Saints+Sinners Read online

  An anthology of short fiction featuring the finalist selections from the 2019 Saints + Sinners Literary Festival.

  Saints+Sinners: New Fiction from the Festival 2019

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

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  Saints + Sinners

  New Fiction from the Festival 2019

  © 2019 Saints & Sinners Literary Festival. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-448-9

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: April 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editors: Tracy Cunningham and Paul J. Willis

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Timothy Cummings

  Acknowledgments

  We’d like to thank:

  The John Burton Harter Foundation for their continued support of the fiction contest and their generous support of the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival program.

  Radclyffe, Sandy Lowe, and Bold Strokes Books for their talents in the production of our anthology and their sponsorship of the Saints and Sinners event.

  Timothy Cummings, cover artist for the 2019 Saints and Sinners Literary Festival anthology and program book.

  Amie M. Evans, whose editorial contributions over the years have informed and shaped the quality of these anthologies. Hope you will be back next year, Amie!

  Everyone who has entered the contest and/or attended the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival over the last 16 years for their energy, ideas, and dedication in keeping the written LGBTQ word alive.

  Our Past Contest Winners

  2018

  Jeremy Schnotala “Sand Angels”

  2017

  J. Marshall Freeman “Curo the Filthmonger”

  2016

  Jerry Rabushka “Trumpet in D”

  2015

  Maureen Brady “Basketball Fever”

  2014

  Sally Bellerose “Corset”

  2013

  Sandra Gail Lambert “In a Chamber of My Heart”

  2012

  Jerry Rabushka “Wasted Courage”

  2011

  Sally Bellerose “Fishwives”

  2010

  Wayne Lee Gay “Ondine”

  Introduction

  Jeff Mann, 2019 Finalist Judge

  The Saints and Sinners Literary Festival has had an enormous impact on many writers’ lives, including mine. I’ve been attending the festival from its beginning in 2003, and I’ve met a plethora of wonderful publishers, editors, and fellow writers. Both my professional and my personal lives have been immeasurably enriched: most of the material I’ve published in the last fifteen years has been with the help of fellow SAS attendees, and I’ve made many friends at SAS, folks I feel great fondness and admiration for, even though I only see them, for the most part, once a year at the festival. When a future scholar writes the history of twenty-first-century LGBT writing, both Saints and Sinners and the many authors it’s nurtured will be a big part of the story.

  I was hugely honored to be inducted into the SAS Hall of Fame in 2013, and being invited to judge the annual fiction contest is an equal honor. That said, having to choose the top four out of sixteen fine finalists makes me exceedingly uncomfortable, especially since I’ve met some of the finalists and admire them. Up until the writing of this essay, I’ve deliberately avoided Facebook posts and SAS e-newsletters so as to remain ignorant of who wrote what and to make my ranking impartial. Yes, I’ve written and published a lot; yes, I’ve read a great deal; and yes, I’ve taught creative writing for years; but still, the end results of this competition are, finally, one man’s opinion. All of these tales well deserve to be included in this anthology.

  I’d like to say a little something about each of the stories, in the order in which the hard copies sent to me were numbered.

  I loved the nuanced and loving relationship between the older brother, Anthony, and the younger brother, Joey, in Stephen Greco’s “Washington’s Retreat,” especially when juxtaposed with Anthony’s secret and surprising way of paying the bills and making ends meet. Greco uses the Revolutionary War history of Brooklyn to lend the story a graceful unity and creates gentle romantic tension inside the colorful setting of an expensive Japanese teahouse.

  In Daniel Jaffe’s “The Importance of Being Jurassic,” the author does a fine job of using the setting of Dublin to illustrate Ireland’s social changes over the last few decades and to examine the vast differences between the lives of older and younger gay men. The reference to Oscar Wilde’s statue in Merrion Square was particularly affecting, and reading the story reminded me of how much I enjoyed visiting Dublin back in 1994 and how much I’d like to return someday.

  Being an Appalachian myself, I enjoyed the use of an Eastern Kentucky setting in “Brody’s Family Secret,” by J. R. Greenwell. The food, the dialect, the customs all rang true to me, and the way an apparently realistic piece of fiction flirts with elements of speculative fiction was an unexpected twist. The romance shared by the young narrator, Brody, and his buddy, Johnny Mac, is deeply touching.

  Michael H. Ward’s “Omaha” is one of the runners-up. I savored all of it: the gay-bar scene, the realistic dialogue, the drag queen (with the great name of Miss Tiny Cherokee), the erotic tension and release, the tenderness, the sense of future possibility, and the beautifully effective images of the story’s close. ’

  Felice Picano’s “Flawed” is a sleek and smart tale of speculative fiction involving a certain San Francisco antique store, a mirror with a certain flaw, and a narrator who’s growing accustomed to the luxuries of high society and intends to hold onto those new privileges and pleasures no matter what the risk. I freely confess that I was vigorously rooting for him by the last couple of pages.

