Building Fires in the Snow

by Building Fires in the Snow- A Collection of Alaska LGBTQ Short Fiction

  built—together. How beautiful, how holy this ground. But they

  were busy. They focused on the workspace, lost the heart space.

  When one left for a winter in Homer, we stood in silence and held

  the space. We

  waited for her. She returned to say goodbye. She left an image

  of herself under willows outside her studio. She left the ashes

  of beloved beings near the campfire. She left her heart’s beat,

  the sigh of her breath. We hold her. We wish her peace and the

  grace of knowing we remain.

  MORGAN GREY

  Morgan Grey, despite growing up in Nebraska, has always felt the pull of the sea and been fascinated by the legends of the seal people that span the North Atlantic from Norway to Iceland. She is working on a novel about June’s selkie family in Prince William Sound. In the late 1970s Morgan was a founding member of the Lincoln Legion of Lesbians, a radical dyke collective that organized conferences, concerts, and other events promoting lesbian community and visibility. She was a volunteer and later office manager for the lesbian journal Sinister Wisdom. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Alaska Anchorage and is a former Executive Director of 49 Writers.

  Breakers

  The regulars had already claimed their tables by the time Bren arrived. The evening was young, and the bar would soon be packed. She stowed her knapsack and coat on the pile next to the low stage, then pulled out her fiddle.

  Chris looked up as he strapped on his uillean pipes. “Long time no see.”

  Eric paused from misting his bodhrán. He pulled her into a hug. “What’s kept you away for so long, sweetheart? We’ve missed you.”

  Bren eyed the spray bottle in his hand and pulled away. “Family business, you know. But now I’m back in action.” After three months of being a good girl, she wanted to cut loose. Time to get back to her life, her music, and finally get laid.

  “There will be broken hearts in Anchor Town after this weekend, methinks.” Chris pressed his hand to his chest in a dramatic flourish.

  Bren scowled. She tightened her bow and stroked it with rosin.

  “They always fall in love with her. It’s sad, really. Such a hot body, and such a cold heart.” Eric spritzed her before returning his attention to the drum.

  Bren pretended to ignore him as she tuned her fiddle, but his words stung.

  Della joined them and pulled out her tin whistles. “Good to see you, Bren. Thought you’d completely disappeared, this time.”

  Bren nodded. “It’s good to be back in town.” She ran through a few scales to warm up while she scanned the gathering crowd and weighed her options. Mostly straight couples tonight. A blonde sitting by the windows tried to catch Bren’s eye. They’d spent an unremarkable night together the last time Bren had been in town. As a rule, she avoided emotional entanglements by spacing out her dates with the same woman. Casual and friendly was her motto. Anchorage was too small to deal with a string of unhappy exes. But she might be willing to reconsider the blonde tonight if nothing better showed up. It had been three months, after all.

  Chris gave the cue for a fast jig. Bren lost herself as her music meshed with the other musicians, rising and falling together or in counterpoint, taking turns with leading and supporting. The rhythm felt more intimate than sex, the communion deeper than with any lover. Music is truth. Why care about the rest?

  At first break, she wove through the crowd. People patted her on the shoulder, saying “glad you’re back,” and “you’ve still got it,”—things she could barely hear over the din of conversations and clinking bottles. She shouldered up to the bar next to a tall lass with ebony hair who’d come in mid-way through the set. Bren ordered a beer and winked at the girl. “Hi, I’m Bren.” She leaned in close, stretching up toward the woman’s ear to be heard over the noise. The woman smelled of good soap and faint musk.

  The girl nodded, her short dark hair fluttering with the motion. “I’ve heard of you. You’re pretty good.”

  “I could give you a private concert later.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow and twitched up a corner of her mouth. “Sounds like fun.”

  Bren returned to the stage, chugged her beer, and picked up her fiddle. Eric counted out the beat for the next song. Bren opened a medley of Scottish reels, then wove arpeggios around Della and Eric’s voices.

  After the second set, she packed up her fiddle and said good-bye to her friends. The dark-haired woman sat near the door. A scraggle-bearded guy perched on the chair next to her, his lips close to her ear. He slid his hand to her knee. She lifted it to the table.

