The Music Celebrates With Me: A TG Mixed Tape

An unfortunate man, lost in a cave, a mysterious voiced calling him deeper. A witch with an acid tongue and an advice column. A travelling showman who is more than the charlatan he appears to be. Hit play on the latest Mixed Tape collection for all these stories AND MORE!

The music blared in my ear and I glanced down at my phone. That wasn’t right. I tried pausing the playlist, but the music just wouldn’t stop. Even the skip button wasn’t doing a damn bit of good.

“What the fuck?” I stopped in my tracks fiddling with my phone and tried to turn it off, but even that wouldn’t work. I gave up and reached up to yank the earbuds out of my ears, but even though I was pulling as hard as I could they wouldn’t pop free.

Something odd was going on, the only damn thing the phone would tell me was that the song was part of a playlist called “The Mixed Tape.”

You know, I thought to myself, it’s really not that bad. I grinned and took off running again. What was I so worried about anyway? It was just a stupid little song. Was my chest bouncing? That didn’t seem right.

Next time, I went for a jog, I really needed to wear a sports bra. What could I have been thinking? I thought about going back home, but I was really just getting into the groove of things. A good work out was like a good dance, if I quit and went back now I’d screw up my rhythm.

I slowed and smiled as I approached Jessie’s place. I had a thing for her, but we were just friends. Maybe that would change. I undid my ponytail glanced down at my chest and smiled. I wished I was a little more presentable, but my heart told me that this was the time. I swallowed hard and with slow furtive steps I found myself at her doorstep. I reached up to knock and…

“Jessie!” I grinned pulling my earbuds free as the door swung open. She looked like she was ready to go out for a jog herself, but that didn’t stop me. “So listen, I was thinking that we could go out sometime.”

He straddled his usual stool at the bar and settled in. “Hey Lucas.”

“It’s Nate, right? What’ll you have?”

“Whiskey, neat. So what’s going on tonight?”

“Not much. Matt wanted to try a sort of honky-tonk drag performance later on and got Anne to help with the hair and makeup.” He handed him his glass. Nate let a sip burn his tongue and throat.

“It’s not much of a wardrobe change, is it?”

“Not unless he wants to dress as a saloon girl. So how’s work?”

The cup hung and swung from his fingers. “Can’t complain. The guys have been real professional on the build site. I mean, professional for them. They haven’t tried flirting with me for a while at least.”

“So you’re starting to feel accepted?”

He gave a sideways nod. “Sort of. It’s- I mean, they’re treating me like one of the guys but it’s more like ‘It’s awesome that we have a girl who can act like she’s one of us.’ You know what I mean?”

“It sounds like when I first came out to a girl friend of mine. ‘You’re gay? That’s so awesome! I always wanted to have a gay bestie to go shopping with me!’ “

Nate was joined in a laugh of camaraderie. “What, like clothes shopping? She saw how you dress, right?”

“Yeah, I have no idea what she was thinking either. We don’t talk much these days.”

“It’s not bad exactly. I mean, it’s not like I’m out at work or anywhere other than here so what should I expect? But there’s a difference between being treated like one of the guys and being treated like a man, right? I’m not exactly sure what it is but I feel like I’ll know it when I see it.”

A tall, dark and familiar woman came around the corner from the entrance. “You know if anyone’s up for pool tonight?”

“Hey Christie. Anne’s still back there helping folks with makeup so you might want to wait until they clear out. You might be able to play around them.”

Nate could not help but stare in his state. “You are looking damn cute tonight. If you can’t find a pool game maybe you’ll let me buy you a drink?”

“Fuck off, Nate. You know I don’t swing that way,” she said with a friendly smirk before making her exit to the back room.

He downed the remainder of his drink. “Eh, I’ll take it,” he said as he pointed to his glass for a refill.

Duane S Hall does not wish to be confused with the representative from North Carolina, any practicing physician or the playwright Duane R. Hall from Portland, Oregon. He currently lives and works in the American South and is fascinated by its approach to gender and sexuality. His stories can be found on Bigcloset and Fictionmania.

I've gotten several questions about gender curses lately, so I thought I'd answer a few today! - M.

DEAR MORGANA:

My boyfriend and I were cleaning an old house when a shelf collapsed on him, hitting him with a number of cursed objects. He wasn't hurt, but now he's stuck as a submissive cheerleading sissy bimbo she-male French maid, mincing about in his lingerie, corsets, petticoats, and sky-high heels. He's even gotten breast implants and started taking female hormones, and is talking about gender reassignment surgery! Please, how can I get my boyfriend back?

