Artist Statement
Pronouns: She/her
We Are Our Legacy is a short story meant to capture the thrill of discovering one’s own history. It’s a celebration of sapphic joy— that we have been here, we are here, and we will continue to be here. There is power and resistance in being visible. We Are Our Legacy is a testament to the truth— that no matter how hard they try, they can’t erase us.
We Are Our Legacy
I could never forget when I was given the keys to 131 Bakers Street. I was out at the bar nestled in the corner of town between the used bookstore and the bike path. I never went for the beer— it was almost always flat, and sobriety tasted better anyway. I went, like many did, for the people.
That night, I sat on the barstool my ass had essentially engraved my initials in, sipping on a Sprite. I had a book in front of me. I forget the exact one now and remember little else about it beyond the lingering feeling that I still haven't finished reading it. Still, it felt good, sitting in the chaotic shouting of strangers and their barking laughs. In a way, it felt like home, all of us gathered around the bar the same way a family would gather around the dinner table.
The realtor arrived 15 minutes late, or in his eyes, right on time. He stood out, a suit-clad sore thumb in a crowd full of blue-collar butches and high femme academics. I fit in the former category at the time. My jeans didn’t quite fit, dragged down on one side by a carabiner. It was only balanced out by my bursting pockets, stuffed with receipts, loose change, knickknacks, and stray hair ties. Like many people, I tended to keep my life in my pockets, my heart in my eyes, and my soul on my sleeve. Back then, I’d just gotten a buzzcut. The hair didn’t have the time to grow out yet, and the uneven spots shone like dimes on the street.
James, my realtor and reluctant friend, was nearly the opposite. His shoes were always professionally shined. A pocketwatch’s gold chain peeked out of his side pocket. Sleek black glasses fit on a straight-edged nose, a perfect fit for such a straight-edged man. He was here, in a dive bar he’d never been in before (and would likely never visit again), to meet me. Tonight was the culmination of months of effort, towers of paperwork, and an unbearable number of house tours. Tonight, James would either give me a key or his condolences.
“Hey, Stevie.” James sat, frowning as his suit wrinkled against the old leather barstools. “Looks like you’re doing well.”
“I wish I could say the same.” I jokingly prodded him with my elbow. “So, no point in dragging this out. What’s the news?”
“Oh. Right.” James waved over the bartender and ordered a mocktail with a fancy French name. It sounded vaguely fruity. “We heard back from the seller. The old widows.”
“And?” I closed my book impatiently.
“The place is yours.” He pressed a single brass key into my palm, followed by an unacknowledged piece of paper.
“What’s this?” I asked, tucking the paper into my book.
“It’s from the old owners.” He shrugged as the chaos of the bar around us took control. “They wanted you to have it.”
“What?” I said, unable to hear him over the growing commotion.
“Congratulations.” James shouted, raising a glass. “You’re a homeowner!”
Cheers echoed throughout the bar. Patrons raised their glasses, and beer rained down onto already sticky floors. I laughed, toasting alongside a large group of strangers with my Sprite. I chugged the rest, ignoring how it tasted— bittersweet.
***
I stood outside 131 Bakers Street. It was a modest yellow house, though the sun had nearly bleached the paint white. There were little divots in the grass where lawn gnomes used to sit. The bushes hadn’t been trimmed recently. They lazily stretched over the cracking concrete path and brushed against my legs as I passed by. I disliked the shadow the moving truck cast across the once-green lawn and did my best to disassociate as the movers threw my belongings around. Eventually, the dust settled, and the air cleared. There was only one thing left to do. I walked inside and locked the door behind me.
I spent the first few days unpacking. I marked the passage of time with masking tape on the kitchen table and the growing pile of cardboard boxes nearby. When I inevitably ran out of space for my collection of knickknacks on the fourth day, I started to explore the attic. I stumbled upon it. I bumped into the painted-over hatch in the middle of the east wall, cursing as paint flakes littered the floor.
“What the hell?” I whispered, picking at the layers of paint. After a few minutes, a child-sized door was visible. I crawled up the battered wooden stairs with a flashlight between my teeth. The light tore through the attic.
It revealed dozens of diaries perched on bowing shelves. Photo albums laid next to it, each labeled with a year. There was a box of VHS tapes in the corner and at least a few dresses hanging from the rafters. Dust settled over everything. It stirred as I moved, disturbing the delicate peace decades in the making.
