Queer Weird West Tales Literary Anthologies & Collections, Westerns
LIBRAtiger
August 31, 2022
Kindle
390 pages
Frontiers have always attracted the Other - where they find that the Other is always already there. These 22 stories explore what happens when queer characters encounter weirdness on the edge of the worlds they know.
Authors include: Julie Bozza, J.A. Bryson, Dannye Chase, S.E. Denton, Miguel Flores, Adele Gardner, Roy Gray, KC Grifant, Peter Hackney, Bryn Hammond, Narrelle M Harris, Justin Warren Jackson, Toshiya Kamei, Catherine Lundoff, Bunny McFadden, Angus McIntyre, Atlin Merrick, Eleanor Musgrove, Jennifer Lee Rossman, Lauren Scharhag, Sara L. Uckelman, and Dawn Vogel.
2022 RCA Author Interview with Julie Bozza
Interview by Sherry Perkins
Having written a Queer Weird West novel (Writ in Blood) and story (“Love in Every Stitch”), I realised I just hadn’t had enough yet. There is something undeniably compelling about this hybrid subgenre in which all the key elements play out on the edge or against the grain. Hence this anthology!
I opened submissions to stories that were:
Queer: At least one main character belongs to the LGBTQ+ spectrum, defined in whatever way seems natural to them.
Weird: The story contains a speculative fiction element, drawing on fantasy, horror, or science fiction.
West: The setting is the Old West—or the time and place of any other frontier.
And I was delighted to be inundated!
EXCERPT FROM QUEER WEIRD WEST TALES, JULIE BOZZA, EDITOR
Excerpt from “Bleb Central” by Justin Warren Jackson
Doors to the elevator sprang open. “Second floor.”
Eyes buggy in his gas mask, a man shot like a bullet into the hallway. Pulsing gray-green tentacles were streaming along the walls toward him within seconds. What did he expect? A Bundt cake? Trip to the funeral parlor, more like it. His gun discharged laser-guided cartridges. Pissing in the wind. Take one Bleb down, two more would follow.
I was mopping up the floor after the last poor sucker. Been the super in Building No. 1 for a few months. Ages, you could say. Me and the four cats in the basement. The Blebs didn’t take any notice of the cats.
Me and the Blebs, we had a standoff of sorts. They’d take potshots at me every once in a while, and I would hit them with a few zingers. Radioactive ozone, my own concoction. In the hallways, I always wore a safety suit. It helped disguise my human smell. That’s what attracted the Blebs in the first place. Curiously, the joker wasn’t wearing one.
As he ran toward me, I could see the Blebs were going to win the sack race, hands down. I didn’t need to get involved; it would screw with the détente. But having already witnessed too much in the building, I wasn’t in the mood to see another person bite it in front of me. As a matter of fact, I was the unofficial welcoming committee for new immigrants, and I was proud of my record of keeping people alive in the first twenty-four hours. After that, it was sink or swim. Loads of sinking.
I put down my mop, picked up my rifle, and fired. Several rounds. That slowed ’em down. I banged on the door to Apartment 202, the only currently occupied unit on the floor. They owed me; I saved their kids and got their plumbing working.
“It’s Owen. Open, open, open!”
The man of the house, reports were he’d been shell-shocked since they’d arrived, well before my time. His wife could walk through a hurricane, though. A quick look through the peephole, and she opened the door. “Get in here!”
I grabbed the hapless fellow’s arm, and in we plunged. I even had the sense to bring in my mop and bucket, with the disinfectant and human remains in it. The family would not be surprised by any of this.
Lady Harrison—that’s what she called herself—took pride in her home. A mansion by New York—well, by any—standards. Huge foyer, expansive living room that could fit more than one family, a dining room with a table for sixteen, multiple bedrooms, each with its own adjoining bathroom, even two small rooms for staff (if any could be enticed), and a kitchen that could work for a small restaurant. City people would die for this. And they had! The Harrisons were not the first occupants of Apt. 202.
They kept the Blebs out like other homesteaders in the building. Their patchwork of defenses included hardened doors, all kinds of alarms, and a mini-arsenal of guns, guns, and more guns. You didn’t dare open a window, but what was there to see anyway? Just the devastation of the Fallen Quadrant (F.Q.), what was left of downtown Manhattan.
I took off my headgear. The new arrival removed his gas mask, which I now recognized was the kind they issue to cops and the like. Hmm. But I have to admit I was distracted. The man was the prototypical, good-looking hero type. Penetrating hazel eyes, strong jawline. Full head of wavy brown hair you could run your fingers through, and lips that made you hanker for his big, bright smile. No visible tattoos at the neckline, but maybe elsewhere? And elsewhere looked like there was muscle to spare. You don’t get a physique like that watching TV from the couch.
In those first moments, though, he was a deer in the headlights. I had a mind to cuddle him and tell him it was all right. But his survival prospects were low, and I made truth-telling a firm policy on the job. I figured, when they bury me, or whatever parts they find, I don’t want them complaining that I painted an unreasonably rosy picture. Things were definitely not rosy in Building No. 1. Not even gray. Just shades of black.
ABOUT JULIE BOZZA:
Julie Bozza (she/they) is an Aussie-Anglo hybrid empowered by writing, fueled by espresso, calmed by knitting, overexcited by photography, and madly in love with Amy Adams and John Keats.
CONTACT JULIE BOZZA AND ORDER QUEER WEIRD WEST TALES AT:
https://juliebozza.com/book/queer-weird-west-tales