'Moor Love' by Carol Lynne

Looking out of the window, Caleb watched as the train wound its way through the Yorkshire countryside. He still couldn’t believe he was here. It had taken nearly a year of paperwork to get his student placement, but the day had finally arrived.

He quickly scanned the folder of information he’d been given. Smiling to himself, he closed the folder. He’d looked at the damn thing so many times, he already had it memorised. He’d be working for Jon Cook on a small sheep farm just inland of the small seaside town of Whitby.

According to the information he’d received, he’d have his work cut out for him. After his mom had read it, she tried desperately to talk him out of going. No,

Mr Cook wasn’t a serial killer or anything, just different.

Mr Cook had been in a car wreck nineteen years earlier. The accident took the life of his father and left him with a pronounced limp and an inability to speak. A more recent fall while dipping his sheep had aggravated his earlier injury. Unable to tend to his sheep in the fields properly, Mr Cook had finally agreed to sign up for the work placement program.

Caleb already knew they would have a problem, because Mr Cook kept insisting he didn’t need a worker for an entire year, but the program only placed students for that amount of time. Once Caleb started working, he’d be there for the designated time, or risk losing his college credits.

As he leaned his forehead against the glass, Caleb lost himself in his own problems. He’d come out to his mom when he was sixteen, but he’d waited to tell his dad. As the years went by, he kept promising himself he’d do it, but the timing had yet to be right.

After his folks had divorced, Caleb and his mom moved back to the Kansas City area, leaving his father and the family’s farm behind. His formative years had been spent on baseball fields and malls instead of barns and pastures.

He’d been sent to Iowa for two weeks every summer to stay with his dad. It was during this time, he’d felt the divide between them grow. Usually he’d spend the entire time sitting on the porch or in front of the old television. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help his dad on the farm, he just didn’t know what to do. His dad had little patience and often lost his temper while trying to explain the way to perform a particular task.

'Yin Yang' by Sedonia Guillone

Timothy whistled all the way home from rugby practice. In just a few hours, Basho would be back from that bloody family wedding in Tokyo and this torturous two-week separation would end.

What would be the first thing he’d do to Basho once he got him alone? The mere thought made Tim smile at everyone he passed. The fat woman walking her poodle probably thought he was barmy, but if she could see into his head right now, she’d have the bobbies arrest him for sodomy and buggery.

First he’d rip Basho’s clothes off and run his hands over that smooth golden skin. Basho was lanky, with sinewy, graceful muscles. Basho would moan from his mere touch and then start panting when he played with the man’s small dark brown nipples. Tim felt blood rush to his cock. Come to think of it, he’d better not be thinking all—

What the bloody hell?

Turning down his block, he saw a crowd of neighbours huddled together in front of Basho’s family’s flat. His blood rushed suddenly from his groin to his stomach, setting it churning. His heart lurched when he saw his mum. What was she doing in the centre of the group, a newspaper in her hands?

Tim came to a stop in front of her. “What’s going on, Mum?”

She looked up. Deep lines furrowed her brow, and her eyes and nose were red. “Timmy, oh, Timmy, love. I’m so sorry.”

His blood ran cold. “Sorry for what?”

“The Sakai family…Basho…they’ve been…murdered.”

'Kingsoak' by Willa Okati

“Hello there, handsome. What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?”

Matthew looked up from his intricate work buckling the multiple small latches of the complicated weave of his  leather bracelets. He ran his fingers over the inscribed designs, the leather dark against his fair skin, contrasting with the sprays of freckles on his slim arm .  The bedroom light shone warm and golden as it fell across the doorway and illuminated his lover Gale, who leaned on his forearm against the door frame, his hip cocked. Edible, and he knows it, too.

Matthew’s cock twitched, interested. Of course, Gale had always had that effect on him. He knew what Gale was up to, employing his charms now, of course. He and Gale were meant to meet up with some pals, Horatio among others, sink a few bottles of beer and laze about in good company. Matthew knew Gale had no objections of a good time on the town, but would love nothing better than to walk in half an hour late with a love bite darkening into a bruise on his neck and his hair still mussed from sex, fucked to within an inch of his life and displaying the proof like peacock feathers.