  “Let’s get out of this place.” Bren reached out toward the woman, who smiled and clasped her hand. She pulled the girl to her feet and into a quick hug.

  “I feel like dancing at Myrna’s,” Bren said as they stepped out of the club and onto the street. “What do you say?”

  “Over on Fifth? Sure,” she said. “I’m Shay.”

  They turned the corner onto Fifth Avenue, passing a couple of baby-faced hookers shivering in their miniskirts and cropped jackets. The steady beat of disco music blared as Bren opened the door to the gay bar. Every table was full, and people stood two deep at the bar. The place reeked of spilled beer, sweat, and the dirty-sock stench of poppers. The bartender—an old friend of Bren’s—let her stash her fiddle and knapsack behind the bar. Bren bought two beers, which she and Shay downed before maneuvering onto the packed dance floor.

  The first songs were long and fast, the beats pounding through Bren’s viscera, flowing red through her arteries, telling her body how to move. When the music turned slow and romantic, she pulled Shay close and laid her cheek on the swell of Shay’s bosom. There were advantages to being short.

  They paused after a few more dances and several beers. Shay’s chest glistened with sweat in the deep V of her silk blouse. “Want to go back to my place?” Bren lifted her eyes to Shay’s face, busted. She grabbed her stuff and together they walked to Shay’s car.

  The next morning, Bren felt more relaxed than she had in months. Good music, good dancing, good sex, and a few beers, just what a girl needed sometimes. She glanced at the clock as she padded into the bathroom. Ten already. Time to head back home, to the island.

  Shay stirred as Bren came out of the bathroom. “You’re dressed already?” she asked. “What’s the hurry?”

  Bren shrugged.

  Shay stretched and sat up, the sheets falling to her lap. “Let’s have breakfast at Gwennie’s.”

  Bren turned away and closed her eyes for a moment. There was something about Shay that felt safe. She gave herself a mental shake. “Sorry, can’t do it.” She grabbed her fiddle and backpack on the way to the door. No matter how good the sex, or how well they connected, she never stayed for breakfast. Breakfast led to talking and talking led to questions, questions she didn’t want to answer, like where are you from, how did you come out?

  Bren didn’t like to speak of her own coming out because, back home, she wasn’t out. She lived most in the island Alaska town where she’d grown up, a place where everybody knew her. But they only knew so much. She kept her love life far away from home.

  Her first time, ten years earlier, she learned the hard way why she had to be so strict. It was a rare day, hot and sunny. In the evening she hiked around the island to an isolated beach, and sweaty from the exertion, she stripped and jumped into the freezing ocean. When she surfaced, Bren noticed a woman on a rock at the waterline, watching her.

  Bren stood naked in the splash of the waves. Her heart was pounding and her stomach tense. She stared back at the woman. The salt spray reddened the woman’s broad cheeks, and the sea breeze liberated light brown strands from her short ponytail, several curly tendrils fluttering around her square face. She was the most beautiful woman Bren had ever seen.

  “Did you see that seal?” The woman nodded toward the spot close to shore where Bren had been.

 
Bren shook her head, her gaze returning to the woman.

  “It was swimming right there. At first, when you came out of the waves, I thought you were a seal.” The woman laughed. “Maybe you’re a selkie!”

  “What’s that?”

  “Half seal, half woman.” And then the woman’s smile turned sly. “Are you?”

  Now Bren laughed, her cheeks went hot. “Maybe.”

  That night in the woman’s tent, Bren discovered that sex with women came as naturally to her as gliding through the sea. The woman’s body smelled of almonds and vanilla, spiced with smoke from the campfire, as she gently turned Bren to face her in the sleeping bag. Their breasts touched. Bren’s nipples hardened until they hurt, her body stiffened.

  The woman brushed her fingertips over Bren’s cheek. “It’s okay,” she whispered as her lips brushed Bren’s. Bren felt the heat of her own body surge from her core, like a riptide, threatening to pull her deeper. She closed her eyes, trying to steady her ragged breathing as the woman’s hand slid lower. Her touch against Bren’s skin felt as good as swimming in a shallow lake on a hot day, the rinse of the water and the warmth of the sun caressing her. No, it was better. Bren had never known anything like the play of the woman’s skin against hers, her tongue tasting Bren’s body, her fingers teasing out swelling ripples of pleasure. She fell asleep in her lover’s arms. She dreamed of seals.