  The use of first-person narrator in “Solid Gold Saturday Night” by W. L. Hodge is very well done, as is the sharp use of humor and the depiction of gay-bar life in a Texas town. The triumphant way that the transgender protagonist rebukes the obnoxious members of a rude and raucous bachelorette party will make readers cheer, and the poignant ending was just right. You’ll think of this story every time you hear that Elton John classic, “The Bitch is Back.”

  “Salvage” by Karelia Stetz-Waters is another runner-up. I’m not normally a fan of post-apocalyptic fiction, but the spare yet poetic language of this piece grabbed me. The tale beautifully portrays the way that long-repressed erotic urges, once unleashed, can transform, strengthen, and lend both hope and defiance. (I will admit to some bias in my appreciation of this story about a lesbian tattoo artist, since I’m heavily tattooed and nearly all my best friends since my high-school days have been lesbians.)

  In “The Unit,” Aaron Hughes grabbed my attention fast with his narrator’s voice—vulgar, blunt, belligerent, just right for the character. I’m a big fan of action/adventure and military-themed movies and television, so a gripping, fast-moving s
toryline about love between warriors was bound to impress me. Add to that one of my favorite subjects, Greek mythology, which Hughes uses beautifully throughout the story, and I couldn’t help but choose “The Unit” as another runner-up.

  The New Orleans setting was a welcome component in William Christy Smith’s “Shopping for Others.” The subject of the story—how AIDS can transform a life—is full of grim verisimilitude, but there’s one scene inside the Immaculate Conception Church that’s hysterically funny, and the surprise at the story’s end was neatly done, tying up small mysteries and loose ends.

  “Stones with Wings” by Louis Flint Ceci was one of my favorites. Here too is post-apocalyptic fiction, but without any of the clichés of that genre and with a focus on agricultural practices that I, once a part-time farm boy, found fascinating. Hand-pollinating okra? Without bees, it makes perfect sense. The slow growth of attraction and fondness between the protagonist, Cyprion, and “the wild boy,” Paolo, is perfectly paced, and the metaphor embedded in the title works wonderfully. (To adapt a phrase of Robert Frost’s, “So was I once myself a skipper of stones…”) As with “Solid Gold Saturday Night,” there’s poignant triumph here, both in the hermitage garden and in the protagonist’s cabin.

  Michael Graves’ “Trick Hearts” is brimful of the edginess and uncertainties of contemporary youth: pot, horror movies, passionate texting and sexting, colorful parties, polymorphous eroticism, sudden sorrow, and, in this case, porn videos. As in any good coming-of-age story, the teenaged protagonist, Dusty, experiences emotional growth, epiphanies, and a loss of innocence.

  Stylistically, Jamieson Findlay’s “Arundel’s Name” is remarkable. Sentence structure, diction, allusion, irony, imagery…all are masterfully used. The contrasts between public reality and private fantasy are bitterly keen here, and the use of a poem by Sappho creates a beautiful interweaving that continues throughout the story, right down to its final sentence.

  Matching losses and mutual desires pervade Maureen Brady’s “Fixing Uppers,” when a home renovator mourning the end of a love relationship gets far too drunk at a lesbian wedding and meets an intriguing photographer. An important part of any mature relationship, the story wisely seems to suggest, is helping one another recover from past disappointments and present damage.

  I loved the sharp delineation of setting in Lewis DeSimone’s “Figures of Speech,” which takes place in Venice, Italy, “the most romantic city in the world.” We experience the story from two points of view, that of a single gay man, James, and his single straight friend, Cynthia, which gives the story a broader perspective than it might otherwise have and illuminates the different ways human beings deal with loneliness and the loss of love, both romantic and Platonic.

  Contrasting urban attitudes to rural realities, Jonathan Harper’s “Foxes” is a fresh take on a narrative structure sometimes seen in horror movies: thanks to a flat tire, Danny and Kyle, two “proud and naïve” gay teenagers from an urban area, end up stranded in a small town, “the kind Danny understood existed but had never actually seen.” There, they encounter locals both welcoming and threatening before being swallowed up by the mystery that dominates the story, a mystery that lends the cry of a fox evocative and sinister meaning.

  I chose J. Marshall Freeman’s “The Grove of Mohini” as the winner. Like “Figures of Speech,” this story has a double point of view. One “center of consciousness,” to use Henry James’ phrase, is Sid, a handsome young man of South Asian descent who’s hired to appear in costume at a wealthy man’s ostentatious outdoor party. The other point of view belongs to Leo, one of the middle-aged host’s middle-aged friends. As in “The Importance of Being Jurassic,” this tale examines the considerable differences between the lives of older and younger gay men. It also uses mythology to fine effect and deals in an especially poignant way with a grim and inescapable fact: the AIDS epidemic decimated a generation. Like several of the stories in this collection, “The Grove of Mohini” moves toward a sense of erotic renewal, or at least the possibility of it, reminding us of how Eros can heal, inspire, renew hope, and invigorate body, heart, and mind.

