Lauren reviews The Little Sisters of The Holy Vessel by Vincent Cross

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The Little Sisters of The Holy Vessel is a short story about an order of nuns that administer exorcisms. In particular, readers are introduced to Sister Teresa and Sister Elizabeth. The sisters have traveled to a small village to assist Father Gregory with a recent crime that he believes will require a spiritual interrogation. At first, nothing seems odd about the nuns. They are dutiful with religious and cultural etiquette. Fast-forward past the opening and Cross unveils the “worldy” side of these women, which removes the veil between the reader and the historical setting, and allows Teresa and Elizabeth to add deeper hues to the story.

Given this is a short story I can’t delve into the plot without risking spoilers. Therefore, I’ll shift to the parts of the narrative that interested and concerned me.

First off, Little Sisters is erotic, which augments the relationship between the characters, as well as the banishment of evil. The erotic is more than sexual. It exists in several layers. It’s physical and spiritual and romantic. On this same note, there is a layer of Cross’ eroticism that pestered me as the story escalated and climaxed. And it started with this sentence:

“We want the thing to smell our scent, but we don’t want our bodies to betray us.”

Sparing the details, I asked myself why is it necessary for these women to use their vessels in such a risky way? Arguably, they are asked to sacrifice their sanctity. Do their actions convey that women are powerful beyond measure? Or, is this just another instance of women “using” what God gave them to make themselves relevant in an unequal world and an attempt to maintain balance between good and evil? Which, ultimately, saves men. If the tables were turned and male clergy were responsible for the exorcism, how would the climatic event in this story change? To me, it would be much different.

There are times when the erotic can be liberating.  There are times when the sexuality and the erotic gaze are self-serving and only maintain sexist ideals. I feel that Little Sisters walks a fine line. The story is well written, but where (and if) readers teeter along this line is subjective, of course.

I would have liked for Cross to allow the nuns to address two of my lingering questions: first, who are they protecting, and second, do they feel their holy vessel is the only way?

As a reviewer, I rarely feel the need to strike an iron hammer by recommending or not recommending a read. Therefore, I’ll end as I usually do. Little Sisters is story for those who enjoy short stories and want to venture into an old world, erotic, and paranormal read featuring religious women that boldly face demons.

Lauren Cherelle uses her time and talents to traverse imaginary and professional worlds. She recently penned her sophomore novel, “The Dawn of Nia.” Outside of reading and writing, she volunteers as a child advocate and enjoys new adventures with her partner of thirteen years. You can find Lauren online at Twitter,www.lcherelle.com, and Goodreads.

Link Round Up: October 10 – November 11

theargonauts   carmilla   lumberjanes   princeless-raven-the-pirate-princess   betteroffred
Autostraddle posted

posse-kate-welshman   nototherwisespecified   juliettakesabreath   scorpion-rules-erin-bow   otherbound

Gay YA posted So Now What? The Post-Coming Out Story in LGBTQ YA Fiction and How to Build a Safe Space for LGBTQIA+ Teens via Books.

Lambda Literary posted New in November: Laura Jane Grace, Philip Dean Walker, Joanne Passet, Anne Raeff, and Cleve Jones and Ken White: On Starting Query Books and Republishing Classic LBGTQ Literature.

“Why Queer Retellings of Classic Stories Are So Necessary” was posted at Vice.

womensbarracks   run   The Girls in 3-B femmes fatales   Ash   PriceofSalt

“Marvel Comics Needs to Do Way Better With Its LGBT Representation” was posted at io9.

“Five Important Lesbian Pulp Novels to Read During LGBT History Month” was posted at AfterEllen.

Malinda Lo posted Examining perceptions of LGBTQ+ characters in children’s and YA trade book reviews.

lez talk   treyf   georgia peaches and other forbidden fruit jaye robin brown   ill-tell-you-in-person-chloe-caldwell   a-body-undone-christina-crosby

Lez Talk: A Collection of Black Lesbian Short Fiction by S. Andrea Allen was reviewed at Read Diverse Books.

Treyf: My Life as an Unorthodox Outlaw by Elissa Altman was reviewed at Lambda Literary.

Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit by Jaye Robin Brown was reviewed at LGBT YA Reviews.