“Who did this belong to?” I said, reaching instinctively for the photo albums. “The widows?”
I opened the album on the top of the stack labeled 1955, the last one to be made. I flipped through the pages, stunned by the myriad of faces. I had never met the widows, but the two women constantly present in the photographs could be them. I’m not sure how long I sat there, staring at the photos in the dark. A few stuck with me, and one album labeled 1916 followed me downstairs.
The 1916 album was easily the thickest of the bunch. It was divided into sections: moving day, “wedding” (the quotes were written so lightly I could barely see them), Eliza’s 22nd birthday, and Jen’s 24th birthday. Each was filled to the brim with photos and letters.
Moving day took me through 131 Bakers Street as it once was, with baby blue shutters and a fresh coat of yellow paint. Two women posed in front of the house and its spotless yard, their arms wrapped around one another. I held up a photo of their boxes in the kitchen, smiling as it overlapped my own. The 1910s-era Bakers Street home felt eerily similar to the Bakers Street I was getting acquainted with.
A torn letter was taped to the page next to the photo. I read it, pacing through the house.
“News came back today. Jen’s and I’s husbands aren’t comin’ back. The great war took ‘em. We can’t afford to live on our own— everything’s too damn expensive, and movin’ in together made sense. So, that’s what we did.”
I flipped the page. Jen, at least the one I’m presuming was Jen, stood in the kitchen. She was dressed in a working man’s clothes. I instantly recognized those thick jeans and dirty flannels. A bandana held her hair up. She held a bowl of batter and was in the middle of pouring a scoopful onto a skillet. It was captioned, First breakfast. June 1st, 1916.
The next photo, aptly named Twilight, showed the pair on the front porch. They sat in a swing, leaning against each other. Eliza, the other woman, had her head in Jen’s lap. It was soft, tender. I squinted through the noise of the camera and focused on their faces.
Friends don’t look at friends like that.
I wandered 131 Bakers Street, holding each photo up to the room where it had been taken. The hallway was once covered in family portraits. There was never a man in any of them. The bedroom looked the same, the bed bearing two soft indents. The guest room, however, changed over the years. It was once a craft studio. Then, some kind of carving workshop. Eventually, it became what it was when I moved in, a child’s room complete with a cradle.
The kitchen didn’t change. I flipped through dozens of photos, each a single breath of time. Jen by the stove. Eliza on the counter. The pair danced in front of the nook where the fridge stood now. A record spun on the kitchen table. I could see their smiles captured in the old footage, the warmth in their gaze, and the way the sunlight made halos around their bodies.
They couldn’t have just been friends… right?
I skipped through the rest of the house, settling on the page labeled “wedding.” Jen and Eliza stood in the living room with the curtains drawn. Friends gathered at the edges of the photograph, perched on couches and tables. Someone had made a makeshift aisle out of newspapers painted red, the headlines still peeking through. There was no minister behind them, no open Bible. I held the photo, breathless. It felt like I was seeing something I wasn’t supposed to, a private moment that no one— not even God— had been privy to.
I put the photo back, careful not to crease its edges, and flipped through the rest of the photo album. I smiled at the women’s faces blurred by birthday confetti and candlelight. I watched them grow old and lean on each other. Eliza stood in the hallway, proudly holding an immaculately carved cane. Jen, partially out of frame, held a small woodcutting knife. The final photo in the album was of the pair in front of the house. They were dressed to the nines in their Sunday best, Jen in a oversized black suit jacket and Eliza in a whimsical sundress. Their foreheads touched, and I saw the corners of their smiles. I wish I knew what had made them laugh.
I thought back to the letter James had given me on moving day. It sat on the kitchen table, still folded between the pages of my book. I’d forgotten about it, caught up with boxes and the mysterious attic.
“To Stevie,
James told us quite a lot about you. It may have been rude of us to pry— my wife insisted
I add that part— but we wanted to know who we were entrusting our home to. 131 Bakers Street served us well, as you’ll eventually find out. We hope it does the same for you.
All we ask— if we can ask anything from you at all— is that you pass this place on. Give it to someone you can see yourself in. Someone like… us. Someone who can make these old photos (and older bones) come to life again.
Best wishes,
Jen and Eliza”
I put the letter and its implied promise down, resting my head in my hands. They knew I’d find out. How? Maybe I was bound to discover it— the secret attic, the photo albums, and who they really were behind closed doors. I didn’t think about this note for years, but it was always there, tucked into the pages of the book I was reading. I didn’t know it then, but Jen and Eliza were right. Those glimpses of the past were far from dead as I reenacted a history that was made for me, swaddled in the warm embrace of 131 Bakers Street.
