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.
To Meet the Family
1916 Later the same day, after ‘Loving Gael’ As soon as Gael was gone, Jack jumped out of bed, shaved fast enough to leave a nick with a straight razor, cleaned up as quickly as he could. He made the bed, retrieved his checkbook from the desk, hat on his still damp hair, and strode forward into the world. He had an appointment with a man.
1916 Everything’s easy in Sunday School. The verses to memorize have a perfectly clear meaning and they never waiver. There were rules to be learned and I learned them so early that I forgot learning them at all. Laying here in our bed, I watch my beloved, and I know that all those rules made me more like a dancing bear than a man. He’s a force of nature, is my beloved.
The Moon's Permission
Milk and Rum Chapter One Galen Francis McNeil, a month into his 18th year, had come off a winning night, had nearly twenty five dollars in his pocket, and felt like this might be the best moment of his whole life. He had a new hat, cast off from his sugar daddy, but it was a twenty dollar imported French hat, hand stitched, with an ace of hearts tucked inside the rim. It was the hat he was going to be buried in, someday.
The Moon's Permission
All things considered, Gael did not feel like a lawyer. He felt like a fraud. These weren’t feelings he could listen to when Jack was present. If he lost Jack’s respect, he’d have lost everything. Sitting there in that cab on the way to the jail to meet his first serious criminal, nay, capital case, he wished very much for a flask of whiskey that Jack hadn’t done away with already. Damn choirboy.
A Saint and a Sinner
A Saint and a Sinner 1922 South Carolina They were alone in the hallway, the electric lights warm just bright enough to cast them both in shadows. Jack had been waiting for him, just past the stairs, arms crossed over his chest, green eyes narrowing.
Trauma and the Self
Trauma and the Self Continuity is deeply important to the experience of being human. It is how we remember who our friends are, what threats exist, what dreams and goals keep us moving in a world filled with obstacles and pain. The mind’s ability to frame information is what makes a movie a movie and not a scrapbook of still images. Human perception of time may not be much different, but it’s hard to say. Continuity isn’t just for humans. Elephants, cats, even the planet is where it is today because of where it was in the aggregate of the moments before. A river flows through its bed, but it is not the same water that it was yesterday, or two minutes ago.
1914 Kansas City, Kansas The punch was the least of his concerns. Neatly dressed and doing his very best not to look stiff, he sipped the small crystal teacup of punch, trying to make it last as long as he could. He was of average height, neither chubby nor twiggy. It was his bright red hair that made him stand out, that and his devotion to God. Once that had been fodder for his classmates’ imagination, but they long since moved on to more interesting things. It was as all the world grew up, except him.
Slender Black Ink
The pages weren’t yellow when I first found them. It wasn’t the yellow brick road, but more like black stepping stones on a pale gray, faded manilla backdrop that blotted out a world of violence and the sweetness of death. Following that path I found someplace other than where I was. The first chapter book I read was the ‘Wizard of Oz’ by Frank Baum. There had been a mountain of Little Golden Books before that, shelves of them in my grandparents’ house. I’d already tried writing stories though. The first memory I have of writing a story was on a dark and not stormy night. I sat on the floorboards on the back seat of some car. I don’t know where my mom got the car. My ink was blue, the pages were in one of those rainbow pads. It was just me and Captain Kirk and some monster. When I look back to that moment, I expect I thought I was happy. I wasn’t. It was cold. I was hungry. I was probably seven, with long brown hair, and hunched over that little notepad, I wrote page after page in huge letters because I needed glasses and I thought that was normal. I thought I was happy.
Trying to go Home
It was two days before 1921, but rain was eternally a pain in the ass. The cloth roof on his car hadn’t been much protection and his feet rested in a good four inches of hateful cold South Carolina December rain. It was almost warmer than opening the door and letting the water out. Goggles on, to protect the one eye he had left, frozen hands on the steering wheel, he tried to focus on home, a thick warm bed, and a plate of potatoes and eggs. Smirking as dark rain dripped over the edge of his fedora, he thought about how much money he had safely tucked in his trunk, twenty-five bottles of illegally imported French wine, five bottles of Irish whiskey, and three Caribbean rums. Wind blew the cold rain back to slide down his face, winding through the maze of his unshaven face. He also had some rare and not commercially available antiseptic. He was going to make Jack happy, have some booze, make some money, which was good because Jack’s antiseptic had been ungodly expensive. If he hadn’t been stuck in Noah’s newest flood, it would have been a perfect night.
“Can I call you?” Those words typed on messenger carry the whole world. In them are nested a shining little girl with golden curls that were way too chaotic to be Shirley Temple curls, a slate gray teen in a petticoat and searching eyes, all the way up to a woman with electric bullion colored hair somewhere between Pikachu tails and a ninja jutsu that might snap out and fry a person if it’s deserved. So this woman in her bespoken clothes, in a tiny micro-apartment in downtown Seattle reaches out with the voice of all she’s ever been.