Queer Folk Tales E-Book

Kevin Walker

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 197

Beschreibung

The prince no longer kisses the princess, Cinderella helps her new husband to pick a new dress and the relationship between Mr Wolf and the three little pigs is a bit more complicated than you might have thought. In this collection of delightful, empowering and often magical tales, Kevin Walker creates and adapts a host of stories for the LGBTQ+ community. These sometimes traditional and sometimes modern tales show queer people that they belong not only in today's world, but also in a storytelling tradition going back centuries, if not millennia. This is a wonderful collection for LGBTQ+ readers of all ages to enjoy and continue to tell for years to come, introducing characters who are romantic, brave, mysterious or fantastical – but always authentic.

Leseprobe

QUEER FOLK TALES

Sikander and the Prince: Sikander was struck by the sheer beauty of this young man, swathed around with scarlet silks.

To Mr Wolf

First published 2020

The History Press

97 St George’s Place, Cheltenham,

Gloucestershire, GL50 3QB

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© Kevin Walker, 2020

Frontispiece © Kevin Walker

The right of Kevin Walker to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 7509 9584

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ International Ltd.

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

CONTENTS

Introduction

1 Sikander and the Prince

2 The Blue Rose

3 The Watch

4 The Ogre and the Princess

5 Fifty Shades of Dorian

6 Frolicking Fun with Fairy Stories

7 Chris

8 The Kingdom Across the Sea

9 Gary Mede

10 Good King Richard

11 Conversation

12 The Selkie

13 The Architect

14 Red Velvet

15 The Mistletoe Bough

Acknowledgements

About the Author

INTRODUCTION

Welcome to my collection of stories all about queer folk. As a professional storyteller of many years' standing, I had noticed that there were few queer tellers who actually told queer stories. I began to slowly introduce some into my repertoire until one day another storyteller suggested that I should create a whole performance piece based on them. At first, I was hesitant. How would it be received? Who would be my audience? Then it took off and Faerie Looking to Meet Unicorn: A Reet Set of Queer Tales was born. I trialled it out at several storytelling clubs until I was happy with the format.

The audience reaction was amazingly positive, although there were some telling comments. One person said they would not have attended if they had realised what the content of the evening was going to be about, and another said that while listening to the stories they were always looking/waiting for the LGBT aspect, which was a slight distraction. I thanked them for their comments, pointed to the clear advertising and added that I totally agreed as I felt the same when I listened to conventional storytelling, it generally being heterosexual. Visibility was of paramount importance and my collection of stories grew.

There are few queer stories out there in traditional folk tale land, and I found myself reimagining or recreating known folk tales before finally writing my own stories. I had such fun. Stories I had heard being told by other tellers either relied on the dreadful humour of the eighties and nineties sitcoms, which sadly many modern audiences still found funny, or were too respectful and lacked any power. ‘All the nicest guys I met at college turned out to be gay’ is so condescending. We are not all nice because we are human and have imperfections just like anyone else. These stories were usually told by storytellers who were not from the LGBTQ+ community – cultural appropriation?

So, here you are, my attempt at a collection of queer-based tales that ‘represent’ friends from my community as best I can. I hope that you will laugh, cry and wince at the trials and tribulations of characters who just happen to be queer.

I am still collecting and writing new stories for my collection, so if you ever discover a story or an idea for a queer story that you think I might be interested in it, then please send it to me through my website, I would love to work on them. I have just written a ghost story and a follow-up story to the film Some Like It Hot, so my range is quite wide. Have fun reading. I had a ball writing this.

1

SIKANDER AND THE PRINCE

This is the first LGBTQ+ story that I ever wrote and performed, based on a story told to me by another storyteller. I loved the motif: ‘Ask in the correct way and it might be granted to you.’ I reworked the whole story to become punchier and queer friendly and now it is my favourite tale to tell. And the perfect way to open this collection.

Sikander stood looking up at the palace fortress that is the Alhambra and yelled, ‘How is it that God can choose some to live in such absolute splendour and yet condemns others to live in the gutter?’

His grandmother, his jaddati, smiled at the tall, passionate young man and thought about how much he had changed over the years from that little scrap of a mewling baby, placed in her arms when his parents had been taken by the plague, to a confident man who knew exactly what he wanted from life.

‘Well, you know what I always tell you,’ she said. ‘If you ask in the correct way, sometimes wishes can happen!’

