QSFer Neil Cochrane has a new queer fairy tale retelling of Beauty and the Beast out (ace, non-binary, poly, trans FTM): The Story of the Hundred Promises.
A loose retelling of “Beauty and the Beast” that centers queer and trans characters
Trans sailor Darragh Thorn has made a comfortable life for himself among people who love and accept him. Ten years after his exile from home, though, his sister asks him to reconcile with their ailing father.
Determined to resolve his feelings rather than just survive them, Darragh sets off on a quest to find the one person who can heal a half-dead man: the mysterious enchanter who once gave him the magic he needed to become his true self.
But so far as anyone knows, no one but Darragh has seen the enchanter for a century, and the fairy tales that survive about em give more cause for fear than hope.
In lush and evocative prose, and populated with magical trees and a wise fox, The Story of the Hundred Promises is a big-hearted fantasy suffused with queer optimism.
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Excerpt
THE STORY OF BEAUTY AND THE THORN
Once upon a time, there was a child who was called Beauty.
The child was much beloved by all who knew her, for she was quiet and gentle and sweet. She loved nothing better than to spend her days in the meadows beyond her father’s house, pretending she was at sea, as he was. She built herself a little captain’s cabin, and when her nanny scolded her for playing while it stormed, she replied, “Out on the ship, Father has naught for protection but a cabin, and I am quite as sturdy as he is.” The family had laughed at that story for many a year and called her adventurous.
In her twelfth year, the red flower came to her and filled her with pain and dread, for she had an older sister and had learned its terrible truth along with her. It had not seemed so bad at first, and indeed, her nanny and Vesta had been happy when the blood came to Vesta. The blood, Beauty did not mind, for she bled often enough in exploring her meadow. ’Twas what came after that was frightful—for Vesta had grown great heavy flesh on her chest, and been given gowns of ever greater girth in service of fashion, and she lifted nothing for herself anymore, but asked the stablehands to do it, for she seemed to grow ever more fragile with the accumulating years of bleeding, as if she were slowly dying.
One night, Beauty woke with a cry, for she had rolled onto her chest and the soreness shocked her out of sleep. She knew then that it was come for her; she imagined great bosoms like Vesta’s growing upon her and found she could not breathe. She ran with all haste to her meadow and crawled weeping into her cabin.
She knew not how long she sat in sorrow, but at length she slept again, and woke to a whisper beyond the fallen branch that served her for a door.
“Why do you weep, child?” asked the voice.
Beauty thought she must still be sleeping, so she answered, “I do not want to grow breasts, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.”
“Do you fear growing up?”
“No,” Beauty said. “That is, I—must all girls have such things upon their chest?”
The voice was quiet for a moment, then said, “No. But they will grow on yours if they are not stopped.”
Fresh tears spilled from Beauty’s eyes. “I know. I feel them coming, and there’s nothing I can do.”
“Why do you fear them?”
“I do not fear them,” she said. “But I do not want them on me.”
Again the voice said nothing for several moments, while Beauty strove to master her feelings. She would be brave and face the breasts. Perhaps, she comforted herself, they would not be so large as Vesta’s; perhaps she could continue to dress as she did, in plain gowns and in trousers. Perhaps she could bear it.
“Will you join me? The sun is rising,” said the voice.
It no longer felt like a dream, and Beauty hesitated—but the voice was kind, and the night was over. She pushed the branch aside and crawled out. There she saw a person seated amid the tall meadow grass, a cloak draped over their head. They smiled at her, and though it seemed to her their look was a little sad, she smiled back, and hers was a little sad, too, though she knew it not.
The person put one brown hand on the ground beside them, and Beauty settled there, facing east with them and watching the sky slowly lighten over her home.
“You do not have to be what they say you are,” the person said.
“Father says we are what we are, and it is abominable to change that,” Beauty said.
“He is right. But then who decides what we are?” asked the person.
“Our parents?” Beauty said.
“Do they know your every thought and feeling?” The person looked at Beauty slyly.
“Will you tell them what you have told me?” Beauty frowned, and the person laughed softly. “Then how can they know what you are?”
She shivered, though she was not cold. “If I told them . . .” She shook her head. “Father would never allow me to see the physicians. He dismissed our cook when she took her daughter to them.”
“You have considered this already.”
“When the blood came,” she said. “I thought perhaps that was all that would come.”
The sun was a red orb, hovering, obscured by the mist yet clinging to the ground. Together, Beauty and the stranger watched it rise. The stranger’s gaze was steady and unmoving, but Beauty’s often drifted to their profile. Their skin grew ever warmer, its color changing from blue-tinged sand to dusky rose. She knew the moment when the sun broke from the mist, because the stranger’s skin turned gold. They smiled and faced her with a look that said they had felt her gaze all the while; then they reached into the sleeve of their cloak, and withdrew a thorn nearly as long as Beauty’s hand.
“Prick yourself with this thorn and draw three drops of blood; flick each into either a fire or water,” said the stranger. “Do this every day for three months, then every three weeks for three years, then every three months for the rest of your life, and you shall have the form you desire.”
Author Bio
Neil Cochrane is a queer, trans author and artist living and working in Portland, Oregon. He writes speculative fiction that centers queer characters overcoming obstacles and building families. He has worked in and around the publishing industry since 2012, in such various roles as editor, literary agent assistant, marketing director, and bookseller. He is represented by Michaela Whatnall of Dystel, Goderich & Bourret.
| Author Website | https://neilcochranebooks.com |
| Author Twitter | https://twitter.com/ItsNeilCochrane |