Submit a piece of your own writing as a celebration during LGBT History month. The pieces, a mix of prose and poetry, may have specific LGBTQI content whilst others simply come from those perspectives.
This year’s theme: Protest and revolution (500 words max.)
FioxiRose has agreed to post a piece here every day during LGBT History month, culminating in the creation of Febulous February (2018), an anthology which celebrates us in all our beautiful queerness, as well as embeds a landmark in our LGBT History. FioxiRose, by request, also distributes daily to vetted LGBTQI FB sites, throughout our month of February.
Feedback on submissions within this site are welcomed and encouraged.
Submissions to email@example.com between 15 January – 10 February 2018 to enable planning of the month.
We stand up for the lookout
Joining hands, heart, spirit and voice
we danced on the tip of a cruise missile
demanding decommissioning of nuclear weapons
we frustrated authority by being leaderless, articulate, non violent protestors
circling the base a thousand women strong
Abseiling angels in DM’s
we upturned the Lords’ apple cart
appealing to Queenie’s assumed better nature
flat top suffragettes
we chained ourselves to her front gate
gnawing wretching at rotten section 28
eventually spitting it back to the gutter
where it came from and where it belonged
marching ten thousand queers strong
Spirals of freedom, cultivating womyn’s lands,
women in tune with nature’s cycles, peace, fairness and love
connecting linking rejecting violence against women
malevolent misogyny patronising patriarchy
rising up a million women strong
Forever weaving our web
Gung-ho leadership invading Iraq
Wherever we started we still come from that place
Hush! Put your ear to the conche and you can hear the demands of the Greenham echoing through the years
“We want better.” “Not in my name” “We want better.” “Not in my name” “We want better.” “Not in my name”
protesting millions of people strong
Fiona Thomson, Margate
When I was eight, I had a doll for Christmas. She was a big smiling baby with curly nylon hair and a mouth that opened and closed. Best of all, when you pressed her belly button, she spoke. There was a flap in her back into which you could put small plastic records like miniature vinyl discs, so that she could say things like ‘tickle me mummy!’ or sing nursery rhymes. I liked the doll. I liked changing the records. There was even a white one which made her sing Christmas songs. I never wanted a baby. I never had one. Instead I got a seven year old boy who pissed himself and bit his arms when he was angry. He tore his t shirt with his teeth when we said no, wiped his shit carefully on the bedroom window and never stood still. He also peered deeply into our eyes as if to understand what was in there and reached across the dinner table to say firmly ‘you love me’. He gave us his pleasures and happiness at full volume, screaming with joy at the swimming pool, eating sausages and chocolate fingers at parties till he was sick and laughing at bedtime stories till his face was red and tears fell. And if I had known when I had that doll the rising tide of love for this boy, if I had known how I would hang over his bed at night to breathe the smell of him, how I would hold the things he drew at school like precious artefacts perfect in their beauty and full of meaning, the places I would go as I followed after him never standing still but running into life. If I had known I would not have asked for the doll. I would have asked for something else. A bumper book of tips for children who did not start as a smiling baby. A kit for decoding messages of desperation, signals of confusion. Something to strengthen my legs for running. As it turns out though, the things my mum and dad gave me, at Christmas and between, seem to have been enough.
Hogmanay, Blairmore, 2014
By Sheila McWattie, submitted by Jill, Sheila’s sister
half-gasps. flickers give rise to half-
breaths; recognition. a passing.
lips drying at the thought of almost-gone.
who knows? this one was odd; quick;
often too busy. ticking off appointments.
the sudden was the best: Carol Ann
Duffy on the train. Lesley from America.
Venice lunch close to the Rialto bridge.
Scottish heritage bringing pearly tears
en route to Portavadie……will ye no come
remembering / discovering deep peace.
happy. rapture. from that bank of stillness
deep down: the more stock up, the
more is available……..
five pens in my leather bag: a good omen.
catching my breath at what I don’t yet
know. where? who? what? how?
when? all we can do is breathe.
all we can lose is gone.
all we can cherish is here.
all we can see is now……..
(and) all we can know is love.
I was bullied as a child
Taunted with names as so many are
But I learned to bully back
Learned the sweet thrill
Of pinching soft nipples too hard
I grew with the power to wound
Attractive to the weak and the teary
I loved myself powerful and
It seemed I was loved in return
But some people still spurned me
Why those others attracted me
More than those who liked me
I could not fathom
A perverse wanting of what you’ve not got
Or perhaps in your heart you just know
The self-assured ran from my company
They could see how I always talked about me
How I never admitted to any flaw
How I could never let my hair down
And just naked be me.
Finally I was forced to explore
That the discerning knew more than I did
Knew what I was up to, the tricks
Saw through the gifts and cajolery
Were too wise for spider lies
So I let it go and with it went
All the glorious swag my blag had bought
I had to learn to simply be nice
To be fussy in choosing friends
To be only easily hurt
Now when people try to bully me
I bare my teeth, but I understand
Why they chose this niche
That the journey home is hard and long and often cold
But every fighting dog, one day gets old.