Bowie's "We Are the Dead"

These lyrics sound oddly timely.

"We Are The Dead"

Something kind of hit me today
I looked at you and wondered if you saw things my way

People will hold us to blame
It hit me today, it hit me today

We're taking it hard all the time
Why don't we pass it by?
Just reply, you've changed your mind
We're fighting with the eyes of the blind
Taking it hard, taking it hard

Yet now
We feel that we are papers, choking on you nightly
They tell me "Son, we want you, be elusive, but don't walk far"
For we're breaking in the new boys, deceive your next of kin
For you're dancing where the dogs decay, defecating ecstasy
You're just an ally of the leecher
Locator for the virgin King, but I love you in your fuck-me pumps
And your nimble dress that trails
Oh, dress yourself, my urchin one, for I hear them on the rails
Because of all we've seen, because of all we've said
We are the dead

One thing kind of touched me today

I looked at you and counted all the times we had laid
Pressing our love through the night

Knowing it's right, knowing it's right

Now I'm hoping some one will care
Living on the breath of a hope to be shared

Trusting on the sons of our love
That someone will care, someone will care

But now
We're today's scrambled creatures, locked in tomorrow's double feature
Heaven's on the pillow, its silence competes with hell
It's a twenty-four hour service, guaranteed to make you tell

And the streets are full of press men
Bent on getting hung and buried
And the legendary curtains are drawn 'round Baby Bankrupt
Who sucks you while you're sleeping
It's the theater of financiers
Count them, fifty 'round a table
White and dressed to kill

Oh caress yourself, my juicy
For my hands have all but withered
Oh dress yourself my urchin one, for I hear them on the stairs
Because of all we've seen, because of all we've said

We are the dead
We are the dead
We are the dead 

Writer(s): David Bowie
Copyright: Tintoretto Music, Jones Music America, Chrysalis Music Ltd.

Sigh

Really, sometimes you want to give up.

My Christmas Present to You: Three Novels!

Holiday stories do not come easily to this cynical old gal. In fact, last year was the first time I submitted a story for Dreamspinner’s Advent calendar anthology. My futuristic story was set in a homeless shelter run by a gay pastor who thinks he’s loosing his mind, but by the end of the story, a few miracles happen.

I was stunned and delighted when “The Colors of Pastor Saul” was accepted for publication. I love my Dreamspinner editors.

Upon release, quite a few easily upset souls complained about the story. Too “sad” too “dark”, too “unsettling”… but wait, I thought, what about the miracles? Certain readers didn’t want to read about miracles in a homeless shelter, not for Christmas. These delicate readers wanted holiday trees and pretty lights…wait, I did feature those items in my story. Hmm. Maybe the specter of Death during Christmas upset readers. Cue Dickens. Obviously the oh-so-sensitive souls had never bothered to read Dickens.

Snarky? Me? Absolutely. I don’t tolerate ignorance and wanting intellect.

Back in March, I attempted to write a cheerful Christmas story set in 1947 Cornwell. Suddenly the trauma of World War 2 seeped into the celebration. I gave up and gently placed the story in storage.

When I saw RJ Scott’s invitation to submit a story to her “Christmas Delights” anthology, I said what the hell, I’ll give this holiday story game another shot. This time I selected nice hot sex as the story’s centerpiece. No trauma, no lurking death… there’s sex, voyeurism, snow, sweat, surprises, and a 1966 cherry red Mustang convertible named Sheila. When I feature a car in a story, I need to name her something fun.

There you go. I have discovered the ability to write a cheerful holiday story. OK, yes, there’s a little trauma, but it’s resolved in a blink.

To prove my holiday cheer, I’m giving away a holiday present of three novels: Cupid Knows Best, The Gospel According to Cher and Love in the Shadows. I’ll even throw in a copy of “The Colors of Pastor Saul.”

Your task is simple: recommend a great holiday story to me  and end the post with the Mustang's name.  *snicker*

Good luck!

My partner Professor Sandy will pick the winner on Sunday night.

Also, hop over to RJ’s blog for the chance to win great RJ-related prizes!

RJ Scott 

PS: By the way, the Cornwell story is coming out of storage. I think I found a happy ending. I'm trying, kittens, yes I am.

