I write a lot of lgbt+ stuff, lots of sci fi. My big story right now is The Moon's Permission.
I've been writing all my life. Every time I think I should do something else, I come back to words.
9 Minutes 29 Seconds
If this were a play, perhaps a grand Shakespearian style play, set in a modern and virtual Globe Theater, we’d know the cast. The hero who meets a tragic end, the lady who has lost him, the villain who admits no crime. I get to be the narrator and at the beginning, I shall stride from the wings into the center stage. I’d be small on the grand stage, just a slender little man with a long brown braid, in cargo pants and a tie-dyed hoodie, nothing much to look at, but my movements, the way I carry myself would fortend some great story. The orchestra would slowly fade away, as I lean forward, my hands making a grand gesture framing my face, now the only fully lit feature of the stage.
Manage the Mirror
Power, Worth, and Metaphor My cat had a fight with the mirror yesterday. She stood there and arched her back with righteous indignation and much to her dismay, the cat in the mirror did the same. The cat in them mirror was quite rude, really. One might think that’s a very silly experience. After all, a person will always know themselves in the mirror, always see right through such things.
Promises to Emily
Emily McNeil had asked for a pocket watch for her birthday. She was going to be seven and it made sense to her that if she had a pocket watch, she could spend more time studying and still get to the door in time to get a piggy back ride from Gaely.
The Colors of Emotion
When I was little, every ounce of my being was devoted to not dying and avoiding injury. Emotion was grey. A long rainbow of grey. Fear is grey. Happiness is cool grey 2 (CG), because it’s lighter, but there’s always a risk that my smile wasn’t the right smile, my thank you wasn’t the right thank you, or they just might want to do something else and nothing I could say or do had any impact on what they’d do. I was kind of a CG1 color, just so barely there that people might forget I was around.
Thoughts on Feeling Safe
I’ve tried to write this essay on feeling safe like four times now. The last month has been very tumultuous for me. It’s usually really small things that cause the most upheaval too. Back when I still had a job, someone could be harassing women in the store, and I’d be right in their space telling them not to. There was that time when someone pulled a knife on our security guy and blood went everywhere and I was just like, well, then. Startle me from behind and I’ll have a panic attack so intense I might pass right on out. I expect no one has ever said that a panic disorder was even remotely rational.
The First Kindness
The First Kindness It’s the hardest kind, you know? For those of us with a history of trauma where we had to appease the powerful adult(s) in our lives, performative kindness is also instinctive. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Are you okay? Let me help. Everyone is important except me, expect us. When a parent is dangerous, the only option is to perfect, to be sweet.
“Get up,” Jack whispered, leaning over to whisper in Gael’s ear. He knew his lover was awake. To the rest of the household, his creeping out of his room and into Gael’s would have been as good as silent, but to Gael, well he would have heard him the moment the door opened.
America for all
Dear Mr. Trump, I have never understood why people choose to be cruel. Even if one does not have much for empathy, being cruel to people rarely works in favor of the cruel person. You have been exceedingly cruel to minority communities. I hear on the news that you are full of self-pity, that you think the world has been so terribly unfair to you.
What Did You Do?
There is something about night time that seems just a bit out of step with the world in the day. Charleston didn’t seem to be a bad place, overall, but it definitely wasn’t New York. Jazz music floated in the night around their carriage, a different flavor than New York, possibly even better, but it brought with it resentment and sadness. With his knee the way it was, it’s not like he could dance even if he was in New York. He leaned against the wall, pulled his hat over his eyes, and imaged dancing, just for Jack, his feet moving like lightning.
Permission Ch 3
Milk and Rum Chapter Three Jack Walker was never going to be the same. Next to a lake, he sat on a blanket with Gael’s head in his lap. Sleeping, Gael seemed so young, not like the man with such huge bravado and street smarts now. Marriage had never been something he’d imagined for himself. God had given him a passion for medicine and that was enough, more than many got. Yet here he was, sitting next to the most beautiful lake, having shared intimacy he’d never dreamed possible with the most remarkable and beautiful of men. This was a gift from God, for only the Almighty could move the world in such a way.
The Judge's Orders
Gael’s knee hurt less when he returned to the jail. There might possibly even have been some spring in his step. The powerlessness he’d felt in hospital after being shot down seemed more like a memory than a fact. It was close to midnight when he arrived.
Permission 52 Gael knew parties like this. He’d never been a guest at one before. He wasn’t a guest now. He needed the judge to grant his client bail in a city where he had no friends and no favors to call in. It didn’t help that the city paper had published a photo of his client splattered with blood and looking shell shocked. This wasn’t New York. It was Atlanta and he was way too old to give pity eyes to a judge to get his way.