***
Sure enough, the photos in the attic gradually came to life again. I did, in fact, find the woman of my dreams. Alex was a tall, boxer-obsessed woman with a compulsion for chemistry. When she wasn’t punching bags, she was measuring substances whose names I couldn’t be bothered to say, much less spell. We bonded over the Dewey decimal system and Mythbusters. One movie night turned into two, then three as we grew closer over bowls of pretzels and questionable entertainment. Slowly, my home became hers.
Our first kiss happened in the kitchen under the lukewarm glow of the fridge light. We swayed back and forth to one of Alex’s many records. I recognized the song as it sang about how love is a kaleidoscope— how millions of moments can be split apart and allowed to shine. Looking back, I imagine that night as a soft rose gold.
“You told me you couldn’t dance.” She said, guiding me through the space. Our half-empty plates sat at the vacant table. The candles were burned down to the quick. Flowers sat in a makeshift base, a beaker in disguise. The roar of the outside world melted away until it was just the two of us, wrapped up in the cozy confines of 131 Baker Street.
“I can’t,” I replied as I stumbled over her feet. She caught me before I could hit the floor, knocking the fridge door open. I stared up at her, tracing her arm muscles with my fingers. I liked the way they pressed against me, a whisper of safety. I’d let her hold me forever, if forever was a possibility.
Her eyes darted between my lips and eyes. “May I?”
I chuckled as a single curl fell onto her face. I brushed it aside and stared into her maroon eyes, her little kaleidoscopes. “You may.”
The months passed by, seasons changing with the flick of the TV remote. Promotions came and went. The foyer filled with friends until it was bursting at the seams. Champagne bottles spat against the ceiling as cheers echoed throughout the house. Alex was my girlfriend before I was humble enough to ask. I refused to make the same mistake twice.
“So…” I said, curled up next to her on the couch. She was almost a foot taller than me sitting down, and I could never overcome the short jokes. Still, I loved the way my head fit in the crook of her neck. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
“So?” She said, distracted by the latest mystery on TV.
“Do you mind?” I reached for the remote and hit mute. The snowflakes outside winked at me as I adjusted my position on the couch.
“What’s going on?” She looked at me in earnest. She was adorable in her reindeer onesie. She’d insisted on getting antlers to match, though she lost them almost immediately.
I knelt in my elf costume, giggling as the bells sewn to my ankles jingled. “I was wondering if…”
“Please tell me you’re not—” Alex stood up.
I felt the weight of the square box in my pocket, pressed up against my thighs. “Do you not… want me to?”
“No, I do. I just...” She refused to finish her sentence and began patting her body. “Where on earth is it?”
“Where’s what?” I stood, confused.
“This!” Alex laughed, pulling out a matching black box.
My eyes widened. “You got to be kidding me.”
She laughed, and I couldn’t help but notice how it matched the twinkling bells. “Great minds think alike, no?”
“I guess.” I folded over in relief, placing my hands on my knees.
“Hey, do you want to ask first, or can I?”
“Ladies first,” I said, falling to the floor in a fit of laughter as she opened the box to reveal a single pretzel.
“I assumed you already got rings and, well, this seemed fitting.” She paused, waiting for me to catch my breath. “For such a salty woman, I thought you’d appreciate—”
“Yes!” I slid the snack over my pinky finger (the only one small enough to fit), giggling as she took a bite.
“You really couldn’t wait, could you?”
“Nope.” I finished it off, laughing as the salt crept between our lips.
A year later, I found myself stashing our wedding outfits in the attic. I hung them next to the camcorder and the box of tapes, each one labeled with someone’s birthday or a major holiday. I blew the dust off the camcorder, wincing as the attic’s wooden boards dug into my knees.
“You think this still works?” I called back. Alex stood at the base of the hatch, holding the ladder steady. It turned out that being short (occasionally) had its benefits.
“Now’s a great time to find out.” She said. “If you’ll get down from there.”
“It’s not my fault there’s so much stuff up here!” My gaze swept over the maze of knickknacks and family heirlooms. I’d spent weeks flipping through the photo albums, memorizing every crease in Jen and Eliza’s faces. Each one said the same thing— what a joyous honor it is to grow old together.
