J. S. Kuiken

@jskuiken.com

852 Followers 300 Following

Writer of fictions. Queer, world traveller, and tea connoisseur. UEA alumnus and Lambda Literary Fellow. 🚫 Gen AI. He/his. https://jskuiken.com/links/

The DVD cover for Earth 2, the complete series.
A huge silver statue is a buffalo 🦬 with a red and black knitted cap.
“That’s just Mom,” Laura rolls her eyes as if this explains things. For a moment it’s totally ok. It’s fine that her mom calls her own husband an idiot and talks to him like that. Just like it’s normal and fine that Laura calls me a slut. That’s just Laura. As Coach comes down the stairs I feel nauseous. I had called her wife a slut. The person she adores more than anyone in the world and I know this. They’ve only been married for as long as she’s been my Coach. “Well? Can you be civil?” she asks. I nod, hating myself.
As we walk along the path, the wind whispers and birds are beginning to chirp but the world is otherwise still, so still. It’s like nothing else exists except this moment. And it’s just me and Daniel as light begins creeping up over the ridge. I really want to reach out and touch him. Not to like, kiss him or anything. But just to connect with him.
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, even though I’m scared by what he just said. “It is a big deal,” he says. “You are not ok and it’s ok to say that. You know that, right?” When he says that it’s like something inside me cracks. I’m relieved. I feel hopeful. I’m fucking shaking and crying and I can’t stop. The crying comes from someplace deep inside me and it feels like it can go on forever and ever. I’m falling into a million little pieces and I’ll never find all the fragments, never be put back together again, never be whole again.
An orange tabby laying with her head on her owner's thigh. She's looking lovingly up at her owner with huge, green eyes.
Getting off the ice, I put on my skate guards and take my gloves off before sitting down next to Coach. We pull the tape off our skates and unlace together in perfect unison, the years between us unwinding like our laces. It’s so natural it’s practically ridiculous. “Look at us nerds,” I say. Coach flicks my shoulder with her thumb and forefinger as we load the skates into my luggage. The little snap of contact stings with easy affection.
It’s slow going, up an orange and yellow colored slope through brush and twisted juniper. The sun presses hot against the back of my neck, and sweat sticks between my shoulderblades. There’s only the song of the wind here, the birds in the trees, our footsteps, and steady breathing. It’s wonderful. It’s almost like being alone on the ice in the early mornings, only not. There’s none of the worries of the ice here. Not a botched triple axel, not tomorrow’s free. The weight on my chest is gone here, too. There’s no Laura, no bad magic tricks, no loneliness. Nothing. Just sun and breath. And possibilities that beckon like blue skies ahead. Future victories at competitions. Remembering. Maybe even enjoying sex. People who will love me like Jamie, Coach, and Daniel do. All of that is comforting and infinite and equally as impossible as the weight itself
I know Sivas. His laughs. His sighs. The way he looks at men. It's the same way some women look at cattle when they are evaluating which ones to cull from the herd: quick glances, sizing them up. This one is too tall. This one too stocky. This one too thin and gangly. This one too old and crooked. But this one -- This one doesn't have to be handsome or fair. This one isn't the right height, or weight, or build. This one simply will do.
The blanket is so soft as we sit on it, chowing down on cheese sandwiches. There’s so much about her I love today. Her freckles, like a scatter of stars across the bridge of her nose. The soft pinkness of her lips. Her laughter and kindness. (What is she plotting?) The jangle of her bracelets is a sweet song, and when a breeze gusts, there’s the sticky smell of her perfume, like cotton candy. I don’t mind the smell now, though most of the time I’m not sure if I like it or hate it.
A red box housing six truly gargantuan cinnamon rolls.
A screenshot of the word "blissful".
A picture of a bookshelf with 3 of 4 shelves occupied by some books.
We push through the black double doors to the rink. White light and cold rushes over us. The chill sucks every smell out of the air, leaving nothing but the sweetness of the ice.
A profile picture of actor Diego Luna.
A profile picture of actor Diego Luna.
A picture of the author Paulo Coelho alongside a quote attributed to him: "One day you will wake up and there won't be any more time to do the things you've always wanted. Do it now."
The Weight of the Impossible by J. S. Kuiken 2018 Saturday, June 9 1. Love Is a Bitch She has to ruin everything.
Outside the wind blows against the windows and the traffic rumbles by. My heart beats, steadily pumping warmth through my body. But the organ’s fragile as glass too.
A picture of a bathroom sign that reads "Teacher".
“Zach, I can’t take you to practice.” “But the short program is tomorrow!” Her grimace deepens. “I know. Keep your voice down, you’re making me feel more nauseous. I asked Daniel to take you to and from practice today, ok? You still have lessons with him, but you have to practice the rest of the time on your own.” It feels like she just punched me in the gut, hard, because I’ve never practiced on my own the day before a competition. I’ve always had her, always. All feel is fear, blinding white and hot. “Don’t be scared,” she says. “I’m not,” I snap, because I fucking hate that she knows me so well. But she’s just trying to help, even though she’s in total agony. So I say: “Sorry."
