by booksoverlookedblog

Banned Book: All Boys Aren’t Blue by George M. Johnson

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

Content warning: this post discusses sexual abuse of a minor.

All Boys Aren’t Blue by George M. Johnson, a “memoir-manifesto” of growing up queer and Black, was published in April 2020. In the six years since its publication, it has been one of the most frequently banned and challenged books in the United States. It ranked in the top 10 most frequently challenged books in 2022, 2023, 2024, and 2025. It also got rave reviews from professional book review magazines, was a New York Times best seller, and received many accolades from various media outlets.

The book was challenged, banned, and removed from multiple schools and libraries across the U.S. for containing LGBTQ+ content and for being sexually explicit. This isn’t surprising, unfortunately. In the past 10 years, the overwhelming majority of books that have been challenged and banned are because of LGBTQ+ or sexual content, as well as discussions of race, prejudice, and discrimination.

So, I sat down to read it.

All Boys Aren’t Blue is the story of Johnson’s life, beginning in kindergarten and ending with his college graduation. It has a violent start: Johnson gets his teeth kicked in when he and his cousins were jumped walking home from school. With that kind of start, I expected a trauma-laced memoir. However, All Boys Aren’t Blue is much sweeter than I anticipated

The book is divided into four sections: A Different Kid, Family, Teenagers, and Friends. “A Different Kid” is about Johnson’s early childhood. Johnson was effeminate and sassy from a young age, which made him stand out from the other children. While he might not have understood that he was gay yet, he did understand that he wasn’t like the other kids. Much of this section is about his experience growing up as a Black boy. One chapter I really liked was “‘Honest Abe’ Lied to Me.” It talked about the importance of teaching Black history, but also how Black history has been whitewashed in schools. The chapter title comes from the prevailing narrative that Abraham Lincoln freed enslaved people because he was a Good White Man, when the truth is more complicated.

He also takes on the thought-terminating cliché “it was the norm” when it comes to justifying enslavement. The book Cultish: The Langauge of Fanaticism by Amanda Montell introduced me to the term “thought-terminating cliché.” A thought-terminating cliché is a pithy phrase usually used to stop a conversation or dismiss an argument. You’ve probably heard and used dozens of these: it is what it is; everything happens for a reason; pray on it; it was the norm. A thought-terminating cliché discourages you from diving deeper into a topic. I don’t think all thought-terminating clichés are necessarily bad. Sometimes you really do just need to say “c’est la vie” and move on with your life. But when you become aware of thought-terminating clichés, you can ask yourself what the purpose of using it might be.

Johnson writes,

You’ll find that people often use the excuse ‘it was the norm’ when discussing racism, homophobia, and anything else in our history they are trying to absolve themselves of. Saying that something was ‘a norm’ of the past is a way not to have to deal with its ripple effects in the present. It removes the fact that hate doesn’t just stop because a law or the time changed. Folks use this excuse because they are often unwilling to accept how full of phobias and -isms they are themselves—or at least how they benefit from social structures that privilege them.

While most of the first section is about Johnson growing up as a Black boy, he also shares his early experiences of anti-queer sentiment. This is most notable in the chapters “Honeychild” and “F**s Play Football, Too.” Both of these chapters center around masculinity, and how Johnson’s peers perceive him for not conforming to their expectations of what boys should act like.

“Part 2: Family” is where we start getting into some of the controversery surrounding this book. Yet it’s also full of such tender stories of family love. It opens with a letter to Johnson’s younger brother, sharing memories of growing up together and looking towards the future. Later, there’s a loving letter to Johnson’s mother. Johnson explores his relationship with his father, and how they had a hard time connecting, until Johnson’s dad discovered their common interest in football.

The first section of this memoir didn’t mean much to me, but I’m also not the target demographic. This is where it started to resonate with me. Johnson and I are close in age, and I think our dads share the same characteristics of many men of their generation. They’re not always great at expressing emotion, but they show their love in other ways. For both of our dads, that means gifts and acts of service. While Johnson and his dad used sports as a way to connect, my dad and I used nature. He may not be a talkative person, but the way he always makes sure we’re prepared for a hike and does more than he needs to whenever I need a hand says it all.

Another sweet chapter is “Nanny: The Caregiver, the Hustler, My Best Friend.” Johnson talks about the ways his grandmother shaped his life, teaching him how to hustle at flea markets, and helping him start his own “business” selling candy. As he looks back on all the things Nanny did with him, he realizes that Nanny loved him in exactly the way that he needed.

