Thresholds: Queer Stories of Love, Suspense, And Daring, #2

By T. Thorn Coyle

Memories. Vampires. Messages. Ghosts.…

 

The five short stories held in this volume are filled with lost loves, danger, and second chances. Though some of these stories include a hint of the supernatural, every one is about the same thing: humans and our quest for love.

 

Dare to cross the threshold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T. Thorn Coyle
• Release date: Oct 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393269571

T. Thorn Coyle

T. Thorn Coyle worked in many strange and diverse occupations before settling in to write novels. Buy them a cup of tea and perhaps they’ll tell you about it. Author of the Seashell Cove Paranormal Mystery series, The Steel Clan Saga, The Witches of Portland, and The Panther Chronicles, Thorn’s multiple non-fiction books include Sigil Magic for Writers, Artists & Other Creatives, and Evolutionary Witchcraft. Thorn's work also appears in many anthologies, magazines, and collections.  An interloper to the Pacific Northwest U.S., Thorn pays proper tribute to all the neighborhood cats, and talks to crows, squirrels, and trees.

Book preview

A Brief Introduction from the Author

Memories. Vampires. Messages. Ghosts.…

These stories are filled with lost loves, danger, and second chances. Though some of these stories include a hint of the supernatural, every one is about the same thing: humans and our quest for love.

Every single story in this collection is as queer as I am. These stories evoke loss, lust, and the promise of more. Whether they’re men, women, or nonbinary, the characters in these stories all have one thing in common: they need to dare.

And we all know, that life without daring is barely worth living.

Here’s a collection of five stories, most of them written with the support of my amazing Patreon friends. Some of these short tales have appeared in other collections, some not, but nonetheless these five stories all wanted to live together beneath one cover.

So here they are: thrills, intrigue, and the sweetest of kisses.

I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I enjoyed writing them.

Dare to cross the threshold.

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T. Thorn Coyle

Portland, Oregon

2020

1

THRESHOLD OF THE HEART

book cover: plate of cookies. cup of coffee.

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She would always be the one that got away. The one I lost because of my stupidity. My short-sightedness. My arrogance.

My pride.

The bakery windows were steamy from the combination of cold and wet outside, and the cozy warmth inside. The Saturday morning rush was ebbing, but the clatter of spoons and the hiss of cappuccino being made continued. I slid a fresh tray of carrot and sunflower seed morning muffins into the display case, rotating my right shoulder as I stood. I never made enough time to stretch, despite warnings from my massage therapist. Who had time?

The chatter of regulars catching up over coffee and brioche with homemade ginger jam—today’s special—was a happy counterpoint to the yacht rock playlist my millennial barista insisted was cool. In an ironic way, of course. Steely Dan was the current selection streaming through the bakery-slash-café-slash-community hub that was Rise and Shine. I was barely old enough to remember when the songs were fresh, but not old enough to have listened to them in any kind of earnest.

But this morning? The words cut through my interior rain. I was the loser they were singing about, drowning my sorrows, not over scotch whiskey, but my third espresso of the already long day.

Stop me if I order another coffee, I said to Andreas, who worked the big Italian machine as if he was born to it.

As if, he replied, expertly stacking foam into the white interior of our signature black cups. The bubbles formed themselves into the shape of a puffy cloud, dripping rain. I still had no idea how he did it but admired his artistry. Moments when I had to make drinks? People were lucky if I managed the classic heart shape. Mostly, they got a blob of white in a sea of toasted brown. My talents all lay behind the swinging kitchen door.

Through the huge, steamed-up windows I swore I glimpsed white-blond hair peeking out from beneath a black tweed cap. Were those blue eyes? My heart stopped in my chest, waiting. But the door didn’t open. No bells chimed.

Just as suddenly as I saw her, she disappeared. She was long gone. Too many years ago. It felt like forever, and like yesterday.

You okay, boss?

I rolled my shoulders again and turned. There was a frown on Andreas’s usually sunny face.

Yeah. Just woolgathering. I’m fine.

I ’m just woolgathering, she said, when I had asked her the same question, five years before.

A painter, Marcie was always staring out windows or gazing into high corners of rooms, visualizing surrealist landscapes only her eyes could see. But usually, her blue eyes looked dreamy, maybe pensive…not upset.

Are you sure?

I’d been slammed. I was expanding Rise and Shine, talking with other local businesses about carrying our pastries and specialty bread, and—already head of the Southeast Business Association—ready to tackle running for city council. Everyone told me I’d be a natural, and as a lesbian, stood a good chance with the liberals who liked to think of themselves as open-minded.

Everybody encouraged me except Marcie, who told me it was too much.

I tried again. Are you still mad I was late for your opening?

Her latest one-person show at Light, Image, and Sound downtown was just another in a long line of successes. At least, that’s what I thought. And I had made it…arriving an hour late, bubbling with excitement from meeting with my campaign manager. I mean, it was just another gallery opening, and she had those at least once or twice a year. She always complained about them, actually, claiming she only did them because they were good publicity for her online gallery, which is where she made the real cash.

And it wasn’t as if the Portland Museum had come calling, was it?

You know I love you, she said, but I feel like I barely know you anymore. You’re so wrapped up in…

Myself. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?

Not too much longer, after a few more stupid fights, the love of my life had finally called it quits.

Standing behind the