Shira Anthony Guest Post: The Blue Notes Series: Love for the Long Haul

Welcome to the Shira Anthony Weekend!

Thanks, Sandy, for hosting me!  It’s been a busy holiday season so far, since I have two releases in my Blue Notes Series of music-themed gay romances: Encore (released November 11th) and Symphony in Blue (to be released on Christmas day).  Symphony in Blue also happens to be my 10th Dreamspinner Press release, so I’m going all-out with a Blue Notes Holiday 2013 Tour giveaway contest featuring a grand prize of a Kindle loaded with e-books as well as other fun goodies (details at the end of the post).

The Blue Notes Series books, with the exception of Symphony in Blue, are standalone novels and can be read in any order.  Encore shares themes in common with the other Blue Notes books: music and musicians, a heavy focus on character development, and long-term, committed relationships.  It’s this last theme I’d like to talk a bit about:  love for the long haul.

I’ve never been a fan of insta-love.  Not only that, I was the kid who wanted to know what happened to Cinderella and her prince after they got married.  When people talk about happily-ever-afters, I’m thinking years down the line, not wedding days.  Maybe I wanted a road map for happiness.  Maybe I just wanted more realism than I got from cookie-cutter Harlequin romances.  It really doesn’t matter.  What matters to me is that readers see what it is that makes the men in my stories want to stay together and how they grow after they tell each other “I love you.”  Those are the books I wanted to read, and those are the books I write.  Symphony in Blue and Encore are perfect examples.

Encore is chronologically the first book in the series.  It begins in the 1970s and ends in the present day.  Talk about a long haul!  Roger and John meet in high school.  They are meant for each other.  But it’s the 1970s, and being gay was a million times harder back then than it is today.  I lived through the 70s and 80s. I remember the whispers and the judgments, the finger pointing and horrible suggestions that AIDS was some sort of retribution for the “sin” of homosexuality.  I knew men who lived their lives in the closet.  I knew men who died of AIDS.  I knew men who struggled to find a way to make relationships work in spite of the lack of role models for same-sex partners (we weren’t even talking about marriage back then!).  These are the men who inspired John and Roger’s story.  The road to a lasting happily-ever-after is a very long one in Encore.  It’s a story of young love, and it becomes a story of mature love.  The perfect representation of how I see happily-ever-after.  And it takes John and Roger nearly 30 years to figure out how to make their love work.

Symphony in Blue is also about the long haul and watching relationships come into their own.  It is also the only sequel in the series—a direct sequel to the first four books.  In it, I revisit the first four couples in the series, and show how their relationships have grown and the new challenges in their lives.  Is there a happily-ever-after in each of the first four books?  Of course.  Die-hard romantic that I am, I don’t write books without them.  But Symphony in Blue is a perfect illustration of how a happily-ever-after isn’t a particular place of mind:  it’s a state of mind.  So you might think of it as a second happily-ever-after for each of the couples.

Looking for sexy hot romances with fluffy scenes?  I think you’ll like the Blue Notes books.  But if you’re also looking for something more—for something more real than Cinderella and her prince? I think you’ll enjoy these stories about real men in real relationships.  You can find all of my Dreamspinner Press books by clicking here.  Want to read more about me and about my books, including free fiction and excerpts?  Check out my website, www.shiraanthony.com. 

Don’t forget to enter the Blue Notes Holiday 2013 Blog Tour giveaway by clicking here (Rafflecopter).  There are plenty of ways to enter, and you can enter more than once by commenting, tweeting, buying books, and liking pages.  I’ll be drawing winners on New Year’s Eve at midnight!  Good luck! –Shira

ENCORE EXCERPT:

Roger watched the snow fall outside the window of his apartment before glancing over at the clock. It was nearly 9:00 p.m., and John should have arrived an hour before.

“Promise me you won’t come if the snow gets too bad. You know how I-23 can get,” he’d told John that morning over the phone.

“I’ll be fine,” John had reassured him. “With the opera rehearsal schedule and Professor Menard’s vocal performance class, I’d never get to see you if I waited for perfect weather.”

Now, an hour after John was supposed to be here, Roger was pacing the apartment. Worrying. Imagining John’s car somewhere in a ditch. Or worse.