It took me until the end of high school to realize what she was doing with all of this hustling. It wasn’t simply because she thought I was smart and should learn how to create income. It wasn’t simply because she wanted me to be a caring person who gave back to the community. She wanted me to be all those things, yes, but most importantly, she didn’t want me to be alone. [. . .] I was becoming isolated around the age of ten, and she saw it. [. . .] Like the natural born caregiver she was, my grandmother frequently placed me before herself. Even if that meant she was carrying a young child with her everywhere, she wasn’t going to let me be alone. Nanny decided that she would be my circle.

Every child should be so lucky as to have a grandmother like Nanny.

The chapter “Losing Hope” is where I expected most of the controversy to lie. Hope was Johnson’s cousin, a trans woman. Some of the controversy comes from the inclusion of a trans person, which is enough to get many books challenged today. It doesn’t matter that nothing salacious happens in the chapter, only that Hope exists and her family loves and supports her. That’s enough to challenge a book.

But another part of the controversy comes from the language Johnson uses. At the start of the chapter he uses Hope’s deadname and calls her a boy. At the very beginning, Johnson writes “I’m going to write this in the only language I knew at the time—in my adolescent years before I had a full understanding of transphobia and the actions that feed into it.”

This chapter is full of love and admiration for Hope. She helped Johnson understand that he was queer, and that the LGBTQ+ community exists. At the beginning of the chapter Johnson and Nanny learn that Hope is transitioning. Johnson refers to Hope by her chosen name throughout the chapter, though initially the other members of his family use her deadname. The whole family eventually starts calling Hope by her name and using the correct pronouns. Johnson is still young, and he’s learning about gender identity along with his family. As they do, their language changes.

As a cis person, I didn’t have a problem with this. If Johnson had kept calling Hope by her deadname or continued using the wrong pronouns, it would have been an issue for me. Johnson learned and changed his language when he was a kid; the way he’s written this chapter reflects that evolution. It makes narrative sense. Yet, I think critiques of this chapter for the language Johnson uses are totally valid as well.

A couple years ago I went to BAM! – Books, Art, Music Festival in West Palm Beach, FL. There are some big name authors at the event every year, running panels and signing books.1 George M. Johnson was a featured author one a panel about YA books and metal health. At the panel, the authors were asked if there was anything in their books that they would write differently now, and Johnson mentioned this chapter. He wasn’t certain if he would or should change it for future reprints. So if you’re waffling on your feelings on this chapter, don’t worry: Johnson is too.

That brings us to “Part 3: Teenagers.”

This is also the section of the book where Johnson writes about experiencing sexual abuse. If you’d rather not read this, skip down to “Part 4: Friends” in bold letters.

Johnson was sexually abused by an older male cousin. In plain text, Johnson details what this cousin did to him. It’s graphic and deeply uncomfortable to read. This chapter is also commonly cited as a justification for this book’s removal from schools and libraries. To be honest, I understand this reasoning. Johnson lived through a horrible thing, and of course I want to shield young people from it.

However, this isn’t a novel. This is a memoir, and it is something a real person survived. This event is ugly and disgusting, but it’s still part of Johnson’s story. Sexual abuse is also a part of many, many people’s real life stories.2 Survivors should be able to talk about their experiences. Sharing them can be healing, empowering, and can give comfort and guidance to others. If you can live through it, you should be allowed to read about it.

Many challenges to All Boys Aren’t Blue call this chapter pornographic. It is explicit, but I don’t find it pornographic. Pornography is hard to define, but I think the creator’s intention really matters. In my opinion, pornography is something that is purposefully created to arouse the audience. Sexual assault, especially when it involves a minor, should not be conflated with pornography. Even our language around sexual acts involving minors has changed in recent years. What was once commonly known as “child porn” is now referred to as child sex abuse material, or CSAM. That’s exactly what it is: abuse.

This chapter was the most troubling for me to read, for many reasons. It was one of the rare times when I understood the complaints leveled at this book. It made me question who the intended audience is. While I believe that kids can and should read about hard things, should they read about it with this level of detail? If I were handing this book to someone in the library, what would I say?

