#medium writing

Time is a fascinating element in stories. It is a fundamental part of storytelling, essential to a narrative’s setting. Sometimes it’s treated as an afterthought, and its implications to a story are not interrogated. But some of the best stories I’ve enjoyed are ones where time makes itself inextricable to the narrative, looming, sometimes haunting, a foundation for the events that will unfold.

When it comes to queer-centric stories, knowing when the story is set adds a layer of understanding as to why characters act the way they do. The dynamics between sapphic characters will be different between a story set during the late 70s versus a tale set during the American occupation. The context is different. The stakes are different.

There are a lot of sapphic stories set in times far past, but right now, I want to focus on two comics that situate themselves in recent history, set in the near past of the 2010s and the 2000s.

First released as part of the Silakbo GL Anthology, Kalat Club and 30 Summers Ago are two stories that situate themselves in two different periods, and this placement in time is integral to the story they are trying to tell. They are both love letters to past selves and hope for a better, queer future. And it’s because of this I want to take the time to talk about how time situated itself in these two entries and what that means for sapphic comics and stories in the future.

If you'd like to read more, the rest is on my medium page!

Shaking hands | seizures | silent panic attack

I stared at the dark oak door, the golden handle that used to reflect the light of the hall but now just looked dull. Beyond that door was his office; the large desk with the relatively uncomfortable chairs that sat in front that didn’t welcome people to stay. His large plush chair that almost looked like a throne. The dark red carpet that scratched against my skin. The dark paint on the walls with the sconce that was designed to look like candles. How many hours did I spend there? How long was I tied up, hidden under his desk, at his feet, as he talked to people about me? Where he discussed search parties and rewards and “if there was anything more that he could do’ all while I was bound so tightly that there was no way I could have told anyone where I was? I was right there. I was right at their feet the entire time. I was right there.

“You ready?” Officer Morrison looked impatient. I hadn’t met him before. I didn’t know if he was new or if I just hadn’t talked to him. It certainly felt like I had talked to everyone in the department, spending hours with the detective recounting everything that happened. Almost everything. Most things. Enough that they got the idea of what happened while I was gone. 

“Okay,” I said. Officer Morrison stepped forward, opening the door. I could feel the heavy collar on my throat as I was led into the office for the first time. My wrists bound in front of me, the rope rubbing against my skin as I tried to get my hands free. A gag was shoved in my mouth and I could grunt but no one would understand what I was saying. He was sitting at the desk, writing something. I remember how long it seemed when he wrote, his pen scratching along the paper. The clink of the pen as he put it back in the pen holder. How he looked up slowly, as if having someone paraded in their office like this was commonplace. How he looked me over before turning his gaze to his worker and saying, “What is this?” What, not who. 

I stood at the doorway, unable to enter the room. I knew he was arrested. He was miles away, in jail. Was he enjoying the irony of being in his own cage? How did he like the handcuffs? Did they cut into his wrists? Would he have scars too? I couldn’t picture him in jail. I couldn’t picture him not in one of those tailored suits. I could picture him rolling up his sleeves; the rings on his fingers catching the light and I wondered if he still had those too. 

“Are you coming?” Officer Morrison asked. Just one step. I could do that. Why did I feel so stuck? I couldn’t. I couldn’t even look up from the flooring. I could hear the officer’s impatient sigh. I understood what I was supposed to do but I couldn’t. I could just imagine him still at his desk, that smirk when he looked at me. I remember the first time I came in here without being shoved, pushed or restrained. His grey eyes looked up at me as he set his pen down and said, “Good boy.” He told me to shut the door behind me and lock it. My hand shook as I turned and for a moment, I debated running. We were alone. He was behind his desk. I would get in front of him. I didn’t need to do this. I shut the door and turned the lock. He put an arm around me and pressed my back against his front. I hadn’t even heard him move. He was silent as a cat. 

“Good boy,” he purred in my ear, “I saw that, you debating to run. Judging how far you could get.” He turned me around and wrapped his hands around my wrists. I winced at the touch. They were so raw and tender. He stepped closer. His shadow covered me, “What made you decide to stay?”

Officer Morrison grabbed my arm and I jolted. I jumped back, stumbling into the hallway. Another officer was in the hall and he looked at me strangely. No. I couldn’t. I took off running down the hall, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I pushed the door to the stairwell and hurried down. My lungs burned as I gasped for air, tripping on the last few steps and almost falling. I slammed my hands against the wall, catching myself. They were behind me, weren’t they? I pushed the door open, unsure what floor I was on. All the hallways looked alike. I kept running, pressing a hand against my side. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here. I knew that. He wasn’t here. He was in jail. He wasn’t going to pull me into one of these rooms and remind me what happens when I run. He’s not here to remind me that I was his. 

