Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol by Drew Marvin Frayne
Summary:
Peter Cratchit, a young lad preparing to make his way in the world, is the eldest son of Scrooge’s lowly clerk Bob Cratchit. Peter flourishes under the tutelage of his “Uncle” Scrooge and seeks to make his mark as a man of business, like his uncle before him.
One Christmas Eve, as Scrooge lays dying, Peter embarks on a risky ocean voyage that he believes will secure the future for his family. Onboard, Peter finds love, happiness, and success, only to lose it all by the voyage’s end.
Returning to London, Peter shuns his family and instead finds himself living on the streets, haunted by his failures and his dead lover, selling his body just to survive while he waits for the winter cold to claim him once and for all. But winter snows also mean Christmas is coming, and for the Cratchit family, Christmas is a time of miracles. Can a visit from three familiar spirits change Peter’s life again? Is there one more miracle in store for the lost son of one of Dickens’ most enduring families?
I'm just going to say it: this was amazing!
It never really dawned on me to see if there was any Xmas Carol stories in the LGBT genre but when this one crossed my path, I was intrigued from the beginning. Not only was it a Dickens' style story but it involves his characters and I was very interested to see how the author would bring them to life. The reasons behind Peter's ghostly visitors may be a bit different than Scrooge's but never the less poignant. My heart broke for Peter at times, I found myself internally screaming wanting to make Peter see this way or that, to turn left instead of right, but the author had Peter's journey set and I was just along for the ride.
If you are simply expecting a gay retelling of the Charles Dickens classic than you will be disappointed, Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol is the character's own story, yes he knows his Uncle Scrooge's holiday adventure, yes he's visited by his own three spirits, yes he has to learn his lessons, to discover what is important in life but they are different lessons and that is what makes this story so good. A blending of classic and new.
I've only ever read one other Drew Marvin Frayne before(and it was just a few weeks ago and another Christmas short) and to be perfectly frank, I was skeptical about an author "tinkering around in Dickens' playground" but I needn't have been because the author makes this story unique, intriguing, heartbreaking, heartwarming, and one that should be read any time of year. Charles Dickins' A Christmas Carol is my absolute favorite Christmas story and one I read, watch, listen to every holiday season multiple times, now I may not read Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol every year but I will definitely re-visit it for years to come. As I said above, Drew Marvin Frayne's take is a blending of classic and new, not a re-telling in any way, shape, or form but if you need a label or tag then I suppose "sequel" probably best describes it. Whatever label you want to use, it is not to be missed.
RATING:
Summary:
His grumpy neighbor needs some holiday sunshine…
Gideon Holiday is the perfect neighbor. Need a cup of sugar? Spare folding chair? Extra batteries? He’s always ready to help. And he’s waited years for his hot, grumpy, silver fox neighbor, Paul, to need him. For anything. But this December, Gideon would be happy if he could just get the Scrooge-like Paul on board with the neighborhood holiday lights fundraiser.
Paul Frost has no intention of decking his halls or blazing any Yule logs. Even if his spunky bowtie-clad neighbor does look perfect for unwrapping, Paul would prefer to hide away until December is done. But when his beloved younger brother announces an unexpected visit, Paul needs all the trimmings for a festive homecoming—and fast.
Luckily, Gideon is there with a color-coded plan to save Christmas. Soon Paul’s hanging lights, trimming trees, and rolling out cookies. And steaming up his new flannel sheets with Gideon. How did that happen?
It’ll take some winter magic to preserve their happiness and keep these rival neighbors together longer than one holiday season.
The Geek Who Saved Christmas is a low-angst m/m holiday romance with a guaranteed happy ending. This grumpy/sunshine, neighbors-to-lovers, found family tale features two heroes in their forties figuring out that maybe their sexily-ever-after was right next door the whole time. It stands alone and is not connected to any of the author’s other universes. However, it does contain a heaping helping of the same emotions and steamy moments readers have come to expect!
Let Your Heart be Light by JR Lawrie
Summary:This holiday season, celebrate with a trio of festive gay romances by debut author J. R. Lawrie. This anthology features three stories sure to warm the heart and captivate the senses. Full of romance, humor, sweetness, and the perfect amount of heat, this collection is perfect for an evening by the fire.
FOR SERVICES RENDERED
Dr. David Christmas has heard every joke in the book when it comes to his name. Weary of the festive season and from his long shifts in the emergency room, David is also tired of his lonely single life. His only hope for Christmas is a glimpse of the shy but gorgeous neighbour who lives above him.
Christmas-loving Julian has nurtured a crush on the grumpy man downstairs for years now. Still hurting from his ex-boyfriend's cruelty, he hasn't yet dared to say hello. When an injury on Christmas Eve puts Julian directly into David's careful hands, a little healing might be on the way.
KIND OF A BIG DEAL
and
THE FARRINGDON CLUB
Up-and-coming comedian Zack Wynn splits his time between the stage and the London pizza restaurant where he works, until life hands him one hell of a Christmas present. Richard Garston is the handsome and clever older man of Zack's dreams, but what exactly is it that Richard does?
Soon, Zack learns the truth: Richard's classified role in the British government makes him a much bigger deal than he claimed.
Is Zack ready for the politics and power of Richard's world?
And is Richard's world ready for him?
Summary:
The probation officer caring for his dead brother’s baby. The wounded gentle giant with the biggest softest heart.
Rami: Sweet Fen Hawthorne is my favourite thing about working in the prison. His broad shoulders and sunny grin. His twinkly flirtation. And he likes me as much as I like him. More seems inevitable until life happens.
One day I’m there, then I’m not, and second chances don’t really happen when your car breaks down halfway up a snowy mountain, do they?
Besides, I don’t remember flirting with a bearded lumbersexual, only dreaming about one.
Fen: Do dreams come true?
Christmas Mountain is my home. But it’s the one place on earth I never imagined seeing Rami Stone again, and now I’m snowed in with him. Trapped, with only a roaring fire for company, and it’s a fantasy come true. The air is thick with more than snow and the eighteen months we’ve been apart fades away.