DEVOTED GIRLFRIEND

DEAR DEVO (are they not men?):

What a jumble! Unfortunately, at this point I don't think you can untangle that mess, but maybe you can find someone willing to swap bodies with him. (Which might be the only curse he managed to avoid!)

*

DEAR MORGANA:

I think my girlfriend put a curse on me. She caught me with another girl, and ever since then I've been sneaking around every night dressed up in my sister's and mother's clothes! My mom almost caught me, and it's all I can do to keep myself from going to school in one of their dresses! What can I do?

PUNISHED FOR ONE MISTAKE?

DEAR MISS TAKE:

That's terrible! You should not be taking your mother's or sister's clothes without permission! Shame on you. And frankly it's irrelevant whether you're under a curse or just a closet crossdresser, since either way you're still a lying, thieving cheat. Your path is clear: you must come out to the women in your life, admit your wrongdoing, profess your effeminate desires, and throw yourself at their mercy. Confession is good for the soul! (And go buy some pretty new clothes of your own!)

DEAR MORGANA:

When our baby cries at night my husband refuses to get up because I'll sometimes end up having to breastfeed, so he says it’s a waste of his time. Anyway, after one crack too many about how he "wasn't equipped" to help, I paid to have him cursed with a lovely pair of lactating breasts. He's been a terrible sport about the whole thing, complaining how embarrassing it is, especially when he binds his breasts for work and ends up leaking milk and wetting his shirt during a meeting! And he still won't assist with the feedings! Help!

COWED

DEAR MRS. COW:

Congratulations on the new baby! I hope it's a girl. (If not, that's easily fixed.) Marriage is all about division of labor. If Mr. Cow is expressing "lactation intolerance" for being a wet nurse for the nighttime feedings, just be perfectly clear that you expect him to handle the daytime feedings. Breastfeeding in public is perfectly natural! His co-workers will understand. And his leakage is his own fault, binding his engorged breasts like that...he just needs a comfortable nursing bra and maybe a breast pump if his cups still runneth over. (Plus, it'll give him something to do during those long conference calls!)

Jenny North has lately been posting stories on Fictionmania and is really enjoying talking about herself in the third person. If you enjoy sexy/funny stories with a magic twist, she suggests you might enjoy her behind-the-magic story, “DMGC: The Department of Magical Gender Change.” But if you’re in the mood for a sitcom, “My Uncle Fifi” brings the giggles! (And has a sequel on the way!)

This is a short, hopefully snappy, hopefully practical, guide to some common terminology. So it goes without saying that there’ll be a lot of “Use this term!” and “Be careful with that one!” ahead.

Using the right words is important. However, these words and phrases are likely to make up only a fraction of the words you write and speak. And to my mind, it’s the intentions behind, the context developed, the generosity and empathy evidenced in each sentence and in the whole of a conversation or a piece, that truly matter.

I highly recommend taking the time to read Julia Serano’s essay A Personal History of the “T-word” (and some more general reflections on language and activism)which is an excellent model for how we should think about the language outlined below.

For the sake of brevity I’ve set aside cross dressing terminology for a future article. All that needs to be said here is that you should not refer to a transgender person as a transvestite. While they share a prefix, they are very different things. Transvestite is a word that carries a lot of baggage with it and should only be used with permission.

Now, without any further preamble…

SEX refers to the biological differences between men and women, which include internal and external sex organs, chromosomes, hormonal profiles and the workings and development of the mind. These latter differences are the reason why referring to trans people as BIOLOGICALLY or BORN MALE OR FEMALE is wrong (use the phrase, ASSIGNED <INSERT SEX HERE> AT BIRTH instead).

GENDER describes a spectrum of social constructs, almost all of which are categorised as either MASCULINE, FEMININE, or some mixture of the two.

Gender and sex are often used interchangeably. It’s easy to understand why this happens. The term “SEX” is one that comes with a lot of baggage, referring as it frequently does to acts and biology that many cultures deem “taboo”. Because of this, its usage may seem inappropriately crude and/or, because of the word’s status as an academic stand in for even “cruder”, more commonly used terms, formal. Try to write through this baggage and use these terms correctly.

