See my face?

The result

Of practice

Don’t show

Keep it in

You think I don’t feel?

You think I don’t care?

But you don’t see

The heart of me

The pain I keep

Locked inside

‘Be a man’

I heard as a boy

Am I a man now

That I can no longer cry?


The Angel: Part IV

“Yes, kill him,” the leather voice mocked from Steve’s body. Which means it is not a good idea. I don’t know if this thing will gain something from it or just wants to see the carnage of a mortal against mortal. And I don’t care to find out. Killing Steve was never an option in my book. But how many times can I strike Steve’s body before I do just that?

Not-Steve stumbled towards me. I moved away, not taking my eyes off of the threat, walking backwards. I trip and fall over the same ‘Robert Jones’ head stone that I was bent over seconds before.

“JESUS CHRIST!” I screamed. I don’t know why I screamed that instead of ‘shit’ or ‘mother fucker’, but as I fell I saw a look of pain on the face of Steve’s body.

I pulled my self upright again and tried another attack in the same vein.

“In nomine Patris,” seemed to have more of an affect. And I wished I could remember more. Not-Steve was backing away from me now. But what next?

I don’t think I can stand here screaming Latin all night.

Behind Rebel Lines

Behind Rebel Lines: The Incredible Story of Emma Edmonds, Civil War Spy – Seymour Reit

Rating: Three Moons and a Gibbous

Genre: Historical Fiction, Juvenile (Ages 10-14)

Basically, this is a book about a young woman who assumed a male identity and enlisted during the American Civil War. While this certainly was not unheard of, Emma’s story stands above the rest for reasons that are explained in the book. And I’ll also say that 1860s America was far less accepting of trans-gender persons, inside or out of the military. So the sheer guts it took for her to do this is worth admiring.

This book was pretty good. I knocked it out in about two hours. My wife got it for me as a birthday gift and I thoroughly enjoyed it. It was recommended to her by Amazon, but the Amazon listing (attached below, as always) didn’t say it was a juvenile book. The book is what it is and I sincerely wish I had read it as a child, but as an adult I found the book to be… well, juvenile.

I would not recommend it to adults, but I would recommend it to your kids. Kids who are interested in the time period would find the book entertaining and informative. And kids who aren’t should read it even more.

I make this recommendation as one parent to another with the disclosure that there is one instance of the ‘n’ word being used by a Confederate officer.

Red Wine (NSFW)

Frankly, I have always found the NSFW tag to be redundant. Because everywhere I have worked if you were on the web for any reason other than work you would get wrote up. A cat video would get you in as much trouble as granny bondage. So when I say ‘NSFW‘ what I mean is let’s make sure your kids aren’t shoulder surfing. And if you are under 18 yourself- what are you doing here? Where are your parents?


“Do you ever miss having sex with me?” She said it in a slightly slurred way. The bottle of Kirkland Cabernet Sauvignon she had brought was gone, as was the bottle of Apothic Red I kept on the counter as a decoration. I didn’t drink much anymore. I drank even less when we were together. But she remembered my weakness for red wine from when we were young.

“I’ll answer you honestly…” I also slurred. I didn’t used to be honest with her. I was afraid to hurt her. Afraid to lose her. Ironically, dishonesty is what drove us apart.

But here we were together. Our kids were asleep in their rooms, and we were sitting on the couch in my living room. Drinking and talking the night away like two old friends. And that’s what we were. There was no sense in us being anything other than that. Our marriage had ended, and our relationship had evolved into this. It wasn’t her fault, and it wasn’t mine. Why should we be enemies? “I’m sorry, what did you ask again?”

Asking that while we were married would have started an argument, but she only laughed. “Sex!” She said a little too loudly. “Do you miss it? With me?”

“I miss intimate moments, my heart speaking to yours. But not sex.” She looked a little put out so I slurred on, “I never wanted just sex from you. I can take care of my physical need with a browser and Lubiderm. What I needed from you was emotional. I miss that.”

“But not sex?” She pressed the matter.

“Not particularly.” The conversation was causing me to sober up. I was beginning to realize where this was going, and it was making me anxious.

Anxiety is a weird emotion. You can become anxious over something you dread. But you can also want something so badly that the anticipation is painful, and this is also called anxiety. I can tell you I was feeling anxiety, but I cannot tell you why.

“Why don’t you miss the sex? Is there someone else in your life now?” She asked.

Tah! I barked a short burst of a laugh- part surprised, part amused, part nervous. “Do you have someone else in your life? We’re at a place right now where we shouldn’t ask each other these questions. What we do when we are together is our business, and no one else’s.” And what I do when you aren’t here is not your concern, I thought- but didn’t say.

“Ok, then why don’t you miss it? Was I no good?” She asked with a pain in her voice.

“Wha? No! The sex was good, you were good- great even.” I fumbled over the answer.

“So do you miss it?” She asked again in earnest.

“Ok, yeah, I miss it,” I admitted.