  The same can be said for fine writing: it can help us endure, especially in anxious times like these. I found these stories a true pleasure to read, and I’m confident that you will too. What a priceless gift this festival is.

  Brody’s Family Secret

  J.R. Greenwell

  No one ever told me that growing up in the mountains of eastern Kentucky during a depression was supposed to be difficult, so I didn’t know any better. Sure, life had its trials and challenges, but it also had its rewards and blessings, its intrigue and excitement. Mountain people have a bond of camaraderie by heritage. A sense of solitude created by the distance of where we live along the ridge. The holler is our kingdom, sheltered by the edge of the forests and lit by the sky, usually connecting our neighbors to one another by a common stream or creek. We usually protect ourselves by being respectfully private about our problems, thus family secrets are mostly suppressed. However, everyone in Raccoon knew my family’s secret—that is, everyone except me.

  “Smells good, Mama,” I said as I walked into the kitchen, the old screen door slamming behind me. I headed to the white porcelain dishpan next to the sink to wash my hands before supper. I cringed at putting my fingers in the gray murky water that had been used all day, but I knew it still had enough lye soap in it to kill the most ambitious bacteria on anyone’s hands. At least that’s what my mama told me. My mama never lied. I submerged my hands ever so briefly and wiggled my fingers just enough to create a layer of bubbles atop the old water.

  “Where’s yer daddy?”

  “Oh, he’s fixin’ to come in,” I answered as I dried my hands on the damp dishtowel draped over the sink. “I think he’s enjoyin’ this day with it bein’ warm and all.”

  “Hard to believe it’s the end of February and we got the doors open, but it feels good to git the winter stench out the house.”

  “Yeah, the air does smell fresh. I see Daddy by the outhouse.”

  “He better git in here before supper gits cold,” she said as she lifted the half-filled cast iron skillet off the woodstove and plopped it down so hard on the old oak table you could hear the clamor clean down to the end of the holler, which was her way of ringing the dinner bell that we didn’t have. And sure enough, Daddy walked through the door right on cue just like a bloodhound that had been trained to fetch on command.

  “Smells mighty good,” Daddy said as he kissed mama’s neck from behind. My daddy worked in the waning timber industry, mostly because Mama didn’t want him down in the mines. Both jobs were dangerous and difficult, and the coal mines paid a lot more money, but Mama said people working the mines didn’t live to be old. Said she didn’t want to live the rest of her life as a widow woman.

  “Wash yer hands and sit down so we can say grace,” she said as she placed three mismatched plates on the table. Daddy obliged by dipping his hands in the gray water and splashed them around, and then he wiped them on his dirty overalls. Mama wasn’t looking, but she knew he didn’t use the dishtowel to dry his hands. Some things she just overlooked.

  As usual at suppertime, we all sat down and I said grace, followed by Mama and Daddy completing the ritual with a heartfelt “Amen!” I was convinced our “Evangelical” version of ‘amen’ was unlike any other ‘amen,’ and more powerful, too. Ours had the kind of inflection that brought us closer to God, if at least for just a brief moment, before we ate what Mama had prepared.

  “Oh my! Fried rabbit with white gravy and boiled taters. My favorite,” I said as though I was being treated to one of the finest meals in a New York restaurant, you know, the kind that serves fancy snails and mushrooms. Mama cooked the best fried rabbit in all of Raccoon, Kentucky, at least that’s what my daddy always said, and of course, Daddy never lied.

  “Give your daddy some credit. He was the one who went huntin’.”

  “Thanks, Daddy. You di
d good.”

  “Never mind the praisin’, just be thankful they was plentiful this year.”

  “Amen,” my mama said. “How is it?”

  I swallowed a mouthful of potatoes heavily covered in lard-made, white gravy before I answered. “Mighty good, Mama. Mighty good. Daddy, is it okay if I go down to Becky’s house later?”

  “What fer?”

  “They’s listenin’ to the Academy Awards show on the radio.” My daddy sat in silence either enjoying the morsel of fried rabbit in his mouth or pondering a reason why I shouldn’t go visit my friend.

  Mama looked at me. “They got one of those talkin’ boxes in their home?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s like bein’ there. You just sit and watch that box and listen. I saw it last time I was there. Ain’t nothin’ like it around. Daddy, how come we don’t have a radio?”

  “Cause we don’t have ’lectricity.”

  “And why don’t we have ’lectricity?”

  “Cause we ain’t a member of the co-op, that’s why. Only people with money to waste can afford to have ’lectricity.”

  “Becky’s family ain’t rich and they got light bulbs that glow in the dark.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with kerosene lanterns and candles when we need to be up at night, and even then, the moon gives us the light we need to git to the outhouse and back.”

  “I don’t think it’s right to go over and listen to it,” Mama said as she shook her head. “Almost sinful, if you ask me.”