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[Skip to Chapter 2 Sample here] You know what I'm really good at? Procrastinating. I already talked about this pretty extensively, but I have this thing that I do where I work with something with a lot of passion, then I psych myself out and don't write for weeks. Only to rinse and repeat. Been doing this for 10 years and still going strong, BUT I promise that new stuff is coming soon. Some big things have been happening in my life as well. I finally submitted my Master's essay for review, so I'm waiting to get word back on that. That took so much of my life force to finally finish the fucking thing. I also had to return to work because my leave was over. Time flies when you're having an existential crisis! That being said, it's good to get paid again, because I need that money. Inflation has been a bitch. As a treat, I made up a "book" cover for Get Fanged! I think it turned out pretty well. Graphic design is not my passion, but I had fun putting it together. I took a lot of inspiration from some punk zines and Dracula covers. I was going for a lot of wear and tear, like a well-loved copy of a paperback. I plan on putting this up around the site. Just not sure in what way yet, but I'll figure it out. Get Fanged is going to be split up into much smaller chapters from here on out. Partly because I want to add a bit more to the story and I think having 15-page chapters isn't really sustainable. So, stay tuned for Chapter 2 when Amber and Consuela return for more stupid gay shenanigans! I'm having a lot of fun writing out their interactions. To prove that the work exists, here's a sample of the second chapter. Enjoy! The tablet is hostile in its emptiness, like the yawning chasm of purgatory. The stark neutrality burns itself into her eyes and makes it hard to see when she raises her head again to see a blurry, spotty figure on the bed. Amber jumps, yelps, her skin prickling with goosebumps and the scar on her arm burning. Somehow, Consuela snuck into the RV without Amber knowing. Or, worse yet, she was here the whole time. This is something Amber doubts, but the thought is a fleeting horror. A reminder that she’s in close quarters with a predator. “Hey,” she says and dares to waggle her eyebrows, “how’d you like the show, eh? Was good, right?” Consuela languishes with an almost regal disposition. Fitting, considering her performance earlier in the night. Instead of the yellow button-up shirt and skinny jeans, Consuela is draped in a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt with shorn-off sleeves and chequered slacks. Her messy blue hair casts a shadow over her dull grey eyes. She looks so painfully casual. It clashes with the potent personification of rage Amber saw the night before, like it was a fleeting dream instead of a reality. Amber returns her gaze to the tablet in front of her. “It was…” Ineffable. Charming. Effervescent. Beautiful. “…really good.” Amber swallowed with difficulty and barely registered when she began to rub at her right forearm. “Anyway, how are you feeling? About finishing your first show.” Amber pulls out her audio recorder from her messenger bag and brandishes it for Consuela to see. “On the record? It’s up to you.” Consuela raises her eyebrows an inch, her smile easy and almost warm. “Yeah,” she says, “I give you my consent.” Amber switches on the recorder and sets it down on the floor. Amber Hurley: So, Consuela, we just finished your first concert tour show in almost forty years. Congratulations! How are you feeling? Consuela Manuel: Feeling alive! No pun intended. AH: Did you notice any differences between this performance and your last one from 1985? CM: You mean besides the fact they don’t offer coke in the backrooms anymore? Not that I can think of. AH: Is that a…a joke or…? CM: I don’t joke. AH: Right…so, you said that the song “Razors” is for those who still fight their memories. What did you mean by that? CM: Man, sometimes I just be saying shit, you know? To sound deep or whatever. It didn’t mean anything. AH: At all? CM: Not really. AH: Can you tell me what “Razors” means? CM: I like sharp things. Amber barely holds back from rubbing her face in exasperation. Consuela is utterly immovable in her persona as a stoic. No cracks or vulnerabilities allowed. It reminds Amber a bit of herself which is all the more infuriating. ⬜

In Get Fanged, journalist Amber Hurley is accompanying the infamous vampire punk artist Consuela Manuel as she travels across the country playing gigs at seedy nightclubs of ill repute. Naturally, there's a recurring theme of punk music and what it means to a lesbian of colour who doesn't exactly fit in anywhere (and also eats fascists). Since punk is queer by definition, I decided to make a playlist showcasing marginalized punk artists. Obviously not required to enjoy the story. I just think a story about a vampy punk artist demands a playlist like this. Also, it’s Pride Month it was Pride Month, so why the hell not? THE MUSLIMS - Live, Laugh, Lead (Source: Spin) If you love fun, old school punk, then you'll love The Muslims. This queer black and brown punk band from North Carolina have this energy that I can describe as defiantly fun. They're the types of folks who'll hang at the skatepark with friends but aren't afraid to roar truth to power, especially in their latest album Fuck These Fuckin Fascists. It was seriously hard to pick a song from this album because, shit, they're all so good and got so much to say. I ended up going with Live, Laugh, Lead because it rages against complacence and tone policing. It reminds you that you shouldn't have to--and in fact can't--be nice when human rights are threatened. In the wake of a widespread attack against transgender folks, this song is powerful. They still seem to be active, so have a listen to their music on Bandcamp! Show them some support by buying their music, if you've got the money to spare! SLUDGE BUNNY - Parasite (Source: Reddit: r/trans) I found this band by (half) accident. As I was looking for trans punk bands that I could put on this list and I found this Reddit post where one of the band members announcing their performance at Pride. They seem to be quite new, but their sound is good and they're an all trans-femme punk group. See that drip? These punks know how to dress. Doesn't have much to do with their music but I had to point that out. Consider giving their music a listen on Spotify and checking out their Linktree to find other ways of supporting them! FUCK U PAY US - Burn Ye Old Patriarchy Burn (Source: Dazed Digital) One thing that comes to mind when I listen to Fuck U Pay Us's "Burn Ye Old White Patriarchy Burn" is ancestral rage. The sound is raw, unbridled, unfiltered, woeful rage, screaming from the depths of collective trauma and suffering. It's infused with Black anger, unapologetic in its simmering resentment and bitterness. The slow drone of the guitar and the hypnotic chants to burn the white patriarchy are enough to inspire the most tentative among us to demand reparations too. Fuck U Pay Us (or FUPU, shoutout to FUBU) is a Black queer femme punk group and their sound is fucking astronomical. They're taking the resistant power of punk back from white patriarchy, even if they have to pry it from its cold, dead fingers. From what I understand, they're still kicking, so consider supporting them on Bandcamp. They're also trying to fund their first album release on GoFundMe so, if you've got the money, consider paying them. G.L.O.S.S. - Fight (Trans Day of Revenge) (Source: Bandcamp) This band's EPs go hard as fuck. But, if I had to choose one song that would fit Consuela, it would be "Fight". This song is only a minute long, but it burns itself into your brain like road rash. It's white-hot, a scorching reprimand of fascist skinheads in the punk scene. Punk has been a refuge for the downtrodden of society, but it's also been a breeding ground for shitty white supremacists. Punk groups have been fighting this encroachment for decades: G.L.O.S.S. followed the great bands before them to resist the neo-Nazi hoard. Which is why they more than earned their place on this playlist. What's really disappointing is that, like a flash in the pan, G.L.O.S.S. disbanded in 2016 after a little over a year. They dropped two trans-positive and anti-capitalist EPs before they went out though, so have a listen on their Bandcamp page.