She kissed me, a sloppy open mouth kiss that I should have been expecting. A kiss I should have resisted.

But I didn’t, I opened my mouth to hers and allowed my tongue to find the once familiar recesses of her mouth. My hands moved instinctively, unbiddenly, to her waist. The curves there still fitting perfectly as if they were made to go together. I felt her hands move under my arms to clutch onto my shoulder blades. Her hands moved with a deft grace that contradicted her state of inebriation. I continued to kiss her, or was it her kissing me, as my hands found their way to the small of her back.

She sidled up onto my lap, and only then did I realize how hard I had become. She felt it too, and moved her hands to my belt to release the pressure.

Here, I did stop her. I took her by the wrists and stood. She slid off of my lap and found her feet. Without saying a word, I pulled her across the apartment to my bedroom. As soon as the door was shut behind us, we attacked each other. All inhibitions, all second thoughts, were gone. This was going to happen.

We wrestled with each other and the clothes that burdened us as we stumbled across the room. By the time she fell over backwards onto the bed she was wearing only a pair of black bikini panties. I was naked, I didn’t own underwear anymore.

As she lay there on the bed we used to share every night, I was captivated by her beauty. Enthralled. The sensuous curves of her full figured femininity called to me. If I thought this was planned, if I thought this was premeditated, I was wrong. Her legs had not been shaved. Not that it bothered me. It never did, but she certainly would have shaved if she thought I would see them. This is what a real woman looks like, I told myself. I stood there and looked at her for a long moment, and ignored my ache of need. I wanted to remember how she looked.

She hooked her foot around me and pulled me to her. She had waited long enough I suppose. I lowered my body on top of hers and put my mouth to her neck.

I bit her, not enough to draw blood. Just enough to hurt a little. Just enough to peak her arousal. She responded by raking my back with her talons, adding new wounds to the canvas of scars she had given me over the years. She grabbed me by the side of the head and moved my mouth to hers. But instead of kissing me she bit my lower lip, her bite brought forth blood. Then she offered her lip to me and I did the same. Our blood mingled in our joined mouth. And as we swallowed I wondered how many times we had performed the unspoken, unplanned, ritual.

She pulled me down onto her, and I felt my swiver rub against the drenched cloth that separated us. She reached down and pulled the crotch of her panties to the side. The hair of her mons veneris grazed my head as I slid inside her.

It felt like heaven.

It felt like home.

The Witch

The figure arrived from nowhere. She was simply there where an instant before there had only been an empty space and cold, wet air on the road.

She had no mount, such was the custom of her ilk. And she approached the castle unannounced and uninvited, keeping her cloak bound tightly about her and her head hooded. Even still the tail of her long black cloak billowed in the wind exposing her long, bare and delicately curved legs. Every man on the wall knew she was more beautiful than any woman he had ever known under that cloak. Every man also knew that she wore no clothes aside from the cloak itself.

And not a man wanted to see more than he already had.

Not a man wanted to see even what he already had.

If her sudden appearance, or lack of mount, or audacity to approach a fortress unannounced, or long black cloak had somehow been misunderstood she also carried her staff, the symbol of her power. And the source of her power, or so most simpletons thought.

“Lower the bridge and raise the portcullis,” the captain of the guard said.

I gave a start at the order. I’m not one to question orders, but this order? I looked at my commander in and replied in askance, “captain?

The man, younger but better born than myself, bristled at my tone but his face told me he shared my misgivings. “You have your orders, sergeant, as I have mine. Fulfill them, or you will be relieved.”

I nodded my head in submission, “by your command.” When next I spoke I did so louder so my words would carry down to the ward. Along the parapet. And out to the towers. I was given the job as keeper of the gate because I had a loud voice, and I made full use of it in this moment. “THE LORD GRANTS AUDIENCE, OPEN THE GATES!” The faces of the guards looked at me from every post, looking as confused as the captain did. And I assume my own face looked confused as well. Even the gate gave protest to the order. But the creaking of beams, clanking of chains and groans of unoiled gears that told me the gates were being opened.

“Captain,” I began barely above a whisper, “I’m not one to question orders. But what is this? You know what that woman is.”

The captain stared at me, his face a study in contradiction. The corners of his mouth twitching as his jaw worked against his tightly set lips. He stepped closer to me and put his arm around my shoulder as one would embrace a friend. But the way he led me to the edge of the parapet made the unspoken threat clear, “His Lordship’s daughter and only heir is afflicted by an evil spirit. This has been whispered, I know. But did you know she can levitate? Did you know she snapped our priestesses neck with out even touching her? The Faith either can or will do nothing. Except they have ordered her to be executed so that her soul will be freed. His Lordship is desperate and he refuses to give that order. So what do you think will happen to him, to all of us, once Her High Holiness hears of this? Let the witch try her ways, she maybe the saviour of us all.”

