Prosebuds (Issue 8: Feb. 2026)

Growing in Winter + Tenement Museum Fiction + OG Prosebud Emily Hashimoto!

Note: 🎧 For accessibility, I provide a reading of every Prosebuds issue audiobook-style. Listen by clicking the play button on the above “Article Voiceover” tab.

Hey, ‘buds,

I hope you’re taking care of yourselves as best as you’re able. Thank God for Bad Bunny season, am I right?

In light of well, January, it feels necessary to begin here. I’m moved by how the community keeps showing up, keeps looking out, keeps fighting amidst the freezing temperatures—especially when the stakes, as we’ve seen, are so incredibly high. If you, too, are feeling undone by the terror in Minneapolis and looking for ways to help, check out the resources available at Stand for Minnesota.

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This past month, my wife and I spent some time down in Texas helping my mom with a minor surgery. (Don’t worry, she’s doing well beyond a lot of choice words for her surgeon.) Near the end of the trip, my sister asked me to collect a box of some of my old belongings stored in her garage. Right away, I uncovered a black leather-bound book I immediately recognized as my journal from my senior year as a NOCCA (New Orleans Center for the Creative Arts) drama student. (See below for an epic photo of me as a high school mime.)

A group of clapping NOCCA high school mimes, sporting leotards and primary-color pants, mid-performance in Baton Rouge, Louisiana circa 2006.

The funny thing is, I’ve long recalled this particular “note” from my then voice teacher, but it was still surprising to turn right to these words at the top of the page in my 18-year-old self’s handwriting. While the note may have stuck with me all these years, I hadn’t remembered that I actually wrote it down!

• Work on ‘butch stance’ shoulders and mannerisms.

I laughed out loud seeing the sentence, but it’s honestly sad that as the consummate “good student” I listened; that I thought in order to be a professional actor I needed to cut out the most-me parts of myself.

An open notebook page from Monday, July 12, 2006 featuring notes from CQ’s final summer as a NOCCA drama student.

Years later, after I thankfully discovered I wanted to be a writer much more than a performer, a dear graduate school colleague and friend in New York City—the wonderful Angelica Cherí (whom I hope to feature in Prosebuds someday soon) told me I had “swagger.” She made me feel so powerful with that single word. Suddenly, that negative idea from high school got turned on its head. These were my earliest days in the city, and even now, I remember the way I grinned.

Butch is not a dirty word, my friends! I’m not sure if Angelica even realizes how she helped me on my gender journey as my sense of self in my body began to shift. So, thank you very belatedly, Ang. I adore you! (And thank you, universe, for the perspective—the reminder of how far I’ve come in the last 20 years.)

In the spirit of friendship and love—which is the very essence of Prosebuds, and also what we so desperately need more of everyday—I wish you a heart-forward February. Bring on the Fire Horse! I hope this month points you toward exciting moments in your own progress, big and small. Who says nothing grows in winter?

xCQ

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CQ Fiction | “Caroline & John” (Short Story)

I promise to return to Falling from the Inside soon!

This month, however, in celebration of immigrants and the season of love, I thought I’d share this short story I wrote many years ago—a time capsule of sorts—inspired by a special Valentine’s Day-themed tour at the Tenement Museum, gifted to me by my now wife (it worked, she gets me).

While we don’t know much beyond the records on paper, Caroline Dietman and John Schneider were real people, an immigrant couple of different backgrounds, who ran the beer saloon on the lower level of the 97 Orchard Street building on the Lower East Side here in New York City in the 1860s-1880s. (Spoiler alert. There’s record of the All Faiths monument, too. I’ve been meaning to go look for it all these years—anybody wanna take a field trip?)

For those who haven’t been (and even those who have), I can’t recommend this museum enough. It’s one of my favorite places in the city, housed within two tenement buildings (plus) on the LES and full of a goldmine of wonderful tours!

A photo of the lower level saloon at 97 Orchard Street, recreated to look as it would have during Caroline and John’s day, by Ryan Lahiff, courtesy of the Tenement Museum from Untrapped Cities,

Caroline & John

That night, John sat alone at the bar, the creaky wooden door to the saloon locked tight for the first time in its history. For hours, the regulars pounded and called his name, but John ignored them. Though he hadn’t worked for nearly two days—the first respite since he set out to the factory as a boy—every inch of his body ached.

A fistful of cash lay scattered across the counter. It was everything he had. He stared into the greenbacks, barely visible in the dimming lamplight, and decided.

*

Caroline Dietman walked up the creaky wooden staircase to her family’s fifth floor apartment, balancing a bucket of water in her arms. She woke early to avoid the usual crowd at the pump in the backyard of their tenement building. Every crevice of this place crowded, but in the peace of these mornings she could almost touch her old life in the rural town of Barten where she was born.

Yet something about today was different. As Caroline climbed upward, a young man appeared at the top of the stairs. When Caroline—who focused so intently on each step—finally looked up, she nearly dropped her bucket. A splash of water sloshed onto her face. It was John Schneider. He lived on the third floor and was notorious for his quiet demeanor and tremendous height—his neck always slightly bent, avoiding so many ceilings and doorways.