As the snow clears, though, so does the haze. Rami says he comes with baggage.
But so do I, and I’m here for the heavy lifting.
I’m here for forever.
A Christmas MM romance from Garrett Leigh. Expect: Long lost friends-to-lovers, heart-warming found family, and the swooniest second chance at love with a healthy dose of sweet hurt/comfort. Gorging on mince pies and cinnamon-spiced doughnuts is optional, but deeply encouraged.
Summary:
Now re-edited with added content!
Andreas Mitchell is single, stupid and bored, and should honestly have a good long think about the number of bad life choices he has made lately. Instead, he heads straight for the one guy he knows will become his biggest mistake yet.
Luca Germano makes no choices at all. Instead, he lives quietly in the background and prefers the safety of his own hand to risking his heart. And someone as pretty and fearless as Andreas Mitchell is the last person on earth he should let into his life.
Especially at Christmas.
If you’d told me I could thoroughly enjoy an insta-love romance featuring a relationship cemented over a few days, I’da called you bonkers. Color me humbled by this Christmas gift. ‘Ship of Fools’ by Sophia Soames is both charming and believable. She has created two men who could only have developed true intimacy in a rush. (Amazon review)
A wonderfully steamy story of two people who find exactly what they need. (Goodreads review.)
Ohhh Mmmyyyy PHOEBE! This was an absolute train wreck of over the top, this is so crazy it could totally happen in real life, gay Romance. I loved every whacked-out moment of it! (Goodreads review.)
This is a work of fantasy and fiction. This story contains descriptions of sexual roleplay and consensual violence, and elements of mild BDSM, which are not intended to be taken seriously, or imitate real life. Please read with caution if these themes might trigger or upset you.
Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol by Drew Marvin Frayne
Scrooge was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. He died some two years past on this very day, Christmas Eve. I would it were not so; yet I suspect the old man would not agree. He became rather infirm at the end, frail and forgetful, and though he did his best to remain cheerful, I know he hated to show weakness of any kind. It wasn’t a matter of pride, nor vanity; no, it wasn’t for his sake that he cared so. It was that, as he himself often said, he had become a sort of safeguard, a protector, to his family and to his community, and he hated the thought of us carrying on without him there, watching over us all. And we, of course, would clasp his hand and tell him that he would be looking over us in the next life, and that such thoughts brought us great comfort, and they should bring him great comfort too. And he would sigh, and agree with us, and settle in, at least for a while, until another great spasm wracked his breast, and his chest would heave with immense, raggedy gasps for air, and his worries arose all over again.
He died a good death, if it could be said that any death should be regarded as good. Though I have not spent nearly as many years as Scrooge did on this planet, I have knocked about a bit, and circumstance has shown me both great fortune and great tragedy. And as such, I have come to believe there is no good death to be had in this world. I have seen many poor wretches, past all hope of recovery from whatever it was that ailed them—whether it be an infliction of the body or the soul—beg for death, pray for it, and have watched it come in many guises, be it the cold, or the cough, or the cutthroat. I have seen their prayers answered, even if those answers came in some form of pain they had never envisioned. And yet I say, when the end did finally come, each and every one begged to stay, begged for their final breath to be forestalled, begged to live for even one moment more. Yea, though I have been on this world for less than a quarter of a century, I have come to know its horrors and have learned the greatest horror of all is that there is no world, no life, beyond this one.
Scrooge would not have agreed with this; oft he told us the tale of his visitation by his old friend, Jacob Marley, dead seven years in the grave before his return, and the further visitations by the three spirits who haunted him, also on a Christmas Eve. To Scrooge, there was no greater evidence of providence than this, and he lived such feelings in his heart for the rest of his life. I was glad of it; we all were, all of London town, though those of us who were closest to him felt his change of heart and his largesse most keenly. And many was the time, as a young man, on a Christmas Eve like this one, I sat cross-legged on the floor at Scrooge’s feet and listened to his tales of Christmas ghosts and astonishing spirits, of visitations to the past, and of the wondrous things that are yet to come.
Yet even then, I was a skeptic. After his tale was complete, Old Scrooge, as wise at reading faces as he was at managing his business, would frequently tousle my hair and tell me, “Young Master Peter, you must have the conviction of your faith. It is not enough to simply believe; you must know Christmas, and keep it in your heart all the year long.” Such words were enough for Tim and for the others; but I, I would only smile, and say, “Yes, Uncle Scrooge,” in a manner and tone that were always respectful, but that the cunning old man also knew to be mollifying. And Scrooge would then bend quite low—for he was a tall, wizened old fellow, and I have always been inclined to be undersized—and he would say to me, “You must not fear the world so much, Peter Cratchit.” And I would nod, and he would pat my cheek, or sometimes playfully pinch my nose. But what he meant by those words, I cannot say. In my experience, there is much to fear in this world, and much calamity the world will set upon the unwary soul who is not ever vigilant.
A growl in my stomach disturbed my thoughts. Time to dispense with these ruminations on the past; I was hungry. I willed my body out of its bed, a small recess in the side of a crumbling brick building used for the storage of livestock, a cramped pen to house the beasts before they were led to slaughter. The recess provided some shelter from the elements; there had been rain last night, so it was useful to keep dry, though the rain had been only a drizzle, and the weather was unseasonably temperate for so late in December. That was no small mercy.
The recess had once been a side door, now sealed up, when the building had been used for some other purpose, long forgotten to time. The smell of animal excrement that clung to the building—and to those who worked or, like me, dwelt within her—was formidable, but it also meant the alley I called my home remained deserted during the nightly hours. Safety in this life often comes at great cost. Those who have suffered at the world’s hands know this lesson all too well. The men who tended the animals had assembled a small cleaning station, clean water and a strong lye soap, behind the building, and they charitably did not begrudge my use of it from time to time, provided I did not tarry, and they did not see me. I hastened in my morning ablutions and made my way out to the street.
There was a bakery on Saint Martin’s Close; it was there I would seek to break my fast. Every morning, my repast was the same: two hot buttered rolls and a small tankard of ale. The only difference was whether the baker would tally the cost of his labors on my tongue or on my tail.
