Andy Siege has a new queer magical realism romance out (bi male, intersex female): Don’t Let Me Drown.
Traumatised by his experiences as a war photographer, Aaron is drowning in guilt and tranquilisers. On a new assignment to document the civil conflict in the African country of Miberia, he is paralysed by the belief that terrible things only happen so that he can capture them on camera.
When he meets Mary, a young woman in danger because she is intersex, heâs convinced that if he can just save her, it will redeem him for all the other deaths heâs witnessed.
So begins a race to the border, one step ahead of the rebel army. But as love grows between them and the country is submerged in innocent blood, Aaron comes to understand that heâs not saving Mary. Sheâs saving him.
Amidst the horrors of war, can Aaron rediscover hope?
Warnings: Violence, Drug Abuse, Depression, Explicit Sex
About the Series:
Unusual stories about racially diverse, neurodivergent characters of marginalised orientations and gender alignments. Enter bizarre, thought-provoking new worlds in these speculative novellas that explore deeply relevant themes in an irreverent way.
These are stand-alone novellas and can be read in any order.
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
Iâm chilling at the bottom of a swimming pool. Being down here, deep underwater, feels amazing. I canât hold my breath forever though. I wish I could, or that maybe I would drown. Unfortunately, thatâs not how human beings work, and eventually my stupid survival instincts will force me to resurface.
Did you know that crocodiles can hold their breath for up to an hour?
Iâm behaving like an idiot and I should be embarrassed. Iâm an adult and I need to get out and get dressed. I have responsibilities and a job to do. Iâm an award-winning photographer, for fuckâs sake. I worked hard to get where I am.
I havenât taken a photograph since Greece. The last picture I took was of a drowned toddler in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, curled up on the beach with shallow waves lapping at his little body. The boy and his entire family tried to come over to Europe by motorboat, but a storm flipped them over and they all died. The toddlerâs father, mother, and two sisters lay washed up further down the sandbank, with bloated bellies and wide-open eyes.
The Aegean Sea is beautiful at sunrise. I must have taken a thousand photographs with my most expensive Ceica Camera, but only that one specific picture was broadcast around the world. Youâve probably seen it in a newspaper or on TV. In the photograph, the little boy in the Mickey Mouse shirt looks like heâs sleeping, except that his lips are just a bit too blue, and his face is too relaxed. Also, a child wouldnât be sleeping right in the surf as the sun rises over the Aegean.
My lungs start to burn and there is a kind of pressure building inside my brain, pushing me to resurface out of the swimming pool. I manage to hold my breath for a few more seconds while I rise, and then I pop my head out of the water and gasp.
Soft reggae tunes float through the air, and I smell curry and wood smoke from the buffet by the bar. Iâm alone at the pool, apart from one high-class prostitute who is reclining in a pool chair, sipping water through a straw.
The African country of Miberia is at war, so the Western tourists and professionals have all left the country. The only foreigners still here are diplomats, weapons dealers, and journalists like me. Iâm staying at the Crystal Hotel, which is a Chinese style high rise, painted blue and with bluish window glass. Even though itâs almost happy hour, and the buffet is extravagant, thereâs no one at the bar. I arrived this morning, and the only other guests I saw at lunch were a pair of sketchy looking Asian businessmen.
I was supposed to take a taxi to the outskirts of the city today, to start photographing refugees, but I didnât. The problem I have right now is a complex state of artistic paralysis. I havenât taken a picture in many months. You see, people think that Iâm good at taking photographs, but the truth is that every good picture Iâve ever taken mystifies me. When I got that major award for the picture of the drowned toddler, I pretended to know what I did to deserve it. But actually, I donât know what I did, and I fear that Iâll never take a picture that good ever again.
I swim to the edge of the pool and then hoist myself up and out. I have a towel and a papaya vodka cocktail waiting for me on a rickety iron table. I dry myself off and down the drink, while doing a casual sweep of my surroundings. The walls around the hotel courtyard are tall and topped with razor wire. I wonder if they added the razor wire because of the war outside or if it has always been there. I hear a gunshot off in the distance. Somewhere in the city, someone may have just lost their life, and I wasnât there to take the picture.
I believe in fate. I believe that things happen for a reason. But that poses an ethical problem. You see, Iâm a war photographer, so when I take a picture of something horrible, I ask myself if that horrible thing happened just so that I could take a picture of it. Do you follow? I ask myself if the act of me taking a photograph caused the drowning of that little boy in the Mickey Mouse shirt. The obvious answer is no, but hear me out. That little boyâs death, together with my camera, sparked a global conversation about refugees. Fate?
