Alis Franklin is an Australian author of monstrous queer speculative fiction.
Seventeen I fucking hate the ocean. Hate it. Hate hate hate. Almost as much as I fucking hate caves. I’m a thing of fire and of air, of movement and chaos and light. All this dark dank plodding bullshit makes me twitchier than a roo on a highway. Being stuck in a [. . .]
Gifts It all started with Sif’s hair. Specifically, her lack of it, on the morning she woke up to find it shorn. Being understandably displeased with this state of affairs, Sif summoned her husband, Thor, and the pair determined the haircutting prankster to be none other than one Loki Laufeyjarson. And so [. . .]
Sixteen Meanwhile, somewhere else, dawn broke over Ásgarðr. It brought with it a remarkable sight. One that had Munin cawing laughter, from where it circled high over the Wall. The Wall, which this morning was a flurry of activity, enough distraction for Munin to land on the battlements without fear of a cold [. . .]
Fifteen They crashed sometime just before the dawn. Figuratively speaking, even if Sigmund’s dismount from Sleipnir’s back had been less than elegant. He’d been lying on a damp mat of moldering leaves and spine-cracking roots when it’d occurred to him he’d brought absolutely nothing useful for a long hike across the [. . .]
Fourteen Þrúðr’s sleep was a restless thing, fitful pits of exhaustion punctuated by tear-filled hours of wakefulness. Her stomach churned hard enough to force out the feast the dvergar had provided, and even that was an awful, humiliating ordeal. One that saw Þrúðr stumbling around the chambers she had been given, [. . .]