GENDER IDENTITY refers to an individual’s inner sense of their gender. Their observable behaviour can be read as their GENDER EXPRESSION. These need not match.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION refers to the type of person that an individual is sexually attracted to. Trans peoples sexualities can be as varied, wonderful, messy, kinky or conservative as anyone else's.

~

TRANSITION refers to the process of altering one’s sex. This process may, but not necessarily, involve: coming out as trans, selecting a new name, changing one’s name on legal documents, hormone therapy and surgeries such as electrolysis to remove hair, the removal of the testes, modification of the face and upper body, or SEX REASSIGNMENT SURGERY (SRS).

Terms to avoid when discussion transitions include: PRE-OP, POST OP and SEX CHANGE.

Derived from terms transgender and transsexual, TRANS is an umbrella term that encompasses a wide variety of individuals who identities cannot be described by existing pervasive social constructs of gender.

Sometimes you’ll see trans written with an asterisk after it. TRANS* has its origins in search engine lingo, where the asterisk symbol denotes the position of the searched term. Therefore a search for trans* will return transgender, transexual, trans man, trans woman, and so on. The metaphor, as metaphors tend to be, is not that specific; the asterisk represents all the identities encompassed by the trans umbrella. This term is functionally the same as trans.

Do not use trans as a prefix. It should be a separate word, regardless of what Microsoft Word’s spelling and grammar checker says (it has tricked me many times, learn from my mistakes!). Words like transman and transwoman can be read to imply that the person referred to is not quite a man or not quite a woman. Until recently these terms were widely used within the trans community, but they do create a subtle distinction that many trans people are increasingly uncomfortable with.

The term TRANSSEXUAL refers to those who chose to transition to a gender other than the one assigned to them at birth. The term originated within the medical community, and has been used maliciously to pathologise the people it describes. Nevertheless, a significant number of trans people are proud to call themselves transsexuals. You should only use this term to describe either yourself or a trans person who has indicated that they are comfortable with the term, and with you using it.

Today, the majority of the trans community prefer the trans coined and/or popularised TRANSGENDER, which describes those whose gender identity and/or gender expression do not match their assigned gender. A person need not have transitioned, be transitioning, or have plans to transition to be transgender.

A CISGENDER person is someone whose assigned gender and gender identity match.

The word TRANSGENDERED is a no-no as it implies that something was done to the person/s referred to. Use TRANSGENDER PERSON, TRANSGENDER WOMAN or TRANSGENDER MAN.

Whenever possible refer to trans men as simply men, trans women as simply women, and those who identify as neither gender by their preferred descriptors.

Since Lana had moved into the nursing home he’d had his own space. That made things so much easier. Easier, and yet so much less exciting, less exhilarating. The element of being caught had gone. Though he knew it was impossible, he found that fantasising about being caught by his wife, having her threaten him, blackmail him perhaps, dominate him into staying in character really turned him on. Cuckolding didn’t enter his fantasy. He loved his wife dearly, it was just that he could no longer care for her. It was so much better for her where she was now, cared for twenty-four-seven, and he visited her as often as he could.

He slicked on his lippie in the mirror with a deft, practiced manoeuvre. His face was too square to ever pretend he looked good as a woman, that he could pass. He didn’t like it, wished it was softer, wished he could get rid of the cleft that made his chin look like an arse. He knew what they said behind his back. “Couldn’t tell his chin from his elbow!” Sometimes he just wanted to let loose on the ignorant pieces of shit who said stuff behind his back, but he just couldn’t do that. He couldn’t. It was too many years now, and he wasn’t the carefree young rebel he once was, or once could’ve been, if he’d wanted to.

He powdered his face and his décolletage. The breastforms were huge, way too big. If he could really become a woman he’d never want anything like these but his shoulders were still broad, still like Atlas carrying the cares of the world. If only he’d never grown so tall, because he loved the heels. Sure, he never played basketball, but in the knee-high lace-ups with the six inch heels and two inch platforms he banged his head going through doorways. And that was never a good idea! It was clumsy and must’ve looked real pathetic for someone supposed to be a graceful, elegant woman. Maybe not woman, because a maid would always be a girl, and that was his favorite dress, the maid dress, with the cap. He wanted his wife to order him round, have him cooking, cleaning, ironing. He wanted… he desired… no responsibility. No decision making. He wanted to make lives easier, to make his wife’s life easier, that was sort of what he figured was his raison-d’etre, but without the sheer drudgery of deciding how it was done. Sure, he was glad he was no longer the, what did they call it on Wall Street, Big Cheese? Or was he mixing terms? His memory wasn’t as good as he recalled, he figured it was just too full. It couldn’t be anything else, could it?