I made my way down Carol Street to the main Camden Road. I used to live on this very road, as a youth, but far down the other end from those places where I now worked and resided. Camden Town was named for Camden Road; the road was the heart of the ward, bisecting it in the north and making up the entirety of its western edge. It was impossible to be in Camden Town and avoid the Camden Road. And yet, in all of my wanderings through this neighborhood, I always avoided the familiar façade of my former house, with its chipped paint and ill-fitted front door. I was more interested in the thick, oaken door that led to the alley behind the bakery, where the business received deliveries of flour and other such supplies. I knocked. Some days, the baker answered promptly, as if expecting me; other days, like today, I had to wait. He was a busy man, having woke well before the dawn to assemble his breads and rolls and pastries and cakes. His bakery was a small one, but he did a good measure of custom, enough to keep him in flour and dough and sugar and coal for the ovens. Still, he had only one boy to help him prepare the daily wares—in this neighborhood, even relative prosperity resulted in genuine poverty.
Whether the boy was his son, or some urchin off the street, I do not know. The baker and I did not converse on such matters. It was, in part, because the man’s well of English was so deficient that any conversation would prove inconsequential at best. I could not identify his native tongue, and he spoke only the English of a tradesman and knew the terms for barter and exchange, and little more. My own English improved greatly under the tutelage of Ebenezer Scrooge, who gave me books to read and provided college-trained tutors to sharpen my intellect. I was beyond basic schooling by the time our families came together; but my mind was quick and hungered for knowledge, and Uncle Scrooge filled it with book after book on all manner of subjects—history, literature, economics, philosophy, mythology, the principles of business. I eagerly took it all in, save perhaps the poets, who I found too disordered, too insubstantial, to truly relish. Still, for an occasion such as this, the silver portion of my tongue was not really necessary. It was my tongue’s other talents that the baker was interested in. I suppose, in the end, this, like so much in life, was simply a matter of business. I needed what the baker had to offer; he felt the same. Talk would only prolong the necessities of exchange.
The man finally answered and hurried me inside. In nicer weather, he sometimes took his payment in the alley, but he did not like the cold and the damp, so he ushered me into a cramped cookery room stuffed with coal- and wood-burning ovens. I had no objection to being enveloped in warmth; it made for a pleasant change of atmosphere from my usual status at this time of year.
I could see by the sights and sounds of his distresses that my morning patron was more harried than usual. His eyes were darting around the room. His gestures were quick, and rough, and impatient. He was a large, hirsute man, with a rotund belly and a gray, prickly beard, which, at the moment, was dusted in a rather generous supply of flour.
I was no longer fond of beards; I generally preferred smooth-faced youths, like myself, and not the wooly chins of older men, though, in my line of work, older men were my main custom. And this was business, not pleasure, and the baker felt the same as I, especially today. Even as he penned me into his back kitchen, he continued to bellow orders to the boy out front. I often wondered what the boy thought of our exchanges. Perhaps it was of no consequence to him. Perhaps he was grateful he did not have to provide a similar service. Or perhaps he did. Who can say.
The Geek who Saved Christmas by Annabeth Albert
Chapter One
‘Tis that time of year again, neighbors! The annual holiday lights charity fundraiser is coming! It’s time to get serious about those decorations, folks! ~Cheryl Bridges posted to the What’s Up Neighbor app
Gideon
“See the blazing Yule before us,” I sang happily. I was running late, but that didn’t stop me from summoning some early seasonal spirit on my way into the tiny Evergreen Park community center at the heart of our historic neighborhood. I’d been looking forward to this meeting for weeks now, the moment when my grand plans would all be revealed. I did love a good plan, and I had the schematics to prove it.
Deck the halls, indeed. If I had my way, the whole neighborhood would be transformed into a perfect—
“Watch it.” A voice I knew a little too well had me looking up in the nick of time to avoid crashing into my next-door neighbor. My very hot, very grumpy, very not-into-community-meetings neighbor.
“Paul!” I faked some cheer in the hopes that maybe his grinchy heart had thawed this year, and he’d finally join us in decorating. “You here for the meeting?”
“Yep.” Typically monosyllabic, his stony face revealed nothing about his intentions.
“Does this mean you’re going to put up some lights this year?” I asked brightly. My voice had the same embarrassingly breathless quality it always took on around Paul Frost. Something about all those muscles and silver-fox looks combined to fluster me every darn interaction. We were both over forty, but he wore it so much hotter. “I’ll be going over guidelines and helpful hints.”
“I don’t need hints.” It really was a darn shame, the way the man totally lacked an appetite for fun and community togetherness. But maybe when one filled out a leather jacket like he did, a personality was strictly optional.
“Still, everyone is looking forward to hearing my plans.” Everyone other than him went without saying. And if he was there to object, he could save it. I’d worked too hard on my plans to turn back now. “I’d better get in there.”
“Sure.” Paul held the door for us both. “Nice tie.”
“Um. Thanks.” I had no idea what to make of the half-smile that teased the edges of his mouth as he indicted my bow tie, which featured cheerful and seasonally appropriate turkeys.
Mr. Leather Jacket had an endless wardrobe of plain black T-shirts and wasn’t the type to appreciate my fashionable whimsy, making me even more suspicious of his motives for coming to the meeting. However, before I could question him further, Cheryl, our longtime leader, frantically motioned me over to the coffee table. I headed toward her and most certainly did not sneak a look at the flex of Paul’s muscles as he found a seat near the back of the community center.
Liar. Okay, a tiny peek. It wasn’t my fault the man was riveting. Even frowning, he added something to the otherwise drab space. The multipurpose room consisted of a low stage at the front and folding chairs, which could be stowed for senior citizen fitness classes, kid art classes, and other community activities.
“See something you like?” Cheryl raised an eyebrow as I reached her. Oops. Maybe I hadn’t been as subtle as I thought.
“Your new sweater. Love the rose shade on you,” I said smoothly.
“Gideon.” Her pragmatic tone was just this side of scolding. “Paul Frost is a tree you can’t climb.”