I’ll Tell You In Person by Chloe Caldwell was reviewed at Lambda Literary.

Love Wins: The Lovers and Lawyers Who Fought the Landmark Case for Marriage Equality by Debbie Cenziper & Jim Obergefell was reviewed at ALA GLBT Reviews.

A Body, Undone: Living On After Great Pain by Christina Crosby was reviewed at Lambda Literary.

buffering-hannah-hart   08 Covers.indd   Skim   black wave michelle tea   the-jungle-around-us-anne-raeff

Buffering: Unshared Tales of a Life Fully Loaded by Hannah Hart was reviewed at Bella Books.

The Missing Museum by Amy King was reviewed at Lambda Literary.

The Jungle Around Us by Anne Raeff was reviewed at Lambda Literary.

Alaskan Bride by D Jordan Redhawk was reviewed at Lambda Literary.

Conflict Is Not Abuse: Overstating Harm, Community Responsibility, and the Duty of Repair by Sarah Schulman was reviews at Lambda Literary.

Skim by Mariko Tamaki and Jillian Tamaki was reviewed at Disability in Kidlit.

Black Wave by Michelle Tea was reviewed at Tor.

This post, and all posts at the Lesbrary, have the covers linked to their Amazon pages. If you click through and buy something, I might get a small referral fee. For even  more links, check out the Lesbrary’s twitterWe’re also on FacebookGoodreadsYoutube and Tumblr.

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Susan reviews 1st Impressions by Kate Calloway

first-impressions

First Impressions by Kate Calloway is the first in the Cassidy James series, about a lesbian private investigator hired to find out who murdered the most loathed man in town… by the prime suspect.

Cassidy James is our heroine, a former teacher who moved out to Cedar Hills and trained as a private investigator after her lover, Diane, died of cancer. Her best friend brings her the case of Erica Trinidad, a beautiful woman whose uncle was murdered and mutilated, which may or may not be connected to things like a break-in at the school (involving Nazi insignias) and a case of arson.

I did enjoy this one; the mystery was compelling and I enjoyed the way the main characters (particularly Cassidy, Erica, and Cassidy’s best friend Martha) bounced off each other; the escalation of incidents and the way it juggles mysteries of people’s pasts and the present conflicts works quite well.

The fact that both Erica and Cassidy have dead partners in their backstory (albeit under wildly different circumstances) surprised me quite a lot. While the deaths aren’t lingered on, if that’s a deal breaker for you then please bear it in mind. I would say that Diane’s death mainly seems to have left Cassidy James incredibly wealthy, which removes the usual motivator of “having to pay rent” from a private detective. But this does affect the tone! Cassidy’s pressure to succeed at the case is for the most part driven by personal satisfaction and Erica, which is quite a different experience to the books I usually read. In some ways, it actually feels like a hybrid between a PI mystery and a cozy crime mystery, in that it does the thing a lot of cozy crimes do, focusing a lot on the nature of the small town Cassidy lives in, the people she knows, and the food that she cooks. (I don’t know why cozy mysteries always seem to focus on food, but it makes me hungry, I can tell you that much.) The small-town aspect mainly manifests in everyone knowing each other’s business and being willing to share, and in the way that despite Cassidy having lived in town for three years she still feels like an outsider.

There were some aspects of the characterisation that I found really hard to believe; the villains of the piece are cartoonishly evil, and the supporting cast tends to be a bit one-note. (On the flip side, though, the kids are SUPER GREAT, I am very fond of Jessie and Mollie and would wholeheartedly endorse their crime-solving adventures.) Plus, there are parts of the ending that I struggle with, such as the Cassidy deliberately imperilling herself and Erica for the sake of her pet cats, or the author’s choice for who finally dealt with the murderer.

The prose is pretty good; there are some evocatively gross descriptions of corpses, as a fair warning, but for the most part it’s well-handled and the story manages to juggle high drama relationships with its mystery (despite all of the food breaks.)

I did very much enjoy reading First Impressions, and I’m looking forward to tracking down the second one.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Neo-Nazis, attempted rape, attempted incest, homophobia, backstory dead lesbians

Susan is a library assistant who uses her insider access to keep her shelves and to-read list permanently overflowing. She can usually be found writing for Hugo-nominated media blog Lady Business or bringing the tweets and shouting on twitter.