He pulled a beer out of the fridge, popped the top, and resumed his pacing. Ten minutes later, the phone rang.

“Hello!” he practically barked into the handset.

“Roger?”

“Oh, hey, Mom.” Fuck. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine.” She paused, and Roger tried to think of something to get her off the phone. If John needed to get a hold of him, he didn’t want him to get a busy signal. “I’m surprised you’re around on a Saturday night. You usually aren’t.”

“I’ve got an exam on Monday,” he lied. “I can’t talk long.”

“No, of course. I wouldn’t want to keep you from it.” She’d been thrilled when he’d told her he planned on finishing school in three years. He hadn’t told her he planned on moving to New York, where John had already been accepted to do his master’s in conducting at Juilliard.

“Thanks, Mom.” Roger pushed back the curtain on the window in the kitchen with his foot—the long telephone cord didn’t go quite that far. From here, he could see the parking lot. A blanket of white covered the stripes on the asphalt. No John.

“… aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

“I asked if you were coming over on Monday for dinner.” She sounded irritated.

“Oh, yeah. Right. Sure. I’ll be there.” He had to get her off the phone. “Look, Mom. I gotta get back to studying. I’ll see you Monday, okay?”

“Are you sure everything is all right, dear?”

“It’s great, Mom. I really need to go.”

Her huff was audible through the handset. “Of course.”

“Bye.”

He hung up the phone before she could say anything more, and opened the drapes a bit farther. There had to be at least six inches of snow outside. He pressed his nose against the cold glass like he had when he’d been a kid, then closed his eyes. A moment later, the buzzer to the apartment sounded.

Thank God!

Roger scrambled over to the door and opened it to find a disheveled John smiling back at him. “Had to ditch the car over by the Woolworth’s. Forgot my keys. The ploughs haven’t made it this far yet—”

Roger grabbed John and pulled him inside. He was soaking wet, his shoulder-length hair curled at the ends, but Roger didn’t care. He drew John against him, wrapped his arms around his shoulders, and just held him.

“You okay?” John’s voice sounded muffled against Roger’s cheek.

“I am now.”

“Can I take this backpack off?” John asked with a soft laugh. “It’s a little heavy.”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry.” Roger grabbed the pack off John’s shoulders and kicked the door shut behind them.

“You were worried about me.” Not a question, and the way the edges of John’s mouth edged upward, Roger could tell he was teasing.

Roger was tempted to lie, but he was so relieved, he just sighed and said, “Yeah.”

John stared at him in surprise. “You really were worried.”

“Fuck, John, I—”

John kissed him. He tasted of snow and Coca-Cola. Roger closed his eyes as their tongues skirted each other in a now-familiar dance. God, he loved John! More than he could get up the nerve to admit.

For two years they’d stolen every moment they could, working around John’s busy schedule and Roger’s mother. Miranda suspected something. Roger was sure of it. She’d even shown up at the apartment early in the morning on the weekend. John said he was sure she was trying to catch them together. It made things a bit more difficult, but they’d worked it out. John stored his things under the bed, and the bedroom closet was big enough that he could slip inside and hide. They’d left a few pillows behind Roger’s clothing, as well as a flashlight and a few books.

“Don’t worry about it,” John had said the first time he’d hidden there. They both knew Roger needed his parents to pay tuition—at least they hadn’t threatened to stop when Roger announced he was getting his own apartment. “It’s just for a little while.”

Roger came back to himself and realized John was shivering. “Shit, John. You’re freezing your ass off.” He took John by the hand and led him into the bedroom. In the light, John’s cheeks looked pink in contrast to his pale skin. Roger unzipped John’s wet jacket and pushed it off his shoulders. “Stay right there,” he said before stepping into the bathroom to retrieve a towel.

John smiled as Roger dried his face and hair. “Feels good. I like it when you fuss over me.”

Roger’s cheeks heated. “Your pants are soaked,” he said in an effort to mask his embarrassment. He reached for John’s belt, undid the buckle, and unbuttoned the waist of John’s pants. The room was silent except for the sound of the zipper and Roger’s heart pounding in his ears. His hands shook as he pulled John’s pants down—he still hadn’t quite moved past the sinking feeling in his gut that had lodged itself there when he’d worried something had happened to John. He could handle a lot, but the thought of losing John terrified him.

