Delight! Just got word that my dark, BDSM-ish lesbian Queen-and-servant story (I know, you’re surprised to hear I wrote a story like that, right?), “Mirror Mirror” has just been accepted for Kristina Wright’s upcoming fair tale collection from Cleis Press, “Lustfully Ever After.”
Below is the TOC of amazing authors and below that is an excerpt from “Mirror Mirror” for your reading pleasure (I hope). I do so love those dark, scheming girls with latent, dangerous desires…
She has a raven the color of coal. No, not coal. Blacker. The darkest night on the darkest day in the darkest minute of the year. An absence of light that is so full of nothing it makes everything around it shine like a jewel. Even if it isn’t.
Which is why she keeps the raven perched always on her shoulder. She’s no jewel anymore, and the creature offsets her graying pallor, her growing wrinkles, the way the half-moons beneath her eyes are the color of maid-bucket water. She’s growing thin, too.
What she can’t hide, she passes off to the king, and the kingdom, as mourning. “Your daughter,” she says to her husband, choking, as if that’s all she can bear to say. As if she cares so much for her step-daughter that she is eating herself from the inside out.
And maybe she is. She’s called for the huntsman’s head on a platter, after all. Proclaimed him murderer. Sent search parties to the woods for the body that no one has found. She is taking it harder than the kingdom might have expected, and they love her for it. Her unexpected generosity, her grief that mirrors their own.
The queen, she despairs, but not for what they think.
As for me? I despair for the missing Snow, for the king without a daughter. Of course I do. I even despair for the huntsman, who had small, delicate fingers, a lovely growl and a bit of a masochist in him to boot. Well, perhaps more than a bit of a masochist if even Snow found him satisfying enough.
But mostly I am happy. I have the Queen to myself, for now, and there is nothing to despair of in that.
Today, like every day lately, the Queen is having trouble getting out of bed. There’s a celebration of some sort, a baby shower that she must attend, and the sun is already halfway through the sky. Yet she lies beneath the covers, the ends of her black hair tipped silver.
I stand at her bedside, as I’ve stood for hours, waiting. There is no pushing the queen. Not yet. Even her raven sits still upon her headboard, quiet except for the occasional click of his jaw.
“Girl,” she says, finally. Her voice is ragged with age and exhaust. The hand that tugs the covers is thinned to the bone, the long nails broken to claws. “Bring me my breakfast. The purple one.”
I do her bidding, quick and quiet, because I am a good girl, the best girl. Because even though I know my Queen for all that she is and all that she is not, I love her. Because I am hers and she is mine in the way that all queens and their girls have ever been, will ever be.
Kiss kiss bang bang, s.