Julie Thompson reviews A Thin Bright Line by Lucy Jane Bledsoe

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“There is so much we don’t know, can’t know, in doing historical research. Emma Donoghue writes, in the afterword of her collection Astray, ‘when you work in the hybrid form of historical fiction, there will be Seven-League-Boot moments: crucial facts joyfully uncovered in dusty archives and online databases, as well as great leaps of insight and imagination. But you will also be haunted by a looming absence: the shadowy mass of all that’s been lost, that can never be recovered.’” (Postscript)

A Thin Bright Line, by Lucy Jane Bledsoe, tells the story of a life lived fully, yet not quite openly. Bledsoe starts from the end of her namesake, Lucybelle Bledsoe’s, life and proceeds to build on the available fragments. The two women’s lives follow amazingly similar career paths and sexual orientation, despite decades and miles apart. Bledsoe was nine years old when her aunt died in an apartment fire in 1966. As a result, she has few clear memories of her aunt, a vague, albeit benevolent, figure who made periodic visits and sent gifts. The woman was a benign mystery to her family. In an era without social media and portable devices tracking every move, it was much easier to leave without a trace, or else leave behind few clues about who you were.

A detailed entry for Lucybelle, found by chance in The Biographical Dictionary of Women in Science: Pioneering Lives from Ancient Times to the Mid-20th Century, as well as an obituary in the Journal of Glaciology, sparked years of research leading to this novel. Bledsoe scavenged her father’s memories of his sister. Among them, her aunt’s aspirations to write a novel; her penchant for organizing school-wide jokes and flash mob-type performances; and reciting humorous poetry. As for the adult Lucybelle became, there is far less information available. A handful of primary documents, such as the reports left behind following the fatal apartment fire, and interviews with the remaining people who knew her aunt in some capacity, were all that remained of a seemingly rich and vibrant life.

Lucybelle Bledsoe was born in 1923 to a devout Christian household in Pocahontas, Arkansas. Her mother was a housewife and her father had a dual career as a farmer and county judge. As a child, Lucybelle displayed a keen intellect, as evidenced by her voracious reading habits and ability to pass the Arkansas bar without having had attended law school. The novel spans a decade and opens on New York City, 1956, about ten years after she left her hometown. The former country girl had by this time built a successful career for herself at the Geological Society of America as an Assistant Editor. She shares an apartment with her longtime girlfriend, Phyllis, and their dachshund, L’Forte. She also enjoys the city’s nightlife with a core group of friends. Everything seems good enough, even if it involves a bit of compromise. However, her life is upended when her relationship shatters and a sudden job offer is pushed at her by Henri Bader, a European ice scientist working for the US Army Corps of Engineers.

The novel flows from New York to Chicago to Vermont. Along the way, Lucybelle experiences overt and vague threats from her employer and sources unknown. She learns how to compartmentalize her life, balancing her employer’s demands that she refrain from dating women with a challenging career. The novel is full of coded terrain: her workplaces at Snow Ice and Permafrost Research Establishment (SIPRE) and Cold Regions Research and Engineering Laboratory (CRREL), and her private and family lives. Through her relationships and career, Lucybelle makes sense of the path she wants her life to take. Despite having her life extinguished just as she seems to fully realize it, the novel is an incredible tribute.

Bledsoe paints a sensitive, nuanced portrait of her aunt, displaying an understanding of the period’s public, private, and personal politics, and social mores. Some of the characters are works of fiction, such as Lucybelle’s Chicago girlfriend Stella, her cluster of friends in New York City, and coworkers at the Cold Regions Research and Engineering Laboratory in New Hampshire. However, the many lives that factor into this story all reflect some aspect of life during the Cold War, in the period covering 1956-1966. Each of the women featured react differently to societal pressures and offer a sort of option for how Lucybelle might conduct her own life. A Thin Bright Line is an engaging and immersive story, featuring strong, intelligent women.

Mid-century queer history is fascinating and complex. Most of the literature and sources mentioned in the novel can be borrowed via public libraries in the United States or purchased online. I acquired the first two volumes of collected issues of The Ladder via my local public library’s interlibrary loan system. I recommend supplementing your reading with the titles listed below.

