you said you were working on reading 10 trans and wlw books this year but you didn't mention what they were!
THAT WAS REMISS OF ME, because so far they’ve been mostly friggin’ awesome:
The Abyss Surrounds Us by Emily Skrutskie ♥ (wlw 1/10) – light sci-fi, light dystopian, LESBIAN MOTHERFUCKING PIRATES!!!!!!!!
This Is How It Always Is by Laurie Frankel ♥ (trans 1/10) – this is what I was reading when I made that post, and it ended up being the borderline-literary, adult fiction, family + trans kid saga of my dreams
Luna by Julie Anne Peters (trans 2/10) – old enough to be considered a Classic of the very small, very niche genre, but is now suuuuper dated compared to everything else on this list (that possibly makes it required reading, tbh)
Beast by Brie Spangler ♥ (trans 3/10) – I absolutely loved this book! it’s ANOTHER boy meets girl ~*~with a secret~*~ (i.e. she’s trans) book but actually really refreshing and lovely
Coffee Boy by Austin Chant (trans 4/10) – this is more of a novella than a novel and also NOTHING HAPPENS but it was still cute
Peter Darling by Austin Chant ♥ (trans 5/10) – PETER PAN SEQUEL IN WHICH PETER IS TRANS AND COMES BACK TO NEVERLAND AS A GROWN UP AND FALLS IN LOVE WITH HOOK, A.K.A. MY DREAM BOOK
We Are Okay by Nina LaCour (wlw 2/10) – a lovely, quiet, sad-but-hopeful book (in which the protagonist just happens to be gay)
The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson (trans) – I’m not counting this towards my goal of 10 because it’s a memoir by someone who’s married to a trans man rather than A Novel About A Trans Person, but it was a really great read!
Days Without End by Sebastian Barry ♥ (trans 6/10) – one of the most fulfilling Book Surprises of my life was realising that Thomas is trans!!! the cherry on top of an already stunningly beautiful and moving novel
This Is Where It Ends by Marieke Nijkamp (wlw 3/10) – I wasn’t mad about this book, but two of the POV characters are lesbians who’re in a relationship with each other (and iirc they’re the only relationship in the book) so it counts I guess
Hold Your Own by Kate Tempest (trans) – this poem is trans in a THE GODS HATH TVRNED ME INTO A WOMAN way rather than a regular trans way, so I’m not counting it, but it was ELECTRIFYING and I loved it
- Granny women are purported to be healers and midwives in Southern Appalachia and the Ozarks, claimed by a few academics as practicing from the 1880s to the 1930s. They are theorized to be usually elder women in the community and may have been the only practitioners of health care in the poor rural areas of Southern Appalachia. They are fancied to not have expected or received payment, and were respected as authorities on herbal healing and childbirth. They are mentioned by John C. Campbell in The Southern Highlander and His Homeland.
Did you ever have a genuine psychic/medium experience?
Although many readings can be attributed to cold readings or sheer coincidence sometimes it’s uncanny how accurate psychics/mediums can be. Here’s a collection of supposedly genuine experiences from threads. If you have an experience feel free to tag me @sixpenceee!
I never believe in palm /card readings. I don’t actually believe in it nowadays. BUT when I was in 9th grade, my friend took me with her to a fortune teller so she can have her future read. Surprisingly she mentioned about her love dilemma, a blonde guy and dark haired guy. She was completely convinced about her reading powers while I was meh… We’re teenagers, it’s natural we’ll find ourselves in situations like this. And then she predicted the scores she’ll get at the exams when you finish high school (in our country there are some mandatory subjects for the exams, thus multiple numbers) she guessed that right. If I think really hard about probabilities and stuff I can find a logic explanation to that as well.
About 5 years ago I saw a psychic that a family friend had told me was the real deal. I went in skeptical and came out a believer.
She used tarot cards and knew things that could have been lucky guesses, like that I had just bought a house and was renovating it, but she also knew specific things that no one else could have known.
The most amazing part of the whole thing was that she knew that I had some complications with my hormones and had a surgery in the past that would make getting pregnant very difficult, but she told me Despite all this, I would have a baby later in life. Toward the end of the reading she hands me the tarot cards and tells me to shuffle them. Then tells me to ask three questions in my mind one at a time. I decided to really test her authenticity so the first question I decided to ask was am I going to have children, and halfway through laying the five cards down, she stops and looks at me and scolds me saying “I already told you that you were going to have one child!” hah this is when I knew.
