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Visit the unexpected futures...where queer flowers bloom on strange new worlds even when that world is our own...

Queer Dimentions presets queer futures in an exciting collection of 17 GBLT science fiction tales from both new and established authors.

Stories by: RJ Astruc; Joel Best; RJ Bradshaw; Jacques L. Condor; David Edison; Erastes; CS Fuqua; Fiona Glass; Inga Gorslar; Michael
Itig; Lacey Louwagie; Mallory Path; Trent Roman; John Randall Williams; Logan Zachary; Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

This title is availalbe in PDF, HTML and Mobipocket format.

Copyright © 2009
All rights reserved  — a Queered Fiction publication

The Toti by Michael Itig

I didn’t tell anyone where I was going, not any of my husbands.

A guy can get lonely. That’s why I went there, to the corner of the heath, the one where the sky meets the ground and where there’s a zipper to get outside. I felt furtive going there, but shouldn’t have. Lots of people leave the ghetto now and then, for all sorts of reasons: commerce, tourism, freedom… Respectable reasons—and mine.

About ten other guys were queuing. Some suited and booted for business; some wearing protective gear against the environment, hard helmet for one, leathers for another; a sailor was finishing his leave, about to sample distant shores. One guy was flaunting it in sports kit, lubed up with sunblock, braving a jog on the outside. Maybe out to catch a breath of stale air. Me? I’d dressed for the occasion: suit, no tie. Smart enough to mean business, casual enough not to stand out.

And why would I? I was a decent guy. Clocked up six marriages so far, three of whom I’d hitched on the same day. Happy relationships, every one. Not a single divorce. Never had I been jealous of my husbands’ husbands, nor they of mine. And I had the freedom for extra boyfriends, if I wished. And yet…

A guy can get lonely.

A tall, thin figure strode past the queue, kitted out in a gasmask and rubber. For a moment I thought this might be a fetish too far, but if it were his job to do the unzipping everyday then best to err on the side of caution. His breathing audible, amplified by the filters, his shiny, sinewy body squatted by the edge and he pulled the plug. A hiss of smoke and air flew in and the smell hit us; a metallic smell, bitter. Welcome to the world.

“You are now leaving London,” announced an unseen voice. The rubber guy stepped through to hold the flap open as some music struck up—classic Kylie to liven up the graveyard beyond.

I went through. Outside was liberating and grim. Beneath my feet there was gravel instead of grass as the whole of reality faded from green to grey. We had to comfort ourselves with the knowledge that we’d all come back: we’d never leave the ghetto for good.

The Sister Bush by Joel Best

Thundering metal birds. A jungle in flames.

Sayao jolted from her dream, almost falling from the large leather chair in the library. She hadn’t intended to sleep. After washing dishes in preparation for Mother’s formal party that evening she’d come to the library and curled up in the chair by the window. Just a minute of rest in the afternoon sun, then back to chores. Cleaning, dusting, cooking. Mother had given her a list. Tonight’s party was an important one.

“Everything must be perfect,” the older woman had said before retiring to the wine shed and a day of bottling fresh vintage for her guests. Perfection required work. Sayao had been laboring since dawn. The dream lingered in her vision, half-seen shapes in fog. Metal birds. Birds erupting with flames. Black clouds billowing skyward. Birds dropping to the blackened earth.

The acrid flavor of smoke. Clearer today than yesterday. Clearer each time she had the dream. How often did it come now? Nearly every day? The same images, over and over. For a moment she diverted her thoughts by looking out the window at the garden. All but barren now. Summer fading, a hint of autumn in the air. Few flowers still bloomed, wiry steel-lilies and a patch of hardy glass-roses. The only sign of growth left so late in the season was the sister bush growing beside the barn.

“Emri,” Sayao said, turning from the window, “Did you remember to water today?”

Tiny and pale, her little sister sat in a corner of the library, drawing on a slate with her fingers. She’d been drawing when Sayao fell asleep, would have continued to draw until her hands seized up.

“Emri, let me have it please.” Sayao knelt beside her sister and took the slate. Emri had created a puzzle of circles twined through by gold lines. Dizzying to see. Sayao tapped the slate and cleared the image. “Emri, answer me.”

“We recently discovered new ruins on the Bandee Archipelago, a dozen prehistoric structures unlike anything ever before encountered. The state of preservation for this find was unprecedented, the result of having been entombed by desert sand. Would you believe metal sub-structures supporting an exoskeleton of stone aggregate and glass? Absolutely amazing. We had not thought any of the extinct cultures capable of this level of engineering.”