On July 2, 2023, I watched the gayest finale of an anime in several years. After weeks of watching mecha fights in a perpetual state of confusion, of fervently praying that no more gays die after the prologue of this show, two days ago I watched the finale of Gundam: the Witch from Mercury and became so embarrassingly emotional that I still smile spontaneously when I think about it. (If this looks familiar, you are not imagining things, trust me. This is purposeful) Gundam: The Witch from Mercury is a show of loss, triumph, trauma, and love. In a world where fear rules and controls, where late-stage capitalism reaches its final oligarchal form, the rebellion manifests as radical, queer love. Found families and literal gay marriage abound in a show about samurai robots fighting each other with mech swords. Yeah, it's gonna be one of those posts. For the sake of transparency, I am the last person you should get any information on about the Gundam series. I did not follow the series before this show aired and I probably never will. The last mecha show I watched was Evangelion when someone tricked me into watching it, so that should tell you more than enough about what I know about this genre of anime. Spoilers for WfM ahead. The anime I watch is far more specific. I tend to watch yuri anime. For those uninitiated, yuri (also known as "shoujo-ai" and, more recently, Girls' Love) is a Japanese manga and anime genre where two girls are romantically involved at some point in the story. I say "girls" because this genre of anime does not usually acknowledge women over the age of 20. The term "yuri" has always been contentious, primarily because, just as there is "queerbait" there is "yuribait": shows that perform romantic chemistry between two female characters only to either A) have them remain subtext (arguably, the best case scenario), B) pair one or both of them off with male characters, or C) straight-up kill them. Now, despite the main characters, Suletta and Miorine, literally getting engaged to each other RGU-style, these three scenarios were still a dire threat at the beginning. Suletta and Miorine got engaged due to political purposes. Miorine is being pursued by at least two extremely attractive male suitors. Suletta has a thing for a character whose name very unfortunately rhymes with Elon. However, as the show continued to air, scenario B began to look less and less likely. Miorine never once shows interest in the men pursuing her. Suletta’s tentative boyfriend is…replaced (it’s a whole thing, okay, just watch the show for context). The one male suitor who was engaged to Miorine prior moves on to Suletta who also ends up rejecting him. Twice. Suletta constantly fights to keep Miorine as her fiancee and openly dreams of wearing beautiful dresses with her on their wedding day in season 2. It’s made pretty clear that Suletta and Miorine's relationship moves beyond political or platonic boundaries. Some might say that they are just “Gal Pals” at this point and, sadly, they have the potential to be right here. Remember when Lena Luthor from Supergirl had her whole villain origin story of literally taking over the world stem from her best friend lying to her? Or when Emma and Regina shared and fought over their son as most platonic besties do? The “Gal Palification” (yeah, I’m academizing this term now) of what are otherwise straight signifiers of romance is not uncommon in media, especially if there is a rabid queer fanbase to give execs an excuse to string along their fans. Press F to pay respects to our slain Luthor Corp and Swan Queen brethren in the chat. What I’m getting at is that all these clear indications of romance between Miorine and Suletta can be (and have been) misinterpreted as them having a “strong female friendship”. And, again, this is a show where the C scenario is still a very possible outcome. I didn’t dwell on this too much, but the series of Gundam can get dark as fuck. If it wasn’t clear when I talked about Ketchup-gate, this show can depict gratuitous violence and death. War crimes and child death are not uncommon in Gundam shows. Miorine and Suletta could very well die before we got to see their wedding. And here’s the kicker: they don’t die. In fact, a good chunk of the cast lives. Not even the main antagonists, Suletta’s mom and her already dead “sister” (again, it’s a long story), get to live! It is one of the most radically-kind endings I’ve seen in a show that started so dark. From genocide to “everybody lives”. Was the ending clumsy and rushed? Yes, absolutely. Was the ending also revolutionary? Absolutely. Because not only does everyone get to live, but Miorine and Suletta become cottagecore lesbians. MARRIED cottagecore lesbians. When I say I was screaming and crying. Like, you just don’t get it, you don’t understand. This is so fucking huge. This is the gayest ending to an anime I have seen in a very long while. Before I piss off one of the three people reading this, I would like to point out that this is all a matter of opinion. Yes, I have seen anime where the two girls declare their love for each other and kiss. I have seen two girls on top of a car burst out of a patriarchal misogynist while naked and make out as they ride into the sunset. How, you may ask, can a show get any gayer than any of those things? Two words: domestic bliss. I’m one of the least romantic motherfuckers you’ll ever find. I don’t believe in the institution of marriage and I would rather eat nails than live in the countryside where there are bugs that could drain me of all my lifeblood overnight. Why do these two married girls living in the cottage matter so much to me? Why do I get choked up thinking about their stupid faces when they cuddle next to each other on the gentle slope of a rolling hill, their wedding bands gleaming in the waning light of the afternoon sun? Because it holds weight. It holds meaning. Suletta and Miorine went through so much shit together. They suffered and gained and lost and gained back. When Suletta almost dies saving her friends and you see panic shatter Miorine’s face when she sees her fiancée’s sacrifice, you know that these two have fought tooth and nail for this ending of living in the countryside with the in-laws. They fought hard to get married, to live together, to love each other freely. Two more important things to consider is that, firstly, Gundam is a 40-year-old series where all the shows up until this point depicted a heterosexual romance. Let it sink in that a series this old and with so much cultural capital showed an apologetically queer ending for their queer female protagonists. Already, that is huge enough. Another important factor is that Japan has not even legalized gay marriage yet. While Japan literally has whole genres like “yuri” and “yaoi” (that being Boys’ Love), their government has yet to allow two consenting adults of the same gender mato rry each other. Imagine how huge it is that a Japanese show, the latest installment in one of the oldest-running series in the country, literally said on primetime “Legalize it”. Did Suletta and Miorine make out at the end of the show? No. But it’s one thing to show two girls kissing and dating and it’s quite another to see two girls commit themselves to each other so fully that they get married and live in the countryside while their found family regularly comes to visit. Not only were these queer girls (women, by the end of the show) able to survive, but they were able to thrive in domestic bliss. That means something. ...I still wish I got to see the wedding though :”(