“Not planning on trying,” I lied. I’d blaze his Yule in a heartbeat if I thought he was interested, but he was most decidedly not. Every neighborhood interaction tended to turn frosty in a hurry. Which was a shame because we were both single men of a certain age.
According to Cheryl, who had an unparalleled talent for getting details, he’d never been married and didn’t have kids. What he did have was a discreet rainbow on his truck and business logo. And over-forty, unattached homeowners who were possibly into guys didn’t come along all that often in our sleepy suburb. So, understandably, I’d initially been gleeful when he’d moved in, but four years of terse interactions said that short, geeky, snappy dressers didn’t float his particular boat.
Or maybe it was my relentless optimism. Maybe he was allergic to smiles and needed someone similarly dour to hang with, not that I’d seen him date. No hookups escaping late at night or early morning either. And yes, I was a nosy enough neighbor that I’d know.
“Well, he’s not the only new face tonight. This crowd is an excellent omen.” Cheryl patted me on the sleeve as I removed my stack of handouts from my leather messenger bag.
“The big turnout is great, but we may need more snacks.” I gestured at the table, which was already running short on cookies and coffee cups.
“I’m on it.” Smiling deviously, she retrieved an extra platter of turkey-shaped cookies from under the table. “Think Paul will actually decorate this year?”
“That would be a pleasant change.” This was my third year as holiday chair, and if I’d learned anything, it was that Paul Frost didn’t do seasonal celebrations and quite possibly went into hibernation each December. No parties. No appearance at Cheryl’s big New Year’s Eve celebration. No neighborly food offerings. And nary as much as a wreath or single strand of lights.
“I suppose we should get started.” After setting out the fresh platter of cookies, Cheryl clapped her hands with all the authority of a woman who’d raised four sons to adulthood. “Now, I’m sure you’re all here for Gideon’s decorating plans, but before we get to that, we have some housekeeping. The first snow is coming soon, and you’ll want to remember our shared sidewalk obligations.”
Cheryl had a number of such reminders before moving on to new business. “The Morrisons have raised the issue of the high schoolers. Again.”
This got a murmur from the crowd. Paul straightened up from his earlier lazy sprawl. Ah. Maybe he wasn’t here about my decorating after all. And undoubtedly, he sided with the only residents who were possibly bigger scrooges than him. The Morrisons lived to complain. This time it was about the increasing number of young people who were cutting through the park to reach the high school on the other side and trudging across the shared green space maintained by the neighborhood association. The lack of a formal path meant they left muddy footprints and trash in their wake.
“We need to fence off the area.” Mr. Morrison went right to his preferred solution for everything. “Close access. Post signs. Big signs.”
“Yes, that’s one idea.” Cheryl’s tone was way nicer than he deserved. “Proper signage is always a good first step.”
“This is a problem. We can’t keep letting them strut on through like they own the place.” Morrison’s rant got several nods from the crowd.
“Sure we can,” Paul spoke clearly from his spot, not bothering to stand or raise his hand, but he had the sort of voice that when he spoke, people tended to listen. Deep. Gravelly. Working-class Philly with a little hint of Jersey. His sort of blunt directness always impressed me, the way a tell-it-like-it-is person could cut through a lot of game playing and posturing.
And this was a stunning turn of events. My head whipped toward Morrison, eager to see how he’d respond. Paul taking the side of the high schoolers caused wide eyes all around the room and more than one swift intake of breath. High drama for a Tuesday night around here.
“Let them continue to cut through?” Morrison’s skin was getting all splotchy pink and a sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. “We can’t make it that easy on them.”
“They’re kids.” Paul shrugged, completely unmoved by Morrison’s bluster. “They’re trying to get to the school fast, often in bad weather. Let them cut through. But let’s make it even easier.”
“Easier? Why would we do that?”
“Now, Ernest, let’s hear Paul’s idea.” Cheryl made a sit-down motion with her hand that Morrison ignored.
“What you need is a path. A real path. Add a trash can at each end to handle the litter issue.”
“Paths cost money.” Cheryl spoke before Morrison or someone else could. The community center itself was held together with love and a lot of rusty screws, many years removed from its humble midcentury origins. The greater township never had enough spare budget for parks and rec for the neighborhoods.
“Yup. Any sort of landscaping is going to have costs. But so do fences.” Paul had a sharp look for Morrison. “And it would be a short path. Quick project. My guys can do it, on us. It’s a slow enough time of year for our crew that we can do it between other jobs. If we hurry, we can get it in before it gets too cold to pour concrete.”
Even Cheryl’s experienced eyes went wide at that. Grumpy Mr. Frost had a heart? For late-running high school students, no less? I’d known he was a contractor from his large truck emblazoned with his Frost Construction & Landscaping logo, but this was unexpected generosity from a guy who glared if my trash cans were a few inches out of line on our shared driveway.
“You’d donate a path?” Cheryl clarified.
“Yep. That’s what I said.” Paul rubbed his neck as if maybe public speaking wasn’t his favorite activity. “It’s work for my crew, keeps us busy. And it will look better than a fence, which the kids would likely jump anyway.”
This got a murmur of agreement from a large portion of the audience.
“Well, I suppose it’s worth bringing to the improvements committee for a vote. Maybe something can be scared up for materials expenses.” Cheryl gave a decisive nod. Her stamp of approval meant the project was likely a done deal. Apparently none too happy about this turn of events, Morrison went harumphing his way toward the exit, his long-suffering wife trailing after him.
“Wait!” Cheryl called after him. “Gideon Holiday was about to speak. Don’t you want to hear the neighborhood decorating plans?”
“Don’t need to.” Older with saggy jowls, his scowl was a lot less interesting than Paul’s. And they were the only neighbors as uninclined toward the holidays, what with their house’s lone spindly reindeer lawn ornament and same ancient wreath each year. Morrison was also one to loudly rant about others’ displays, complaining excessive lights and decor were eyesores. And he had endless things to say about the traffic it brought to the neighborhood.
