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…an anthology of sequels to Chances Are
these are excerpts from the stories I'll be posting...

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The vista, while not terribly impressive, still managed to reveal much of the campus despite the heavy fog. Some newer buildings that poked out of the mist seemed out of place when compared to the older parts of the campus that sprawled all over the hill. The older buildings were almost fanciful in their size; like so many quaint model railroad houses. And from above, many of the trees seemed to resemble lichen in that their foliage was thick and very, very green.

“This is where…”

She looked out to glimpse Howard Bay; soft clouds obscured most of her view. The song, fitting it seemed for the moment, bounced around her head; her resolve sharp and focused, as if to push her along. She stepped forward and expelled a frustrated breath. She looked at the gun in her hand and shook her head; not to deny, but to lament what she was about to do. She raised the weapon to her head and pulled the trigger....

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“Dad?”

A voice came from off to Chris’ right. He turned to see a plain if nice looking young woman standing in the kitchen archway. She wore jeans and a black tee. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail at the base of her neck, revealing her fairly-scrubbed face. Just a hint of eye shadow and lip gloss ‘betrayed’ her gender.

In virtually every way, she resembled her ‘predecessor;’ the sister in a set of metaphoric fraternal twins, in a way. But her expression and her demeanor were all Christina. No hint of Christopher other than the same reluctant half-smile borne of insecurity and hope. Chris looked at his daughter; perhaps for the first time, in a way and sighed.

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What better way to spend a Thursday evening (EST) than to peruse through blurbs about old transgender sit-coms? (Don't answer that!) Anyway, for your amusement and/or time-filler between things that actually mean something, I give you Big Closet TG Land!

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But if they had a contest between the three women at the table as to who was the most insecure, it might have been a dead heat. The girl felt so badly about herself that she had given into hopelessness. The woman who loved her felt overshadowed by a woman whose only fault was that her husband had built her up into a hero of mythical proportion, even in death. And the woman sitting across from them witnessed the love between the two, feeling entirely unworthy and inauthentic; as if being herself was some mere phase of life rather than the huge struggle she had endured with much success.

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