Amber Hurley taps at her tablet in time with the click of her heel. Sitting by the window seat in the Morning Cafe along the stretch of Queen Elizabeth Highway between Red Deer and Edmonton, she marvels at the possibility of being in a cafe at midnight. It seems incredibly surreal and so frivolously unnecessary, like having a breakfast order at a bar or burgers in the morning. Before yesterday, she would not have known of any cafe that stayed open until four in the morning, but she has learned a great number of novelties since her freelance contract started with Feral Magazine. Naturally, because it’s in the middle of nowhere and it’s a cafe in the middle of the night, the establishment is notably empty. A soothing speakeasy jazz tune settles into the crevices of the coffee house, cymbals tinging in rhythm with the curling notes of a trumpet. To accompany this white noise is the tinkling of cups as the barista prepares the drink Amber asked for. She stupidly ordered coffee. The whole damn menu is coffee though. There is nary a sandwich there that doesn’t look like it makes for better display than actual food and getting water at a cafe seems nigh insulting. It was her idea to get coffee. She just did not expect to meet at an actual cafe at this time of night. The doors jingle to herald the arrival of a customer, but when Amber perks up, she only sees a tentatively curious family wander in. Two parents and two children, the littlest of which is a snivelling toddler. Outside is their parked SUV, a dark russet colour probably meant to hide any rust when age catches up with it. Amber drums out a beat against her table with the stirring sticks she took from the counter, just to pass the time. Thirty past midnight. The meeting was set for midnight, wasn’t it? Amber is hardly surprised to be kept waiting like this, but she can’t help the aggressive tempo of her drumming. Tick-tick-tick, tick-tick-tick, tick, go the sticks, then a light ting when she snaps one against the lip of her water bottle. She would much rather be in bed. Waking up at four in the afternoon had completely lost its novelty, leaving her haggard and confused and cotton-mouthed. She is wide awake while others quietly retreat to bed. She is asleep while others are working normal day jobs, the very ones she sneered at when she left college to become a journalist on her terms. Now, she’s at a cafe in the middle of the night, waiting on a client and drumming a song from a lifetime ago. This is not exactly the future she envisioned for herself when she was eighteen, desperate, and hungry for a new life. Somehow, by some cursed luck, the toddler gets away from his parents and waddles up to Amber’s table. Then he just stands there, staring wide-eyed at her like a puppy begging for food at the table. The barista has to walk around him to place the cup of latte by Amber’s right hand. “Looks like you’ve got a friend,” says the barista and offers a playful grin. Amber flashes a small, long-suffering smile, one that immediately drops when the barista turns to head back to the counter. The toddler lingers, a silent spectre. When Amber looks up at the family, they are preoccupied with the menu, as if they have never ordered a coffee in their lives and don’t know the difference between a Tall and a Grande coffee at Starbucks. Amber clicks her tongue and waves her hand at the toddler. Shoo, go away. The child looks at her hand, then back to her, uncomprehending. He must be at most four. Amber has never had children, but her sister has. Toddlers of this age are nightmarish squealing little goblins with no bladder control. Amber dislikes them, but they seem drawn to her. The windows thrum as a loud rusty RV bumbles through the parking lot. Next door to this cafe is a pizza place and Amber wonders why the client insisted on this weird cafe rather than the place most packed with people. She thinks about it for a second longer and realizes that that is a stupid question. The parents eventually realize their kid is missing and call him over to the counter where they sit to “enjoy” a tuna sandwich. Looks like absolute shit and Amber can smell its rank odour from where she’s sitting. The family doesn’t seem to mind very much except for their picky older daughter who takes one bite, grimaces, and does not eat again. She loudly whines for pizza. The parents attend to her while she whines and the toddler returns to watch Amber gingerly sip at her coffee. “Go back over there,” says Amber, as quietly as she can. She points back to the boy’s parents. “You sit over there. Understand?” He does not understand. The girl at the counter says, “I want pizza!” and the cafe, once quiet, is a whirl of noise punctuated by the loud chime of the door. Amber huffs, already stressed by the absence of her client. Usually, Amber has a rule about this sort of thing: to wait thirty minutes and no longer. Already, the client was hard to get a hold of and, after several missed calls and unread messages later, she finally got onto her client. Only for the client to stand her up. Well, Amber usually doesn’t need so many hints to get the picture, but she finally understands that the client probably never had any interest in connecting with her. Which is totally fine, there are more where that came from. Besides, she had her eye on the Bloody Maries for quite some time now, a grunge band from the eighties that has since splashed back onto the Montreal metal scene. Or she could do a puff piece on Marley Bob, a solo artist who has not been seen since Woodstock, and get an easy but substantially smaller paycheck. It would at least give her something to do instead of wasting away in this twilight zone of a cafe. Just when Amber is steadily finishing her coffee and powering down her tablet, the kid next to her releases this loud, wild shriek. Amber chokes on her drink in shock and gets some of it down the front of her shirt, a dribble on the crotch of her jeans. She swears and looks at the toddler incredulously, ready to tell him the hell off without care that she would be cussing out a child; then she sees the striking look of terror on his face and she stops. Turns to look where he is looking. The newest arrival strolls calmly into the cafe, uncaring for the yelling of a toddler. She is hardly horrifying, not by any stretch of the imagination. Her garishly bright button-up and clashing mess of blue hair are certainly eye-catching, but not enough to terrify. Yet the toddler runs back to his parents, who look at their child, then at the object of his horror, then back to him. They don’t quite know what’s wrong either. The visitor appears to be the only one unbothered by this display, her half-lidded stare sliding over to Amber. A secret smile touches the corner of her lips. It takes Amber an embarrassingly long time to recognize this as her client. Indeed, she has seen pictures of her plastered online, but none of them are photos. Only sketches and artistic renditions. It is another thing entirely to see her in the flesh. Amber almost trips over herself when she rises from her seat. “You’re—!” “Late, I know,” says the client. “Really sorry. I was, uh...a little tired from an afterparty this morning.” “This morning?” prods Amber. “Some nights just can’t end at four for some of us.” The client offers an easy smile on plush lips. “May I sit?” “A-absolutely.” Amber is mortified by her stutter. Already, she’s been thrown off-balance and the client hasn’t even been here for five minutes. Although, it is not a meagre task to be level-headed around Consuela Manuel, a wildly sensational solo punk artist in the underground music scene. Amber can hardly be blamed. Consuela Manuel holds a disposition which calls for attention, from her rocking swagger to her colourful appearance. She stands at a mere five feet and