I slowed my pace and tried one of the doors. Of course it was unlocked. I locked the door behind me. The hotel had been empty for a month or more and the room already seemed dusty. I walked across the room, my footsteps light, as I headed to the bathroom. Footsteps stomped down the hallway. I held my breath as I waited for them to fade. Once inside the bathroom, I sat down in the bathroom and leaned against the wall.

I missed him. I didn’t miss him at all. I knew who I was with him. I was nothing. I was his entertainment. I was a passing fancy. I was a pawn. I was never supposed to be his undoing. I was never supposed to be the reason why he got caught. I reached up and touched my neck. How many times did he put his fingers there and whisper about getting me chipped? He would release me back into the world, back to my life and when I would least expect it, he would show up? He asked how I would like that? Never knowing when he would come but knowing that he knew exactly where I was at all times? I pulled my knees to my chest and rested my chin on them. He felt too powerful. He wasn’t really in jail, was he?

There was a knock on the door. I pulled my knees closer. Whoever it was? They could go away. They should go away. I wanted to go home to my apartment and just be alone. There was another knock on the door and I heard the muffled voice of the detective call my name. I should stay here. Let him keep looking for me elsewhere. Yet he had been nice to me. He always has been. 

I got up from the tub and walked to the suite door, opening it a crack. The detective smiled softly.

“Can I come in?” he asked. He was the same age as my brother, Joshua. Joshua was also sitting in jail for drug charges. Joshua was not known for his good decisions. I don’t think he even knew I was gone. I nodded and stepped aside. The detective came in. He didn’t shut the door behind him. He was also a therapist, even though he didn’t practice. He said it helped with his job. I assumed it helped with me. 

“What happened there?” he asked. 

“I didn’t want to go in there,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself, “I… I know he’s not in there. I know he’s not here. I just… I kept imagining him there, sitting at his desk.” Detective Shannon frowned slightly. 

“I promise you that he’s not in there,” his voice was soft, gentle, “I would not ask you to go in there unless we needed you to. His lawyers…” I knew what he was going to say. We talked about this before. There was evidence in the office and for some reason I was the only one who had access to it. How, I have no idea, but it had to be me. I had agreed, thinking I could be brave. I didn’t feel brave anymore. I wasn’t brave enough to face those demons. 

“I know,” I answered, “I just - I tried. I did. I just. I couldn’t do it. Then Officer Morrison touched me and I had to get out of there. I couldn’t- I just - I can’t.” I wanted to go home. Detective Shannon sighed softly. 

“I need you to,” he said after a moment, “Our case… his lawyers are good. They are getting evidence dismissed all over. If what is in that case is what I think it is? It will get him sent away for good.” I frowned. 

“What do you mean they are getting evidence dismissed? He - I’m - what are you talking about?” I asked, taking a step back. 

“They are saying the evidence collected was done so illegally and your word is strong but we can’t just rely on that. You know he has committed so many more crimes than just what he did to you.” I could feel his hand on my cheek, brushing it lightly with the edge of his thumb as he whispered, “You know why you are so perfect? You are no one. Nothing. They will care, sure, but they will use you as a bargaining chip. What I do to you? It doesn’t matter at all.”

I jerked back. He wasn’t there. He was right, however. He knew it. He knew when the police were tightening in on him. I saw his rage. I saw him slip into planning mode. He told me. 

“I can’t,” I whispered. I just can’t go back there, “I want to go home.” The detective frowned. 

“I’m sorry. This is bigger than you.” He stepped forward and grabbed my arm, pulling me through the suite and towards the elevator. I tried to pull from his gasp but he was stronger than me. He shoved me into the elevator and I pulled as far away from him as I could. He didn’t look at me. He knew what he had done. We said nothing as we headed back up to the top floor and nothing was said as he pulled me from the elevator towards the office. I felt myself get smaller and smaller as we approached. The door was shut again. I didn’t want to go in. I didn’t have it in me to keep fighting. I didn’t have it in me. He opened the door and shoved me into the office, slamming the door behind me. I could have sworn he whispered “I’m sorry” as the door shut. 

“There you are.” He stood up from the desk and walked over to me, cupping my face in his hands. I could feel my insides shake. He was here. He was right here and he was touching me. He smiled softly. 

Under torture she confessed to killing 600 men with her poisons in Rome alone between 1633 and 1651.

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And let the girl who adores nature with all her heart be submerged in all its glory.