100 Books Like The Tell Tale

Cari Hunter never fails to invoke Northern England with every sense, and Nicola Victoria Vincent’s performances continue to be among the absolute best experiences. This story starts off with an EMT, Grace, being taken hostage by a wounded woman at gunpoint, and then manages to twist and shift the entire time you’re listening. Hunter’s ability to weave in a secondary romantic plot while people are dodging bullets, outwitting villains, and desperately trying to stay alive is brilliant, and my dog always gets a longer walk while I’ve got a Hunter thriller to listen to. If you’re a fan of thrillers and audiobooks, and have yet to bump into Hunter or Vincent, thank me later, once you’ve enjoyed the whole backlist.

The realistic queer characters facing the reality of a long-distance romance made me love this. It’s Country Mouse/City Mouse, with an argument over which place has the better Christmas, resulting in each spending time on the other's turf to decide. But unlike the usual Hallmark trope, no grinches exist here, quite the opposite.

Bex the doctor loves her life in the city, she's warm and welcoming, goes to the Nutcracker, and enjoys fine dining for the holidays. Similarly, Eva has friends, family, community, and major roots in Vermont—everything but love, really. Their careers and settled relationships matter, and permanent relocation is never really up for negotiation. If they're going to find a solution to their situation, it's going to involve compromise—and I loved that.

This novella is a close retelling of Carmilla by Sheridan Le Fanu, which is the OG sapphic vampire story. It recasts the ending to give the leads a happy ever after, and ups the sapphic content to modern standards, adding a bit of steaminess. Simper’s version retains Laura’s initial ambivalence and horror towards Carmilla, the historical setting, and the gothic flair. It’s a must-read for fans of the original who are looking for a more modern interpretation.

Many books have kissing in the forest, but how many are about kissing the forest itself?

Fenton has watched countless hunters enter his forest to claim a wish by killing the white-tailed stag. Each hunter has taken: a sip from the stream, a flower from the vine, wood to light a fire. Each hunter has subsequently died.

Prior is different; he takes nothing, instead asking for a god’s assistance in waking his sister from her sleeping sickness. Fenton—who is the forest and the white-tailed stag and a son of Old Nan and also, definitely, a god—decides to pack up the forest and help Prior out.

Where I come from, that sort of thing will get you a little kiss or two at the very least.

You can actually get this novella as part of a four-pack of audio novellas by Cole, which I’d also recommend, but this sapphic historical novella is set against the backdrop of American History—any fans of Hamilton reading this should take note—and manages to be both hopeful and unblinking in the face of reality of what Black queer women face in the time and place in this perfect balance I cannot praise enough. These two women couldn’t be more different: one is a maid to Eliza Hamilton and devoted to as simple a life as possible, the other is a dressmaker who refuses to be anything but audacious, and the result is brilliant. Also, Karen Chilton’s performance is just fantastic.

The first time Rowan and the Huntress kissed, I half expected Rowan’s lips to stick to the Huntress’ face like a tongue on a light pole in winter.

Luckily, Rowan—the Belle in this Beauty and the Beast retelling—is a thawing influence, and the kiss progresses as kisses should. And thank goodness, as the Huntress desperately needs to be kissed. Isolated, cursed, and haunted by her own callousness, the lonely Huntress is separated from the world by her own past and a literal mile of frozen water.

But in the Huntress’ fortress of ice, love grows like the petals of a winter rose, and little kisses, like hope, spring eternal.

This book arrives with a profound introduction on "writing ourselves into being," and casts a crucial gaze on writing from the margins.

It invites the reader to engage with difference, whether the difference is queer or skin colour or cultural heritage or whichever form of diversity. Contributors share with the reader their art, craft, and lived experience, where "writing oneself in," as Octavia Butler did, is fundamental self-creation, snatching space that has been stolen or withheld.

This anthology of personal truths, as authors unskin to their innermost selves, is as startling as it is introspective.

Look, if this book had been around when I was in middle school, it would have been a game changer (pun absolutely intended). This book has it all: lesbian-enemies-to-the-middle-school-equivalent-of-lovers, heart-pounding descriptions of soccer, complex family dynamics, and fraught friendships! Yes, all of those trope-y pieces might feel like a delightful, frothy treat, but this book packs a real emotional punch.

The dual point-of-view gives readers the chance to understand the complex relationship between Mel and Tory—and fall in love with both characters! Becker also sprinkles in some great conversations about self-expression. Beware: this is a read-in-one-sitting kind of book!

Okay, first of all, one lead starts off hating the other. Sign me up, right? I like how they’re both lesfic writers but the first two chapters immediately juxtapose where they are in their processes – one is a nobody who can’t write fast enough and the other is a big name with writer’s block. They get roomed together at a writing retreat and then snowed in, so double the forced proximity. We love to see it. For me, this book is a lovely balance of Christmassiness (let me have this word, okay?) and writerliness. It helps me remember why I enjoy writing my queer romances – for the love of storytelling, not for money or fame. (But note: I don’t condone most of the writing opinions put forth in this story.)

What if queer American cannibal killer Jeffery Dahmer met his British equivalent, Dennis Nilsen?

This novel is a fictionalized answer to that question, pairing serial murderers Jay and Andrew in a psychosexual tear through lush New Orleans.

However, my favorites are the other central characters: Luke and Tran, two ex-lovers who are living with HIV, homelessness, and the emotional scars of their bad romance. There is subtle, skillful storytelling showcased in the relationship you only get in retrospect between these two.

It’s so unique that I once taught it to a Master’s degree writing class as an example of rule-breaking and genre-bending to aspire towards.

There are also alluring literary parallels to explore between venereal disease and violent death stalking the unsuspecting gay men of the bayou. Overall, it’s a delightfully depraved masterpiece.