The high-class prostitute on the other side of the pool just winked at me. I donât find her particularly sexy. I havenât found anyone sexy in a long time, actually. My libido seems to have died with that toddler in Greece. I can still appreciate the aesthetics of a beautiful person, healthy skin, good teeth, an outgoing personality, but I just canât get a boner anymore. I shake my head at the prostitute so that she gets it.
Thereâs a war going on in Miberia. A complex, brutal, bloody beast of a war, and Iâm here to take pictures. So now I ask myself, does my presence here mean that bad things will happen just so that I can photograph them? If thatâs true, then it might be better if I just stay at the Crystal Hotel, if I donât venture out into the city, out into the countryside where entire villages are getting butchered. Maybe my presence out there will cause more atrocities to happen. Thatâs a crippling thought.
I make my way over to the buffet by the bar. Thereâs roasted chicken and rice that smells like curry and cinnamon. I load my plate with the exotic food and take a seat at a small table. The chow is delicious, probably because the ingredients are much fresher than anything from the supermarket back in Canada. I feel a little shitty though, because I know that while Iâm pigging out, about thirty percent of the population of Miberia is starving. There isnât anything I can do about that, of course, plus Iâm hungry.
The two Asian businessmen who I saw at lunch come in through the gate. Theyâre tall, with unremarkable haircuts, intelligent eyes, and pot bellies. I wonder what category of war profiteer they fall under. Are they weapons salesmen, diplomats, military advisors, diamond miners? They both nod at me, although they donât smile. I spent some time in the Ukraine during the Russian invasion and I noticed that men who mean business donât smile a lot.
Iâm actually a quarter black, although I pass as white. Most people think Iâm Greek or Italian on account of my black hair and slight natural tan. The truth is, though, that my granddad on my momâs side was Miberian. Thatâs one of the reasons why I took this assignment. I wanted to get to know the country that my ancestors are from. I even know the name of my tribe, the Mzuru, who live in the northern jungles of Miberia. I donât know a lot about them, except that they worship crocodiles and have six fingers on their left hands. So do I.
The medical term for this condition is âpolydactylyâ, which means âmany fingersâ in Greek. Most people who have this condition canât use the extra finger because it doesnât have bones in it, but mine is fully functional. Itâs located on the little finger side of the hand and it even helps me complete some tasks better than normal people can. For example, I can switch the settings on my camera faster than other photographers are able to.
I wonât be able to visit the tribe, of course, because of the war. I would love to hug a long-lost relative right now. When I said earlier that I canât get a boner, I didnât mean that Iâm completely adverse to affection. I do sometimes wish for physical contact, actually I donât think any human being can exist without it. They did a study with orphans in Romania who were starved of hugs, cuddles, kisses, etc. Those children became sick and died. So yeah, I too feel like getting a backrub or a peck on the forehead from time to time. Today is one of those days where I wouldnât mind some affection. Paying a prostitute isnât my style, and the Asian businessmen at the bar are probably too homophobic to cuddle with me.
Actually, homosexuality is illegal in the government-run parts of Miberia, so Iâve got to be a little careful. If I do meet someone to share warmth with, it has got to be a woman. You can literally go to jail here if you are found to be gay. Horrible? Certainly, and it gets worse⌠you see, in Miberia, you can go to jail if you support gay rights, even if you are straight. That means that there is practically no way for things to get better, because even allies are too afraid to say anything. Whatever, maybe once the war is over, things will change.
The high-class prostitute by the pool is the only female at the hotel, and Iâm not going to pay someone for love. I guess Iâll have to toughen up and be alone tonight. As Iâm thinking this I hear a burst of machine gun fire out in the city. Did someone just die for no reason? Was I supposed to be there to photograph what happened? Should I have been there to give meaning to the loss of life? Or did the bullets miss their mark because I wasnât there? Did I save a life by refusing to engage with the bloodshed?
Author Bio
Andy Siege born as Andreas Madjid Siege in Kenya in 1985 is an award winning film director and author. He is a POC, neurologically diverse, and queer. He has published 11 novels/novellas, and his debut feature film âBeti and Amareâ which he wrote and directed was nominated for multiple high profile international film awards. He has a BA in Creative Writing and an MA in Political Science.
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Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words 