He looked down at the immutable contents of his lap and sighed. Why couldn’t the sun stop shining just for one day? Why couldn’t the world meet old, retired, disappeared Clark’s granddaughter Clara, investigative reporter and cheerleader extraordinaire?

Callie Messenger is a specialist in the creation and documentation of incomplete stories, especially in the realm of transgender fantasy. Though a master of this craft, occasionally she makes the mistake of writing a complete story, and in disgust throws these errors out into the public domain for others to recycle, burn or bury as they deem appropriate.

Like a lot of your mains you name her after a girl you know; which doesn’t matter since no one in your life is going to read the story anyway. She sat in front of you in the first lecture of your sociology class. The seats next to you were empty and you’d hoped they’d stay that way because you were sitting at the end of the row. You would, you told yourself, have moved over if you’d spied Jay, or Boyd, or Miranda, but you hadn’t seen any of them yet. Ms Park, the lecturer, asked you (not specifically, she addressed the room) to turn to the person nearest and introduce yourself, which was a pretty ordinary way to meet, but that’s how it happened. And truthfully, it was never an exceptional friendship.

You find out that she was born the day after Easter, and had once asked for eggs and rabbits so that she’d have twice as much chocolate as everyone else. She’d shot-putted in high school. She was big into Potter, and photography, and Spike Jonze and Michel Gondry, and had a favourite Egoraptor toon. You never talked about why she’d changed degrees, or anything going on in her life outside the subjects you shared, unless she brought it up which, after a couple of weeks, was hardly ever.

You think about her a lot. You write about her breasts and her manicured feather of pubic hair. You don’t write about the small smattery breakout below the hollow of her throat, or the way she squeezes the tip of her nose between her thumb and forefinger when she’s nervous – you try it yourself, once, twice, in front of the mirror and watch the little white wormies sprout – and how her body senses the seasons change before yours does, how she wets her lips as the humidity of The Wet turns to the chapping mildness of the The Dry. No one writes about things like that, and you can’t think of how to put them down in words. But you think about them all the time.

She should wear her hoopy earrings more, and the dress with the white trim on the collar, which she should cinch with the wide belt that looks like braided chocolate. She shouldn’t tie her hair back. Or write reminder messages on her wrists. They smudge, and her signature handwriting, charming in its scribbly way on paper, seems out of place on her skin. Though you only say these things to her in your mind. You’re not a reality TV makeover fairy. And she’s no fag hag.

“Well,” says Lieutenant Nix in chapter 8 of Defence Force Pacifica: Incursion, “I can’t keep calling you Aaron. Like you said, it feels weird.” (Later, much later, you’ll cringe at that line.)

“Call me Jessa,” you write without hesitation.

PersnicketyBitch is the creator of the Mixed Tape Anthologies. She is Australian, but don't hold that against her. If you do she will sic her pet drop bear on you.

"Mesdames et messieurs! I, Professor Pendergast, present through the wonders of optical science, a polychromatic panoply of panopticon illusions!"

Half the words sailed over the heads of the semi-literate farmers, showing their displeasure with a hail of peanut shells, popcorn bags and other debris.

“Philistines,” the old gentleman muttered, removing the remains of a candy-coated stick from his handlebar mustache. His suit fared worse, acquiring several colors in the span of thirty seconds. A quick wave, however, restored his ensemble to pristine condition.

“Cowards! Are none among you brave enough to experience these technological marvels?”

“Go back to the bughouse, you old coot!”

The burly Swede behind the insult let loose a jet of tobacco juice, splattering the Professor’s multi-hued trousers.

To the bust of Newton adorning the proscenium, the self-styled Professor whispered, “Forgive them, Sir Isaac, they know not what they do.”

The kite stalled, needing momentum and speed--and Walter lacked both.

He limped to where it lay suspended. A procession of older boys trailed behind, taunting:

“Crippled sissy, weak and prissy….”

Walter craved comfort from his rag doll, settling instead for a reassuring pat on the coat pocket where she “lived”.

“C’mon—cry, sissy!”

Walter turned to challenge them, but a sudden gust grabbed hold of his kite—and him. The bullies, upended by the blast, gawked.