He turned and looked at the woman who had been his mother, father and grandmother, providing for and nurturing him despite their poverty. He smiled and went over to hug her.

‘It has always worked for me,’ said his grandmother.

He took a step away from her, turned and, feeling a little foolish, closed his eyes and said, ‘Please, if there is a way, even a small way, to make me part of palace life, please, make it happen.’

The next day Sikander was down in the plaza, the town square in Granada, where men gathered each morning hoping to be chosen for work. Suddenly, two richly dressed men trotted into the square on their fine Arab stallions and began pointing at various men. Sikander stood head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd and he was selected along with four other strapping young lads.

‘Follow us,’ the riders shouted, and they trotted out of the plaza and up the winding street. Sikander and the other men scuttled after them, trying their best to keep up with the horses. The road they followed wound upwards and soon, to Sikander’s disbelief, they made their way along the parade that led to the fine gates of the Alhambra Palace and into the secret world of the sultan’s compounds. He soon found that he had been chosen to be part of a group of workers who cared for many aspects of the palace buildings and grounds. At last, he was part of palace life!

In the heat of the day, the work was hard. There was lots of sweeping, carrying and running around but Sikander loved it.

The palace compounds were beautiful. The various palaces and apartments were built from the most intricate of materials, and everywhere there were carvings and tiled walls and floors. Exotic plants grew in the many gardens, but it was the water that amazed Sikander the most. Water, that most precious of commodities, flowed, trickled or glistened in huge pools everywhere. There were fountains with water spouting from the mouths of lions and other creatures, and narrow canals and rivulets carrying cool, clear water to large, still pools filled with fish. The air was cooled by the water, the senses calmed by its sounds and the reflections in the water mirrors were intoxicating. A piece of heaven had been created on the top of this high hill and Sikander was now a part of it. In a small way.

He worked so hard that he was instructed to come back the next day and in time he became a permanent fixture. Now, when he arrived in the morning, the guards on the gate waved to him and exchanged cheery comments. The work was so varied that Sikander loved the daily challenges and he became a valued employee. His pay was a great help at home too and his grandmother was able to take it easier.

Some time later, Sikander and a team of men were working near the main gate tidying the palm trees that grew over the road. He had climbed high to get to the crown of a palm in order to cut away the dying brown fronds. He sawed through them and they crashed to the ground so that the rest of the team could collect them and place them on a cart. It was hard, hot and dusty work but the team were in good spirits and the banter was loud. Sikander was hacking at a frond when he realised that the men below had gone quiet. He stopped what he was doing and looked down. They had dropped their tools and brushes and were standing by the side of the road, staring down the hill towards the city.

‘It’s him,’ one of the men shouted. ‘He’s back, the prince is back!’

Sikander had a better view from high in the tree and sure enough he could see a distant procession coming towards them: soldiers on horseback, flags and banners, and the unmistakeable sound of trumpets and horns. As the procession came closer, Sikander could make out the colours and the emblems on the banners. The sounds were getting louder, the excitement growing and then, he saw him – the prince. Riding near the very front of the procession, on a magnificent black stallion, dressed in bright red silks, was the proud, upright figure of their beloved prince.

Sikander changed his grip on the tree to swing round and get a better view, but he very nearly let go in shock as he and the prince caught each other’s eye. He was struck by the sheer beauty of this young man: olive skin, his black hair and beard and his large, dark eyes, all swathed around with scarlet silks. The prince smiled to see this young man hanging high from a tree and gracefully waved in his direction.

‘Oh Grandmother, if only you could have seen him. He is magnificent. Oh, how I would love to come face to face with him.’

‘Well, you know what I always say. Ask in the correct manner and it might just happen!’

Sikander smiled at his jaddati and closed his eyes. ‘Please, if it is possible, please can I come close to my prince?’

The next day there was quite a commotion when Sikander arrived for work. The palace had water channels running everywhere around the grounds and through the buildings. Water for cooling, for pleasure, water to irrigate all the gardens and beautiful plants, and water for the cleaning and sluicing out the latrines. And of course, all that water must drain somewhere. Well, overnight, there had been a blockage at the lower main drains, and rank-smelling sewage had spilled everywhere. Sikander’s team was sent in to clear the blockage and clean up the mess. All the men stripped to the waist and waded in, reaching deep into the slurry to clear the runoff point. It was filthy work but, as usual, the men were in high spirits and the air was filled with jovial banter.