  1. Coming Out Under Fire by Allan Bérubé

  2. A Queer History of the United States by Michael Bronski

  3. Odd Girls and Twilight Lovers by Lillian Faderman

You can read more of Julie’s reviews on her blog, Omnivore Bibliosaur.

Cara reviews The Bone Palace by Amanda Downum

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The Bone Palace is the kind of story I’ve always wanted, centering around female, queer, and trans characters without making the story about those identities. Beyond that, it has a strong setting that’s distinct from the faux-medieval Europe that so much fantasy uses and a solid suspense/politics plot that forms the core of the book. It’s also the kind of book that you would never know has a relationship between two women from the synopsis, which is part of the reason I’m reviewing it. This is not a romance: the relationship is a beta plot, but it’s as important as any of the other relationships in the story. The novel is also the second in a trilogy, but it’s not necessary to read the first, The Drowning City, to appreciate this one, and I think The Bone Palace is better.

The story is set in a country called Selafai and its capitol city, Erisín. The native Selafaïn are brown-skinned and dark-haired. However, light-skinned immigrants from several surrounding countries, Ashke Ros, Vallorn, and Celanor, also live in the capitol. Erisín’s culture is an amalgam of ancient Rome and India. Downum took the name of the city police, the Vigiles Urbani, from a corps of Roman firefighters and night watchmen, though hers act more like modern police. The connections among ghosts, mirrors, and necromancy are a Greek and Roman tradition. Erisín’s scents are heavy with South Asian spices, particularly the perfumes and the food. Mourners wear white, another Indian tradition. For a de facto third gender in Selafai, she borrows androgyne, which is derived from Latin and Greek, and a Hindustani word, hijra. (Hijra is used for a spectrum of assigned-male people who don’t identify as male, though has disparate regional connotations). She uses both words to cover a broad spectrum of trans people: men assigned women at birth, women assigned men at birth, and the androgynes who were neither or both. Altogether, the setting is distinctive and deep, the sensory experience, culture, and politics of Selafai all well-developed. I do wonder if the borrowing from India is more superficial than that from Rome, but as I know much more about ancient Rome than historical India, that doubt may reflect my ignorance more than anything in the book.

The primary point-of-view characters are Isyllt Iskaldur and Savedra Severos, the first a necromancer and Crown Investigator, the second a daughter of an important aristocratic family and the crown prince’s mistress, a position official enough to carry its own title, pallakis (an ancient Greek word). There are also some shorter sections told from the viewpoint of Kiril Orfion, the king’s necromancer and spymaster and Isyllt’s mentor. Isyllt is the protagonist of the trilogy as a whole, but she shares roughly equal time with her co-protagonist in this book. Isyllt was Kiril’s lover as well as his apprentice, and while both of those relationships are over, she’s clearly not over him. Isyllt is Vallish and orphaned, so for her necromancy and spying were escapes from immigrant poverty and desperation.

Beyond being Nikos’s mistress, Savedra also serves as his unofficial spymaster, protecting him and his wife, Ashlin, from assassins. Savedra is his mistress, not his wife, because she can’t have children with him.

Savedra pried her fingers from the pearls and touched instead the telltale bulge above them. The joke of her birth, that kept the rank of queen forever from her as surely as politics did. If only that were as easy to rip away as a necklace.

Nikos marries Ashlin for politics, because she’s a Celanoran princess, and despite the conflicts possible in their situation, Savedra and Ashlin are also friends.

While Savedra thinks of herself as androgyne or hijra, to me, she’s recognizably trans female. She uses female pronouns and honorifics and self-identifies as female in her own thoughts in her sections. (Also, the third-person narrative doesn’t undercut Savedra’s identity at any point by misgendering her. It’s sad that in 2016, this is still a virtue and not a minimum standard I shouldn’t even need to mention, but here we are.) What I appreciate most is how Savedra’s trans-ness colors her thoughts without dominating them:

She might regret being born a man every time she had a gown fitted, but it meant she was stronger than she looked,A tall woman, with a narrow waist and a bosom that Savedra could only envy,

and:

But the last miscarriage had been harder than the princess would admit, and Savedra had been the one to stroke her hair, to clean away the blood and pretend she never saw the tears. For all the years she’d wished to be born a woman in flesh as well as mind, some things she didn’t envy.