I also want to talk about how the chapter ends. After he grew up, Johnson realized that his cousin had likely been sexually abused as well. He understands the probable reasons his cousin abused him. Johnson’s final note about this event in his life is really important:

This story is complicated, but I don’t want it to be confusing. I was an adult when I found empathy for my cousin, a choice I made in processing all that happened that night. I want to reiterate his actions were wrong, and I was a victim. It is not a requirement that you ever find empathy for an abuser. Make it a requirement to hold your abuser accountable.

The rest of this section is stories of high school and starting college, and what it was like for Johnson to hide his sexuality. There’s nothing as shocking as what we just read in this section, or in the rest of the book, for that matter.

Part 4: Friends

“Part 4: Friends” has another controversial chapter, entitled “Losing My Virginity Twice” which recounts Johnson’s first consensual sexual experiences. There are straightforward details, like before, but the descriptions of sex are short. Because it’s between two consenting adults, it’s also not nearly as uncomfortable to read. He also makes that point that sex should be pleasurable, and you should be able to tell your partner when something doesn’t feel good — a lesson that everyone should take to heart, no matter their gender or orientation.

Finally, the book concludes with the unexpected death of one of Johnson’s frat brothers, college graduation, and an afterword from Johnson. In it, he writes,

Whether this book is a bestseller or a flop, if one person is helped by my story, then it was all worth it.

Then I had to figure out how I felt about it.

I guess the first thing that I would say about the book is that it’s fine. The prose isn’t bad, but it’s not stellar. Many of Johnson’s stories are very sweet. I didn’t get much out of it as a reader. That’s okay. I’m not the target audience. I’m sure that this book has been deeply meaningful to many people; I’m just not one of them.

When I read a challenging book like this, I ask myself, “as a librarian, who would I hand this to?”

With All Boys Aren’t Blue, that’s a really difficult question. Not because I think it should be removed, but because the sexual content gives me pause. As much as I want young queer and BIPOC individuals to be able to see themselves in their books, I wouldn’t hand this to a child or young teen. I would recommend this to someone 16 or older, which is prime time for figuring out who you are. While I have mixed feelings on trigger warnings, I would also recommend that this hypothetical reader read the author’s note at the start of the book, since the memoir goes into some sensitive territory.

My library does not have a separate call number for teen non-fiction. All non-fiction is shelved either in the children’s or adult sections.** All Boys Aren’t Blue is shelved in the adult section, and I think that’s the right choice. While I don’t think this book is appropriate for elementary or middle school libraries, I’d argue that it does belong in high school libraries.

I will leave you with Johnson’s words from a letter he wrote at in defense of All Boys Aren’t Blue, which was facing a book ban in New Jersey. You can read more about this library board meeting at PEN America or Buzzfeed.

So in this hunt to protect teens, does it ever cross your mind that removing or restricting this life-saving story for LGBTQ students only harms them more or how removing this life-saving story for Black teens harms them? Or do you not care? That’s really what this fight is over — removing LGBTQ stories and Black stories.

National Sexual Assault Hotline (US): 1-800-656-4673
Online chat Available

National Domestic Abuse Hotline (US)
1−800−787−3224
1-800-787-3224 (TTY)
En Espanol

Rape, Abuse, Incest National Network (RAINN)

List of Domestic Abuse Hotlines (Worldwide)

Rape Crisis Network Europe
+44 (0)141 331 4180
info@rapecrisisscotland.org.uk

National Child Abuse Hotline (US)
Call: 1-800-422-4453
Text: 1-800-422-4453

GLAAD Resource List
The Trevor Project
Lifeline: 1-866-488-7386
Text: START to 678-678
Online chat available
National Center for Transgender Equality
Parents, Family & Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG)
Trans Peer Support Lifeline (US): 877-565-8860
Q Chat Space
Mermaids Helpline (UK): 0844 334 0550
Asexuality Visibility and Education Network (AVEN)

  1. I also meet Elliot Schreffer there, author of The Darkness Outside Us. As he signed my book I told him he needed to apologize for making me cry at work. He refused. ↩︎
  2. According to a study from the United States Health and Human Servies, between the years 2009-2013, 63,000 children annually experience sexual abuse. Read more at RAINN.com: Facts and Statistics: The Scope of the Problem ↩︎

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 26: The End

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! Due to a lot of reasons, I wasn’t able to write a story every day this month, and that’s okay. I always like my last flash fic to be some kind of reflection on the month, so here’s this year’s. Now I’m going to take a well-earned nap.