five inches, shorter than Amber even, but her broad shoulders and muscular arms fill out her sculpted figure. Dark, intricate tattoos cover her neck, the exposed sliver of her chest, and her thick-set arms. Consuela is arresting, enticing, imposing… And incredibly difficult to get a hold of. Many journalists have tried and failed, Amber being among them. Weeks of half-begging and half-demanding her attention was the price, but now that she can sit in front of Consuela, she’s happy to have paid it. Consuela sits in the wrought iron chair across from Amber, leaning back with feline ease. Amber shuffles to power up her tablet again and get her notes ready. “Kids these days,” says Consuela, despite looking twenty-five at most. Good that she seems interested in chatting. It allows Amber to get a damn hold of herself. “I know I’m a little grungy, but he didn’t need to scream. I don’t look that disgusting, do I?” “You look fine,” says Amber, dimly. “Fah,” says Consuela. “Liar. God. I wish my stylist was here. It’s a nightmare trying to get myself to look presentable.” Amber nods as if she understands this hardship. “Your stylist on vacation?” Amber asks, just to keep the conversation going. “Nah,” says Consuela. “He quit.” “Just like that?” Amber asks. Consuela shrugs. “Yeah. I think he complained about an unsafe workplace or something. Not my fault he can’t handle a good party. Who doesn’t enjoy a good bloodletting party, right?” Amber freezes. Then she coughs a laugh. “Oh, you’re joking,” says Amber. “No,” says Consuela. The notes finally open, thank goodness. The tablet is a piece of shit model, one she bought refurbished, and it shows. Amber taps her stylus to a beat unheard--a bit of a nervous tick--when she straightens up to look at Consuela. “I sent you an email attachment with the details of our agreement,” says Amber. “Did you read it?” “You sent me an email?” “Yeah, last week and yesterday,” says Amber. Consuela looks at her blankly. Amber purses her lips and taps at her tablet to open the document in question. “Do you at least know the conditions of our agreement?” asks Amber. “Oh, sure,” says Consuela. “You’ll be travelling with me while I’m on tour, right? Thirty days?” “Yes,” says Amber and consults the document for further instruction. “For a month—that being thirty days—I, Amber Hurley, the human reporter, will be travelling with you, Consuela Manuel, the, uh, rockstar, on your Resurrection concert tour from Edmonton to Oregon. In that time, I will be taking note of your schedules, your gigs, your concerts. I’ll also be recording our interviews. With your informed consent, of course. My goal is to write a long-form essay on your daily life as a...” Amber chokes on this part. She always does. She is never sure what term to use to describe people like Consuela. “...as an artist,” says Amber, then struggles some more. “An artist with particular tastes--” A sharp bark of a laugh pierces the air. Consuela looks infinitely amused. “Particular tastes, huh?” she says. “I guess you can call it that.” “Because people are curious about you,” says Amber, moving on from her earlier point. “You never show up in photos. You rarely interact with fans. I’m here to dispel the mystique. Make you approachable and hu—relatable. What you get out of it is free promotion for your music. Feral Magazine is also willing to compensate you for this interview with a stipend of $5,000.” Amber clears her throat, then casually adds, “This is…off the record, but I can also help you with your gigs, like unpacking and selling merch. I heard you were travelling alone and I can offset some of that labour.” “A blessing for a small artist like me,” says Consuela. Amber smiles politely at what she assumes must be a joke. “Well, I’m already sold. You just need me to sign, right?” “Yes.” Amber scrolls to the bottom of the document and enables the pen function before sliding it over to Consuela and handing her the stylus. “Just draw your signature in the box and we’ll be good to go.” “Of course,” says Consuela. She does not reach for the stylus. “So...you mind telling me something? Amber, right?” “Amber Hurley.” “Yeah,” says Consuela. She leans over the table, chin propped on one hand and silver eyes glittering beneath her wavy cobalt hair. “Have you ever gone on a road trip with a vampire before?” To her credit, Amber does not budge, doesn’t even blink. “I have not.” “I’ve travelled with many humans before,” says Consuela. “You know? Roadies and groupies. Plenty of them. Unlike some others with my particular tastes, I have some self-control.” She plucks the stylus from Amber’s hand and signs the document with a flourish. “I just have one bit of advice,” says Consuela as she sets down the stylus. Amber remains stone-faced. “Shoot.” Consuela slides the tablet back to Amber. “Don’t mention Guatemala to me.” Consuela Manuel. Born in Guatemala at an unknown time, though some people posit she was born sometime in the 1940s. The sources are scarce and, when found, quite unreliable, but there is a throughline one can glean if they read enough fuzzy articles: Consuela grew up on a farm. Her father was a farmer. Her mother died in childbirth. Consuela was the eighth in a long line of siblings. The life of a typical Guatemalan woman in the countryside was to get married and have children, as Catholic doctrine dictates. Consuela, instead, joined a nunnery where she served the Lord and declared him her husband. Which is a delightful little joke since Consuela is notoriously, unambiguously gay. Her multiple escapades with notable female figures, from celebrities to the wives of politicians, have been very carefully documented by some of her oldest fans. At least one fan account on Twitter created a 20-part thread of the people Consuela has dated over the last sixty years. Between her time in Guatemala and her arrival in North America in the mid-1960s, she learned to play the guitar, and quite well at that. The legend has it that Consuela, with magical fingers and a honey-smooth voice, waltzed into San Francisco with nothing but a rosewood acoustic guitar and a song. And when she played, she romanced all who listened, churned all girls in her vicinity into a frothing, lust-maddened mass. The rest, as they would say, is history. She has since flipped through several personas. She has joined and broken off from groups in chaotic order, disappeared for long stretches at a time. She disappeared in 1985 following the disbanding of The Hell Bats, only to sporadically play random, small gigs across North America for the following decades. But her energy, her appeal, and her mystique were all central to her character. Stories of her spellbinding gaze, her enigmatic presence, her handsome beauty border on poetic in old message boards and social media comment sections alike. She is a presence who beckons to mind a global and timeless enigma. Coupled with her cool and charming demeanour, Consuela is, in theory, a supernatural force of mystery and intrigue. Amber is not sure what she expected to meet in that café on Queen Elizabeth Highway. Someone put-together, graceful, and methodical, or a bewitching and conniving figure like Lady Godiva or Helen of Troy. The imagination runs wild when one thinks of the multiple possibilities of Consuela Manuel. “How much do you think fifty-seven dollars will get me?” There must have been a mistake. Maybe Amber got the wrong vampire who happened to go by the same name. Because it does not seem right that the mysterious Consuela Manuel, the very same said to enchant with one look, is the same bozo asking if fifty-seven dollars could replace her old electric guitar. The sun has yet to emerge, but they are running out