“Are you okay?” John was studying him with a strange expression.

“Yeah.” I am now.

Roger focused on helping John step out of the cold, damp pants. He knew if he met John’s gaze, everything he felt would be obvious. It wasn’t just that he was embarrassed. What he felt was something he’d only begun to understand: vulnerability. The feeling you get when you realize your entire world would come to a screeching halt if the certain someone in your life were to vanish.

John shivered again.

“Get under the covers. I’ll be there in a minute.” Roger watched John pull the warm comforter over himself as he got undressed. He joined John underneath and skated his palms over John’s cold thighs until they warmed to his touch.

“Feels good.”

“You’re still cold.” Roger wrapped his body around John’s and held him. John’s skin was slightly damp against his own.

“I’m fine.” John tucked his chin into the space between Roger’s neck and shoulder. “Really.”

Roger just held him tighter.

“Roger?”

“Hmm?”

“You okay?” John pulled away a bit and looked at him with obvious concern.

“Yeah.”

“Talk to me, Roger. What’s up?”

It was Roger’s turn to shiver. “I told you. I was just a little worried.”

“About me?” John reached for Roger’s face and pulled it gently so that Roger had no choice but to look at him.

“Yeah.” He didn’t want to talk about this. He just wanted to hold John and reassure himself John was safe. He looked away again.

“Hey.” John rolled onto his side so his face was next to Roger’s. “You can tell me, you know. I’m not going to laugh or anything.”

“I know.” Roger hesitated another moment, then said, “It’s just that I feel like an idiot.”

“Worrying about me doesn’t make you an idiot.” John leaned in and kissed Roger’s nose. “It makes me feel good.”

Roger’s breath stuttered. “I kept thinking back to that night… the accident. I kept imagining you in a ditch somewhere. Hurt…. Shit.” He grabbed John and buried his face in his chest. “I dream about that night sometimes, except in my dreams, you’re….” He clenched his jaw and blinked back tears. He’d had a lot of those dreams—nightmares, really—since John had started driving down from Ann Arbor to stay with him. He dreamed he woke up in the hospital and instead of John being all right, the doctor told him they’d done everything they could, and then he was standing in front of a headstone and he knew, he just knew whose headstone it was.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you,” Roger whispered. “I’d lose my mind. I love you so fucking much, I don’t know what I’d do.” It took him a moment to realize what he’d just said.

John leaned over and kissed him again, this time on the lips. In the semidarkness, Roger saw John’s eyes sparkle. The edges of his mouth curved upward in a tentative smile as the kiss broke. “You love me?” he asked.

Roger could only nod.

“Thank God. Because I don’t know what I’d do if I was the only one who felt like that.”

“You love me too.” He said the words as though he didn’t believe them.

“Always, Roger.”

Blue Notes Holiday 2013 Blog Tour Info

This blog tour is to celebrate TWO Blue Notes Series releases:  Encore (Blue Notes #5) on November 11, 2013, and Symphony in Blue (Blue Notes #4.5) on December 25, 2013 (Christmas Day).  Symphony in Blue is my 10th Dreamspinner Press release!  I’ve put together a special prize list to celebrate.  

Blue Notes Series Holiday 2013 Giveaway:

·      Begins on release day for Encore, November 11, 2013

·      Ends on New Year’s Eve, December 31, 2013, at midnight

·      Drawings are open to both U.S. readers and international readers, but physical prizes (Kindle, necklace, book, and t-shirt) are for U.S. readers only. I will award a virtual set of the first 4 Blue Notes Series books to one winner from outside the U.S.