Paul, on the other hand, wasn’t a complainer. Somehow his lack of participation didn’t feel as mean-spirited. More like he simply wasn’t interested, but this year, I had a plan for that. And after discovering that he had a bigger heart than I’d originally thought, I was even more optimistic that my efforts might be successful at long last.
Knowing he had something of a soft spot for younger people, I looked right at Paul when it was my turn to speak. The specifics of the lighting schedule could wait. Instead, I waxed poetic about the children’s programming here at the center we were collecting donations for from visitors who would come to see our displays. We’d also collect food and unwrapped new toys for needy families.
I was super passionate about obtaining more support for the community center’s efforts, but meeting Paul’s sharp hazel eyes as I delivered my appeal was a mistake. There was a reason I tried not to look too hard or too long at the guy. All that stubbly gray hotness had a tendency to make me fumble my words and tried my careful composure.
“The box will go in the toys.” I blinked at my bungling of the point. “Er. Toys. In the box.”
Get a grip, Gideon. I had to look away from Paul and fast. He already thought I was the nutty Holiday guy. I didn’t need him thinking locking gazes with him was enough to trip me up like a high schooler with a crush. Even if it was.
“The kids need our help, and by working together, we can ensure our display makes all the best of the area lists. More visitors equals more donations. The charitable giving committee says requests for help are way up this year, and they need all the assistance we can give them.” There. I finished strong, but Paul didn’t seem particularly moved, glancing down at his phone and shifting in his seat. Maybe he was simply too polite to follow Morrison out the door.
His disinterest didn’t faze me. I had a plan B, C, and D where Paul Frost was concerned, and I wasn’t giving up quite yet.
Let Your Heart be Light by JR Lawrie
Kind of a Big Deal
They first met at a preview evening at an art gallery.
For the rest of their lives, Zack would tell people they'd hooked up on Grindr. It was just less embarrassing that way. Of all the places to cross paths with the second half of his soul, a bloody art gallery a week before Christmas. He'd only gone along to show Ava some support. Within moments of arriving, he'd realised this was a far swankier set-up than he'd anticipated. The only people even close to his age were the catering staff, drifting through the crowd like swans in bow ties, bearing vast silver trays of mulled wine. Every corner of every room had gained a little gathering of posh people already, talking politics and money over vaguely festive canapés.
Wildly underdressed in skinny jeans, and painfully aware of the frowns he was getting, Zack spent the first two minutes telling Ava that he liked her sculpture. He liked the way she'd put barbed wire around the bottom of it. It was really artistic, he told her. Really good.
Ava hugged him, told him he was the single best brother in the world, then went off to schmooze with the other artsy types.
With nothing left to do, Zack set about getting discreetly drunk.
He figured he could probably sneak off after an hour. Enduring that hour would be the problem. He looked around the rest of the exhibition, wondering how the hell modern art could be so baffling and so boring at once, then took a quiet check of the time on his phone. Forty-seven minutes to go. Bollocks. He got another glass of mulled wine from a waiter, drank it while pretending to be moved by some black-and-white photographs of eggshells, ate four mini-quiches, and then snuck off to the loo to check Twitter. Last night's thread—Eighteen Things That Jerk Santa Never Brought Me—had gone down quite well. Not as well as him and his nieces dancing to Jingle Bells, but you couldn't strike gold twice in one week.
When Zack rejoined the party five minutes later, nothing whatsoever had changed. Ava was still busy trying to impress the right people; the art was still unfathomably weird. Zack wondered if they kept it gloomy in here on purpose, to make it all seem somehow more important—so the spot-lit pieces of nonsense on the walls looked like they might actually be worth the money. There weren't even any Christmas decorations up. The other guests were still serving him glances of quiet disapproval, as if he were spoiling their evening somehow.
Halfway through his third glass of wine, Zack lapsed into the last resort of time-wasting: a private mental game of who in this room would I do? conducted while lingering near an installation of what looked like cheap book-ends spattered with wax.
Pickings were slim. Hair-pieces were many. Most of the men in attendance looked like anything too vigorous might finish them off, and while Zack wasn't necessarily in the mood for vigorous, it was nice to know the option might be on the table. A couple of the guys talking to Ava weren't bad, he supposed—kinda straight-looking; not in a good way, just disappointingly. A mountain not worth climbing. One of the waiters was alright from the back.
Christ almighty, what am I even doing here?
Zack reached into his pocket for his phone, pleading with it to tell him he could go home now.
"Do you like her other work?" asked a voice nearby, low with interest, a little soft.
Zack glanced around in surprise.
His game came crashing to an end.
Holy shit, he thought, as his mouth dropped open. You. I'd do you. The man standing behind him ticked every box he had: older, taller, dark hair and cheekbones like a super-villain. He had a short, well-kept beard, a small smile as he surveyed Zack, and clever-looking eyes that the lighting picked out as perfectly halfway from grey to green. The tailored suit screamed money, while the watch said money to burn. The shoulders said hold on tight.
It took Zack a second to recall he'd been asked a question.
"Oh—you mean the..." He glanced at the wax-spattered sculpture, as Mr. Sex came to join him beside it. "Erm... not really an art person, if I'm honest. All a bit beyond me. I'm here for my sister, Ava. She did the, ah... thing with the barbed wire."
"Ava Wynn?" The man eyed Zack, taking a sip of mulled wine. The look alone tightened Zack's stomach up behind his ribs. "A very talented sculptor. I've been following her career for some time now."
Zack tried a grin. "She got the talent," he quipped. "I got the looks."
The man's eyes glittered.
"So I see," he said, then lifted his glass to his lips and drank.
Jesus. Zack had never scored an own goal in flirting before. It left him a little dizzy. "Are you... an art person, then?"
"I collect," the stranger said.
"Cripes. Expensive hobby."
"All the best are."
"You should try stand-up comedy nights, mate. The tickets are cheaper for a start."
The man's smile curved. "And what is it you do?" he asked.
Zack swallowed a mouthful of wine. "I'm a stand-up comedian."
"How fascinating," the man murmured. "And at which restaurant do you also work part-time?"
Christ, Zack thought. I would let you fuck me into oblivion. "Whether I supplement my income with the occasional shift at Pizza Palace is hardly any business of yours, good sir."
