You’ve seen these characters. They are the founding couple of a pack, an investigation unit, a rag-tag bunch of soldiers out to save the universe. These are the ones readers can’t get enough of and want to know what happens to them even if they aren’t the couple in the forefront. Share with us those sexy couples and let us know how their happily-ever-after stacks up against the rest of those couples out there.
This week, we're visiting a slightly different couple.
Adventuresses is a collection of lesbian short stories.
From "That Time They Talk About":
Clara sat doing the mending on the porch swing of the big old house, much the worse for war and rebuilding. No one lived this close to the old battleground. The trees did strange things, growing in odd shapes with luminescent moss on the trunks that glowed by day and night both. Superstitious old people said the trees moved too, when folks weren't watching them.
Vegetables came out odd, over-large, misshapen and badly colored. The animals gave birth to monstrosities that usually did not live. The two-headed calves were the hardiest and Clara had gotten their herd up a little.
“Come on, darling,” Clara coaxed, and in the dream, she sat on the swing beside her beloved. She laid one of the upper arms across the back of the swing, careful to keep the cape she always wore covering her back. She couldn't wear normal clothes, but a piece of cloth tied to cover the front and a cloak or cape did fine for most occasions.
“Do you love me?” she asked. “Even though?” She shrugged with both sets of arms.
Clara laughed and caught all four of her hands and kissed them. “I love that about you. It makes me feel secure. You can fight off the stinking rebels and still light one of your little cigars and hug me, all at the same time. Or you get three shots to their one, four if you would quit using that shotgun and pack a couple more pistols.”
“I ain't ladylike. Your Pa doesn't like me coming around to see to you.”
“It doesn't matter. Pa can't say a thing. He isn't hunting up meat for the pot and you are. He's not out planting and picking and working his hands into blisters so we can eat. I am. He's not been right since Antietam, and all the county knows it.” She gestured at the basket of mending and embroidery. “They keep me in needlework so we don't go begging for flour and salt, but it surely isn't easy.”