Another short story in Luna Station Quarterly.

The superwomen over at Luna Station Quarterly liked another one of my stories well enough to publish it. It’s called ‘Bossy Boots’ and is out today. Woohoo! Issue 19 baby! Excelleeeeent! *Plays Bill and Ted riff*

I really enjoyed writing this story, I love how the protagonist appeared out of nowhere in the dead of night. It was as if she was waiting for my mind to be exhausted enough to drop its defences and let her in. I did and I do not regret it. She is bawse; sly, smart, slinky, sensual and sensitive. I kinda have the hots for her. I love the relationship between both main characters. 

I hope this feeling never gets old. I hope I never stop feeling ecstatic that more people will get to read my stories. I hope that I will always find someone who wants to publish my sci-fi/weird fic/spec fic/whatever-the-hell-fic-you-choose-to-call-it. I hope people will enjoy reading them.

Enjoy reading it, why don’t you? (Or in the immortal thoughts of every writer: likemelikemelikemelikemelikeme!)

You can find my story here and access the full index of weird and wonderful here. 

Remember, if you’re a woman writer and meet their criteria, Luna Station want you. They are currently closed for submissions but if you leave your contact details, you will be notified when they open again. 

Please consider supporting the magazine by buying the ebook. Some of us have kids that are starting school soon. It’s to buy biscuits. You understand. *Blows juju powder*

Master of all the Balls.

I can feel the eyes of everyone on me the moment I take off my jacket. I made the effort. I am pleased by their reaction. I suck in my gut and bask in the admiration.

He walks towards me soon after, swaying as though he has lots of balls clustered like grapes beneath his trousers; crotch out, shoulders back, hands in his trouser pockets, sweeping his jacket behind him like a cape. Superman. Master of all the Balls.

Nneoma beside me, watches his approach and sniggers. I know what she is thinking. He’s probably a weirdo. I always get the weirdos. Something must be wrong with my pheromones. The last time it was Callistus; hirsute and almost mono of brow. Handsome in that Wolverine sort of way. That is until the picking and flicking; eye crusts, teeth jam, bogeys.

And then there was Eghosa who sucked his thumb when no one was looking, using his herniated belly button as a stress ball. He was a banker. A good banker. He squeezed that sucker all the time. Wouldn’t go in for surgery either. Said it was his ‘good luck charm’. In the end, I decided couldn’t date a guy with a belly button bigger than my boobs. It just wasn’t right.

Don’t even get me started on the guy who had a tail.

In the middle of the room, Master of all the Balls halts for a passing waiter, jumping back deftly to avoid spillage from overfilled glasses. He turns it into a little dance.

“Quite the mover,” says Nneoma, eyeing him up and down. “Not bad.”

“For a man with elephantiasis of the scrotum, you mean?” I roar. Nneoma titters a bit, absent-mindedly. The fact she is is not ROTFL gives me pause. This is our usual Saturday night entertainment. I buy stupidly expensive dresses which I return the next day. We visit upmarket watering hole. Get drunk. Laugh at bankers and wankers and pseudo-poshos and weirdos and intense Afropolitan-types. Go home sans weirdos. At least try to, anyway. It’s pathetic, yes. But that was how we bonded; two lonely girls from the same country who had nothing else in common.

Master smiles.

“Nice smile too,” she adds.

He has. There is a dimple in his chin that I just want to stick my tongue in and an almost cartoonish twinkle in his eye. I can even hear the twink! when the light hits it. I decide that I want him after all. Walking around crotch-first like he wants to impregnate the world is no problem, I tell myself. Much better than boob-navel.

I smile back, raise my hand in a finger wave. Beside me, Nneoma starts. I feel her glancing at me. She clears her throat.

“Err, babes…”

“Back off, he’s mine,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Girl, listen…”

“You just got a promotion! Don’t be greedy.”

Nneoma grins back maniacally but I can tell she is upset. “Fine. I need the loo anyway.”

She says ‘loo’ now.

Master reaches me just as Nneoma takes off, tattooing the floor in an angry clack-clack of heels. I flick my hair and cross my legs on the bar stool.

“Hi,” he says. His breath smells edible. He looks suddenly shy. It makes me want him all the more.

“Hi,” I tilt my head in what I hope is a coquettish manner. He smiles again. His teeth are white-white. I want to go to sleep in the tight curls on his head. He swallows.

“Hey, so,” he bends lower whispering in my ear. “The price tag on your dress is showing.”

I realised at the weekend how little I blog nowadays because of all the irons I have in the fire. I will rectify this. I am coming.

Wait for me.