Caroline wiped her face on her sleeve, composing herself. While she was not what anyone—including herself—would call delicate, she suddenly felt seen in the most startling way. Her voice betrayed her, rising. “Morning, John.”

“Morning, Caroline.” He smiled. In this smile, she thought, were all the words he never spoke aloud, yet somehow she heard. The smile said, you are the loveliest woman in this city. The smile said, I see how hard you work for your family. The smile said, I want to marry you someday.

Everyday for months, they repeated this pattern. Caroline climbed the stairs, and John waited faithfully for her at the top. She began to snatch dabs of her mother’s perfume and clip her hair back to reveal her cheekbones, so often complimented. She never seemed to notice them before, but John noticed—and so, she did, too.

And then one morning, as Caroline maneuvered her bucket up the staircase, she noticed John’s foot tapping nervously from his usual perch. When she reached the top, he asked to hold her bucket, but she refused. (While she liked to be asked, she didn’t need any man to carry her load, and he liked this about her.)

At last, he held out his callused hand. “We’ll start a saloon. You and me?”

Caroline set the bucket down beside her, so that she could get a good look at him and the simple band swimming in his enormous palm. She cocked her head to meet his brown eyes and smiled. “Yes, we will.”

John wasn’t a religious man, but agreed to marry in the Prussian Orthodox Church as Caroline’s family demanded. “A Bavarian and a Prussian. A truly American match,” his mother groaned. His family may have been relative newcomers to New York, but the mother country’s prejudice remained entrenched. Still, while John may have fallen quiet before, he now turned full voiced, painstakingly clear—he wanted to make a life with Caroline alone. She could have been a mermaid for all he cared.

In mid-November of 1864, barely one year after their wedding, Caroline and John Schneider opened their beer saloon at 97 Orchard Street. Operating 7 days a week—6 on the books—the three rooms they kept were rarely empty, and the spread of pretzels, sausages, pigs’ feet, and sauerkraut were considered some of the best in Kleindeutschland. “Oh, the world for your sauerkraut, Fraulein Schneider,” customers chirped.

John seemed to hold an eternal position behind the bar pouring lager. The work came naturally to him—there, his quietness welcome. He grew a reputation for being the most patient business-owner in the neighborhood. Caroline, always tough, grew tougher—running food at nearly all hours from a tight kitchen serving breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“What a chap, that Schneider. And his lass as good as they come.” Said Ronnie, an Irishman with an unending taste for beer and unavailable women. “Wish I could get myself a gal like that one, but, aye, she only has eyes for one!”

For 22 years, they worked as hard as the day they started. Always pushing to make the business better, the food richer, the experience friendly and familial for so many so far from the places they once called home. Their lives always busy, John and Caroline spoke mostly in glances and orders, collapsing into bed beside one another for barely five hours a night. And yet, they were content in their way, the lives they lived the only lives they knew.

*

It was 1870 and the census-takers were swarming Orchard Street. An orphan boy lingered near the saloon. He sold papers, but Caroline assumed he had no parents, no home. Rail thin with bushy eyebrows and olive skin—Henry was his name, and he became an obsession of Caroline’s. She and John tried for children for many years with no luck. Caroline assumed it was God’s will, and while John always wanted to be a father, less mouths to feed meant less money to make. He was a simple man with simple needs, satisfied with Caroline alone.

One night before the supper crowd, Caroline invited Henry in for a warm meal, and before long, this became routine. When winter came, they set up a meager bed for him in the office, so that he would have a place to stay. And one evening as the last drunken customers left the saloon, Caroline took a seat before John. He cleaned a glass carefully with a rag; Caroline propped her head onto her arms.

“John, let’s put Henry on the record as our son,” Caroline said. “That way, he’ll be out of harm’s way.” She looked into John’s eyes, hopeful. “With no children of our own, what’s the harm?”

John set the glass aside. “I don’t know, Caroline.”

“Didn’t you have a father and a mother both who raised you?” She said, and John nodded, though slightly confused by her suggestion. “Then you certainly don’t know!” She added with a huff, and left the room all at once.

One evening in the spring of 1885, nearly 15 years after Caroline and John listed Henry as their son, John kept busy pouring pint after pint for the after-work droves. As he handed a glass to a customer at the end of the bar, he suddenly noticed that several of the tables were empty. No plates, no food. This was especially strange because Caroline overloaded every customer—even beyond their means. “Not a one will go hungry on my watch,” she said time and again.

Suddenly, John noticed smoke pouring out of the kitchen. He bolted inside, pulled a loaf of bread from the stove, and threw it onto a plate, black as ash. Then, he charged into the bedroom. There, Caroline sat at the corner of the bed. She looked paler than he’d ever seen her. The sounds of the saloon spilled into the room.

“Caroline? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, John. Nothing. We’ve got work to do—” She waved her hand and struggled to push past him, but his body was something of a fortress. He caught sight of the handkerchief in her hand, stained with a deep red, and pulled it from her grasp.