He sped past newly-sown fields, slowing only yards from a certain Professor’s tent—not enough, however, to avoid a collision.

“Saboteurs! Summon the gendarmerie!” blurted the Professor, wielding his cane. His tone changed, however, upon seeing Walter.

“Dear girl, forgive me,” Pendergast said, brushing away the dust.

“I ain’t a girl!” Walter protested.

“My humblest apologies,” said Pendergast, bowing. “And your dolly’s name, sir?”

“Imogene.” Walter blushed, mortified at his slip. “How did--?”

“Mystic powers of the Orient.” Pendergast chuckled. “That, and she fell from your pocket.”

Seeing the child’s obvious distress, the Professor placed his hand on Walter’s shoulder. “Humbug though I am, I nonetheless sense a young girl’s soul,” he said. “You needn’t feel shame for desiring to join the fairer sex. I’ll help, should you choose.”

“I ain’t got money--.”

“Financial remuneration is unnecessary,” Pendergast said. “I’ll hold Imogene in trust. If you’re dissatisfied, I’ll return her.”

Walter, skeptical, hesitated.

“So, are we agreed? There’s no obligation.”

Walter tearfully surrendered Imogene.

“Excellent,” Pendergast said. “Follow me—Thomas Edison himself can’t top this!”

Pendergast led Walter to a silver-plated peep-show machine. “Turn the crank and behold your life.”

A girl, about seven, lay atop a sled--curls askew, face smudged. Walter winced. “That’s a girl??”

”Indeed. Did you expect a mere doll—without spirit?”

Walter, chastened, thought a moment. Then closing his eyes, he disappeared.

The former Walter found herselfcareening downhill, across a narrow road and under the belly of a passing horse. She jumped up, hollering and whooping.

“Amelia Mary Earhart, get in here this instant!” shrieked a distant voice.

Pendergast knew she’d perish young. But oh, how high she’d soar.

Rachel has been around longer than you might think, publishing her first story (the SRU tale “A Box Full of Dreams” as far back as 1999.

Rachel has this to say about her writing: "My TG fiction protagonists are young, usually child to early teen range, because they represent the child I wish I could have been--one who could freely live as her true gender at a very young age. Many are also disabled as well, a subject area not usually covered in TG fiction. I do this because I myself am disabled, having had cerebral palsy from birth, and I take the adage "Write what you know" to heart."

Let’s talk about Pride.

A lot of people have been posting “Straight Pride” images to social networks lately, in some sort of backlash against what they seem to think is a “LGBT agenda”. You’ve probably seen one or two. . .

I think that’s because most people (including some people of the LGBT persuasion) don’t understand why LGBT people call it Pride. You can’t be proud of your sexuality, any more than you can be proud of your skin color - you were born with it. You did nothing to achieve it; you risked nothing to gain it.

LGBT call it Pride because they have managed to change society to a point where they can live without fear. Without fear of being oppressed because they are different. Without fear of being denied basic human rights for being different. Without fear of being denied simple things that make life meaningful to them and their loved ones - like being allowed to marry a person they love. Without the fear of simply walking down the street and being murdered for being different.

They have actually achieved something - a sea-change of realization in “Straight” people - that they don’t have to lash out at people like us because we’re different. That they don’t have to hate us, or fear us. So they can live free of fear too.

It’s about living free of fear. I think that’s an achievement to be proud of.

So what about “Straight Pride”? It’s a bold statement that people of the LGBT persuasion have gotten ‘too uppity’ about their rights, and need to quiet down - or the silent majority will MAKE them quiet down. They say it’s a “topsy turvy world” where LGBT people have more rights than ‘they’ do. The facts don’t bear it out. Try getting a job while being openly Trans. Try applying for a marriage certificate and having a county clerk deny you because it goes against his religious beliefs. Try buying a wedding cake and being given the same excuse. Try being openly LGBT in Hollywood and not be typecast or shunned. Try using the bathroom you identify with if you don’t “Pass” as a member of that gender.

“Straight Pride” is about fear. Straight people seem to fear LGBT will have more power than they do - and they’re afraid they’ll use it. Well, try this statement on for size: “Straight people fear the Gay Agenda.” That’s a pretty basic statement. Let’s change two words - “Straight” for “White” and “Gay” for “Black”. All of a sudden it takes on some pretty dark connotations that goes back to the worst days of the 1950's. Riots. Murders. Civil unrest. It’s the same if you replace “Straight” with “Christian” and “Gay” with “Jewish”. Instantly some people will see a Zionist conspiracy. It’s all about fear - preying on people's fear that someone different will try and hurt them, and take away their rights, or their ability to live and be happy.

