Denver Circle

This is a short snippet from Denver Circle, in which our young vampire Chris gets more than a little revenge on one of those sick individuals who preys on homeless queer kids–

I lean over Otis, getting close to his face.

“Oooooootis—wakey, wakey—”  I slap his face, gently of course.  His eyes flutter, then open all the way.  They stare at me with a kind of wild panic.  He tries to move his arms, making the handcuffs clank against the headboard. “Don’t bother to try and get up. You won’t be trying to screw any desperate street kids any more, you sick fuck.  Not on my watch.”

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God Save

This was a little story from a writing prompt that was offered from a contest last year–nothing much came from it but the prompt was intriguing:

It’s almost the turn of a new millennium, and people are starting to question how Queen Elizabeth is keeping her youthful appearance and stamina after almost 200 years–

“How many pairs of Corgis is she up to now?”

Mason stroked his chin.

“I think—ten, and that includes the animatronic ones.”

I grimaced.

“It’s pretty hard to outlive Corgis, right?” I muttered.

“About as hard as sons and daughters and grand and great-grandsons and daughters with nary an additional wrinkle.” He chuckled. “Charles and William and George got tired of waiting, didn’t they?”

I nodded.

“As will Charlotte if she doesn’t keep up on her anti-aging treatments, and Harry, well—he’s just Harry. No one forgave him after he moved across the pond to Vegas and had his brain preserved.”

Mason snapped his fingers.

“That’s it! Maybe you could transplant Harry’s brain into an android body!”

I shook my head. “Patience, Mason my dear boy, I’m not a surgeon.”

“We have to get to the bottom of this,” he grumbled. “Clones, holograms, whatever it is, people are going to start talking. Look how long her mother lasted, and they didn’t even have treatments back then.”

“Well, Mason,” I droned, using my best sarcastic tone “what do you suggest in all your infinite wisdom?”

“A bit of clandestine surveillance, perhaps.” he chuckled. “Her Majesty has requested her physician’s presence in her chambers before retiring. Apparently, she’s feeling a little under the weather. I’ll give you a minicam with a wide angle view to place in an optimal spot, and you and I can peruse her at our leisure.”

I nodded, took the minicam, and left for the Queen’s bedroom.


Mason looked up as I entered the small parlor adjoining Her majesty’s chambers.

“Well?” he asked.

“It’s planted, and all we have to do is watch.  We shall be able to view Her Majesty’s bedtime habits shortly.”

Mason supressed a small shiver.

“Do we really want to know?”

I lightly smacked his shoulder.

“Enough of that nonsense. Pay attention.”

We both stared at the small pocket screen, observing Her Majesty in her voluminous nightdress looking haggard and older than her usual self. She stood before the mirror, waiting—watching as a misty form took shape in the reflective surface, getting clearer until they saw the queen’s reflection—youthful and vigorous, appearing as she had at the turn of the century.

Panicked, rubbing his eyes, Mason turned to face me.

“What– is that?”

I raised my hand in warning, cautioning Mason to wait. We both watched as the reflection drifted out of the mirror and stood by the aging monarch, urging her forward. The original queen walked into the blue glass, passing through as if it were water and turning the surface into a mere dressing room accessory again. Her youthful and vital replacement removed her slippers and climbed into bed, turning off the small lamp on the bedside table.

“Would—you care to explain that?” Mason choked, stuttering out the words. “You know more than you’re telling me.”

“Indeed I do, Mason,” I laughed, straightening my bow tie. “You see, I’m not just a doctor—


I’m a Doctor.”

Introducing Aiden

This snippet is a slight carryover from my Rainbow posting–for followers who are a little curious about Aiden :

Hello there. My name is Aidan Byrne, and I’m an American History II teacher at a small urban alternative college in Chicago.  I know, it’s pretty ironic that an Irishman should be teaching American History, isn’t it?  Most of my students are older teens and adults that dropped out back in the day, and need their night classes to get their GED and college credits.  They like me a lot, most of them.  Maybe it’s the accent, I don’t know. I don’t really want to tell them that I’m not as nice as I seem to be.  Then again, I’m good at having people think what I want them to think.  I’m good at connecting with the rebels, the bad apples.  I feel like I’m one of them.