Point required point. Matthew arched an eyebrow at Gale and returned his attention to his bracelet, hiding a smile. After a suitable span of time spent making Gale wait for it, Matthew cleared his throat. “So a nun, a wrestler and a flamer walk into a bar —”

“Oh, you think you’re funny, do you?” Gale pushed away from the doorway and pounced on Matthew at the end of his nimble stretch, wrapping Matthew up in his arms and nuzzling at his throat. Gale had magnificent arms, strong and flexible, and once they latched on they’d never let go until their owner had had his way.

Matthew decided he didn’t mind a bit. He surrendered with a small, happy moan, letting Gale push him against the dresser. Gale knocked Matthew’s legs further apart with his knee, and inserted one taut thigh between both of Matthew’s. He leaned his weight forward and, not incidentally, discovered how much Matthew didn’t mind. “Happy to see me, sailor?” Gale inquired wickedly, rocking his thigh up and across the firmness of Matthew’s rising erection. “Want to buy me a drink?”

'Under the Law' by J.P. Bowie

The dark-haired, slender young man, dashing up one of London’s busy streets glanced at his watch as he hurried.  Peter Buchanan was late. His audition for a part in a new West End musical had run longer than he’d anticipated. Dodging traffic on London’s busy streets, he raced toward the pub where he was meeting his sister Janet for lunch. He hated the idea of keeping her waiting. She’d sounded so distraught on the phone earlier in the day, and he knew the reason—always the same reason—her damned husband, Rob.

The Salisbury on St. Martin’s Lane was a lively, busy pub at most times of the day, and especially popular with tourists, but the food was good and the beer reasonable. Britain had recently gone ‘decimal’, and while the Brits struggled to identify the strange new coins they’d been lumbered with, some establishments had taken advantage of the situation, and raised their prices alarmingly, but not the Salisbury.

Arriving slightly out of breath, Peter spotted Janet immediately, and his blood boiled when he saw the bruised eye she was sporting. Damn Rob, he thought. Now, I’m really going to lay him out. Tough thoughts, but Peter knew in a bout of fisticuffs he was nowhere in his brother-in-law Rob’s class. The creep had been in the Royal Marines, an elite squad of tough commandos whose reputation was without parallel. Still, Peter would love to land one on that smug, supercilious face.

“Janet…” He sat beside her and pulled her into his arms. “Why do you put up with this?”

“Because I’m pregnant,” she whispered against his cheek.

Peter looked at her, shocked. “You’re pregnant, and he’s hitting you? Why, that fucking bastard—”

“He doesn’t know, yet.”

“Oh, like that’s an excuse? Janet, you have got to leave him. Go home. Mum and Dad will take care of you until the baby’s born.”

She nodded. “I know I have to. I want this baby, Peter, and I’m afraid that he’ll…” She choked on the words Peter knew she was trying to say. He held her tightly pressed to him, and kissed her cheek while she cried. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a couple, obviously American, regarding him with some suspicion. Lord, he thought, am I the errant husband trying to placate my wife after a secret affair has come to light, or the bastard boyfriend breaking it off? Either way, I’m a shit, in their opinion.

Janet hiccupped and pulled back from his arms. “I need a drink,” she said, dabbing her eyes.

'Bound Together' by Jane Davitt

Simon studied the binding on the book he held and sighed. Shredded beyond repair on the spine and the cover was spotted with damp. He opened it carefully and ran a gloved finger down one badly foxed page, smiling as he caught a familiar sentence or two. Kidnapped had been one of his favourite books as a child.

With a final, friendly pat, he set the book aside and took out another from the box on the floor, enjoying the flash of anticipation. He’d bought the box the day before at an auction sale, contents unseen. Lot 399, assorted children’s books. They could have been dog-eared copies of abridged Enid Blyton paperbacks; they might have been something collectable by Brent-Dyer or Oxenham, tales of girls at boarding schools, not to his own taste, but they’d be greeted eagerly by some people he knew.