It was agreed on by all: a strange summer.

The poet did her best. Yet her beloved husband was on one side of the river, scouting new territories. She remained on the other, writing and educating youth on their civic duties.

The writing was difficult. Those bursts of passion and creativity that came to her each summer were few and far between. She was alone, and at times struggling, and some days no words came at all.

She learned that she could not take on all the responsibilities of the world by herself. Sometimes she had to rest.

Sometimes there would be no words, and that things would not fall apart because there were no words.

As summer drew to a close, and the poet wished the youth good luck in their futures, she looked North, toward the river.

She had not written as much as she thought she would, but she was satisfied.

She was ready to cross the river.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 25: Valjean Suite

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. 

Many apologies to Victor Hugo.

what have i done sweet Jesus what have i done

One day more.

Jean Valjean was ready.

“I did not live until today,” Marius crooned. “How can I live when we are parted?”

Valjean swooped in between the young couple. “You don’t even know her! You met, like, two songs ago, and now you’re just going to DIE because we’re moving?”

He socked Marius in the nose.

Eponine looked to the sky. “One more day on my own…”

Valjean put his hands on Eponine’s shoulders. “GIRL. He doesn’t love you. You need to move on. You absolutely do NOT need to die on the barricades for this man.”

“You’re one of my dearest friends,” Marius started.

Eponine punched him, saving Valjean the trouble.

Valjean sat Enjolras down. “KEEP YOUR FUCKING POWDER DRY.” He held up a massive fist. “Or the army will be the least of your problems!”

The Thénardiers schemed.

Valjean kicked in a grate to the Paris sewers. “I’m using my considerable wealth to send your kids to London so they don’t die on the barricade.”

He threateningly held up a stale baguette. “But I’ve been wanting to do this for years.”

The bread thrashing would follow the Thénardiers for the rest of their miserable lives.

Somewhere on a bridge in Paris, Inspector Javert looked at the stars.

A revolution in the air. A fugitive running.

Valjean materialized behind Javert. “IT HAS BEEN TWENTY FUCKING YEARS. You could have done so much in that time. Find a nice girl and settle down. Write a novel. Start a hobby. But you didn’t. And this ends now.”

“You know nothing of Javert,” the inspector warned.

“I’m the stronger man by far,” Valjean countered.

They fought.

But not for long.

With a cry of “I’M JEAN FUCKING VALJEAN,” Valjean roundhouse kicked that motherfucker into the Seine.

The audience watched in horror as “One Day More,” one of the most beloved songs from an already beloved musical turned into…this.

Many audience members went to complain.

Their complaints were silenced as Valjean’s actor appeared behind them.

Wielding two baguettes.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 24: Knight and Doc

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. Story dedicated to my friend Sam, the inspiration for Patches, and one of my oldest and best friends.

Battlefield clean-up was far from glorious. Lady Rune Lostsabre and the medic she was bound to protect, Patches, were some of the few figures standing among the dead and wounded. Rune had been prepared for gore and destruction — in the past she’d caused plenty of it herself — but you never got used to the smell. Even with the smear of ocimea oil under her nose, the reek of death still stung her nostrils.

Patches primed the scanner. A grid of blue light settled over roughly one quarter of the battlefield that was his to monitor. Rune circled him, eyes sharp, shield raised. Medics weren’t permitted to carry weapons; their protector had only shields. Rune had forgone the standard lightweight energy shields most soldiers preferred. Hers was enhanced, of course — she wasn’t stupid — but she preferred the heft of a real metal shield.

Patches’s scanner chirped, indicating that it was ready to start scanning the area. Gray light filtered over the dead bodies. Blue marked wounded allies and red marked wounded enemies. The light trickled over the area: gray, gray, gray.

Green.

Green meant alive, unhurt, and neither friend nor enemy. The rarest color in clean-up. But it was tucked underneath a pile of gray.

“Careful,” Rune warned the doc. She’d known Patches half her life now. They’d both started in Basic together. He was prone to running headlong into things without thinking of the consequences. Admittedly, Rune was similar, but it was her sworn duty to keep him alive. “Scene isn’t safe.”

“It’s never safe,” Patches said, and moved toward the green mark. Rune matched his stride, but let him roll over the dead body on top of Green.