The man huffed, visibly enjoying Zack more and more by the second. His eyes had barely moved from Zack's face. It felt like being very slowly and very tenderly eaten alive.
"And which restaurant do you work at?" Zack asked, prompting a smile.
"I'm a civil servant," the stranger said. He offered out a hand. "Garston... Richard."
Zack's internal organs all seemed to have crowded up against his lungs. He swapped his wine glass to his other hand, told himself he could handle this, and reached out.
Their palms met.
"Zack," he said. "Zack Wynn."
Richard Garston's face warmed, a small lift of one corner of his mouth that told Zack his name meant something—that he would remember it, maybe. That he liked it.
"A pleasure," Richard murmured.
As he released Zack's hand, the break in contact felt like being wrenched from a wall socket. Zack blinked his thoughts away, trying to keep the weird sense of loss off his face.
"How precisely does one end up in stand-up comedy?" Richard asked. "It seems an unusual career path."
"I, ah... went to drama school for a while," Zack said. "Bit of musical theatre. Failed all the serious stuff. I have one of those faces, I think. And a chronic inability to shut the fuck up."
Richard's mouth quirked, passing no comment.
"Then I did sketches in a troupe for a bit. We went to Edinburgh a couple of years, but it's easier solo. Fewer arguments about the posters."
"I imagine so." Richard tilted his head. "A daughter who sculpts, a son in the dramatic arts... are you from a creative family?"
Zack wasn't sure whether to laugh or not.
"The dramatic arts might be a bit of a stretch," he said. "But... well, Mum's an art therapist. Dad's a music teacher. I wasn't set a lot of boundaries as a kid."
"To your advantage, I'm sure."
"Ha. Ask my teachers." Zack took a drink of wine, glancing at the bizarre installation next to them. "And my bank account."
Richard Garston smiled, still regarding him with that look of quiet pleasure.
"I've always found it interesting," he said. "The various ways that art will manifest itself, once it gets into the blood. It tends to make for fascinating people."
Zack swallowed as discreetly as he could. He spent most of his time trying to be fascinating; it was pretty much a professional requirement. He'd never been so unsettled to hear that he'd succeeded.
"Are your family artsy?" he asked, taking another drink.
Richard gave a faint snort. "Not in the least. I was steered away from it as a child. A waste of time, I was told. A sign of low moral character."
"Yikes," Zack said. "So now you're—"
"I consider myself something of a patron. I believe it's important."
"S'nice of you."
"I'll confess I'm a little cynical of some contemporary art," Richard said, eyeing the installation. "Then, today's art by its nature tends to be cynical. Like all things, diamonds are to be found among the rough."
Zack tried a smile, hoping it came across as cheeky instead of nervous. "You collected any comedians yet?"
Richard glanced at him, amused, and returned his glass to his mouth.
"Easy to keep," Zack continued. "Little wheel to run around in, burn off some of the energy. Mostly active at dusk."
"Are all of you blue-haired?" Richard inquired, surveying Zack's rumpled abundance of hair. "Or do you come in other varieties?"
"It's only been blue for a week," Zack said. He finished his wine with a swig. "Pink before that. I'm thinking of trying a rainbow for next Pride."
"How festive."
"Well, life's for living."
"Indeed it is," Richard said, beckoning absently to a passing waitress and taking a fresh glass of wine from her tray. He handed it to Zack. "Well, it seems I've been remiss, neglecting comedy as an art form. Perhaps I should start up a collection."
Argh. Zack's pulse skittered.
"We fight when kept in groups," he advised. He looked up over his wine glass, risking the eye contact. "Just get one really good one. That should do."
Richard watched him drink, his gaze deep and oddly bright.
"I shall," he said. "Thank you for your expertise."
Christmas Mountain by Garrett Leigh
1
Rami
Then
I preferred the old name for HMP Manchester. Most days it suited my mood.
But today was different. Life as a probation officer was a thankless one, but sometimes it panned out.
A healthy dose of spring sunshine made the scene playing out before me all the sweeter. Golden rays streamed through the tiny window I found myself glued to as I watched one of my favourite offenders leave the prison, a half empty duffle bag on his back and forty-six pounds stuffed in his pocket. His head was down, shoulders slumped, and I didn’t have to see his face to picture the bewilderment in his gaze as he tasted freedom for the first time in years, but I had faith that it wouldn’t be too long before he found his place in the world.
A large hand clapped my shoulder. I turned in time to see the hulking frame of Fen Hawthorne crowding into my quiet corner, a grin stretching his full lips. “Feels good, eh?”
I nodded with a smile that was a fraction of the one splitting his handsome face in half. “This is just the start, though. He has a long way to go.”
Fen grunted his agreement, and he may have said more words, but despite my dedication to my job and the offender crossing the street to freedom before my grateful and relieved eyes, Fen’s close proximity made me feel some type of way. Warm. Overheated, if I was being honest. And giddy, as if my thrumming pulse belonged to him and him alone. Strangeways, you see—the old name for the prison—because given that the only interactions we’d ever shared had been within Her Majesty’s walls, Fen Hawthorne did strange things to me.
God, he’s gorgeous.
And he knew it too. Or perhaps he was psychic and sensed the dizzy turmoil inside me every time we saw each other. Fuck, I didn’t even know if he swung in my direction, let alone had any kind of attraction to me. All I knew for certain was that each time I saw him I drove home with a boner I couldn’t shift until I’d rubbed one out imagining what lay beneath his uniform.
Charming.
Hey, I’d never claimed to be.
The offender I was tracking disappeared from view. A breath escaped me in a weary sigh. It was early in the day, but this release had been a long time coming. I’d fought for it, tooth and nail, and so had Fen.
He sighed too and turned to me with an expression that matched the cautious and yet apprehensive hope in my heart. “I want him to be okay,” he said.
“So do I, but we can’t do this for him. All we can do is give him the support system to fall back on if he needs it.”
“You can,” Fen corrected. “With any luck, I’ll never see him again.”