of time before they would have to take cover. Consuela broke her last one during her concert in Vancouver the week prior and was itching to get it replaced. Another odd quirk about Consuela was her massively destructive performances. On more than one occasion, she destroyed her guitars, stirred her audience into such a frenzy as to create a swirling mosh pit of death that often led to at least one hospitalization. Songs from Fuck It All Up to Bochinche en el Calle, along with the shrill wailing of the electric guitar as ageless fingers attacked the strings, were certainly no help in quelling a crowd hopped up on coke. She was infamous enough that it became harder for her to secure a venue that would gladly host her. It was nothing short of miraculous that she was able to secure twenty-six gigs across Canada and the U.S. Her agent must have busted their ass for every one of them. The only problem was that there is nary a store to be found on the road, let alone a music store. Amber is convinced that they would have to reach Edmonton and search there instead. But one thing Amber is beginning to learn is that there is a bustling twenty-four-hour service for everything out there. Where there is a café that is open well into the night, so is there a pawn shop in the middle of nowhere that never sleeps. And, naturally, Consuela knows exactly where it is and who works the counter. On the open road, next to a diner that is only just opening for the nightly morning, is a small, unassuming storefront. The windows are tinted so dark that it is impossible for the human eye to glean what could lurk within. There is no sign indicating what its purpose is. All it had on the front door was a piece of paper with the opening hours printed on the front. It looked like the sort of place a seasoned urban explorer would be dared to invade rather than a put-together business that promised its customers the basic hallmarks of cleanliness and safety. Inside is hardly any better. It is crowded up to the ceiling with various knick-knacks, from fishing poles and surfboards to dolls and mismatching china. Bikes in several stages of disrepair hang on the walls, paintings are stacked on the floor and against the walls, racks of mothballed clothes form orderly rows on the cracked linoleum floors. The space is barely lit, but it is enough to light one’s way toward the counter where a cashier presided over cases of what looked to be fake jewellery. Lined with uncharacteristic reverence on the wall behind him is a row of guitars, many of which look as if they were lovingly polished by a tender hand. Hardly the type of place Amber expected Consuela to frequent for her instruments. Are vampires not supposed to have vaults of wealth? Instead, this looks like the type of den Amber would have found herself in when she was struggling to feed herself on ramen money in college. What makes it all the worse is when Consuela turns to her and, amid the mothball-stinking clothes, asks Amber that fateful question. “Is that all you have?” asks Amber because she is convinced she heard wrong. “I might have a couple of loonies lying around the van,” says Consuela, completely serious. Amber thinks this is a joke now, so she laughs and says, “Mayyybe you could buy yourself one of those nice fishing poles? Like, the cheapest one.” “Huh,” says Consuela, still not laughing, then turns to yell at the cashier. “Hey, Thrash, what can fifty-seven get me?” “Nothing,” says Thrash. He barely looks up from his phone. “Not even a fishing pole?” “Especially not a fishing pole.” “Shit,” says Consuela and scratches her head, as if she really didn’t expect that answer. She marches up to the counter and says, “You sure you can’t cut me a deal? I’m low. I have a family to feed.” “Kiss my ass,” says Thrash, rightfully so. “You ever think about how much debt you’re putting me in? If you’re here for a guitar, you’re better off turning around and getting your ass out of my shop.” “Listen…Thrash,” says Consuela, her voice suddenly dropping to a throaty purr, “how about I sweeten the deal? I won’t steal into your house and kill your wife and kids as long as you give me a guitar. How’s that?” “May your ass get nuked in an early sunrise,” says Thrash. “May you drink the blood of a garlic lover. May you never find a hairdresser who can tame that stupid blue hair of yours.” “So…is that a yes?” “Round it up to sixty and I might consider it.” “Thanks, Thrash, love you, man.” Consuela turned to Amber and waggles her eyebrows. Amber nods as she frantically takes note of the strange exchange between Consuela and this…human man? Amber wants to believe that this Thrash person is human, though his way of addressing Consuela is a tad too familiar for him to be human. “You good on spotting me a three?” asks Consuela. Amber rips her eyes from her tablet to level Consuela with a look of incredulity. “I-I don’t—” “Thanks, babe,” says Consuela with a wink and a flash of her fang. Amber is under the impression it’s supposed to be charming, but it’s sullied by the fact that Amber was just swindled out of three dollars. She wonders if this will be a pattern in the future. She jots down this part of the conversation as well, if only for posterity’s sake. While Consuela ogles at the wall of guitars and asks Thrash about their qualities, Amber takes a gander at her surroundings, wondering how best to describe them in words as dry yet evocative as she can afford in a long-form essay. She activates the camera function on her tablet and takes a couple of pictures, if only to use as reference for later. She stops when she spots something in her viewfinder. When she lowers her tablet to get a better look at it, she is blown away by its beastly size, its familiar shape. A Gretsch drum set lies in the corner next to yet another pile of paintings, the canvas over the drums scarred by overzealous pounding. Where there would have been a cymbal was a tin plate, something of a temporary replacement. A pair of wooden and metal drumsticks sit on the rickety stool in front of the set. $870.00 is jotted down on a piece of looseleaf in blue pen. The stool rocks a little when Amber takes a seat, though she is careful to keep her balance. She lays her tablet by her feet and savours the weight of the drumsticks in her hand before twirling them. These simple acts are enough to drag her down an avenue of memories, some more painful than others. But playing the drums was always her favourite pastime, no matter who or what she was at the time. “You wanna get over here?” Amber springs to her feet and turns to see Consuela beckoning her. In her other hand, she holds a Gibson Les Paul cobalt blue electric guitar, beautifully polished and with nary a scratch on it. Amber barely has the three dollars needed to cover the cost. After digging around in her purse and the pockets of her torn jeans, she scrounges up one loonie and several dimes and nickels. She has a credit card, but there’s no way she’s going to let Consuela know about it. By the time they finish at the pawn shop, the sun is encroaching on the horizon. Consuela has to use an umbrella to crawl back into her RV and Amber helps in drawing the thick black curtains over the windows to keep the sunlight from coming in. The vehicle is small by RV standards, its size middling between that of a standard RV and a van. It is quaintly decorated, not unlike the kind one would find in a vlog curated by someone in their early twenties. Fairy lights are strung up on its walls, giving the back of the RV a watery, ethereal glow reminiscent of the shallows of a pool under a clear sky. Potted plants are placed haphazardly on whatever surfaces are available, like the dining table