Greens were usually civilians, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. They usually were panicked or in shock, and grateful to see anyone who wasn’t pointing a weapon at them. Underneath the dead body, Green was alert. “Damn!”

He leaped to his feet. Rune had only a second to assess. Chainmail boots. Bits of armor stolen from both armies. Beads in knotted hair that were actually small explosives, and a push knife in either hand. A war scavenger. Nasty, dangerous business, but a lucrative one.

Green charged toward Patches. He thrust one of the knife points towards Patches’s neck.

Rune intercepted the scavenger in a second. Her heater shield went up, blocking Green’s first blow, then the next. Rune flicked on the dial to burn mode.

Green ran at Patches again. Rune swung her shield, bashing Green in the side of his head. He staggered, his flesh already reddening. Rune tilted the shield back and jabbed its pointed end into Green’s throat.

He fell, stunned and whimpering in pain.

Green’s color marker changed to purple. Wounded non-combatant.

“Thanks for that,” Patches said, shaking his head.

“No worries. You want me to arrest him first, or you wanna fix him up first?”

“Arrest him. Once he’s immobile we can triage the rest.”

Rune set about cuffing the scavenger, and Patches looked over the battlefield. He was duty bound to heal all he could, even the enemy. And Rune was sworn to protect him, with only a shield.

It was an ugly job. A hard one.

Rune finished with the scavenger. “You good?”

Patches sighed. “Not really.”

Rune squeezed his shoulder. “You know, when I was transferred to Med Corps. I was pissed. Then I found out you were the doc I got assigned to. And I thought, ‘Great, the trouble twins are together again.'” Patches smiled at their old nickname from Basic. “But I was glad. ‘Cause I knew you’d have my back.”

“And your blood,” Patches added with a small laugh.

Rune punched him lightly in the shoulder. She may have been a universal human donor — and living blood bag in a pinch — but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

“I was glad too,” Patches said. “Cause I’d knew you’d have my back.”

“Right. Let’s do this.”

Knight and Doc went into the battlefield, fire-forged friends.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 22-23: My name is Jean Valjean

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. I had to take a few days off FFM. It’s been difficult to write this year, but with a little encouragement from the FFM Discord, I found enough inspiration to write two very different Les Mis fanfictions. The first is just a fan theory of mine, and the second  is…well, you’ll see. Remixes of the latter story are highly encouraged.

Painless

Jean Valjean does not feel pain. Not in Toulon, where he slept in chains. Not down in the mud of Montreuil-sur-Mer, lifting a wagon with his back. Not even when he branded himself with a red hot poker.

His strength is that of an oridnary man’s. He simply cannot feel the pain of his deeds.

Until Cosette cries. She is his light, and everything he has done since she came into his life was all for her.

That is a pain that he cannot bear.

And if he must go to the barricades to soothe that pain, so be it.

Jean Valjean Beats Up Everyone

2

“Your time is up and your parole’s begun. You know what that means.” Inspector Javert snarled down at the convict.

Jean Valjean socked him in the mouth with a cross jab.

4


“Let’s not haggle for darling Cosette,” crooned Thénardier.

Valjean swung a mean right hook into Thénaedier’s kidneys.

6

Eponine’s scream rang out. Valjean raced outside and uppercut the nearest would-be-thief.

0

Valjean would have hidden Cosette away from all the ugliness of the world if he could. But now her happiness hung with Marius’s survival. Valjean would see that Marius lived, no matter the cost.

1


For decades Javert and Valjean circled each other, knives drawn. Javert had always known that Valjean was a monster. Valjean had tried for most of his life to believe that he was not. Now, the man who had dogged him his entire life was tied up and fully at Valjean’s mercy.

Valjean was living proof that a man could change. He could rise above the sins of the past. He could do the one thing that Javert could never do.

Jean Valjean could forgive.

He punched Javert in the face.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 21: Well-Wishers

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July.

It’s just gotten really hard to write lately. Too many life changes, too much stress, not enough self-care. It’s like the well’s gone empty.

Metaphorically. Because of the heads. I don’t take them out of the well.

I know it sounds gruesome, but hear me out. First of all, the heads are well-preserved and don’t harm the water quality at all. Second, some of them predict the future. Four of them, actually. One speaks in riddles, one forecasts the weather, one is actually helpful, and one is still mentally stuck in the 700s and can only make predictions up to the year 1500. But it’s the future for him.