  Bren awoke to the sound of a motor followed by the scrape of a hull on rocks and the splash of feet in the water. The sound of voices—the woman responding to several men. Bren held her breath to hear the words. Damn, it was her father, searching for her. She shivered in the morning chill as she threw on her clothes and crawled out of the tent.

  The image of her father’s face burned into her memory: the relief of finding her safe shifting to disgust as he took in the scene. He ordered her to the skiff and told the woman—who was camping on private land without permission—to leave the island. Bren watched the woman strike camp as the skiff rounded the point and headed home.

  Later she sat by the water for a long time, the incoming tide breaking wave after wave upon the beach. She never again saw the woman who had awakened her desire, the desire that pulled her to the city and to women. But Bren always returned to the island. The deep pull that she felt for this place. Each wave calling her home.

  Now, years later, Bren existed between two worlds, never comfortable in either. She loved the city, the excitement and stimulation from the throngs of people, the strange sights and smells, playing music sessions with the band, and best of all, her nights with women.

  But there was also the pull of the sea, the place she belonged. Back in Anchorage a week later, Bren stood at the bar during a break between sets. “That chick,” the bartender tipped his head toward Shay as she walked in the door, “has been looking for you every night this week.”

  “Hey, baby,” Shay sidled up to Bren, bending close to her ear, “it’s nice to see you again.”

  Bren stiffened. She’d hoped to avoid a scene. But here was Shay, still smelling of good soap and herbal shampoo, her moist breath tickling Bren’s ear, her hand warm and solid on Bren’s arm. What the hell, Bren thought as she put her arm around Shay’s waist and pulled her close. She nuzzled Shay’s neck. “Likewise.”

  As the days lengthened into summer, Bren spent time with Shay almost every weekend. There was truth in the joke about lesbians renting a moving van for the second date. The remarkable thing about Shay was that she hadn’t pushed their relationship. Bren allowed herself to be lulled by the pleasure of Shay’s company and her easy-going ways.

  “We need to talk,” Shay said one night as they got ready for bed.

  “Can’t it wait?” Bren asked as she pushed Shay onto the mattress. She straddled the tall woman, pinning her arms to the bed as she nibbled at her collarbone. Shay bent one leg and twisted, flipping Bren onto her back.

  “I don’t get you.” Shay’s shoulders slumped as she sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re all passionate, but you disappear every morning.”

  “Gotta get to work. It takes hours to get there—the drive to Whittier, the boat to S—” Bren felt a familiar sinking feeling in her gut. She’d had this conversation too many times. “The boat to the research station out in the Sound.”

  “That’s an excuse. We’ve been seeing each other for months, but always on your terms. You don’t give me your phone number. Hell, I don’t even know where you live. You know all about my life, but you tell me nothing about yours.” Shay pushed herself off the bed. She strode to the doorway, turned and leaned against the frame. “You’re totally out. Everyone knows you’re a dyke. What are you hiding?”

  “You know how it is in little towns. I have to stay closeted at home.”

  “And where is ‘home,’ exactly?”

  “I like you, Shay, but don’t push it.” She stood and gathered her clothes. “I don’t do commitment. I made that clear from the beginning.”

  “I’m just asking for some honesty.”

  Bren pulled on her jeans and T-shirt.

  “What are you doing?” Shay’s face twisted, and she began to cry.

  Bren’s heart pounded as she grabbed her pack and brushed past Shay as she headed out the door. What she needed was the sound of the waves. If she could just get close enough to hear the break.

  LAURA CARPENTER

  Laura Carpenter survives Alaska winters by sledding, running in studded shoes, and drinking chai lattes. She works too hard for the largest museum in the state and plays just as hard with her daughter and (now legal!) wife. Her publications include Curve, The New York Times, Anchorage Daily News, Alaska Pride Blog, Naked Ptarmigan, NorthView, Inside Passages, and more.