and by the sides of the bed. Consuela is happy with her guitar, so much so that she immediately sits down with it to tune its chords. She actually trusts Amber to drive the car into the shaded area behind the gas station; this would be their campground until the following nightfall. Which means that Amber would have to sleep…somewhere. It’s not like she didn’t think of sleeping arrangements before this, but it isn’t like she thought about it very thoroughly either. There’s only that narrow twin-sized bed. Nothing else. And Amber would have to be suicidal to sleep next to a damn vampire. So, she settles on the space next to the door where, thankfully, a beanbag chair only moderately worn was placed for her convenience. Amber feels like she’ll get swallowed up by it and she’s guaranteed to wake up with a sore neck, but at least she can…pretend that she’s safer by being next to the door. “You know I’ve got a sister waiting for me at home?” Consuela, already dressed for bed in a torn Escuela Grind t-shirt and boxer briefs, lies back on her bed like a satisfied cat having returned from the hunt. The guitar is propped on her lap and lovingly held. It’s like Consuela is lulling it into a false sense of security, all the while knowing full well that she will smash it onstage within the next twelve hours. “What now?” “My sister,” said Amber. “I call her every day. If I miss a call, she will notice.” “Okay,” says Consuela, blank. “Then I’ll just have to eat her too.” Silence. “Just kidding,” Consuela says with a toothy smile. “Man, will you lighten up? I’m not going to eat you yet.” Amber is very tempted to ask “what do you mean yet”, but stops herself in time. It has hardly been twelve hours and she is quickly learning that Consuela has a very inconvenient sort of dark humour that toes the line of being outright homicidal. This is especially annoying when it comes from an actual vampire who could drink all her blood the moment she sleeps. “Just don’t try anything,” says Amber, lamely, because what else is there to say? “Wait until I’ve won several accolades for my journalistic rigour and integrity. Then you can eat me.” “I’ll save a space for you in my mini-fridge.” Consuela pats the fridge next to her bed. “Between all the other dead bodies.” “You expect me to believe that?” Amber says this like she hasn’t noticed that the fridge is under lock and key. Consuela’s eyes glitter with mirth, more than they should for someone undead. “You wanna take a look inside?” asks Consuela. Amber’s fingers tightly grip her tablet. “Really?” she asks, almost breathless. Consuela merely raises an eyebrow before setting aside her guitar and rolling over to the fridge. She pulls a key from under her pillow, comically raises an eyebrow, and says, “Are you ready for this?” Amber nods. She can’t trust herself to speak. The lock clicks when the key turns. Consuela quietly removes it and pries the door open, slowly, dramatically. Amber almost trips over herself to get a look at the contents within, thirsty for a scoop. She does not know what she expects. Only that when she sees the white void within, she is sorely disappointed. At her expression, Consuela can hardly contain a whoop of laughter as she shuts the door again. “I got you good, didn’t I!” “I don’t know why I trusted you.” “Trusted me?” says Consuela. “Did I say anything was in here?” “Dead bodies.” “Obviously a joke.” “I’m getting breakfast,” says Amber. She has decidedly checked out of the conversation, no longer interested in being duped again. “Or, well, something cheap because you mugged me of my pocket change back at the pawn shop.” “I’ll pay you back,” says Consuela, amused. “Get back here soon. I might miss you.” Amber pulls a face, though she is not sure what sort. The comment was unexpected and tripped Amber up entirely, believing she was entering a battle of wits rather than teasing. Amber does not tease very well, not even with her past partners. Perhaps that is why none have lasted longer than two years. The thought plagues her as she grabs a breakfast wrap from the gas station and a cup of stale coffee. She sits on the step leading into the RV, telling herself that she hesitates to go inside only because she wants to soak in what little sun she can. The Starlite Room in Edmonton is a fixture of the city’s rock scene. A medium-sized venue made of brick on the outside, it beckoned the attention of the curious and the familiar as the sounds of crashing cymbals and guttural yelling filter through the doors. Edmonton has a very loud and passionate metal audience, eager to attend any and all concerts when they come to their city. The Starlite Room is a natural pick for someone of Consuela’s stature, despite what she says about being a “small-time artist”. It may be the first time she’s performed solo in two decades, but her core base is rabid enough to call attention to her Spotify which currently sits at over 200,000 subscribers, not including the other 75,000 subscribed to Consuela’s old band, The Hell Bats. Amber asked Consuela why they were starting in Edmonton. All she received was a shrug in response and a wistful recollection of performing there for some music festival in 1990, smashing one of her many guitars onstage, and getting so drunk she woke up in the bathroom of a 7-Eleven with a tattoo of a dolphin on her ass. Which was interesting. Amber didn’t know vampires could stomach drink. Consuela said that it was one of the few enjoyments she had left as a vampire. Consuela had to head backstage to prepare and Amber had volunteered to help haul in the cases of merch, as well as haul in the table and displays for said merchandise. Much of them were the new album Consuela was dropping labelled “LONG DEAD CON MAN”, backgrounded by a drawing of a fanged skull holding a knife between its teeth. The name of the CD was emblazoned upon all other items for sale, including t-shirts, vinyl records, wristbands, and even keychains. Amber had to briefly negotiate with the venue to get a decent spot closest to the crowd, something they eventually allowed when they saw Amber wouldn’t budge on the placement. As Amber leaned back in her plastic chair and waited, she thought of what was to come in the coming weeks. They would travel across Canada, visiting most major cities before taking a week to travel from Toronto to New York before returning to the grind of one gig per night. It occurred to Amber, looking over the dates and locations on the back of one of the t-shirts, that they would be making a stop at Halifax, Nova Scotia. A sharp nausea and shudder attacks Amber and she sets the t-shirt aside, determined to cross that bridge only when she got there. Gazing over at the stage, Amber wondered how Consuela would interact with her widely human audience. Vampire performers had a way of distancing themselves from fans which made them incredibly hard to relate with. Consuela, however, is known for being quite personable. She puts humans at ease. Amber is eager to see it in person, to take note of it all like a zoologist inspects their animal specimens from afar. To watch this vampire in her natural state, perhaps for a moment forgetting that Amber is there to record everything, would do well for the essay. Already, Amber has made plans for what she will write and how the story will be framed. Longform essays have a way of niggling into public consciousness and they often do so through the employment of dramatic narrative. Consuela herself has said that her life is a bit of a bore, but, just as she easily deflects things with humour and sabotage, she lies with the smooth ease of someone who has done so for the past eighty-plus years. The band on stage wraps up their