I felt bad for him then. The offender in question, though quiet, was a character, and I’d hopefully have the privilege of witnessing him come full circle. Fen didn’t get that. All he got was an endless goodbye. “I’ll keep you updated. I’m seeing him in a couple of days.”
Fen nodded. “I’d like that. What are your plans for today?”
“Paperwork, paperwork, and more paperwork.”
“Busy day, then?”
“Busy morning. I have to be somewhere else by one.”
“Wow. And I thought my job sucked donkey balls.”
I laughed, swallowing down a sucking innuendo at the last moment. Conversations with Fen were like that. He seemed to tap into a part of me no one else did and awaken the teenage boy I hadn’t been for well over a decade. “I could do without the drive. My car is a piece of shit.”
“Get a new one then.”
I shrugged. “I don’t care enough to spend the money.”
“You’ll regret that when it breaks down when you need it most.”
“Not if the RAC tows me all the way home and I get a day on the couch.”
“You’d get the bus.” Fen’s cobalt gaze drilled into me. “You’re way too committed to this gig to bunk off.”
I sighed, because it was true. It had to be for the crappy salary I was banking at the end of each month. It’s not the salary that’s the problem, it’s the child support you’re paying for someone else’s mistake. But…no. I wasn’t going to think about that right now. I couldn’t while Fen was a heartbeat away from invading my personal space. Christ, I could smell him. Sandalwood. Trees. Man. It was intoxicating and I wanted to rub my face in it—on him—like a wild animal scenting its mate.
Damn, what’s wrong with you?
There were too many answers to that question, most of which began and ended with my reprobate brother, but it was a stretch to blame Damon for my overactive imagination. No, that was all me. “You’re right,” I admitted. “I’d find some way to be here.”
Fen grinned again, but it was softer this time and did nothing to tame the lick of arousal warming my blood. “See? Committed.”
“And you’re not? Pretty sure you’ve been here all night and your shift ended two hours ago.”
“Keeping tabs on me, Stone?”
Yes. “No. Just hard to miss the fact that you haven’t slept any time in recent memory.” Of course it was hard to miss when a person was as transfixed by Fen’s face as I was. The shadows beneath his eyes seemed to jump out at me, and I found myself wanting to smooth them away with the pad of my thumb.
Among other things. Lord, I was on fire today. A wild blaze I didn’t have time for, if I was going to leave the prison on time. With immeasurable reluctance, I stepped back from the cage Fen had somehow made around me. “Anyway, I need to get grinding. Enjoy your day, Hawthorne. Get some sleep, yeah?”
I began to move away, expecting to face Fen’s blinding grin one more time and spend the rest of the day dreaming of it.
His hand on my arm caught me off guard. His strong hand, clamped like a vice around my wrist. “Listen—”
Noise from the nearest wing cut him off. Loud noise, shouting, hollering, crashing, and the radio attached to his belt crackled to life, calls for assistance piercing the air as the alarms in the prison began to ring out.
“Damn it,” Fen cursed, still holding my wrist. “Can’t a dude ask a dude out without getting interrupted by a riot?”
I blinked, half hypnotised by the sensation of him touching me, half blindsided by his sudden contribution to the wicked fantasies I’d incubated since we’d met in this utilitarian hell hole last year. “What?”
“You heard me.” Fen tipped me a wink, then turned his attention to whatever was going on somewhere behind him. He released my arm and walked backwards, talking into his radio, before he found my gaze again. “Hold that thought?”
“For how long?”
“All day by the sounds of the ruckus back there. If I don’t catch you later, when are you back here again?”
“Wednesday. Pope was my last release, so I’ll be picking up some new cases.”
“They’re lucky to have you.” Fen winked again. “Like me, maybe…find me on Wednesday? Unless you don’t want to go out with me, in which case I’ll accept a flustered middle finger right now.”
Flustered didn’t even come close, and I only had a split second to react, but there was no way in hell I was ever hitting the reject button for Fen Hawthorne. “I’ll find you.”
“Wednesday?”
“Wednesday.”
Then he was gone, leaving me alone with the abrupt and welcome turn our encounter had taken. For a moment, I stared at the locked gate he’d disappeared through, heart thudding like an overexcited metronome. Then an appointment on my iPad dinged and real life called me home.
Wednesday. It was five days away, and it couldn’t come soon enough.
I held onto that thought as the rest of my day played out, and all weekend long, but by the time Monday morning rolled around I knew I wasn’t going to make it back to HMP Manchester on Wednesday.
In fact, it was six hellish months before I made it back, and by then everything had changed. My brother was dead and I had part-time custody of his baby son. And Fen?
He was long gone too.
Ship of Fools by Sophia Soames
I barely finish that thought, before my office door opens. He doesn’t even knock, Luca Germano, before entering and walking up to me with determination in his steps.
“We are ready to deliver. I was just wondering if you would like to come down and look her over before I go home.” He grunts.
He’s wearing skinny jeans today, and a torn knitted hoodie. A speck of oil still lingering on his hand, and a polishing rag stuck in his back pocket.
“I trust you.” I say, taking the glasses off my nose, and placing them on the table in front of me. “The crew downstairs speak very highly of you. Thank you for helping us deliver on this one. I’m sure the car will be much appreciated by its new owner.”
I’m talking a load of shite, in a voice that belongs to someone like Mr Lambert. I do that, sometimes, when I speak with older clients. Try to make myself more mature, more sophisticated, and less of the twinkly brat I really am.
“Ahm…” He grunts, again. He’s a man of few words, Luca Germano. He still scares me, because he’s unpredictable. I can’t read him, not really. Sometimes he comes across as happy and carefree, at other times he seems almost terrified of me.
“Let me guess…” I tease. “Tonight you are working out, then you are going to go and have a nice glass of water at Club Eden. Am I right?”
“What?” he huffs.
“Yeah? That’s what you do, most weekends.” I giggle. I’ve immediately lost the stupid fake maturity. It doesn’t take much. Told you, I’m an idiot, and clearly a fool, because now Luca Germano is blushing and squirming, and looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Why would you say that?” He huffs out, suddenly back to being annoyed with me. Then he looks scared, breathing too heavily, running his greased hand through his cropped hair. He’s had it cut again. I bet it’s soft against his fingers.