Sikander was just reaching deep down into the grime when he realised that all had gone quiet around him. Standing up, he wiped his eyes so he could see more clearly, and when he looked to the main path, who should be standing there but the prince! He was wearing his usual scarlet robes but held the end of one of his scarves over his nose to mask the smell. His brow was furrowed but his face lit up in a glorious smile when he saw Sikander standing there, mouth open, covered in slurry but with two clean patches where he had wiped his eyes. The smile turned to a laugh, not an unkind one. He realised how necessary was this work that the men were carrying out, but he laughed, nonetheless. The other men laughed too and waved to the prince as he hurried away.

‘Oh Grandmother, I know I wished to come close to my prince, but I didn’t mean like that!’

His grandmother had to hold back a laugh as she threw buckets of water over her grandson to clean away the grime.

‘Well, you know what I always say …’

‘No, Grandmother,’ Sikander cut in. ‘I have tried that way and look what happened? No, I will try my way.’

When he was clean and dry, he put on his best clothes and made his way to the palace grounds through the fading light of the late evening. He was well known by now, so no one challenged him. He came to the high wall that surrounded his prince’s private dwelling, chose a tree that had overhanging branches and climbed up so that he could see into the grounds. The light was dimming, and lanterns had been lit. At last he saw the prince, his prince, dressed in scarlet silks, walk on to one of the patios and recline on a day bed. A servant came forward with a silver tray and offered him some food. The prince selected a ripe fig. Sikander watched transfixed as he gently felt and caressed the fig, held it close to his face and smelled it and then finally dug both his thumbs into the plump fruit, tearing it open to expose the glistening, moist flesh. Juice ran down the prince’s hand and wrist and he relished licking the sweetness dry.

‘Oh Grandmother, if I could have only been closer. To be there with him and able to offer my prince such a fruit and wipe his hand with a soft cloth.’

‘Well, you know …’

‘No, Grandmother, I will do it my way.’

The next evening, Sikander made his way to the palace wall once again and climbed the tree. He sat and waited as the light dimmed and the lanterns were lit. Soon, his prince, again resplendent in scarlet satin, came walking down a garden path in the soft light. Sikander watched as he stopped now and again to take in the perfume of the flowers that grew everywhere. One by one, a rose or a spray of jasmine was pulled forward by a strong but gentle hand and held close to the prince’s face, and Sikander could see by his smile and the glint in those beautiful, dark eyes, just how much pleasure he took in their fragrance and touch.

‘Oh Grandmother, if the prince could only hold me that close to his face.’

‘Well, as I keep saying, ask in the correct way and it might just happen.’

Sikander could not stop himself. His eyes immediately closed, and he whispered, ‘Please, if it is possible, let me be close to the prince amongst his flowers.’

His mind wandered to the image of the dark features of his prince, encircled by the customary scarlet satin. And as his mind wandered, he slowly became aware that there was a gentle breeze blowing on his face and he felt as though he was gracefully swaying. He slowly opened his eyes and was surprised to find that he was no longer in his house with his grandmother but standing among flowers in a garden. With mounting excitement, he knew that this was the garden of the prince, and when he looked down, he realised he was no longer human but had transformed into a beautiful flower! When he looked up, here was his prince, walking along the path towards him, stopping now and again to take the blooms of a flower and hold them closely to his face. Sikander began to quiver with anticipation at the thought of his prince selecting him and holding him oh so close. As the prince came nearer, Sikander held up his blossomy head as high as he could so the prince would see him. And see him he did. He stopped for the shortest while, smiled but then walked on, leaving Sikander in full flower among the other plants.

You see, in Sikander’s mind, he had conjured the image of the prince with dark, dark features surrounded by scarlet and had transitioned himself into a deep red poppy with a black centre. A beautiful flower yes, but a flower that not many would smell or pick. A plucked poppy soon loses its petals and it is thought that if you sniff a poppy it can result in headaches. So, although the prince admired his beauty, he walked on by.

Sikander’s blossomy head drooped forward in sadness and one by one, his petals began to drop, leaving just that black centre. What could he do now? He stood in that garden day after day in the scorching Andalucian sun. His leaves dried and fell away, his stalk became brittle and hard, and his head began to dry and swell with sadness. And the long days and nights seemed endless.

But then, one morning, Sikander heard whistling and when he looked up, he saw another man skipping up the path. A rotund man dressed all in white and quite dusty! It was the palace baker.

‘Now, where is that large poppy head I have been keeping my eye on for the last few weeks? Ah yes, here it is. Blue poppy seeds, the favourite flavouring of the prince.’