·      Prizes (U.S. Only):

o   Grand Prize: A Kindle loaded with the first 4 Blue Notes Series books and some of my other back titles

o   1st Place: A sterling silver music themed necklace

o   2nd Place: Winner’s choice of one of my back titles in paperback (i.e., not including the 2 new releases)

o   3rd Place: Blue Notes t-shirt, cover of the winner’s choice

Buy Links:  Encore: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4353&cPath=55_484

Symphony in Blue: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4479&cPath=55_484

******

Remaining Blog Stops Currently Scheduled:

December 10th: Brilliant Disguise (Tali Spencer’s blog)

December 16th: Rebecca Cohen’s blog

December 20th: Purple Rose Teahouse (Charlie Cochet’s blog)

December 23rd: Mrs. Condits and Friends

December 25^th: Symphony in Blue Release Day Party at Melanie Marshall’s Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words

December 26^th: Book Suburbia

December 27th:  Helen Pattskyn’s blog

Trying not to Rewrite Marathon Man Dental Scenes

I’ve long needed serious dental work over the past years. Yeah, years ago a temporary cap fell off and I never went back, just put up with the pit in my back right wisdom tooth. Two years ago my lower left wisdom tooth exploded on the opposite side. I bravely held off until ta-da I took a real job again featuring dental insurance. Trust me, writing novels is NOT good for the teeth.

During the past three weeks, I suffered through rebuilds on two wisdom teeth in order to put crowns in place. We’re talking those tedious hour long drilling sessions… followed by sitting for long minutes waiting for the implant goop to set. Yuck, yuck, yuck.

Instead of panicking, I tried to write while I lay there helpless to the drill. Aside from writing a scene referencing the movie Marathon Man where Dustin Hoffman is tortured by Laurence Olivier via dental drills, I could not focus.

I tried. I think the damned drilling noise destroyed my concentration. It’s hard to think about anything but that damned drill when it’s at a high pitched whine or—and I find worse— the low-pitched burr. Arrrrgh!

Now as the massive anesthesia doses wear off, the temp side hurts and the new crown hurts. But hey, as least I finally gave my teeth proper attention.

Just wait, I’ll start grinding at the new cap while I try to write a scene as I fall into sleep tonight.

I know none of my new novels will feature a dentist. Sorry, I can’t think of a dentist as sexy. Then again, it might be great aversion therapy to write about…no. I can’t.

Urrgh.

FREE Christmas Anthology from Love Lane Books

I have a story in a FREE Christmas anthology Christmas Delights, it organized, and lovingly promoted by RJ Scott for Love Lane Books. The anthology is a mix of new authors and authors that have been around the block a few times (ahem). 

My story "Paid with a Full Moon"  is a sexy comedy about voyeurism for a good cause...

To celebrate, on December 13th I'll be giving away a few of my books and RJ will also be giving away goodies. I'll update as the time draws closer.

Here's a run down of authors:

• RJ Scott - Deefur and the Great Mistletoe Incident
• Amber Kell - Christmas Tree Magic
• Meredith Russell - Spiced Apple and Cinnamon
• Diane Adams - Christmas Lightning
• Kay Berrisford - Gifts from the Tree
• Nicole Dennis - Christmas Promise
• Caitlin Ricci - A Jaguar for Christmas
• John Wiley - Once you go Black Friday
• SA Garcia - Paid with a Full Moon
• A.T. Weaver - Josh's Christmas Angel
• Valynda King - Christmas in Hawaii
• Christopher John - Two for Hooking
• Francis Gideon - Mistletoe and YouTube
• Allan Jay - Christmas Angel
• Aisling Mancy - Joyeux Noel
• Gary Hendrickson - Our Best Christmas
• Hollis Shiloh - The Christmas Mansion
• Tom Alexander - Ivy Park
• AJ Henderson - Christmas Reunion
• Abigail Winters - Love Delayed
• JC Wallace - Waiting for Snow
  
  Here's your chance to grab some free holiday reading.

Love Lane Books

Welcome to Oscar Wilde’s 159th Birthday Celebration!

Welcome to Oscar Wilde’s 159^th Birthday Celebration!

Who doesn’t love Oscar Wilde? He’s like a fabulous mascot. I think it’s sad that his family— who doesn’t share his name due to shame— decided to place a glass wall around Oscar’s magnificent tomb in Paris’ Père Lachaise Cemetery. Yes, people were lipsticking the monument with great enthusiasm, and, far worse, defacing the statue with graffiti.

But think about it. Oscar Wilde lived his life with a barrier around him, one built from his homosexuality. When he broke free and took a stand, the haters punished him for daring to be smarter, more self-assured… just all-around braver about his life. People with narrow little minds wanted to rip Oscar down.