“What is this?” He asked; his brow turned to knots. But he knew exactly what it was.

John arrived at the All Faiths Cemetery on a sunny day in June. He had never been to Queens, had never seen much of New York beyond the Lower East Side. Only five years old, the cemetery—started by a German man—was said to have the most spectacular views of the city. A loyal customer of the Saloon said if John gave his name, he was sure to get a discount. John took him at his word and today, dizzy with sadness, stood in front of the property with more money in his pockets than he had ever held.

The Reverend Geissenheimer led John into his office—dark, lined with heavy curtains, replete with the all-too certain smell of decay. The Reverend had a stern face, but spoke in warm tones, clearly accustomed to dealing with the bereaved. Careful, he asked John what he wished for Caroline.

John pulled every last bill from his pockets and pressed the bundle onto the Reverend’s desk. The Reverend tried to cover his surprise at the stack of greenbacks. Caroline would think her husband foolish, John thought, but he knew it was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

“A monument for my Caroline.”

And so it was, the tallest grave in the cemetery to date. Pressed with her name.

Henry stood in the doorway of his small tenement flat. In 15 years’ time, he had become a man—donning a full beard. A baby cried from within. “I saw your announcement in the paper. I’m so sorry, John.”

“I’ve spent all the money. Closed the saloon. I don’t know what to do with myself.” The words shot out of him, unfamiliar. More words than perhaps he had ever spoken all at once. His head hung low, but at last he lifted his eyes to meet Henry’s. “Do you have a place…?”

“What are sons for?” A smile crept upward from the corner of Henry’s mouth and he welcomed John inside.

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Featured Prosebud | Emily Hashimoto

In essence, the great Emily Hashimoto is the truest prosebud. We met as fellows in the still early days of Queer|Art|Mentorship (QAM) a decade ago— I’m only realizing as I write this that it’s been that long! That year, Emily worked with mentor Sarah Schulman on what turned into their debut novel, A World Between (Feminist Press, 2020), and we became fast friends starting in the colorful Visual AIDS office that hosted our monthly all-group QAM meetings. When I first approached Emily about starting a small prose-focused writing group a couple of years back, they hopped on board immediately. Since then, our trio’s meetings and work have been a highlight of a challenging last couple of years—enough to inspire this Substack.

Now, get excited for Emily’s next book, y’all—a moving, sexy, intergenerational queer twentieth century period novel that I love. I’m so looking forward to reading the published version soon. Put simply, Emily writes nuanced relationships between queer women and AFAB folks—BIPOC especially—better than most. Her characters feel like friends, the best and the worst of them. Emily and I recently had the chance to catch up over gluten-free (and regular) pizza, bouncing between all manner of topics big and small, during their work trip to NYC. Our get-together reminded me just how much my artistic friendships, like this one, make me a better writer (and person). If you haven’t already, I hope you’ll pick up a copy of A World Between, and join me in eagerly awaiting Book #2…

With a sprawling field in the background and bare tree to their right, Hashimoto wears a big smile, a yellow beanie with short dark hair parted to one side, a bluish collared shirt, and clear framed sunglasses. (Photo credit: Panagiotis Kehagias)

Emily Hashimoto‘s debut novel A World Between, following two queer Asian women over the course of thirteen years as they grow away from and towards each other, garnered praise from O, The Oprah Magazine; Cosmopolitan UK; and NYLON, among many other publications. Emily’s personal essays have appeared in Out, Electric Literature, Catapult, and The Rumpus, centering intersectional narratives. They’ve received fellowships from Lambda Literary, VONA, Queer|Art, VCCA, Art Omi, and Baldwin for the Arts. For more about Emily, visit their website.

The blue cover of Hashimoto’s debut novel, A World Between (Feminist Press, 2020), with tangled loops in varying shades of blue and one in yellow, matching the title and author’s name.

(ROSE) What’s something that’s going particularly great with your writing and/or writing process right now?

EH: After a long time in a writing desert, I’m editing my new book and really relishing this special time to shape it into what it’ll be. I don’t love editing—does anyone love editing?—but my enthusiasm for this project is making me happy to work on the big questions and the details.

(THORN) What’s something that’s especially shitty about your writing and/or writing process right now?

EH: After a few years of part-time work, I’m back to full-time. (Capitalism.) I’m missing the spare days to write and edit, apply to fellowships and residencies, etc. Now, all of this kind of time is stolen hours away from my family and sleeping.

(STEM) Name a writer/artist/work that changed your life or sustains you.

EH: Audre Lorde continues to give me words for things I struggle to frame and express. Even decades after reading her for the first time, I find new things to love when I page through Sister Outsider.

On a wooden table, a copy of Sister Outsider by Audre Lorde with a bright blue cover and a black and white image of Lorde, a Black woman with an afro holding wire-rimmed glasses between her fingers. (Image courtesy of Bellwoods Books)

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(Prosebuds Theme Song Tag: “Here in the Garden” by Megan Bagala, performed by CQ Quintana)