final song, to the raucous cheers of the masses below. They wave at their audience and their lead band member, a man who looks out of his depth in his Henley t-shirt and cargo shorts, thanks everyone and wishes them goodnight. They vacate the stage. Enter Consuela Manuel. Amber almost has to do a double-take when she sees her. She looks quite the same as she did this morning—no, evening. When one sleeps during the day and wakes at night, the labels become ever so confusing. But looking at Consuela from where she stands up on the stage, she looks almost ethereal. The stage lights shine directly on her glowing skin and play off the edges of her messy, blue hair. She raises her hand to greet the crowd and they reach out to her in turn, immediately pulled by her strangely attractive presence. It occurs to Amber that Consuela has perfect bone structure, one that makes her so beautifully handsome as to defy belief. Maybe it’s a moment of psychosis that leads her to this thought. Regardless, it stays and Amber watches, fully riveted by the sight of a vampire drinking in the cheers of an audience who has yet to hear her play. Consuela leans forward to the mic and purrs, “How are we tonight, Edmonton?” Raucous cheers flood over her, enough to startle Amber with the sheer excitement of it all. Consuela presides over her audience with mild satisfaction. “I’m super honoured to be here, thank you,” says Consuela when the cheering dips in volume. “When my agent told me I was gonna start in Edmonton, I was like, ‘shit, this is where I got my dolphin tattoo, isn’t it?’ So, I’ve got fond memories of this city.” A wave of laughter. Amber belatedly realizes that this is probably good to document so she scrambles to pull her phone from her messenger bag and start recording. The stage is empty through the viewfinder, but at least Consuela’s voice can be captured through audio. “This is my first solo tour since 1985,” says Consuela. “I almost forgot how lonely it can be, travelling on my own. It lets me think. Reflect on the good, the bad, the ugly. But today I’ve got company to distract me. A journalist from Feral Magazine wanted to get to know me. She’s right over…there!” Amber freezes when Consuela points to her at the bar and several heads turn to glance at her. “Amber Hurley,” says Consuela in a croon that makes Amber’s spine tingle. “If it weren’t for her, I probably would have air guitared for you folks. She covered some of the cost of this beautiful guitar right here. Make some noise for Miss Hurley!” The yelling and whooping are instantaneous and chaotic, enough to have Amber stiffen and press herself against the bar. Her skin prickles and becomes hot as something deep within her quails and threatens to burst out of her. The scar on her right shoulder tingles and Amber has to grip her burning shoulder with her free hand to keep the phone from shaking out of her grip. Consuela regains her audience’s attention with the same light banter. If it was anybody else, the introduction would seem meandering, tedious even, but Consuela’s charisma and deep, melodic voice sway and entrap her crowd. In the haze of Amber’s overstimulated mind, she barely hears Consuela speak. She is too focused on taming her breathing, her mind fully aware that it is out of danger—that it was never in danger—but her body remembers the terror to comes with noise and taps into primal reserves it hasn’t used in years. An errant strum of a guitar grounds Amber. Consuela’s voice, like a soothing balm to a chemical burn, slips past Amber’s defences. “This song is for the ones who still fight their memories. Have a drink, have a snort, and let’s tear this shit up.” Then she begins. Slender fingers, as if made for the guitar strings, riff and scream along the metal cords, the amps perfectly conveying the intensity of the tune. The stage lights transition from white to blue and accentuate the colour of her tousled hair and limns the predatory silver of her eyes not unlike the edge of a blade. The audience deadens with silence, enraptured by the sound as it takes up every bit of cubic space, crowds their ears and brute-forces its way into their gut. Amber feels a strange feeling pool into her chest and seep into her core. The sound pauses when Consuela removes her fingers from the chords, only allowing a beat of respite so that everyone waits in erotic anticipation for her next move. She looks up at her audience, a laconic smile on her docile, chiseled face. Her eyes flicker over to the bar. Amber is not sure if she can see her very well. She hopes not. Amber does not know what sort of expression is on her face right now. The fingers attack again and the guitar lets out a swollen cry that sends shivers down the spines of all those in attendance. The lights flash, blue plunging into darkness and resurrecting with a threatening, dangerous crimson that bathes the stage. Rapid-fire chords ripple along, without hesitation and faultless in execution. The speed of it is unlike anything else. It is one thing to stream her songs on Spotify for several hours a week in preparation for an interview and quite another to see her live, unravelling songs with nimble fingers that move at a near-invisible pace. Amber swears she sees sparks fly off the braided metal strings with every strike, every slide. Every movement is fire. Then Consuela, blood-red from the lights, leans forward, close enough to lay her plump lips against the microphone, and croaks out with a voice so guttural, as grating as dry rope and just as burning. The intonations borough into the soul and demand, never ask, for purchase on your attention. There is no choice but to give in. It cries out, hungry and angry now, in words Amber can barely understand yet resonate with that seething thing inside her. Whatever frustrations, whatever annoyances and sadness and trauma, are all reflected in this voice that screams in tongues and praises chaos. Amber knows the lyrics, knows them from studying them before her interview, but is not quite prepared for the raw emotion with which they are delivered in a live show. Gimme death, Gimme pain, Give me salvation! Even in death, Life is a wasteland, You’ve got no purpose, Fucking perish! A wandering barren soul, Picks razors from its feet, Barbed wire bleeds the heart, And leaves it empty! Fucking perish!! The beat pulses, quickens, and just when one’s heartbeat rides along its tempo, it lets up again with a seductively slow plucking of the strings. Smooth vocals carry on this wave, a gentle and kind juxtaposition to the abuse of one’s faculties. Then it dives right back into the fray, loud and raw and so full of feeling, ready to spill over— The final chord rips on the amps and then blasts into an echo, tapering away into silence. The audience cries out, jumps and thrums with energy. Some have already begun slamming into each other, creating a frenzied mosh pit that speaks to youthful exuberance and heated anti-authoritarianism. Consuela, while she cannot sweat, glows like the central figure of a Renaissance painting, swathed in a blue and opal glow which enshrouds her, places her on another plane of existence. Below her are the simpering human masses, their hands outstretched as if waiting for alms, for blessings. A lopsided smile and a wink are what they receive. As reserved as ever. No one can reach Consuela Manuel here. No one may touch her or hurt her. She stands on that stage as a proclamation of her independence. Freed from the constraints of mortality, she has expanded into the supernatural. A sudden hunger afflicts Amber. She cannot put a name to it; she can only watch from the gallery and feel the pit in her grow wider and wider still until she is an untended wound, a cavity that eludes reparation. But, like most things which hurt her, Amber pushes it down, down until she can pretend this dull ache in her shoulder is not a tumorous disorder with no cure. 🔲