Or they might have been much older as was the case here, much-loved, often-read, but stored in appalling conditions and really, virtually worthless.

It didn’t matter. He treated himself to one of these grab bags from time to time after the serious bidding was over; his reward for a tiring day making small talk with fellow book collectors. His work at the British Library, one of the team dealing with keeping the books in as perfect condition as possible, meant that his professional life and his hobby flowed into each other. Sometimes it got a little too much and he needed to remind himself that collecting books was something he enjoyed.

He put the book he held back into the box without identifying it, suddenly restless. Spring had come to London in a flurry of flowers and rain and the air smelled faintly of something other than exhaust fumes and the exhaled breath of too many people.

Simon found his thoughts turning to Mole, who had felt a similar distaste for the mundane and left his home to find the river and Ratty. The river didn’t appeal, but going out for a drink did, even if it was Monday and most places would be dead. And if he ended the night in a hotel room somewhere, smiling at a stranger whose name he wouldn’t bother to remember in the morning, well, that was another form of treat and it had been too long since he’d indulged himself.

He was twenty-eight, but sometimes he felt as if the numbers that made up his age had been flipped. Shaking off his unsettled mood, he went to take a quick shower and was about to unbutton his shirt when he heard a knock at the front door. His house was a high, narrow one, sandwiched between two others that had been converted into offices—which meant that it was quiet in the evenings, but parking was impossible. Visitors were usually looking for his neighbours. He tugged at the front door, which had a tendency to stick in the damp, and pushed the tails of his shirt back inside his trousers with his other hand.

'Bull Rider' by Jade Buchanan

“You’re kidding, right?” Wes Scott angled forward, eating up his co-workers words. He could barely hear Becca over the mayhem around them.

Leaning his elbows on the table they were lucky enough to have grabbed, Wes shook his head at the noise. The table overlooked the dance floor, and had the strategic advantage of being right beside one of the five bars inside the place.

Wes and Becca were the only ones manning the table while Jayne was out two-stepping, but he expected more people to show up later to keep them company. At least, that’s what they’d told him. This was supposed to be a welcome to Canada party, a little cultural outing for all of them to find out more about the country they’d be living in for a while and the people they’d be working with.

It was the only reason he was here tonight having his ears assaulted by the twangy sounds emanating from the band on stage. He wouldn’t have come voluntarily otherwise. Not that he had anything against country music, it just wouldn’t be his first choice.

Becca had been in the province for a few months now, but she’d already claimed the Alberta culture as her own. She was originally from Glasgow and she’d already tried to tell him the same story three times now about how Calgary and Glasgow were supposed to be linked. It didn’t make any more sense the last time than it did the first but he’d nodded and smiled anyway.

The rest of the blokes he was going to be working with were from all over Britain, all of them coming together here as complete strangers to work at the BFBS Radio Station on BATUS, the British Army Training Unit Suffield located practically in the middle of nowhere.

Working at the station was his first posting out of the country—it was practically his first time travelling out of England—but Jayne had assured him they’d be the best of friends by the time they went home. This was her second posting in a foreign country and she’d declared herself the unofficial expert.

All the DJ’s were living in Ralston Village, right on the edge of BATUS, but he’d never been more thankful to find out it was only a few hours outside Calgary. Wes was a London boy, himself, and couldn’t imagine living in a small village for any length of time without at least trying to go into town to a nightclub or something. Although, he hadn’t quite imagined this when he’d told Becca and Jayne he wanted to go out somewhere for the night.

His first time in a country bar and he would’ve assumed he’d stick out like a sore thumb. He’d worn a grey golf shirt over pressed jeans tonight because it was the only thing remotely country-ish that he owned. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly country-ish, but hell, not like he was going to wear chaps and a cowboy hat.