In the end, they succeeded. But wily Oscar had the last laugh. Now he’s celebrated as a gay icon. His witty bon-mots are legendary. His plays and books have stood the test of time and are still part of popular culture.

Which is why placing a glass wall around his tomb seems wrong on many emotional levels. They’re trying to box in Oscar again by placing a barrier around him. When I visited Oscar’s tomb, I didn’t kiss or deface, but I did hug a corner.

Oscar’s tomb barrier sparked my short story. Last night after sipping too much wine, I pounded out my words and cried a river. Tonight, I fixed the errors in spelling, logic, and overall tone. I cried all over again.

I’m starting the b-day celebration a little early.

In turn for reading and commenting, you’ll be entered into a drawing for one of my two my new novels: “Love in the Shadows” or “The Gospel According to Cher.” Keep in mind I can’t send out “The Gospel According to Cher” until October 28th.

When I pick the winner on Thursday, I’ll give them the choice.

I hope you enjoy my fantasy.

Oscar’s Army

A PG-13 M/M Fantasy by S.A. Garcia

Why had he done this to himself?

Alexander Fingal O’Flahertie Riodian shifted his numb ass against the cold, hard stone base. His romantic Irish Granna had really cursed him with one helluva long name. Afor— which everyone usually called him—gazed around the gloomy graveyard. He eyed the stone chin looming above him and scowled in annoyance.

Two days of freedom from uniform beckoned to him, yet here he sat tucked under an angel’s cold stone chest. He perched like an abandoned gnome, watching as people visited the tomb. They didn’t pay much attention to him. How odd.

He shifted again, but seeking comfort on stone was useless. Had he really promised his Granna he would visit Oscar Wilde’s tomb? Yes. He had sworn if he had the chance, he would go to Père Lachaise Cemetery and pay his respects to Oscar. After all, Afor owed Granna everything. His grandmother had raised him after his sainted mother had died during childbirth. Granna had raised Afor with unconditional love.

When she had taken in Birdie after his parents had died, she had given Afor a new best friend. As the years had passed, Afore and Birdie realized they were something more than best friends. They worked had Granna’s Bucks County farm together. Sometimes they worked in the hay wain to see whose tongue could make the other come first. They both liked that work far better than plowing.

Just after Afor’s eighteenth birthday, Granna had caught Afor and Birdie naked in Afor’s bed. She had come in to fetch Afor’s wash. Afor had wanted to become invisible, had wanted to deny everything. Instead of reacting, Granna had blinked, closed the door and never said a word. The two young men didn’t understand their luck. Birdie had convinced Afor not to ask Granna about her silence. Why tip the scales?

In 1918, Afor and Birdie had signed up for duty in France. They couldn’t wait to fight against the dastardly Germans.

On that day, Granna had sat Afor down for a good cuppa of strong Irish tea in the sun-washed kitchen. After she had stirred her usual five heaping teaspoons of sugar into the warm brew, she sipped. She stirred again and sipped before she regarded him over the teacup’s china rim. Her bright blue eyes had sparkled with joy. “Didja know I met Oscar Wilde when he visited Philadelphia in 1886?”

“Granna, who’s Oscar Wilde?”

Afor remembered Granna looking like she had wanted to smack him back into next year. He’d never forget her heated response. “Oscar Wilde is one of the greatest Irishmen ever to walk the earth. His wit and wisdom made the birds sing his name from the trees. He’s a genius or, bless his soul, was a genius. Those who refused to understand him killed the dear soul by imprisonin’ him.”

“For what?”

“For bein’ different! For darin’ to love above all else. We’re related to him, laddie, removed, yes, but his blood flows in yer veins.” Granna had sipped tea before she shook her head. A few strands of red and white hair had tumbled free from her bun. “I’m not surprised you cotton to Birdie. He’s a right decent fella, but you must be careful. Promise me.” She had gripped Afor’s forearm with surprising power. “Promise.”

He had promised.

Afor shivered and shook his head. Granna had always understood how he felt toward Birdie. Apparently, this poor Oscar fellow had ruined his life because he felt the same way. Afor wondered if Oscar had lain awake at night trying convince himself he could change. Too many sleepless nights fighting with himself had led Afor to one conclusion: he loved Birdie.