Happy Thursday everyone! You may be looking at the title and thinking that I'm about to wax poetic about the brutal masochism of putting off work you know needed to be done, like, yesterday, but that's not what I'm going to do. Fellow procrastinators already know this game and Type-A personalities who get their shit done will probably (and rightfully) not quite understand the amount of self-sabotage and mental gymnastics it requires to procrastinate the way I do. No, this is a formal announcement that that first chapter of "Get Fanged" will only be coming out tomorrow (June 30) instead of today. Why? There are many reasons, none of them good, so I'm just going to leave it at "I procrastinated by working on my essay and reading gay webtoons" and leave it at that. With this formal announcement is a formal apology. I lost track of time and conveniently forgot how anal I am about perfecting the work I want to publish. I also recognize that those are still not good excuses. Deeply sorry about keeping you waiting. As reconciliation, I've shared a preview of my work below this announce-pology, so feel free to have a look at that. But what is that about, anyway? Being a procrastinating perfectionist. I never thought it was a vice I possessed until I started writing for money and I realized that deadlines are kinda scary, actually, so I try not to think of them by procrastinating. Only, I don't do a good job because I am literally freaking out as I avoid my work. And then, when the time comes to hand in my work, I'm either not ready (like now) or I hastily rush through my work while obsessing over the fact that it's not good enough and it never will be. That's that masochistic shit. I think that's another reason I started this blog, you know? To just confront those anxieties head-on and put my work out there, whether it's "ready" (which, again, it never will be) or not. I'll do what I can to put my best foot forward, but if that means working on it until climate change claims us, then I'd rather put what I've got out there. THAT being said, the chapter will come out tomorrow and that's a promise. I'm really excited to share Consuela and Amber with you all because these characters and their interactions were a lot of fun to write. You know, I said "Get Fanged" was very Killing Eve-esque, but I'd say it's pretty Gideon the Ninth coded too. The reason is because I wrote "Get Fanged" as I was reading GtN, so naturally a lot of the banter is based on Gideon and Harrow's frequent (but hilarious) bickering. If you haven't read Gideon the Ninth, I highly recommend it! It's great sapphic science-fantasy (more fantasy than science, I suppose...but there's interplanetary travel, so that's sciency, right?) Anyway, the chapter coming out tomorrow is kind of good, actually, because tomorrow is the last day of Pride Month! Which means the end of brands pretending to be queer-friendly, so that's nice. Rainbow capitalism is truly a blight upon society (though, it's either this or overt persecution, so... take what you can get and all that). Ramble over! Keep an eye out for the story tomorrow. For fun, I'll just leave a preview of the first chapter here so you get an idea of what's to come. Enjoy! “You know I’ve got a sister waiting for me at home?” Consuela, already dressed for bed in a torn Escuela Grind t-shirt and boxer briefs, lies back on her bed like a satisfied cat having returned from the hunt. The guitar is propped on her lap and lovingly held. It’s like Consuela is lulling it into a false sense of security, all the while knowing full well that she will smash it onstage within the next twelve hours. “What now?” “My sister,” said Amber. “I call her everyday. If I miss a call, she will notice.” “Okay,” says Consuela, blank. “Then I’ll just have to eat her too.” Silence. “Just kidding,” Consuela says with a toothy smile. “Man, will you lighten up? I’m not going to eat you yet.” Amber is very tempted to ask “what do you mean yet”, but stops herself in time. It has hardly been twelve hours and she is quickly learning that Consuela has a very inconvenient sort of dark humour that toes the line of being outright homicidal. This is especially annoying when it comes from an actual vampire who could drink all her blood the moment she sleeps. “Just don’t try anything,” says Amber, lamely, because what else is there to say? “Wait until I’ve won several accolades for my journalistic rigour and integrity. Then you can eat me.” 🔲 P.S. Stream Escuela Grind, their music fuckin slaps.

Okay, technically, I didn't quit, but I'm on leave. That means I make no money while I write a bunch of stories about all the gay buff women I want. When it comes to the game of life, I think I won the pot (as long as I ignore my bank account). I started this blog to decompress while finishing my master's degree. Now, I'm publishing it just in time for... (checks calendar) ...the end of Pride month! Nice. A bit about me: I've been writing for 15+ years and even got a few stories published. This blog is a repository of the work that I don't want to publish under my real name. More on that later. Here's a list of things to expect from this blog: What I Write Lesbian and sapphic stories, mainly. I can't promise a lot of things, but what I can say with certainty is that everything I write features wlw, or women loving women. I will probably never write about straight people. It's not my thing. Secondly, there will be a lot of fantasy and the paranormal, so expect a lot of magical martial arts, ancient curses, trickster vampires, and shirtless werewolves (now you see why I can't publish this stuff under my real name, this is for SHAMELESS GIRLIES (and/or non-binaries) only) More Stuff I Write Because my brain is chaotic and can't settle without getting bored, sometimes I write general fiction without the spec. Just for the hell of it. Depends on the mood. I also write essays because over-analyzing media is one of my bad habits. It's part of the reason why I became a sociologist! And why I'm insufferable to most of my friends. Funny thing about me is that I actually don't watch TV or movies. I mainly read lesbian fiction, whether it's fantasy/sci-fi, general fiction, or even Girls' Love webtoons. For that reason, I'll probably write up some wlw recs every once in a while. Current Project I am currently working on one project: "Get Fanged", a road trip romp about a reporter interviewing a killer vampire punk rocker. Undertones of Killing Eve for its dark humour, hints of Thelma and Louise for the gay road trip. I had a lot of fun writing the first draft. I'm currently editing the second draft and I hope it comes out alright. Still fun, just a different type of fun. Expect to get the first chapter of "Get Fanged" by June 29. It comes with a QT/BIPOC punk playlist that I'll share sometime next week. As long as I get it published by the end of the month, I've still contributed to Pride Month TM. There are (many, MANY) more stories to come, some of which I'm super excited to share but are still being tweaked. Everything I write is listed under "Projects" which can be found in the top menu. How to Contact Me You can contact me at sapphicsans@gmail.com in case you have comments or questions. I have a Twitter where you can see me sporadically tweet like a boomer at twitter.com/sapphicsans. I also have a "Contact" page you can access in the top menu. For anyone who made it to the end, I hope you find what you're looking for here. Thanks for reading 🙏🏿