This was before I was born. My mom had a neighbor who was a grandpa who could see the future. He told my mom that my sister would be really sick when she became a preteen and not to worry because she’d be okay. When my sister was a preteen she was diagnosed with cancer and after a year and a half she was perfectly fine. My mom was pregnant with me when she met him again and he told her that I would be a c-section baby. My mom already knew this and said she had scheduled the c-section already since I was breach but he was adamant that she would have me on a certain day and that the c-section wouldn’t go on the planned day. I was born on the exact day he predicted.
Nothing too crazy but the fact that he knew that my sister would be sick and would be okay is crazy to me. He also didn’t want any money and approached my mom and asked if he could do a reading for her.
John thought he would get used to the silence after a while.
But he can’t.
This silence is too heavy. It presses down on him until it almost hurts him
physically. It’s penetrating. It feels like an open question, which will never be answered.
The silence is their life now.
And John doesn’t know if this will ever change.
Sherlock Holmes stopped talking one day and, like most of the things Sherlock is doing, it’s definite.
When the silence had begun, John didn’t understand it.
He started to understand it a bit, after phoning Mycroft, almost desperately, and asking him what the hell had happened.
“He’s not talking, Mycroft. Why isn’t he talking? He just … Fuck, he doesn’t answer me, he doesn’t say my name anymore, he doesn’t talk!”
Mycroft’s explanation was very simple, but so shocking, that John nearly dropped the phone.
“Well, he might have suffered a trauma. Because of the torture he endured in Serbia. On the last mission. Our therapists warned me that something like this could happen.”
“Tortured,” John had whispered tonelessly. “Tortured. You … You never said anything about fucking torture! Neither did he … Fuck. Why do you never tell me what’s going on?! Why!”
He threw the phone away. It landed on the ground with a muffled thump.
Torture. Trauma. Torture.
John had sat down on the couch and hid his face in his hands.
The silence has a name since then. And a reason. And it started to remind John of his own still very present wounds.
That evening, he tried to get Sherlock to talk, like he had done the last days. And like in the last days, he didn’t get an answer. Just a quick look. So quick that he nearly missed it. A quick, sad look. In a blink, it was gone.
* John sighs and rubs the back of his head.
He stares at his blog. He doesn’t know what to write. There’s nothing to write.
Outside, the rain falls down steadily. Monotonously.
It‘s evening. Again.
The days are flowing by in their slow rhythm
without any interruption.
Without really thinking about it, John opens some page about PTSD. While he’s reading the information, he feels how he starts to sweat, because it’s all so familiar …
He closes the window and draws in a deep, shaky breath.
He needs to do something …
But what? What?!
The next day he’s in the kitchen, making tea, when Sherlock comes down in his
pyjamas and sits down on the couch.
“Breakfast?” John asks while he’s pouring the tea into two mugs. No answer. Of course. He makes breakfast anyway.
Sherlock sits there on the couch and looks at his own hands, which are folded in his lap. It is almost painful for John to look at this view. Not for the first time, he feels that Sherlock is desperate too. Desperate to find a way out, while John is desperate to find a way in. Yes. That’s what it is.
“The sun is shining,” John says casually. He takes two eggs out of the fridge. “Maybe we could go outside. I mean, a walk would be nice. Some fresh air.” He smiles and turns around, and then he sees it. A tear, which drops from Sherlock’s chin on his hand.
John’s smile disappears.
He’s by Sherlock in a second. On his knees. “Sherlock,” he whispers, almost crying himself already. “Please look at me. Please … I’m trying to … you know, I’m really trying to find a way to … Fuck.”
The next moment, Sherlock really looks at him. His eyes are open and wet. His mouth is slightly open too. Almost like he’s trying to form words to break the silence, and John’s chest aches. “Sherlock,” he says again. And then, he hugs Sherlock. It’s
He hugs Sherlock, and then he starts talking, and it seems like he can’t stop …
“I’m here for you, you know? Whenever you’re ready, you can … uhm, you can come to me and you can … I know this is hard. I … I know that you’re in pain and it’s all a fucking mess. You think it’s over and you can forget it, right? You think … you think it’s in the past. You think it’s gone. But it’s not. And it feels like … burning from the inside, doesn’t it? It’s like … like losing yourself. Losing control and losing your mind and … God. I’m here, Sherlock. I want you to know, that I’m here and I’ll stay and I want to help you and …”
John gasps. It’s just a word. A single word. It’s only his name. And it’s like the most beautiful thing he has ever heard in his life.
“Sherlock,” he says and hugs Sherlock even tighter. “Oh, Sherlock …”
No one could ever be able to convince Alexander that there was anything that burned more brilliantly than a forest fire.