The Continental

“Would you begrudge a crippled man his cane?” The man, who in fact was not crippled, wore a blue Continental officers jacket. The jacket was complete with the silver epaulets, piping and buttons- and far too little wear to be a relic from that failed rebellion. No- this man, this punk, who stood before me had commissioned the jacket to be made as a political statement. The statement was made more evident with the kilt in Stewart tartan and the silver Fleur-de-lis buckle that festooned his belt. This man hated The Hanover Empire and wanted everyone who looked upon him to know his sentiments.

His sentiments were already known by me. One of the sheaves on my desk between us contained his record and would tell my superiors in London the same thing. The man was a traitor and would be hung. If that was the path he chose.

“Leave him the cane, sergeant,” I said to the grizzled man-at-arms who was waiting for my command to knock the dissident to the ground and wrestle the cane from him. The guard gave me a questioning glance. No, not me, he was looking beside me. Insolent prick.

Sir,” it was the voice of the man the sergeant had looked at, a dramatic whisper near my ear but audible to all in the railcar, “we believe the cane is a sword.”

“I know the cane is a sword, colonel!” I said in an agitated voice, stinging my subordinate with his rank. “This…” here I waived a hand as if grasping for the right word. I continued with a sarcastic emphasis, “this gentleman has surrendered a rapier, two stilettos, a hunting knife, I am pointing the man’s own revolver at him. The Lord Above only knows what other weapons he has secreted about his person. There is little harm in letting him keep the damnable cane. Let the gentleman keep some pride.”

Colonel FitzClarence bowed his head and stepped back and away from my ear and desk. I care little that the man is the grandson of a king. He is, after all, a bastard grandson of a dead king. Speaking directly to the Continental ruffian before me, “I suppose you are wondering why I have caused you to be brought before me. Mr. Grant.”

“I assume you are going to clap me in irons and shove me onto a steamer so that your superiors back in Britain can order my execution.” The man said with indifference.

“If that is the path you choose,” I replied trying to sound equally indifferent.

“Your father would have ordered my death on his own authority,” Grant said with an acid tone. It was meant as an insult, and I am quite certain FitzClarence had to suppress a smile.

Grant wore a wide brimmed hat of black felt. The crown was pinched and slouched in the front, as was popular in the northwest. The left side of his brim was pinned up by a pewter brooch in shape of a lion, though whether it was Scottish or Hapsburg was hard to say. Not that such a distinction would be much of a distinction at all. “Your hat is in style of The Spanish Frontier. Have you spent time there?” I asked Grant though I already knew the answer.

“My dealings with or against the Hapsburgs are of no concern to Hanoverians.” Grant answered.

The stiff-necked fool! “Damn it, man!” I said reaching the end of my patience. “I have two stacks of papers here, one will be sent to London and the other I will personally pitch into the furnace of the locomotive at the head of this train.” I paused awaiting a reaction from Grant, receiving none I continued. Tapping the stack on the right, “This one details your actions against The Empire over the past decade, charges you with treason and recommends that you swing for it. If I send it to London you will arrive with it and I expect you will not survive a week.”

Still no reaction. “But fortunately for you, you are a man in possession of a certain knowledge and skill set. This stack of papers,” I said tapping the one on the left, “names you as an asset of The Empire who is familiar with the rebels and The Spanish Frontiers.”

The man before me still did not stir. “Which shall I send to London?”

“I will not betray my beliefs,” Grant said finally.

“Damn it, Ulysses! You are smarter than this! Do you think you will get this offer a second time?”

Deeply Troubled

I was at the store today and I was on an aisle a black gentleman, I’d say he was 50ish. When he attempted to leave the aisle, his buggy was hit by another shopper. So he backed into the aisle.

“I’m sorry, go ahead,” he politely said to the unseen shopper.

A white woman of about the same age came into view and stopped at the end of the aisle and glared.

I was behind the man and saw the glare, and here is where the writer in me wants to say what was going through the woman’s mind. I don’t have that power in real life, but I can say it looked like the woman was upset about something more than the grocery cart collision she was at least partially responsible for.

After about 30 seconds of The Glare, the woman walked off. The man continued to stand there, almost as in a haze. So I walked up beside him.

Ugh! White people!” I said, he turned to see me, a six foot tall white man wearing cowboy boots and hat of the same style and he proceeded to laugh out loud.

“Man, I needed that! Thanks!” He said when he finished laughing.

“That was painful for me to see, man. I’m sorry.” I replied.

“Bah! I was born in the sixties, that was nothing.” He said with a smile.

“Wow! I bet you’ve seen some shit!” I said.

“Yeah- yeah I have,” he said in a sober tone.

“I hope I never have to see shit like that.” I said in an equally serious tone.

“Get ready, it’s coming.” He said in a deadpan manner.

I was caught totally off guard by that, so I told the man to have a nice day and walked off. But his words have been haunting me ever since. More than the words, the absolute certainty that the prophecy was spoken in. The man truly believes race relations will deteriorate and degenerate back to what we saw in this country 50 years ago- and that scares the living shit out of me.