Evans All the Young Queers

16-24 Years
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-912620-32-6
Verlag: Inkandescent
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 154 Seiten

Following on from One Last Song-Evans' debut novella about queer elders-his debut short story collection journeys the other end of the rainbow spectrum, and will be published in February 2025 to mark LGBTQ+ History Month. In nine stories spanning from the end of the twentieth century to the end of the world as we know it, he explores our youthful years through a character of each of the ages between sixteen and twenty-four-ages oft tick-boxed together. Set in shiny cities, stuffy universities and other alternative universes, they explore issues from class to climate-crisis and chemsex with tenderness, humour and inventiveness. 'original, compelling and cleverly crafted' - Jon Ransom 'A wonderful collection of bildungsroman stories, full of vibrant characters finding their place in a jaded world. Evans beautifully captures the steep learning curve of each young protagonist, characters who must traverse religious, social, political and sexual dilemmas in order to discover who they really are. Evans is not afraid to play with voice and structure, making this a smart, insightful collection, where every story sparkles with rich, engaging prose and the perfect balance of humour and poignancy. All the Young Queers an absolute joy to read! ' - Kathy Hoyle 'An astonishingly accomplished range of stories, beautifully written, taking in everything from first love to chemsex, set in the recent past, among the hallowed walls of academia and even in other worlds. Tales steeped in nostalgia, politics and a groundswell of change. A masterful blending of periods, politics and formats, including stories written in text messages and court documents. I laughed, I cried, I nodded my head in recognition. I felt seen.' - Iqbal Hussain 'An enchanting romance-funny, touching and inspiring.' - Stephen Fry on One Last Song 'It's very funny, very touching and has the absolute ring of truth about it. One can't but fall in love with these two more or less impossible people, as they fall in love with each other.' - Simon Callow on One Last Song 'Adored this book and couldn't put it down. An unapologetically queer love story set in a care home. Touching. Heartwarming. Funny. Sad. Beautifully drawn characters I wanted to spend more time with. It was over too quickly for me. Joan and Jim, and their burgeoning relationship will stay with me for a long time. I loved it.' - Jonathan Harvey on One Last Song 'One Last Song is a necessary love story, both profoundly moving and profoundly optimistic. It will inevitably infiltrate your heart.' - Martin Sherman 'A warm, joyful and ingenious tale of gay love from the UK's Armistead Maupin.' - Joelle Taylor on One Last Song 'When we forget our gay elders and the radical queer people who lived so we could fly, we forget ourselves. Nathan Evans has not just remembered these elder angels, he has painted them with humour, love, truth and glory. This is a gem of a novella with characters to cherish.' - Adam Zmith on One Last Song 'One Last Song is a beautiful, smouldering, hilarious and sparkling testament to queer intimacy and the revolutionary potency of queer creative activism. Every page filled my heart with Pride.' - Dan Glass 'One Last Song is edgy, funny and moving. A heady mix that packs an emotional punch.' - Paul McVeigh 'Touching, powerful, punchy, funny and sweet. An absolute delight.' - David Shannon on One Last Song

Nathan Evans' debut novella One Last Song was longlisted for Polari Book Prize and was one of iNewspaper's best books for Pride 2024. His short fiction has been anthologized by Muswell Press (Queer Life, Queer Love) and published in Queerlings magazine. He is recipient of an Arts Council award to Develop his Fiction Practice with mentorship from Booker Prize winner Alan Hollinghurst. His poetry has been published by Fourteen Poems, Broken Sleep, Royal Society of Literature and Manchester Metropolitan University. His collection Threads was longlisted for the Polari First Book Prize, his second collection CNUT is published by Inkandescent. He was longlisted for the 2020 Live Canon Poetry Competition and shortlisted for the Carlo Annoni Prize 2020 for his play SwanSong. His work in theatre and film has been funded by Arts Council England, toured with the British Council, archived in the British Film Institute, broadcast on Channel 4 and presented at venues including Royal Festival Hall and Royal Vauxhall Tavern.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Evans, Nathan

Leseproben

16

Glass House

‘Shouldn’t have that on this time of morning,’ Mum says as she barges in without knocking. ‘Cost a fortune.’

‘Bank holiday,’ I say. ‘Cheap rate.’ And I lean in to cover the computer screen as she strides across the room to fling the airing cupboard open. So annoying. When they built the extension, the boiler ended up in my room for some reason. ‘What time you leaving?’

‘Soon. First race is at ten.’

She grabs three pairs of freshly-aired trainers—three different colours, same stupid tick—then races off downstairs again, calling, ‘You finished those sandwiches, Ian?’

She’s left the door wide open. I sigh and shut it after her, then go back to the website for a last-minute check.

Is it today?

Yes. May the first.

And do I know where?

Yes. London A-to-Z. Pocket of my army trousers.

Turn off the computer. Go downstairs. In the living room, David is watching television—wearing matching trainers and tracksuit bottoms. In the dining room, Mum is torturing her hair before the mirror. In the kitchen, Dad is spreading sliced wheatgerm with margarine. He has to shout over the drone of Mum’s dryer.

‘What time’s your train?’

‘Quarter to ten.’

‘Want a lift to the station?’

‘It’s alright. I’ll walk.’

I sit eating cereal, drinking tea as sandwiches are packed into boxes, boxes into bags, and bags into the boot of the car.

At the front door, Mum hands me a fiver.

‘Get yourself a McDonald’s.’

