About the Anthology
Fifty authors come together to celebrate queer romance through the art of flash fiction. Within these pages, every word counts and every story leaves a mark. Whether you have five minutes or five hours, prepare to be transported across time, space, and the human heart. Explore the thrill of first crushes, the endurance of long-term devotion, the beauty of found families, and the power of self-discovery. It’s perfect for fans of diverse fiction who want a little bit of everything all at once.
Read Glimpses of Us
Excerpts
“Body Art”:
Neither I nor my crushes, then or since, have ever scribbled hard enough to break the skin. I always become a clean canvas afterward. Ready for something else to be drawn on the open spaces.
So this? This we can do every day, every night, for the rest of our lives.
I want to say all of that, in this moment, but I don’t. Not because I’m forbidden to talk. I’m spread out before her, naked, for her use, but she’s always open to hearing what I’m thinking.
It’s because I fear even that kind of permanence, even now—though less with this woman than with anyone else. And also because I’m very nearly beyond speech.
I lie on a sheet on the floor. A thin sheet, the fabric a bit scratchy, pleasantly so. A hard floor. The boards are uneven. One creaks as I shift position. It’s warm down here; the heater breathes about two feet to my right. Nonetheless, goosebumps ripple across my skin as her shadow passes over me.
“Teeth Over Pearl”:
Our eyes meet as her teeth kiss another soft saffron-colored body from its shell. Her tongue slides to gather the juices, rolling and laving so no minute, iridescent crevice is unattended to, then licks her lower lip. I uncross my legs.
My waistcoat pulls snug across my breasts as I take a deep breath. My nipples are achingly erect but modestly hidden. Modesty was an omnipresent rule when and where I grew up—so omnipresent that even now I shy away from labels, finding them too ego-focused. If I did take one, it might be “butch.” She’s called me handsome. Jasmine perfume, currently melting behind my ears from lust, I prefer to think of as cologne some days. My gentlemanly habits—dressing impeccably in black, camel, or gray; quietly opening doors; standing until she’s seated—appeal to us both.
And then there’s the immodest symbolism of how my girlfriend is sucking mussels from their shells. She obviously sees what she’s doing to me. I have no idea how she keeps from squirming in her seat. Turning me on turns her on like nothing else.
She swallows, and her eyelids flutter again. Oh. That’s it. The way she squirms is just more delicate…but noticeable when you’re watching closely.