The funny thing about granting a group of people rights - like legally being allowed to marry, or being able to use an appropriate washroom - is that that action does not take away rights from anyone else. It affects no one except the intended targets. There are rights enough for everyone, everywhere, if we choose to grant them as a culture or society.

LGBT people don’t want to hurt anyone. We don’t want to take away your rights. We want equality - to live, be free, and be happy, and be free of the fear that it’s okay to deny us rights, attack us or even kill us because we’re different from what you consider “normal”. I think that living a life free from fear is a message that anyone, LGBT or Straight, can understand and be proud of. PRIDE to me, means living free of fear. Living free of fear isn’t just reserved for LGBT people; in can be for anyone! Living free of fear is something we can all do, Straight or LGBT, and it’s something that can bring us together, instead of driving us apart. Just imagine what the world could accomplish, all of us, together. That’s what PRIDE is to me.

Kathryn’s writings can often be found on TG Storytime.

“You’ve done well to reach this far. Come, someone awaits you in the next chamber,” said the voice in the darkness, seemingly spoken by the very cave itself.

For the last hour I’d followed the voice’s instructions as it led me through the labyrinthine cave; it was like I had no control of my body as I mechanically took another step. I briefly wondered if the cave tour group was looking for me before being interrupted by the voice.

“Yes, come, you are almost there,” said the voice eagerly.

The light from my cellphone screen was near useless. The darkness was so dense that I could see only a meter of floor ahead of me.

As I continued on, the air got noticeably warmer with every step, as though I walked out into the sunlight after being in an air-conditioned building.

Then my phone’s battery died and I was plunged into darkness. Without my sight all my other senses went into overdrive; the darkness somehow became more sinister, my imagination conjured up all kinds of ghasts, ghouls, crawlies, shadowstalkers and other nightmare monstrosities.

I felt a small rush of warm wind blowing over me. It stopped then started a moment later, almost like…breathing.

The wind picked up speed, become so strong that I had to shield my face with my arms. It left almost as soon as it came. I opened my eyes and found that I was standing in a cave. Not the same dank cave of before, this one could almost be described as homey. A fire burned in the centre of the floor and the walls were covered with curtains that made the place seem like a huge blanket fortress. But what drew my attention was a girl seated beside the fire, poking it morosely with a stick. She was dressed simply in a white dress and was barefoot, her clothes pristine despite the surroundings.

She then looked up at me with luminous amber, almost gold, eyes and gave a dazzling smile.

“You’re finally here!” she chirped, jumping up and bouncing over to hug me. “You’ve no idea how lonely I’ve been stuck in the old cave all alone, but not anymore. Don’t move! I wanna have a look at you.”

I had not realised that I was unable to move until she explicitly told me not to. She began to walk around me in a circle making contemplative noises and occasionally reaching out and groping me, making my body go numb wherever she touched.

“You’re a girl aren’t you? I can always tell,” she pouted. ”But that’s no good, I told daddy to bring me a man but he always brings me girls. I’m a girl already so with you here that’s one girl too many. It’s no problem though; I’ll fix you up right away. ”She cracked her knuckles ominously and smiled. “Just hold still new husband, this will only take a second.”

TmC is the author of “A Fine Mess” and “I Died, Great,” which you can read a TG Storytime.

I hope that you enjoyed this month’s collection of stories. If you had a favourite, or have some constructive criticisms to make, please don’t hesitate to make yourself heard with a review.

I’d like to say a big thankyou to Dorothy Colleen who provided the epitaph, to DAW who wrote the opening mythos piece, and to all the other authors who contributed.

There will no collection next month. But don’t worry, the Tapes will return! Look out for the next one early in October. We’ll be mixing up the word limit, so it should be a lot of fun.

For October’s Tape you can submit up to 1000 words of fiction. If you wish you can blow all those words on a single piece, or you could submit multiple stories (i.e. two 500 words shorts, or three 300 word pieces), it’s up to you!

Shoot me an email at [email protected] if you’re interested in contributing and would like to know more.

Cheers

PersnicketyBitch