I met June at the local support group for women with mental health issues. She is a transsexual woman in her late fifties. Of course, June was the type to stand out, so I had seen her around our neighborhood for some time. Like most people, I admit I was curious. But unlike others, who taunted and tormented her, I was too polite to inquire. But over the week...
I massaged my paw gingerly. I glanced at the clock. We were so far into our allotted time, and I'd hardly started my essay. But I just couldn't think about the damned essay with Professor Buchanon sitting just a few feet away from me. His stripes shown through his button-up shirt. He nudged his glasses up on his snout. Memories of our last time together flo...
I heaved a deep sigh as I rounded the large blue spruce at the bottom of Dean Garlow's long gravel driveway. His annual Labor Day faculty party had become somewhat of a tradition over the years and I felt an obligation to attend, even though I'd be seeing more than enough of the party attendees as the academic year got into full swing. While I wasn't particu...
Spring break. A late winter warm spell had brought on an early thaw. My fiancée, Tam (short for Tamara) and I, Prof. Phil Decker, were on the road headed for a two week wilderness adventure to unwind from the grind of university life and enjoy our last chance to spend some deep quality time together before the big push thru the final quarter and preparations...
The name is Eden White. I'm a six-foot-two, red-haired and green-eyed, kind of chubby and big-bottomed white chick living in the city of Boston, Massachusetts. I'm a BDSM fanatic. There, I said it. Currently, I'm in therapy. I'm sitting in the office of Dr. Carol Brown, a tall, regal black woman in her early forties. She's simply beautiful. A graduate of Spe...
****Every character in this story is 18 or older**** I stared at the stucco wall, exhaling loudly, ridding myself of the toxic energy I'd built up during the week. Finals were finally over, so I stole a moment for myself. I sat down in the lobby outside the lecture hall and did nothing but breathe. Seconds before, I was a student crumbling under pressure of...
A short, short story Motorway service stations are what they are: a last resort. The petrol gauge is well and truly in the red. Your thirst is well and truly in the red. And it has been far too long since breakfast. Assuming that you remembered to have breakfast. I had been to Glasgow for a writers' festival. I had left again shortly before nine on the Mon...
It is not very often that you see an unpretentious looking young man step out of a Rolls-Royce. My name is Paige d'Lephaunt. I am a journalist working for a major Chicago newspaper, and on this particular night, I was waiting for my subject at the Riva Café on East Grand Avenue. For those who have never been there, the restaurant is a fairly large building...
This is the sequel to "The Darkroom". There were no words to do justice to her preoccupation. She would lose herself in the memory of her encounter, the world of academia around her dissolving into a passionate darkness. Her eyes would grow glassy at dinners with her friends, promptings of "Ciara? Houston, we have lost Ciara!" jolting her back to the conver...
Hey, there. What's up? Kelvin James Guillot is the name, and I'm a young man living in the City of Toronto, Ontario. My father, Oscar Guillot, is Afro-Caribbean, originally from the island of Haiti, and my mother Jennifer Hughley is white, originally from the City of London, Ontario. I guess that makes me Haitian-Canadian. Cool. My folks met as students at Q...