talked about this. A trail of blood still trickles down the side of Dei’s face, down her neck and soaks into the collar of her shirt, ruining her cute little Indiana Jones-esque attire. Or maybe just adding character to it.

This is act three, there was bound to be some blood involved.

“There’s only one way this ends,” Dei says, lifting her butterfly knife, like it’s a threat, “and it won’t be with you destroying the world.”

Valia lets out a sigh. This is all so repetitive. Anyone she ever shared her plan with would say the same thing. As if she wasn’t strong enough to tame the ancient power. She’s the only one who can.

“I won’t destroy it. I’m going to fix it, all of it.”

But Dei won’t believe her, of course she won’t. There’s nothing but betrayal in her eyes, and the determination to stop Valia.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Dei was different, wasn’t she? She used to believe in Valia, and she used to believe in using the crystal’s power for good. They could have saved the world together.

“Why can’t you trust me?” Valia asks.

“I did.” Dei’s voice nearly cracks as she pleads, “It’s time for you to trust me, for once.”

As if Valia hasn’t trusted Dei with her life. But not with this.

“I’ve waited for this for too long,” she says, watching the silver blade of Dei’s knife, still pointed her way. “I will not give it up.”

Dei bites her lip, shaking her head with resignation.

“Then you’re leaving me no choice,” Dei says, her body shifting, ready to fight.

With a swift, practiced motion, Valia pulls her own knife from her sheath.

“Alright, then,” she says, pushing her feelings aside. This isn’t about them. It’s so much bigger than either of them. “Let’s do this, love.”

[evdeanwriter]

My skin hunger could fill a galaxy.

— Cynthia Miller, from “Proxima b,” Honorifics (via lifeinpoetry)

[evdeanwriter]

Guiltless | Original Fiction

Fictober prompt 2: “You have no proof.”

-

“How could you do this to me?” Mia cries out, dropping the knife on the counter. “You, of all people.”

Joan crosses her arms on her chests, no remorse whatsoever on her face. If at least she regretted, maybe Mia would be able to forgive, but to see her like this, smug and guiltless, that’s just one more stab on the back.

“You have no proof that it was me.”

What glaring confidence. That’s her Joanie, alright? All defiance and bravado. That’s what Mia loves most about her, any other day. But not today, not after this.

“Oh, but I do.”

Mia takes a few steps towards Joan. Her love. Her traitor. She cups Joan’s face and with her thumb, she brushes along her upper lip, gathering the evidence.

She lifts her thumb in front of Joan’s eyes to show her the smudge of whipped cream. She was not as careful a thief as she thought she was. Not that there was anyone else in the house that could have eaten the last piece of cake.

Joan grabs Mia’s palm, carefully inspecting the damning evidence. Then, before Mia can react, Joan slips her thumb into her mouth, her warm tongue tickling as it licks the whipped cream off.

“Now you have no proof,” she says.

Mia stands there a little dumbfounded for a moment, staring at her clean thumb, then at the tip of Joan’s tongue sliding around her lips just in case there was still some cream left on them.

“That...is not how it works.”

Mia should be even more angry at her for that, but when Joan adds that little wink of hers, how could she stay mad any longer?

“Well, no judge is gonna believe you now.” Joan hooks her fingers in the belt loops of Mia’s jeans and pulls her closer. “So how about I take you to that cute little café on the corner.”

The tension leaves Mia’s shoulders. Sounds like a suitable penance and a lovely way to spend this afternoon together.

And maybe more than the afternoon, because then Joan leans in to whisper into Mia’s ear, as if someone could hear them.

“Then we’ll buy ourselves a whole can of whipped cream,” she says, and the kitchen suddenly feels so hot. “I have a few ideas for how to make it up to you.”

[evdeanwriter]

I need you like the earth / needed the flood after dearth.

—  Gary Jackson, from “Multiple Man: Guest-starring me & you,” origin story (via lifeinpoetry)