A screenshot showing that J. S. Kuiken had 666 followers.
Dancing Underneath You Novel. In an ancient world, Sivas will do anything to save his sick son, Enaid. His loyal friend, Rigan, will follow him to the very ends of the earth, even if it means forsaking her own people. The mercurial and powerful shaman, Sydan, is haunted by a great and terrible loss which threatens to take everything from him. His apprentice, Pul’me, is uncertain about her place while she comes into her power as a woman and a shaman. The lives of these people intersect, criss-crossing through the past and the present in a tale about love, choice . . . and magic.
Rain begins in the afternoon, warm and seeping through our woolen korda colors. Warm and wet and slick. He's hot beneath me, on top of me, pulsing inside me. His hands are like fire on my skin. Each touch a burning wound. Yet his drowsy, blue-eyed gaze kisses and kisses me. He looks at me; he sees me. But he's gone now. The warm rain drips against my skin and it's just that. Rain.
But I am falling upwards. The earth separates from my feet and I hover here, near the hearth, in the half dark of my seida. The great leaves of the tree of the soul of the world whisper overhead, through the smoke-hole, and I can see their shadows shifting, moving in the wind of the world. I have fallen upwards before.
As these reflections appeared to emanate from invisible sources behind the paintings, the auditory and visual images overlapped merging into one multisensory experience. Although the sounds and music of prehistoric people are beyond our reach, the study shows that the physical environment actively participated in their activities, co-vibrating and creating reciprocal tangible encounters between the human and more-than-human worlds.
"There you are." Pul'me's voice sounds the way honeysuckle tastes, and her arms are warm around me. No matter how many times she has run her fingers through my cropped hair, it makes me shiver with pleasure every time. Our foreheads press together, a Skaro greeting I taught her, and we simply meet.
Results from a quiz.
2018 Saturday, June 9 1. Love Is a Bitch She has to ruin everything. That scent feels like it’s stabbing me in the gut and nausea races up my throat. Running to the bathroom, I leap into a stall, not caring if anyone is there. When that’s all vomited up, I dry heave. Every time I think it’s over I remember that perfume from the girl in the lobby -- the same kind Laura wore -- and start gagging again. I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to be on the ice, where everything is ok. Instead I’m choking on air and stupid memories. When it finally stops, I lean against the stall wall, closing my eyes. The metal is cool and comforting against my forehead.
A meme about the em dash.
A video of me in yellow. I'm in the very lower left corner of the frame. Behind me are 40 enthusiastic Thai students clapping and cheering and waving.
Daniel passes by, leading a line of students dragging their luggage to a circle of waiting parents. The Rude Little Brat springs into a man’s arms. “Dad, did you see my loops?” she asks. “Yes,” her dad laughs. “They were so good. You’ve worked so hard to improve.” RLB smiles like she’d just won Olympic gold. Gag me. Sappy family moments can go fuck themselves with a rusty fork. The whole wholesome family with Mom and Dad and the 2.5 kids, everyone with their sugary smiles. It all has to be fake, because if it isn’t, the universe is more unfair than I even imagined.
I think about black spaces eating my memory and tripped-out magic tricks. I’m dying inside because it’s all so pent up and ugly. Just wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. The words fly out of my mouth: “Dude, I know how that feels.” Shit. Fuck. Way to epically blow it, Zach. Daniel stops and stares at me. “I mean, not about my gender,” I add, like that means anything. I don’t know how to cover my ass without explaining this one. But if I tell Daniel, he’ll probably look at me like I’m fucking crazy. A pitying look that’s like nails on a chalkboard. Hideous and sickening. I couldn’t stand it if he looked at me like that. Plus, he’d tell Coach.
Dancing Underneath You Novel. In an ancient world, Sivas will do anything to save his sick son, Enaid. His loyal friend, Rigan, will follow him to the very ends of the earth, even if it means forsaking her own people. The mercurial and powerful shaman, Sydan, is haunted by a great and terrible loss which threatens to take everything from him. His apprentice, Pul’me, is uncertain about her place while she comes into her power as a woman and a shaman. The lives of these people intersect, criss-crossing through the past and the present in a tale about love, choice . . . and magic.
2. Small Insects, Big Dick Energy (AKA, Where oh where did this bug bite come from and WHY won't it stop ITCHING?!) big angry PURPLE bite that wouldn't stop itching IT WAS PURPLE
The ice is sleek, smooth and silk beneath my blades as it presses up to meet me. The muscles in my shoulders and neck finally unwind. Coasting a few laps with the other skaters, I let the ice lift me up and welcome me. Just like it has since I was four years old and first tried skating out on the frozen waters of Black Lake. I wasn’t very good at it then, but I loved skating. Loved it like nothing else in my life. It felt as though someone had carved a hole in my heart and then filled it with sunshine. Though I was only four, I knew I would always love the ice.
