Alis Franklin is an Australian author of monstrous queer speculative fiction.
Twenty-Nine The crowd is roaring when I step down from the stage. Crying, cheering. Demanding more. It’s been a while since I played, and never in front of such a big audience, and feeling all that energy—that worship—directed my way is . . . intoxicating. I want it. I want to bask in it, [. . .]
Twenty-Eight Forseti had been too young to fight at Rangarøkkr. “This is an old gods’ war,” his grandfather had told him, watching Forseti with one single eye, the iris as pale and cold as an endless winter’s sky. “Today, we fight for the future.” “My father’s future?” Forseti had asked. “Aye,” said Odin, and [. . .]
Twenty-Seven We’re barely out of the forest when we hear it. “What is that?” Þrúðr catches it first, sitting up straighter on her horse, eyes squinting into the dawn. “What’s what?” I say. In my arms, Sigmund’s head keeps dropping to my chest and jerking back. If I weren’t holding on to him, [. . .]
Twenty-Five “How long till their arrival?” Munin clicked its beak, hopping from foot to foot, exhaustion eating at its bones. Two days it’d been flying, ahead of the kids coming back from Sindri. It was a long trip, and Munin was about ready for a soft nest and a good nap, followed [. . .]
Twenty-Five Sigmund’s getting better at kissing, but he isn’t great at sex. That’s not a criticism. It’s an invitation to practice. Which I’m sure we’ll be doing a lot of at some point in the future. Hopefully soon in the future, when we get out of this miserable mountain. I wait until [. . .]