My area of history starts with the end of the Civil War, and continues up to the end of the Sixties era.  My students like the way I put a personal spin on the subject.  I talk about the past like I have a real connection to it.

That’s because I lived it.

Let’s just say I don’t look my age.  I appear to be in my late twenties, and my curling black hair almost touches my shoulders, which technically is a violation of the dress code here.  But if I cut it, it would always grow back right away, so it would be a waste.

I’m one of those black Irishmen.  When you’re like me, you don’t have to have the face of a god, all you need is the attitude, the sexy accent, and lots of cash.  Vampire eyes help too.  I’m too good at my job for my bosses to give me any grief about any of it, though.

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Chicago Circle

Here’s a snippet from my third volume in the City Circle stories–Marco has finally gotten up the nerve to tell his adult night school teacher how he feels, but–he doesn’t realize that the sexy Irishman has a secret of his own–

“Mr. Byrne, have you ever noticed how some of the girls and women in the class look at you when they think you’re not noticing?”

“Yes, Marco, I have, and I try to ignore it, really.  Most of the time, it’s the accent and the lure of someone young, foreign and forbidden, I suppose.”

He looked in my eyes again, suddenly bold.

“I look at you that way when I think you don‘t see, when you‘re busy doing something else.  I think some of the students know.  I’m sorry, sir–I can’t help how I feel, you’re only five years older than I am, it’s not too far out, it could happen–”.

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More Merchant

Here’s a snippet of Tony waiting for Jesse, and hoping he finally mustered up the courage to break free–

I tried to keep my mind on my TV show, I really tried, because Torchwood is my weakness, but Jesse was late.

It’d been a week since the interlude in the loan office, and I hadn’t heard a peep from him since he’d left my apartment the next morning, but at least we both had a smile on our faces. Come to think of it, I hadn’t heard from Bartholomew either since that weekend. I’d checked the store, but his manager said he’d taken a few weeks’ leave unexpectedly. I grinned. That dog. Porsche had undoubtedly snagged him in that golden web of his and neither one of them wanted to let go. I had his cell number if I was really desperate.

A sudden knocking caught my attention, followed by the doorbell ringing. Panicked, I jumped up and hurried to the door, all sorts of dire scenarios running in my mind. What if Jesse had come out to his dad? What if his dad had found out about us and was calling in the loan? What if—

I threw the door open


Jesse stood there shaking while he clutched a small duffle bag and a satchel. He was scared to death, it seemed like.

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Read the whole story and others here; purchases benefit It Gets Better:


This snippet from The Merchant Of Venice Beach is about Jesse, Tony’s clandestine boyfriend and the son of everyone’s archnemesis, Sherlock Palmer. tony and his friend Bartholomew have come to ask dear old Daddy for a loan:

. Jesse was gorgeous, the dark mahogany brown hair with sun kissed highlights, the lightly stubble-covered jaw that had scorched my inner thighs quite a few times, those huge brown doelike eyes, and that mouth—Jesus. I suppressed a shiver. The best thing about him was that he honestly didn’t realize how beautiful he really was; he had a genuine nature, with a touch of fire under the surface. I should know about that fire, yes indeed; I’d searched that perfect body enough for it, every last inch of it.

And he really, really wanted to get away from his old man with every fiber of his being.

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He’s So Vein

Here’s a snippet from my WIP, in which Ninian marks one of his targets, preparing to reel the other in–

Ninian drew her wrist to his mouth one last time, snaking out his tongue and cleaning up the little runner of dried blood on her skin.

“Mmm, so delectable,” he murmured, releasing her with a smile.

Leah raised her head, strings of hair escaping from the tousled knot on top of her head and drifting round her face, only to get stuck in the droplets of sweat. Her eyes didn’t want to work, she couldn’t think, couldn’t hear anything or anyone but Ninian.

“Now, my dear, to business.” He folded his hands in front of him. “I need to you to watch and learn, and be your normal self when Ms. Hansen comes over here,” he told her. “I intend to keep her, and I need you to help me. You’ll see everything, you’ll know everything, but you won’t remember a bit of it.”

He smiled that deep, secret smile again.

“I need her to lure Carlo back.”

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And meet my muse for Ninian ❤ninian