“You can explore more later.” Alex huffed. “We’ve got an important appointment to make. Why you insist on going through our trash beforehand is beyond me but—”
“You know you love it.”
She sighed. “Just get down here.”
“If you insist,” I said, camcorder in tow. I dug around in the junk drawer for some AA batteries. I slapped them in and grinned as the quasi-ancient 90s technology came to life.
“Well, would ya look at that,” Alex said. I didn’t have to turn around to know her hands rested against her hips out of bewilderment and amusement.
“Looks like there’s a tape in here. Should we…”
“Use it?” Alex grabbed the camera and pressed record. “Obviously.”
“Do you want to say it or should I?” I asked, glancing back at the tiny bedroom I was renovating.
“Why don’t we both say it?” Alex dragged me through the house by the hand, excitedly entering the construction zone.
“Careful!”
“Come on.” She stumbled, nearly dropping the camera.
“Here, let me.” I took the camera and let Alex steady herself against the doorframe. Together, we posed in front of the work in progress, silently counting to three.
“We’re having a baby!”
***
Thirty years later, I remember rushing Alex to the hospital. I remember the squeal of rubber against concrete and the smoke that hung in the air, leftover remnants from a particularly aggressive fire season. I remember the men in the ambulance saying things I didn’t understand and, more importantly, didn’t trust.
Things were not okay. I feared they’d never be okay again.
I left the hospital alone. I closed the door to our bedroom and refused to touch it. Dust gathered over once-loved power tools. Passions turned into hobbies, then worthless ways to pass the time. 131 Bakers Street grew quiet. I paced trenches into the carpet and ran myself ragged as I tried to preserve the past. I left her books on the kitchen table for months. Even when I put them away, I bookmarked the page she was on. Just in case.
Now, I am seventy-five years young. I have traveled the world and have attempted to make it a better place. I carry baggage the same way everyone does— reluctantly and with great effort, though I refuse to make my late wife one of them. Every moment with Alex was a joyous one. I color each memory, assembling them into little structures in my mind, watching the way the morning light reflects off their pieces. No one sees this little kaleidoscope and the way the colors make me dance. If only I could dance with her again.
I won’t regale you with tales of my gradual slip into depression. All you need to know is that one day, I walked myself over to the care center down the block and checked in. I haven’t left since that day. From my place on the center’s front porch, I can see the house I learned how to love in, the 131 glinting in the sun. I can still feel the key in my pocket. I remember the promise I made and am haunted by my failure to keep it. I don’t have time to ruminate further as an aide comes outside.
“You doing okay out here, Mrs. Leverty?”
She’s a stout girl, one whose name I can’t remember for the life of me. If I could see her name tag well enough to read it, this wouldn’t be an issue. Too bad I was born blind, and not all things improve with age. I still recognize her without fail, though. A small tattoo curls up around the back of her ear, hidden between tucks of auburn hair. She’s got this leather notebook in her back pocket, the same kind reporters carry. I often find her scribbling in it, muttering to herself about dissertations and upcoming exams. I grin. She reminds me of Alex, always a diligent student.
“I’m well. As well as I can be, anyway.” I relax in the rocking chair, pretending that I can’t smell the exhaust that leaks over the highway barrier behind the center. “You?”
“About the same.” She squats next to the chair. “You take your meds this morning?”
“My meds? What are you, daft?”
“I just—” She panics. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to offend.”
“Oh, honey.” I laugh. “I’m just messing with you. Which pills am I supposed to take in the morning?”
The aide lists drugs I can’t even begin to pronounce. I stopped asking what they were for a long time ago. Alex would know. She always knew that kind of thing.
“Okay, hand ‘em over.” I sigh, swallowing them with an apprehensive gulp.
“They’d go down easier if you drank some water.” The aide suggests. She holds out a glass of water in an attempt to be helpful.
“I’m okay, dear.”
She tuts at me. “That’s what my girlfriend always says. You’d like her. The two of you are just so stubborn.”
“Girlfriend?” I perk up. I live for the gossip. There’s not much else going on at the care center, and stories are amazing at passing the time.
“Yeah, I…”
“Go on.” I lean in. “Tell me more.”
The aide, whose name is Chelsea— I’m tempted to write it on my arm so I actually remember— regales me with stories of her girlfriend, a barista obsessed with mushroom hunting and traditional medicine. I watch her face brighten up as she describes the various plants her girlfriend collects and stashes around their tiny apartment.