And with that, he carefully broke off Sikander’s head and cupped him gently in the palm of his hand. He carried him into the kitchen and spilled Sikander’s seed into a little bowl. He began to make bread dough and when it came to the final kneading, half of the seeds were sprinkled into the dough and folded in. The dough was divided up into balls, brushed with egg and then coated with the remaining seeds. The dough balls were covered and left in the sun and Sikander began to swell with pride at the thought of at last being with his prince. A short time followed in the oven and when the bread cakes were removed, the baker clapped his hands.

‘Oh, the prince will so enjoy these.’

Sikander was arranged on a silver platter and a servant carried him out into the soft light of a lantern-lit evening and presented him to the prince on his day bed.

‘My goodness, these smell wonderful,’ gasped the prince.

He sat upright and hovered his hand above the platter, deciding which cake to choose. Sikander felt almost sick with excitement. The prince selected one and held it close to his face to smell that fresh-baked aroma. He gently squeezed the plumpness of the crusty little fellow and then roughly dug both his thumbs into the warm fleshy texture of the freshly baked bread. Sikander thought he would die of pleasure as the prince inhaled the smell of bread and then, taking one half, bit into the mixture of crustiness and softness and devoured it with obvious pleasure.

So Sikander was united with his prince at last.

Now the prince really did relish the taste and texture of blue poppy seeds, but his belly did not. It was unfortunately one of those foodstuffs that the prince really should not eat too much of and that night, he finished the whole batch.

Yes, Sikander had at last been with his prince but alas, it would prove to be only a passing relationship.

2

THE BLUE ROSE

When putting together this collection of stories, I did not want to just ‘re-gender’ well-known stories. That would be too easy. But here, I make the exception. ‘The Blue Rose’ has a well-trodden path as a traditional story, and yet somehow, changing the gender of some of the characters suddenly gave it new life and explained just how wise and caring the emperor truly was.

The old emperor was becoming weary of this world. The burden of his years weighed heavily on his shoulders and he was ready to join his dearly beloved wife in the afterlife. He had worked hard to make China a happy and prosperous nation. His eldest son was married and already had sons of his own. The lineage would continue. He had only one wish: to see his youngest daughter settled and married.

As any good parent knows, one should never have favourites, but he did love this young woman. She was fierce and brave, beautiful and educated, and they spent many happy times together playing chess while discussing philosophy and religion.

And so it was, with her blessing, that he decided to find her someone.

An official decree was sent out saying that the emperor’s family were looking for the perfect match for the princess, someone who could bring joy to her life, someone who would feel able to join the royal family. Suitors were to come to the palace to ask the emperor for the hand of the princess – but they must also present her with a perfect, blue rose.

Many sat up when they first heard the proclamation. Who wouldn’t want to marry the princess and become part of the royal family? But a blue rose? China was the land of the rose, but whoever had heard of a blue one?

The chancellor saw his chance to become a permanent part of the dynasty and so straightaway he approached a successful merchant whom he knew could source most items.

The merchant listened to the request and said it would be no problem. ‘If it is available, I can lay my hands on it. But it will take me three days to procure such an unusual item.’

The chancellor was anxious as to whether someone else would swoop in more quickly. But he realised it was an unusually difficult merchandise and grudgingly agreed.

The following morning, during the usual hustle and bustle in the emperor’s throne room, after all the petitions and requests and arguments had been dealt with, the chancellor was horrified to see the captain of the guard step forward, bow low to the emperor and formally announce, ‘Your Majesty, I have come to ask for the hand of your daughter.’ And in his hand, he held something covered by a silk scarf.

The captain of the guard, a brusque man, accustomed to getting his own way, had also decided the princess and all that came with her would be his. The night before, he and twelve armed men had saddled their horses and galloped for the border into a little country that neighboured China. The captain had once worked for the young king of this country and knew that he was not a lover of confrontation. More importantly, he knew the king was a collector of fine artefacts and if anyone possessed a blue rose, then surely, he would.

The captain stood before the young man and made his demands. The royal guards stepped forward to protect their king, but he held up his hand to stop them, signalled to his chief minister, whispered in his ear and the minister bustled away.

The two men had once been lovers but had parted on bad terms. Now the king was aware of the captain’s subtle threat to expose their secret.

There was an awkward silence as the young king simply smiled at the captain and eventually the chief minister came back with something balanced on his hand, covered with a silk scarf.