Alis Franklin is an Australian author of monstrous queer speculative fiction.
Nine They’d watched every single Die Hard and half of RoboCop by the time Hel’s arm-scort made it to the gates of Ásgarðr. Actually, if he thought about it, Sigmund really couldn’t be sure how long they’d been traveling. Time seemed to work differently here, outside of Miðgarðr, fading in and out [. . .]
Eight When Þrúðr Þórsdóttir had been very young, Váli Lokason pushed her into a river. She’d been sitting on the edge when it’d happened, studying the shine of her hair in the water. The only warning she’d had was the sound of wicked laughter, and a single flash of red across the [. . .]
Seven Jötunn. I grow bored, tell me a story.” Another day, another interminable ride, this one slow and awkward, the horses picking their way over roots and fallen logs along what used to be a path. Probably. At some point. Above us, the trees of the Myrkviðr are living up to their reputations. [. . .]
Six Sigmund never did manage to figure out the logistics of their flight, not really. Because the Earth was round, and huge, and hung in the vast black void of space. Not to mention Sigmund had been on airplanes before and he knew—empirically knew—that everything above the clouds was cold and [. . .]
Five More time passes. I spend it staring at the ceiling, wishing I had my cell phone. Or, at the very least, a fucking cigarette. I have neither, however, so instead I occupy myself with delusions of rescue. These mainly involve Sigmund, dressed in some suitably revealing “armor,” kicking in the door [. . .]