celebrating and creating our own LGBT history


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 fionarose@gmail.com between 15 January – 10 February 2018 to enable planning of the month.

day twenty eight


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

forever spiraling

forever resisting

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

day twenty seven


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.




Del, Wales

day twenty six

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

back again?


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.

day twenty five


By Maj


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.