The other three provide me with wisdom. Except for the one who only speaks in thought-terminating clichés. But whenever I bring that up she just says, “let people enjoy things.”

I guess there are a couple heads in there that I don’t need, but those are the heads of my enemies. They’ve earned an eternity of humiliation.

Actually, they’ve taught me a few creative swears. So they can stay, too.

Point is, one of the wisdom heads says that I need to take care of myself and not put too much pressure to write a story every day in July. Things are tough right now and it’s okay to relax take breaks when I can.

The thought-terminating cliché head says that “happiness is a choice.” Maybe I should get rid of that one.

My other future head says that horseshoes are going to be a big hit, so look forward to that.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 20: Not Quite A Glow-Up

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. Today’s story is a 369er, 3 separate but related stories, each using only 69 words.

Solar Ivybell’s phone pinged with the news that she’d been waiting to receive for 33 years: Eris’s Comet to Make Earth Fly-By September 8. Solar had been 16 when it last came to Earth, carrying Eridians that had fed on Earthlings’ memories and implanted false ones. Thankfully, Solar had discovered the magical power to hurl them back into space, as long as she had her beloved, equally magical friends.

Angel Moonwater and Lotus Fallenbloom hadn’t talked to Solar in years. Not since Solar had made a drunken maid of honor speech at their wedding, made the day all about her, and used her sacred magic to literally shine on the dance floor. “Do we really need to team up with her?” Lotus groaned. “Eridians are bad, but she’s a sparkly disaster. I’d almost prefer the Eridians invade instead.”

Angel and Lotus found an Eridian scout before the main force arrived. Angel interrupted its declaration of revenge. “We’re not going to hurt you. Instead, we have a request.” The Eridian snapped its pincers, curious. “Can you eat the memories from our wedding and implant a new one? Something happy.” The Eridian obliged. When Solar texted them about the impeding invasion, they happily reunited to kick some alien butt.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 19: Maize Maze

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. More notes at the end of the story.

“We’ll never find it.” Janine and I had been in the corn maze for hours. The sun was getting low and the sky was already turning pink. We’d already found the exit, but had doubled back to the center of the maze when Janine realized she’d left her phone in the center of the maze. “And the place is gonna close soon. Can we please just let someone know and head home? I’m sure someone’ll find it and call you in the morning.”

“On what phone, Hillary?” Janine snapped. Even though her earbuds weren’t connected to anything, Janine still had them in. She’d been listening to music the whole time we were in the maze.

“Give them your mom’s number. Or mine. But it’s getting seriously creepy here.” The corny Halloween decorations—plastic skeletons and scarecrows with pumpkin heads—strewn throughout the maze hadn’t bothered me in the full daylight. But in the setting sun they cast long shadows that kept making me do double-takes. The beautiful October afternoon had turned chilly and windy. I shivered. “Let’s just go.”

“My whole life is on that phone. I’m not leaving without it.”

I knew how she felt. Janine had years of photos saved on it, a ton of apps, not to mention the phone number of everyone who mattered (and a few people who didn’t). She hated to be apart from it. Even in class, when she was forced to put it away, she would put her hand in her pocket every few minutes like she was making sure it was still there.

A gust of wind blew through the stalks. Dry leaves rustled against one another. It sounded like the field whispering.

“Please.” I shivered. “Let’s go. You know this place closes at sunset.” I glanced up at the bruise-colored sky. “Which is about ten minutes from now. We need to find the exit.”

As if on cue, the PA system that had been playing “Monster Mash” shut off. All I could hear was the wind, crickets, and Janine’s angry, “No!” She stomped deeper into the maze.

“Janine, please!” I grabbed the sleeve of her sweater. “We’ve gotta go!”

The sun disappeared below the horizon. A crackly voice on the PA system announced that Barley Farms would be closing in five minutes. That wasn’t enough time to get out.

Somewhere behind a row of corn I heard footsteps. Probably staff.

Maybe staff.

I hoped staff.

“Let go!” Janine tugged her arm out of my grip. She squinted in the dying light. “Where’s your phone? We need a flashlight.”

“I didn’t bring it.”

“You what?” Her voice rose into a squeak.

“Because I wanted to spend time with you for a change! Not you and your stupid phone!”

Janine opened her mouth to yell when a low howling sound floated over the maze. It sounded like a wolf, then turned into a mournful moan. “The hell is that?” Janine grabbed on to my arm.