‘No thanks.’

‘Something vegetarian then!’

In the driver’s seat, Dad starts the engine. In the backseat, David sticks out his tongue. In the passenger seat, Mum belts up and belts out, ‘You be back by seven!’

‘Yes, Mum!’

‘And don’t do anything I wouldn’t!’

Her door slams shut, and they’re off. Up the road and round the corner. I hold my breath and listen for the last of the motor. Then grab my bag and head out the back door.

The greenhouse is at the top of the garden. Dad grows cucumbers in summer, but it’s mine the rest of the year. I open my bag and, one by one, place the pots inside.

I’m ready to leave by nine-fifteen. Make a last check I’ve got everything.

Money. Key. Pen. Water, sandwiches. Ventolin.

I’ve never been to London on my own. But now I’m sixteen, Mum says I can. I have been with school to see the National Gallery. That’s where she thinks I’m going today.

Westminster station is surrounded by police. I try not to make eye contact as I exit, and join the crowd reclaiming the street.

Some are carrying flowers. One or two with wheelbarrows. A woman wearing face paint hands me a leaflet. Guerrilla Gardening! Mayday Action! I’m in the right place, then. The leaflet explains that—should the police get me—I have the right to remain silent and should consult a lawyer before saying anything. There’s a number at the bottom.

Look up. See a woman climbing a lamp post. And over there, there’s another one. Something is swinging on a rope between them. It’s a banner. It says Let London Sprout.

Fucking brilliant.

Someone’s put a maypole up. Kids are dancing round it. Someone else has put grass down in the street. They’re having a picnic. And there’s a strip of grass on this statue’s bald head. Looks like a mohican.

Fucking brilliant.

Wander to the centre of the square. The earth feels lumpy beneath my feet. They must have laid turf in the night. But now, they’re digging it up and putting in plants. I try not to tread on any of them. Some look like they’ve already been stood on. Others are wilting in the sunshine. The website said bring water. Looks like no one bothered. I brought two litres. This bag’s killing my shoulder.

I stop in the corner and put it down. I look around. The website said form groups. I kind of assumed it would just happen.

Realise I don’t know anyone.

‘Window shoppers not welcome.’

He’s about the same age as me. Bit older maybe. Mohican, like the statue—except his is blue—and a ring through his eyebrow. He’s pulling up flowers with his fingernails.

‘Sorry, what did you say again?’

‘Fuck off or give us a hand.’

He turns back to his tulips. I find my fork and join him in the flowerbed.

‘I’m Jason.’

He nods. ‘Bod.’

I’ve never met a Bod before. ‘Why are you pulling up plants that’re already here?’

‘Liberating them.’

‘What from?’

‘Borders are a form of fascist oppression.’

He starts ripping up grass—with only his fingers, hard work. I lend him the fork, then carefully manoeuvre a cutting between my bag’s zipper.

‘Does it matter where?’

‘You mean you don’t have permission?’

‘Do I have to get…’

He laughs. ‘Wherever you like, man.’

Feel stupid. Start digging. ‘What are they filming?’

‘Who?’

‘The policemen.’ They’ve got cameras—those little digital ones.

‘Us. Fucking perverts.’

I hide behind my hair. Give my plants water. Try to make them stand straighter. Bod has finished. His are lopsided.

‘Very nice,’ he says. ‘You want some of this?’

I had a joint once. When Trevor’s parents went away the weekend. Didn’t really do anything. I’m asthmatic. I’m not very good at inhaling.

‘Alright then.’ I check no-one’s looking and take it from him.

‘Been on one of these before?’ He lolls back. And his System of a Down t-shirt rides up.

‘No. You?’ I try not to look at his belly fluff.

‘Yeah. See those riots last year? I was there. Fucking give the pigs what for.’

I try not to cough.

How embarrassing.

I try again.

I’m laid back on the grass watching clouds floating past when I notice a woman stood over us.

‘Give us a drag, Bod.’

She’s older than we are, hair laced with shells and silver. Bod passes the joint over.

‘Jason, this is Maya.’

She smiles in my direction. ‘Some great stuff going down.’

‘Mm.’ I seem to be grinning.

‘You come on your own?’

‘Mm.’ I seem to be unable to formulate a sentence.

‘Aw…’

I turn to the sky again. Try to focus on something but the clouds keep moving.

‘Fucking brilliant man!’ A guy with blond dreads looms into vision. ‘Someone smashed the McDonald’s in.’

Bod says, ‘Where?’

Dreads says, ‘Trafalgar Square.’

Bod says, ‘I’m there.’

He jumps up. ‘Coming?’

I realise he’s looking in my direction.

There’s this statue on which someone has written men’s toilet. Bod laughs and takes advantage. We notice some policemen and run. I try not to notice Bod’s dick, still dangling from his zip. He shouts, ‘Fucking pigs!’

There’s this sea of heads and Nelson’s Column in the middle. Bod tries to push through but there’s too many people. ‘Fuck this.’ He pulls me into a side street.

There’s this row of police vans and policemen piling from them. They’re wearing masks. They’ve got shields on their arms.

And then they’re stood between us and Trafalgar Square. On this side are protesters. On that side are protesters. The police keep piling in, hundreds of them, forming lines behind the front one. I don’t understand what’s going on.

‘Why do they have to spoil everything?’

‘Because they’re fucking pigs.’

When we work out the police are letting in tourists, we squeeze past,...