I’m clearly losing my touch here, and I need a break. Luca Germano turned me down for a simple reason. He’s probably gay, because most people frequenting Club Eden, are… gay. Since it’s a gay club. Yet, I’m feeling less confident by the second here, sat behind my desk being... frankly, both rude and stupid with one of our freelance tech crew. Because I know what I am doing, I’m flirting, and why the hell I am flirting with him, of all people? I don’t understand myself anymore. Well, I do. He’s handsome, in a rugged way. A little bit scary, because the man clearly works out and is both tall, fit and muscular. The kind of man with big hands that would toss me around a bed with ease and completely dominate in the bedroom. He’s also staring at me like I have two heads.
Note to self, also the kind of man I should avoid, because I usually end up in a state like last weekend. Do I take any notice? No. Here I go again.
“You usually spend the evening stalking me around the club, and staring at me.” It’s a little bit of a lie, but I’m smiling and batting my eyelashes. I’m giving the guy a chance here. I wouldn’t mind a hookup with him. I would even let him do me, like a little good pick-me-up.
“Look, mate.” He says again, with surprising strength, as he walks up to my desk and leans his knuckles on the top. Leaning over me and staring at me with an intensity that scares me. I actually shuffle my chair an inch backwards, because... Yeah. Intense.
“Don’t mess around with me, I’m not into all that.” He’s serious too, enough for me to feel intimidated.
“Mate, it’s an invitation to fuck, not a bloody job interview.” I nip back, trying to blow my chest up like a bloody baboon. I’m not impressive, I realise that, as he smirks at me.
“Just leave it. Not interested.” He huffs. I just laugh, because as he stands back, he turns around far too quickly for a man not interested. He’s also sporting a semi in his jeans, unless he’s hung like a horse. He’s probably hung, but that bulge...?
“Look, Luke.” I try, but he cuts me off.
“Luca. Not Luke.”
“Luca, my bad.” I try a smile, but he doesn’t take the bait. Just stares, like he does. Maybe it’s just his thing, and perhaps I have read all this wrong from the start.
“I go to Eden for a drink at the weekend, because my best mate from school mans the bar. That’s why I go there. I hang out and shoot the shit with a guy who I have known since I was three. Is that clear?” He’s pissed off, and now he’s frightening me. Just a little. In a good way.
“Crystal.” I nip back.
“I’m not interested in being one of your fuckbuddies, okay? So leave it. I’m very happy to work for you, and you have a great team downstairs, so if you have a project you need me for? Ring me. If not? Then I hope you have a great Christmas... and all that.”
He’s lost his steam at the end, clearly not holding a planned-out speech. He would never make a salesman, because now he is twirling around in a circle again, almost tripping over his own feet as he walks out of my office, leaving the door wide open behind him.
I don’t go down and check out the car. I probably should, before the handover to the new owner this afternoon. I should probably be there to sign it off. Instead I lean back in my chair and let my eyes close. Just for a second to calm myself down.
What on earth am I doing? That? That display of complete and sheer unprofessionalism was ... staggeringly stupid. I could lose my job. It could be seen as harassment, on a grand scale. I need to stop, whatever it is I think I am doing.
In any case, I need to go home, grow up and grow a bloody brain, because the one I have at the moment? It’s fried.
Drew Marvin Frayne is the pen name of a long-time author (Lambda Literary Award finalist) who is finally taking the opportunity to indulge his more sentimental and romantic side. When not writing the author lives with his husband of 20+ years and their dog of 10+ years in a brick home in the Northeast.
Annabeth Albert grew up sneaking romance novels under the bed covers. Now, she devours all subgenres of romance out in the open--no flashlights required! When she's not adding to her keeper shelf, she's a multi-published Pacific Northwest romance writer.
Emotionally complex, sexy, and funny stories are her favorites both to read and to write. Annabeth loves finding happy endings for a variety of pairings and is a passionate gay rights supporter. In between searching out dark heroes to redeem, she works a rewarding day job and wrangles two children.
Emotionally complex, sexy, and funny stories are her favorites both to read and to write. Annabeth loves finding happy endings for a variety of pairings and is a passionate gay rights supporter. In between searching out dark heroes to redeem, she works a rewarding day job and wrangles two children.
J. R. Lawrie graduated from the University of Leeds in 2011 and now lives in York, UK, writing LGBTQ fiction.
LET YOUR HEART BE LIGHT, J.R.'s debut anthology, was published by Carnation Books in 2019, followed by THE SHELTERING TREE in April 2021.
For more updates, you can follow J.R. on Twitter.
Garrett Leigh is an award-winning British writer and book designer.
Garrett's debut novel, Slide, won Best Bisexual Debut at the 2014 Rainbow Book Awards, and her polyamorous novel, Misfits was a finalist in the 2016 LAMBDA awards.
When not writing, Garrett can generally be found procrastinating on Twitter, cooking up a storm, or sitting on her behind doing as little as possible, all the while shouting at her menagerie of children and animals and attempting to tame her unruly and wonderful FOX.
Garrett is also an award winning cover artist, taking the silver medal at the Benjamin Franklin Book Awards in 2016. She designs for various publishing houses and independent authors at Black Jazz Design, and co-owns the specialist stock site Moonstock Photography with renowned LGBTQA+ photographer Dan Burgess.
Sophia Soames is a UK based M/M romance writer, originally from Scandinavia. She writes quirky stories of imperfect love, always with real people, real families and real fairy tales.
Drew Marvin Frayne
EMAIL: drewmarvinfrayne@gmail.com
Annabeth Albert
KOBO / GOOGLE PLAY / AUDIBLE
EMAIL: Annabeth@annabethalbert.com
JR Lawrie
Garrett Leigh
Sophia Soames
Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol by Drew Marvin Frayne
The Geek who Saved Christmas by Annabeth Albert
Let Your Heart be Light by JR Lawrie
Christmas Mountain by Garrett Leigh
Ship of Fools by Sophia Soames
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