A distorted man’s voice rolled over us:

And in the death
As the last few corpses lay rotting on the slimy thoroughfare
The shutters lifted an inch in temperance building, high on Poacher’s Hill

Janine’s breath caught. “What is that?”

“I told you we had to leave before dark!” I tugged arm back towards where I thought the exit lay. “Weird shit happens here!”

And red mutant eyes gazed down on Hunger City
No more big wheels
Fleas the size of rats sucked on rats the size of cats

This time Janine didn’t fight me. We jogged down the paths while the man kept speaking.

And ten thousand peoploids split into small tribes
Coveting the highest of the sterile skyscrapers
Like packs of dogs assaulting the glass fronts of Love-Me Avenue

In the dark, we didn’t see the roots sticking out of the ground. Roots that I would swear hadn’t been there when we walked in the maze hours before. Janine face-planted, jaw smashing against the hard ground.

“Are you okay?” I asked. She started to get up, blood falling down her chin.

She screamed. “Oh my God something just touched my ankle! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God—”

We ran. I didn’t know where we were going. I could barely see anything but the stalks in front of me.

“I can hear music!” Janine said with panting breaths. “It’s just a song!”

“‘This ain’t rock and roll!'” The man called out. “‘This is genocide!'”

We both screamed.

I don’t know how we found our way out of the maze. By the time we did, we were breathless and clinging to each other. We finally got back to Janine’s car. She locked the door as soon as we got in.

“God.” I ran a shaky hand through my bangs. “The haunted corn maze was actually haunted.”

“M-maybe.” She looked at the holder connected to her air vent where her phone normally sat. “It’s okay. I know how to get home from here.”

I noticed then that she didn’t have her air pods. They must have fallen out during our mad dash for the exit. “Damn. And you lost your earbuds too.”

“Huh?” Janine touched her empty ears. “I guess they’re gone forever.”

That was not the reaction Janine would have had a few hours ago. “You don’t want to go back and look tomorrow?”

She shook her head furiously. “Never again.”

“It’s all junk anyway,” I said.

“Yeah.” Janine started the car. “It’s all junk.”

It’s my favorite challenge: David Bowie Day! Celebrating the 40th anniversary of the movie Labyrinth, which was my introduction to David Bowie.

ELEMENT 1: Your story must take place in a labyrinth. Easy, right? Too easy? Well, since you were all begging for more Bowie…

OPTIONAL ADD-ON ELEMENTS:

♫ UNDERGROUND: Include a reference to the movie Labyrinth in some way, shape or form. I really wanted to have a reference to the worm, but “it’s all junk!” worked better.

♫ DANCE, MAGIC DANCE: Someone in the story must be listening to a song from our David Bowie song randomizer. I got “Future Legend” and “Janine.” “Future Legend” is so spooky~

♫ AS THE WORLD FALLS DOWN: Include something forgotten. Janine forgets her phone in the maze.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 18: The Queen and the Seal Lord, Pt. 3

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. This is the final part of “The Queen and the Seal Lord” which was really only supposed to be one story but I got carried away. I also know that the description of Raghnall should have come sooner in the story, but between the first story and this one I decided that selkies have dad bod and I needed to include it.

Part 1
Part 2

Raghnall ducked his head under the waves. He was still trapped in human for, his knees weak, stomach roiling. He trembled, but that had nothing to do with the ocean’s chill. His seal coat was moving further inland, carried by someone with intent to do him harm. And he was forced to rely on Queen Gráinne — the same queen that just slapped him for insubordination — to return it.

A small pod of Raghnall’s trusted companions encircled him. Two were in seal form, swimming around him. The third stood on two legs, holding a net and trident and standing alert.

Réalta should have been among them. Her death was too recent to inspire grief in the selkie pod, only anger. If Raghnall survived this, he would see Réalta’s killers flayed.

Raghnall poked his head out from the water and breathed out a sigh. The shaking in his slightly webbed fingers stopped. Gráinne had his seal coat, and she was bringing it to him.

As soon as the queen arrived on the shore, her mount dark with sweat, she ran towards the sea. The selkies let her pass. Wordlessly, Gráinne held the seal coat out to Raghnall.

He donned it quickly, human feet becoming fins once more. He barked once, then dove into the ocean. The pod followed him.