  Mirror, Mirror

  Amber never thought she would have children. A dog, perhaps, that came with a girl she dated. A cat, more likely. In those days of late mornings and later evenings, when possibilities dragged on like warm beer, she saw friends hitch up with moms and shook her head of well-sculpted hair, laughed, and hit the gym.

  Children? No. She was not the motherly type.

  Or, rather, she wasn’t seven years ago, before a long-haired, long-limbed brunette named Mallory caught her eye and stole her heart. Mallory was allergic to cats and eager for kids, and Amber (blind, swooning) would have given her anything. Mallory, a smart siren not easily caught, dragged Amber from her tidy condo and plunked her down in a house with a yard. Before Amber registered what was happening, she had traded her Skidoo for a stroller.

  As Amber looks at the bathroom mirror coated with toothpaste spittle, she thinks about that woman she was, the carefree gal who danced with all the chicks in the room and was still up at dawn to run ten miles in subzero temperatures. She remembers the freedom of those single days, the time, the clean floors, the sex, the glory. She looks at the young elite runners and skiers now, in their short shorts and high-tech gear, and they don’t even see her. She’s invisible to them. Her current coworkers don’t know the medals she’s won, the podiums she’s graced. She’s just another mom out for a jog.

  “Mommy!” A little girl with wild curly hair slams into Amber, knocking her slightly off balance and jerking her from her stupor. The broken hippopotamus toy found on one of their walks and the homemade cape reappear on the bathroom counter before Amber, along with long brown hairs, a half-rinsed Hello Kitty toothbrush, three fairy cups, and a crumpled washcloth. Amber’s hair gel squats among Mallory’s lotions and beauty products, like a stump in a field of fireweed. The toilet isn’t flushed and a mild stink wafts to her nose.

  “You be the bad queen,” her daughter says, handing her a paper crown and a butterfly eye mask. “I’ll be the good queen and Mama will be my child.”

  Shaking off the memory of her single self, Amber slips on the mask and crown. She raises her hands, her fingers curled like claws. She laughs her best evil queen laugh. “Muwahaha!”

  Her daughter squeals with joy and points her plastic wand at Amber, blocking a curs
e and casting a spell of her own. “You can’t get my baby, Bad Queen!”

  The pretend curse strikes Amber. “Aaaaaaaahhhhh!” she wails dramatically, crumpling to the ground.

  The good queen dashes off to protect her “baby,” who is doing dishes in the kitchen. Amber gets up off the floor with more groans than she’d like and tries to remember what she was doing in the bathroom in the first place. She has no idea.

  She starts to wipe the counter but catches her reflection in the mirror. Paper hearts attached to pipe cleaners pop out from the pink crown. Who would have thought that someone could get her to don pink? Or an outfit made entirely of fleece? Her waist and hips have gained at least twenty pounds in the last five years. It is barely 8:30 on a Saturday morning and she’s been up for two hours. The sun won’t be up for another two.

  Who is this woman staring back at her? Who is this person who knows all the songs in Frozen and can find Piggie and Gerald books in the library in three swift steps? Whose trophies collect dust in a corner? Who thinks a hot date is collapsing on the couch in front of a movie? What happened to the stud who got a phone number every time she stepped off the dance floor?

  The house is too quiet. Amber holds her breath and cocks her head to the side, as alert as a fox. Her heart quickens. She opens her mouth to call out “Everyone all right?” when peels of laughter erupt from the kitchen. Amber breathes out a sigh of relief and listens to the magic in their giggles, magic not found anywhere else, not on the trail or at the bar.

  “She has awoken!” Her daughter shouts from the hallway, sounding so much like Mallory that Amber nearly bursts with love.

  Amber looks back at the mirror, at herself as she is right now, a thirty-seven-year-old woman who will not win any races this season or set any records. Instead, she will get more colds than she’d like to count. She will take her daughter to preschool, and then go to work, cook dinner, convince her daughter to go potty, read stories, sleep too little, and repeat. And repeat. She will get sex once a month (if lucky). She will forget to comb her hair some mornings. She will not fit into her favorite pair of pants.