My feathers are not your fishing lure

My tick box won’t buy you favour

The pot at the end of my rainbow

Is full of riches you didn’t pay for

Don’t bank on my love; it’s not yours

Don’t try sell me my own heart

And before you offer me support


Are you just playing the part?

Did you fight for this glory?

Have you weathered the undesirable stares?

Or do you feel lucky, no – relieved

When the awkward questions are spared?

Parity, not charity, that’s what I want

You don’t get snaps for joining a fad

When it matters, you’re nonchalant

So, keep my rainbow out of your ad

Pride in the park Performers

Queerativity are so excited to announce our first in-person event, Pride in the Park! This will be a relaxed and fun opportunity to celebrate Edinburgh Pride with others, and tickets can be purchased here.

Our fantastic line-up of talent that will be featuring at different slots for Pride in the Park can be seen below!

Slot 6 Performer – Megan Black

Buy tickets for Megan’s slot here.

Slot 5 Performer – Scout

Buy tickets for Scout’s slot here.

Slot 4 Performer – Mally Smith

Buy tickets for Mally’s slot here.

Slot 3 Performer 1 – Rona J

Buy tickets for Rona’s slot here.

Slot 3 Performer 2 – Emilie-Jane and Laura Firth

Buy tickets for Emilie-Jane & Laura’s slot here.

Slot 2 Performers – Heather Richardson and Laura Firth

Buy tickets for Heather & Laura’s slot here.

Slot 1 Performers – Nikita, Eve, and Ash

Buy tickets for Nikita, Eve, and Ash’ slot here.

More coming soon…

A Queerativity Tale Chapter Six

It’s about 7:15 pm. Lizzy should be back any moment. Sophie waits, patiently panicking under the few ratty blankets she could find, still not sure if she is feeling too hot or too cold. The power has been out for days at this point and the makeshift fireplace in the corner of the vacant warehouse gasps for life. The blue, white, and yellow ambulance lights from outside distribute harsh, makeshift fairy lights against the large window to Sophie’s right. Candlelight flickers, casting her ill-proportioned shadow across the towering white walls. She’s been sitting on the hard, concrete floor, quietly reading the same sentence in her book for the past couple of hours, occasionally looking up in response to her heightened senses- the leaves rustling on tree branches outside, the slight ring of the bell on a cat’s collar as it scratches its ear, the faint dripping of water from the leaking faucet in the bathroom. Lizzie left to search for cans of food in a local shop some time ago. Lizzie should be home by now. 

Continue reading A Queerativity Tale Chapter Six

Mystika Glamoor

Mystika Glamoor – the High Priestess of Edinburgh Drag, can’t wait to get back to doing what she does best, hosting and providing a platform for local drag!

Mystika peering at how busy the Street Bar was for the last night of her show!

Chlorine|Original Song

Original LGBTQ+ song, “Chlorine”, written and performed by the very talented Rona.

A Queerativity Tale chapter five

CW: mention of blood

Sophie’s whole body shuddered with a force she’d never felt before. Clutching the roots of her hair with her cracked and bloodied fingers- Sophie ran frantically towards the Gallerybehind Lizzy, nauseous and confused. Before stumbling up the steps, Sophie turned to face the grey glint of an apocalyptic sun. She sighed, raspy, as her view of the woman she couldn’t save disappeared behind a shroud of low-lying fog, also obscuring her view of it. Sophie fixated on it’s striking red eyes and a scaly, devilish grin that made the hair on her arm stand to fearful attention, like wispy soldiers blowing in the freezing breeze. Those claws. Claws ready to tear flesh at any given moment. 

Continue reading A Queerativity Tale chapter five

The Hourglass

CW: Car accident, death

This was her hourglass, and when I flip it over, I can hear her voice, bickering with me about how long to boil an egg. Telling me I’ve thought long enough, and it’s time to put the Scrabble letters on the board. Asking me to tell her when the time’s up so that she can pour the perfect four-minute cup of tea. Laughing as I time her putting up her waist length hair to go to work. Insisting that she was only going to be out in the garden for five minutes, and grinning when she came back to find me standing in the doorway, hourglass in hand.

It was in my pocket that night. I was home before her, and I was getting ready to make bread. I’d mixed the yeast and the warm water and the sugar. The timer was broken, so I’d decided to let the hourglass run through four times to give the mixture time to froth. It wasn’t really necessary but watching the sand run through the glass in the sleepy warm afternoon sunshine was soothing, almost hypnotic. The sound of the crash took a moment to work its way into my befuddled head.

It was all done by the time I got to the garden gate. A man sat inside the deep red Jaguar, his hair falling forwards, his face blank and white. And tucked underneath the gleaming front bumper, her bicycle. She was face down, still and quiet, her tweed skirt rucked up around her knees, her white silk shirt growing pink. And a cascade of late cabbage roses and heady sweet peas scattered around her. When I close my eyes, all I can see is her pink lace slip, her favourite, almost frivolous under the hem of her sensible skirt.

The ambulance arrived in seconds, or in days, I’m not quite sure which, and I was shooed away by the capable and set-faced men in uniform. We didn’t have a car, but Mr Jenkins, our neighbour, drove me over to the hospital.

They wouldn’t let me in to see her. I was only her landlady, the spinster she shared a house with. I found the hourglass in my pocket – it must have been in my hand as I ran out of the door. It was wrapped tight in my fingers when I heard her voice, quiet, tense, asking for me. But still they wouldn’t let me in. All they wanted to know from me was whether she had any family, and where they were. I told them what I knew.

They left me alone, and I turned the hourglass over and over, but I didn’t hear her voice any more. I must have dozed in that hard wooden chair, because the next I heard was an auxiliary, rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the polished floor, with an elderly woman on her arm. Later, a frantic call for a nurse, running feet, and then a doctor, walking quietly, a man in no hurry. And I knew.

On the long, cold bus journey home, the hourglass turned and glinted under my fingers, under the early morning streetlights, and all I could think was at least she didn’t die alone.

Her brother came to clear her things, and he treated me civilly, distantly. No discomfort, just the politeness reserved for staff. He told me about the funeral, and seemed surprised when I turned up. I sat at the back, looking at the grieving family in the front two rows. I said my silent goodbyes. And I never had another… tenant.

I’ve still got the hourglass, and now, watching the sand running though, it feels I’m seeing my future running through into my past. I might give it to my niece, when she marries her girlfriend next weekend, in the registry office right next to the beautiful park. We will have a picnic in the sunshine, she said. I might tell her what I have told no-one else, about the woman who, in a different life, could have been her aunt. I think they might understand.

By Suzanne Elvidge