A week later, Gráinne received a request for an audience. “He’s here now, my queen,” the courier said, almost apologetically. Few would be so bold to just assume the queen had the time or inclination to meet with them.

“Is he dressed?” Gráinne asked.

The courier’s pale cheeks turned pink. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Send him in.”

As a seal, Raghnall was svelte and strong; as a man, the extra blubber from his seal form settled on his limbs and torso. His whiskers had become a Van Dyke mustache and beard, which Gráinne felt rather suited him. He wore black trousers that had been patched multiple times, an open-breasted red shirt that popped against his gray skin, and a long, dark coat. At the collar was a with an embossed elk antler, marking him as a privateer.

“Hardly a suitable wardrobe to meet the queen in, but at least you have one this time,” Gráinne remarked. She stood up from her writing desk to greet him.

Raghnall bowed at the waist. “Was that a joke, Your Majesty?”

“They’ve been known to happen,” Gráinne replied once he’d straightened.

“I’m afraid at our last meeting I wasn’t thinking clearly. But I bring you thanks from Réalta’s family for returning her coat to them.” Raghnall reached into his pocket and produced two pink studs, shined to a polish: coral earrings. “They asked me to give you these.”

“Thank you.” Gráinne gingerly took the earrings from his hand. Most selkies owned few things, but loved what they had fiercely. “Please tell her family I will treasure them.” She replaced her carved bone earrings with the coral. “From what I knew of her, Réalta was clever and strong.”

“I couldn’t have asked for a better first mate.” Raghnall cleared his throat to keep tears from his voice. “I’d like to apologize to you as well, Ma’am.”

The notion of Raghnall apologizing for anything was so unexpected, Gráinne had to clap her hand over her mouth to stifle a burst of laughter. “Raghnall. You’ve sunk my ships. Raided my shores. I nearly hanged you once.”

Raghnall rubbed at his throat. “‘Nearly’ is the operative word.”

“And never once did you apologize for piracy. So what did you do that was so egregious to warrant one now?”

Raghnall looked away from her, and Gráinne realized that he was trying to hide his embarrassment. Until now, she wasn’t sure he’d even been capable of that particular emotion. “You retrieved my coat without hesitation, even after I blatantly disrespected you. Once I had it back, I did not even thank you.”

Gráinne shrugged a shoulder. “You’ve disrespected me for years. I wasn’t going to let you die out of spite.”

“Except for all the times you actually did try to kill me.”

“That’s different.” Gráinne actually smiled. Her royal duties kept her on land now, but Gráinne remembered her days fostered at sea as some of the best of her life. “The one time I did manage to arrest you—”

“And nearly hang me,” Raghnall added, unhelpfully.

“I decided to keep you instead.”

The seal lord blinked his inky eyes several times. “What am I supposed make of that?”

Gráinne thought a moment. “That our discussion about Hy-Brasil and your kin crossing the barrier is not finished, I suppose. And that at our next meeting, I expect you clothed.”

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 17: Trunk Stories

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. 

It started with a composition notebook, black and white splotches on the cover. Gradually, the lined pages filled up with words. Every time the writer closed its cover, it was hidden away: under the bed, in the pillow case, between the mattress and the box spring. The writer knew those words were fragile.

No, not the words. She was fragile, and those words were pieces of her. Their secrets being seen by anyone would be exposing herself to the world.

Time passed. More composition books were filled up. Stories, songs, poems. They remained hidden.

When it was time to leave home, the writer (though she feared anyone discovering that she was a writer), took them with her. First to a dorm room, then an apartment, then a house. Then another house, where a plastic crate of composition books were put in the attic.

More time passsed. The writer died. Soon, her son and granddaughter were cleaning out the house. The granddaughter found the crate.

“Grandma wrote all these?” The granddaughter’s dark eyes went wide.

“Wow,” the son said. “She told me that she wrote her first novel when she was sixteen. She never let me read it. Said it was terrible.”

The granddaughter put her hand on one of the dusty covers. “Grandma started when she was my age.”

“Mm-hmm.” He considered the crate, his daughter, and his mother. “Do you want to keep them?”

“Yeah!” The granddaughter smiled with tears in her eyes. She found the oldest notebook, its spine broken. Her grandmother’s writing filled the pages, and the granddaughter’s mind.

The son let his daughter alone with the books. They were not for him.

They were for his daughter, holding on to a piece of her grandmother that only she got to see.