He wanted to spend his life with Birdie. After the war, they planned to return to Granna’s farm and continue making it blossom. They discussed branching out into raising racehorses. The future seemed wide open, limitless with options.

A few visitors drifted past Wilde’s tomb. Three smiled; four scowled. Afor hoped the scowlers didn’t report him to a cemetery official for sitting here. Afor spoke no French. He wished he had asked someone to write an explanation for him. “My dying Granna asked me to visit this place.”

He blinked, telling himself only the strong late evening sunshine caused his eyes to tear.

He knew better.

Granna had died before Afor had reached France. Her proud heart had given out while he and Birdie had sailed across the Atlantic.

A lump built in Afor’s throat. Birdie had died a month ago from a grievous gunshot to the head. The war was finally on the wane, but the last battle demanded final victims. Afor had tried everything to help his— lover, but Birdie had died writhing in the blood and mud flooding the filthy trench, his cornsilk hair filthy and matted with gore and filth. Afor had tried kissing Birdie back to life until another soldier had punched him in the head.

Now Afor slumped against cold stone, not caring, he only wanting to visit Paris and find something to kill his staggering pain. Yet here he slumped waiting for—something. The sun drifted toward the horizon. Afor shifted again. He thought some official would come to toss him off the structure. Around him, the shadows grew deeper. Eerie ground mist rose from the earth, floating up to obscure the other monuments.

No one came to bother him, not even when full night claimed the cemetery. Why hadn’t that last guard chased him away? Afor frowned and tried to remember coming to the cemetery. He couldn’t remember the journey. His last memory was of sitting in a bar after drinking too many beers and telling the soldier who had followed him to fuck off— yes, it had been the same soldier who had punched him for trying to kiss Birdie back to life.

A sharp pain blossomed against Afor’s right temple. For a second, redness veiled his vision. Both sensations vanished.

Afor sat straighter. What did he hear? Voices echoed from down the path. He leaned forward, cocking his head. The sound intensified, coming from all directions.

A man with a dark brown pageboy haircut walked toward him through the heavy fog. He wore a smart green velvet suit more suited to an earlier age. He gestured like a grand magician. “Dear boy, why are you all the way up there?”

Afor blinked in bewilderment. How had he gotten up there? Not only didn’t he remember coming here, but he didn’t remember climbing up on the tomb. “Sorry, sir, I don’t know.”

The man smiled with sly comedy. “Well come down already. We’ve been waiting for you.” The man waved toward his right.

Afor gasped in delight. “Granna! Birdie!” He easily propelled himself off the tomb to hug the two most important people in the world to him. He wrapped their loving warmth around his soul. He felt the approval of the others who gathered close to touch them. Birdie reached up to ruffle Afor’s hair. Granna’s lilac and love scent drifted into his nostrils.

They both looked happy and hale. How could this—

Another shadowy figure walked close to Afor, she growing clearer and brighter with every step. Afor stared in amazement. He recognized the sweet face from old photographs, but before now he had never viewed her wild green eyes or intense red hair. “Mama?”

The thin redhead nodded before she reached to touch his damp cheeks. “Son. My beautiful son.” Afor met his blessed mother for the first time ever. Everything became clear for him.

He understood what had happened to him last night. He understood.

He accepted his special position into Oscar’s Army.

Oscar gestured toward the east. “Time to move, my lovelies. A suffering soul needs release. We need to guide him gently into his new world.” He clapped his hand against Afor’s shoulder. “We look out for one another. Will you help me?”

Afor held out his hands to grip Oscar’s shoulders. “I’m honored. You—” Afor shivered and shook his head in helpless adoration.

“Are here for you.” Oscar patted Afor’s cheek before he turned. “I always like walking toward the East. It feels so adventerous.”

Birdie cuddled against Afor’s right side. This time Afor ruffled Birdie’s cornsilk hair. Birdie seemed recreated, he standing proud and tall, not burdened by the wretched sickness which had defeated him during the war. Granna and Mama held onto Afor’s left arm. Granna winked at Afor. He grinned and returned the wink.

Together they followed Oscar toward the next compassionate mission.

Kisses,

S.A.