Savedra’s life is filled with these double-edged experiences. She’s not worth assassinating because she can never marry Nikos or have children. Her family’s wealth and privilege protect her from the worst of the discrimination for third-gendered people, as for instance she doesn’t have to work as a prostitute like most hijra, but don’t make her truly the equal of the other noble women.

After the prologue, the plot proper begins with Isyllt getting called to look at a Rosian prostitute found murdered with the dead queen’s ring in her possession. When she returns the ring to the queen’s tomb with Nikos, Isyllt discovers that vampires looted it. Meanwhile, Savedra saves Ashlin from an assassin. While Isyllt tracks down the vampires and the other treasures they stole, Savedra learns about their grave-robbing from Nikos and stumbles onto a family connection with them. Another attempt on Ashlin’s life leads Savedra to take her out of Erisín in disguise to the Severos country estate, where they get attacked by possessed ravens and Ashlin and Savedra realize a mutual attraction.

“I watched you come to harm, and I couldn’t bear it.” She cupped Savedra’s cheek with one calloused hand. “It’s you I want, Vedra.” She took the last step, pressing the length of their bodies together. The princess was hard and lean against her, lips soft and demanding.

“I don’t like girls,” Savedra whispered when she could breathe again. But there was no denying the attraction, not with the sharp beat of her pulse, the heat and hardness of her traitorous flesh. She tried to pull away, but a bedpost trapped her.

Ashlin’s laugh caught in her throat. “Neither do I. But I like you.” She shifted her hips and Savedra gasped. Lips and tongue traced the line of her throat.

This summary doesn’t do justice to the intricacy of the characters or their relationships, though, particularly the secondary characters. Another trans character, Dahlia, lives at the other end of the spectrum of wealth and privilege from Savedra and becomes Isyllt’s assistant, despite the reputation of necromancy, to avoid having to work as a prostitute. All the characters are distinct in their backgrounds, their ethnicities, their genders and sexual orientations, and unlike some fantasy the commoners receive as much as attention as the aristocracy.

As Isyllt searches for the original prostitute’s murderer, it becomes clear to the reader and more gradually to the characters that the vampires, the ravens, and Savedra’s family are part of a larger conspiracy, and as you’d expect, things get worse. The suspense stems less from who the conspirators are or what their objective is and more from why they’re doing it in the first place. Early in the book, Isyllt describes how the events of the previous book, had ended in murder, chaos, and the near-destruction of the city, and it’s a fair summary of The Bone Palace too, though it’s far from a tragedy.

 

Spoilers for the ending

I liked two things about the ending and disliked one other. The parallels and contrasts between Mathiros, Lychandra, Phaedra, and Kiril on one hand and Nikos, Ashlin, Savedra, and Isyllt on the other are neatly done. Nikos sees how his father’s decisions left him, alone and miserable, and chooses better. One of the strongest passages of the book is when he promises to accept Savedra’s and Ashlin’s child as his own. Phaedra’s offer to Savedra to transfer her soul to Ginevra’s body is also well-chosen: there are not many temptations that would be more difficult for a trans woman to refuse. That said, Phaedra’s defeat seems anticlimactic because there’s no reason that Isylt couldn’t have allowed Forsythia to possess her at any point, so why did she wait until Mathiros and Kiril were dead and Ginevra had killed herself?

 

This last weakness in the ending is related to the story’s magic being ill-defined and too powerful, but except for that one part of the ending, it doesn’t interfere with the plot. Aside from the other problems I’ve mentioned, Downum’s prose tends to the flowery and in some places distracts from the plot and characters rather than enhancing them. There are also a few loose threads. For instance, Spider’s sort-of relationship with Isyllt isn’t well-motivated except for her general self-destructive tendencies, and while Downum talks about those, I don’t feel like I ever understand them. However, these are minor problems on the whole.

I recommend The Bone Palace to anyone who likes fantasy and doesn’t mind dark elements, particularly anyone who also likes queer women in their fantasy.