Daniel’s voice drops in and mixes with my own, an intimate tangling, our faces close together as we share the mic. He’s looking up at the projector, but I see only him, the deep brown eyes glowing dimly in the scarce light of the bar, the faded colors in his hair shining faintly. The lyrics blend with this vision and my heart swells with something I can’t name or contain.
The ice is sleek, smooth and silk beneath my blades as it presses up to meet me. The muscles in my shoulders and neck finally unwind. Coasting a few laps with the other skaters, I let the ice lift me up and welcome me. Just like it has since I was four years old and first tried skating out on the frozen waters of Black Lake. I wasn’t very good at it then, but I loved skating. Loved it like nothing else in my life. It felt as though someone had carved a hole in my heart and then filled it with sunshine. Though I was only four, I knew I would always love the ice.
I am bleeding, and I am a woman. The cracks between worlds are bigger for me and I can go through. The noise of this world, the living world, like the crash of the ocean's waves, ebbs. A neverending silence that frightens the spirits of the newly dead, and untrained shamans. A silence that is the beginning and ending and rebirth of all time, dark and promise-full. The tree of the soul of the world is great and black, and the stars and moons shine in her everliving branches.
Her face against mine, her palms pressing against my swollen belly, until the bones of my unborn child scream inside me.
A picture of four inked fountain pens. From left to right, the fountain pen color is purple, green, blue, and orange.
Getting off the ice, I put on my skate guards and take my gloves off before sitting down next to Coach. We pull the tape off our skates and unlace together in perfect unison, the years between us unwinding like our laces. It’s so natural it’s practically ridiculous. “Look at us nerds,” I say. Coach flicks my shoulder with her thumb and forefinger as we load the skates into my luggage. The little snap of contact stings with easy affection.
And my mother's memory growls after me as I take my drum. Who am I to be a kuutija. To sing the Morning Song, the words chalky and grainy on my tongue. To wear white and carry a bag of herbs. Tob hold my head high and allow people to greet me with difference and respect, even when it's grudging. To have Enaid follow me as my apprentice -- as though I am worthy of such things. She spits at me. Pah! Foolish girl as I put away my drum. The words trailing me to Tilovi's hearth. The girl's mother frowns at me,
A picture of a snail crawling through a thunderstorm, surrounded by small skulls and roses. The text at the top and bottom, which looks medieval, reads: "The journey is long and full of terror. Yet I inch forward."
He speaks Ransal, true enough. But it is the oddest thing I have ever encountered. It is akin to wood worn down and then painted over with daub. There is an accent which once was, a Ransal variety, and then his Selgaki accent over it. They grate against each other, two blades which make his speech discordant and interesting. It's the only thing approaching tolerable about this whole situation: this stranger and his -- strangeness.
Green buds on a branch opening in the warm sunshine.
A contented orange tabby rolling around on a mattress and rubbing her cheek against it.
An orange tabby lying on her side, looking up at the camera. She is lying on a red blanket on a couch with southwestern style red, gold, blue, and green patterns.
An orange tabby sitting on a white towel in a red chair. She is staring directly at the camera with huge green eyes.
Arriving someplace more desirable at some future time is an illusion. This is it. - Jon Kabat-Zinn
J. S. Kuiken is an author whose work appears in publications such as Bosie Magazine, Foglifter, and Nightscript. He holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia. Kuiken's published works include the novella The Testament of Mary Anne, and the short story collection, Close to the Water.
A picture of Toda Mariko from the TV series Shōgun.
A somewhat fuzzy close-up shot of a small pair of green buds on a naked branch.
An orange tabby lying on a naked mattress, making it impossible to put the fitted sheet on.
A picture of a high mesa/cliff face and winding road in Colorado National Monument.
Are homophobic family members evil? Well, not if you believe that evil does not have a human face. Yes, the people who won’t take responsibility for their dying gay son, won’t invite their lesbian sister to their wedding, won’t allow their gay cousin to hold their child, won’t praise their gay co-worker, won’t send their gay son a birthday card, vote for anti-gay politicians, give money to a homophobic church, love films that diminish gay people—those people may have all kinds of great attributes. You may love them. They may have taken you fishing when you were six or made you a quilt for Christmas or had a great sense of humor or looked just like you. That is what evil looks like. Evil knows great old songs, can be weak and vulnerable, can love you, can feed the hungry, can pick out a book because they were thinking of you. Evil can have Alzheimer’s. Familial homophobia is deeply human, as all evil is the product of human imagination.
White text on a black background. It reads: "There you are." Pul'me's voice sounds the way honeysuckle tastes, and her arms are warm around me. No matter how many times she has run her fingers through my cropped hair, it makes me shiver with pleasure every time. Our foreheads press together, a Skaro greeting I taught her, and we simply meet.
An orange tabby sleeping snuggled against her owner's legs.
A pair of fluffy buttermilk pancakes situated on a plate. A fork accompanies them.