“She wants to have them all to be ready for the baby.”
“Baby?” I ask, and Chelsea rubs her belly. “How long?”
“Only three months. We’d spent months trying. Clinic after clinic. One finally stuck and well, we can’t wait.”
“I can only imagine.” I say, remembering when Alex discovered that the IVF worked. “It’s a wonderful feeling.”
The two of us spend hours on the porch, talking about the people we know and those we wished we could forget. This happens day after day as summer slips into fall.
“Chelsea?” I ask. She grabs a blanket and covers me with it instinctively as I shiver, knowing damn well that the October cold had sunk into my bones. “I have something for you.”
“Oh, Stevie.” She says— we’re on a first name basis now. “You don’t have to get me anything.”
“It’s your birthday. Damn right I gotta get you somethin’” I insist, digging the key out of my pocket. Her eyes widen.
“What’s this?” She turns the key over in her hand.
“Listen, you’ve got a baby right ‘round the corner and I’ve got a place that’s in need of some love.” I gesture down the street. “It’s just down the block, close to work. You’ve got a family, and well, every family needs a home.”
“I can’t accept this.” Chelsea tries to put the key back into my hand but is met with a brittle fist.
“Well, that’s too damn bad.” I laugh. “You’re gonna have to.”
“But—”
“You took care of me.” I stood, hobbling off the porch. “Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”
“I’m just doing my job.” She insists, following me.
“As am I.”
She pauses as I lean against the doorframe and catch my breath. “Are you okay, Ms. Leverty?”
“Don’t ‘Ms. Leverty’ me!” I scowl before bursting out into a fit of laughter. “Just take it, okay?”
“But why are you giving this to me? A whole house? It’s too extravagant. I can’t—”
“You can and you will.” I smile, recalling the boxes in the attic, some of them decades older than my own additions. She’d meet Jen and Eliza the same way I did. She’d get to know Alex and I through the magic of VHS. And one day, when she’s ready, she’ll get to add her story using whatever new fangled thing they’ll come up with next. I just hope that it can fit into a cardboard box for someone else to discover.
Note: There was only one fiction submitter for our zine, and the team agreed that it was important to feature other voices/perspectives whenever possible. Below is a collection of fiction works.
Kitchen - Banana Yoshimoto
It's about this young woman who during grief befriends this man and his mother, who is a trans woman. It's written by a cis person in 90s and is outdated in a lot of ways but also has very interesting commentary on gender roles and obligations to fit into them.
The Fifth Season - N.K. Jemisin
Afro-futurist sci fi fantasy about three women's intersecting paths.
The Ones Who Stay and Fight - N.K. Jemisin
A direct response to Ursula K le Guin's Those Who Walk Away From Omelas
I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter - Isabel Fall
Fall herself is trans, this is sci-fi. It's a short story that is far better than the title might initially suggest and also much more pro-trans people than the title would normally suggest.
Red Spider White Web - Misha
Indigenous cyberpunk. I have not personally read this one but I've been meaning to and I hear excellent things. It is out of print and expensive but is easy to find in ways not in print.
Scattered All Over the Earth - Yoko Tawada
Last Night at the Telegraph Club - Malinda Lo
The City We Became (Great Cities duology) - N.K. Jemisin
We Set The Dark On Fire - Tehor Kay Mejia
The Witch King - H.E. Edgmon
The Lamb Will Slaughter The Lion ( Danielle Cain series) - Margaret Killjoy
Just your local bisexual disaster - Andrea Mosqueda
A Psalm For The Wild Built (monk & robot book 1) - Becky Chambers
Long Way To A Small Angry Planet (Wayfarers series) - Becky Chambers
Gideon The Ninth (book 1 in the Locked Tomb series) - Tamsyn Muir
The Heart Break Bakery - A.R. Carpetta
Once & Future - A.R. Carpetta
Prince of the Palisades - Julian Winters
Red, White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
One Last Stop - Casey McQuiston
Cemetery Boys - Aiden Thomas
The House in the Cerulean Sea - TJ Klune
All Boys Aren’t Blue - George M Johnson
Pride and Prejudice and Pittsburgh - Rachael Lippincott
The Spells We Cast - Jason June
Aristotle and Dante Discover The Universe - Benjamin Alire Sáenz
Kings, queens and inbetweens - Tanya Boteju
Legends and Lattes - Travis Baldree