The trees bursting into red-hot flames as pine needles danced in embers and ash. Each kiss of the wind a silent promise of the charred final product, which would leave green hills a mess of browns and dead darkness. Smoke would cloud the lungs of anyone who dared travel through, and it would seem as though oxygen had been pulled away from the world in those few moments of suffocating bliss in between life and death.
Words would swirl through the clouded air and twirl down onto their desired destination, having departed from Alexander’s mind. Thoughts would form in swaths of heavy smoke, dark and daunting as they rose from scattered ashes of shattered pieces of his mind. Shards of glass would cut the insides of his eyes until tears spilled out instead of blood, far too often to be considered alright.
Each time he cried his smoky tears, eyes fogging up with thick darkness, Lafayette stood still, as if he didn’t notice. It took a long time for Alexander to realize that Lafayette truly hadn’t noticed it. Standing still, watching on passively, as Alexander allowed his own words to choke the life out of himself. When the forests allowed wind to blow through, carrying embers that would lead to demise, Alexander couldn’t bring himself to put out the flames.
Their love had grown up through the ground, roots set steady as their soft whispers and promises reached toward the sky above them. John would pull both of them close and press warm kisses to their faces as gently as possible. He would lay in between Lafayette and Alexander and make quiet jokes about the world around them, always trying to avoid the cutting, judgemental remarks of others.
It was never cold in their home. Not during long summer nights spent watching bad movies and trading kisses. Nor while the wind howled with icy power outside their apartment, blizzards twisting the world into a powdered sugar-covered mockery of the city that flowed with a million lights. None of those lights were stars, though.
Alexander would whisper some nights, of the constellations he’d seen back home on Nevis. Orion, Ursa Major, or whatever shapes he’d made up and given names to. Small fragments of stories would form in his mind and float out into their cloudy night sky that they shared, and would piece together into brightly lit clouds.
And when John had first began contributing to the stories, he’d thought nothing of it. After all, it had been two years since they’d gotten together, and it would only be natural for John to develop an interest in the stories that Alexander told them during sleepless nights. He’d found it charming, told himself to get over the slight pull of jealousy growing in his mind like ivy that twisted and contorted it’s vines until it stretched along the cobblestone walls of a castle. They had already set down roots together in the world that barely welcomed them, and it would be of no use to cultivate an altogether different kind when what they had already was perfectly fine.
Soon enough, it stopped being perfectly fine.
John found his way to the center of the bed each night, encased in Lafayette’s arms and seemingly unaffected by Alexander’s warm embrace. Lafayette would kiss Alexander on the cheek when he returned from a business trip, instead of the kiss to the lips that John always received. Days would pass between the times Lafayette held Alexander in his arms, soft and strong and oh so incredibly safe. Nights like would pass where the bedroom door was closed before Alexander could make it to bed with his lovers.
The sun would set, and the sun would rise, and no matter how gorgeously the colors of the sky were painted across the atmosphere, it was all simply shades of grey, to Alexander.
John had always been the fiery passion in their relationship, after all. Burning and reforming so quickly that one could never truly understand its form. Each shade of scarlet blended into orange and gold, scattering the sky with stars. Embers of the flame would flow upwards until each sparkle seemed to be a supernova, far off into the universe.
Lafayette, tall and strong, had branched off into any new thing he could find, twisting his lovers along with him. But Alexander had fallen from the skies in shades of crimson and burnt umber, trying and failing to hold on to the last glimmers of life that had been so abundant in the beginning.
When the flames had ended, the dust was settled, and the smoke was cleared, Alexander wished he was still able to cry. They had sat him down, spoken with calm, quiet words, ones they had obviously rehearsed many times before.
What did I do wrong? Alexander wanted to ask, the words easily forming on his lips but not finding their way into his voice.
What did you do wrong? Lafayette and John felt the need to inquire, yet did not have the nerve or will to ask.
Unspoken words hung heavy as the tension between them, so accustomed to being ignored that once it was confronted, none of them were sure how to handle it.
But Alexander figured that it only made sense, that Lafayette and John didn’t want him- didn’t need him.
They were a forest fire, burning bright and shining with untold brilliance. Flames licked at their heels as they tried to run from their problems, until they were encased in fire.
For a long time, Alexander had thought he was the smoke, choking out the bits of life that were still left in John’s sparks and Lafayette’s branched off thoughts.
Now he knew better.
Now, he knew that he wasn’t the smoke that clouded and suffocated everything that had tried to love. He was the oxygen, that was used up by the growing forest fire until he was stretched too thin, and he had nothing more for them to take.