“Hello darling,” said Adrian softly.
He was sitting in Maxine’s room waiting for her to come around after her operation.

She didn’t answer straight away.

After a bit, she said,
“It hurts.”

Adrian smiled. Maxine could not see his reaction as her eyes were screwed shut.

He put a control device into her left hand.
“Nurse says to use this to help with the pain.”

"The Afterlife"

It was cold. The windows of the small cabin rimmed with frost and wisps of cold air intruding through any opportunist gaps in the defenses. The cast iron stove in the center of the small abode struggled against the encroaching chill as the last bits of furniture smoldered in its belly. It was a race, Mother Nature vs human ingenuity... and human was losing ground.

It was the coldest winter ever recorded, lasting a full month longer than any other winter thus far that was known of. Even the local stories didn't compare to this extent, of this winter.

After a fancier hair-do and a lot more daytime makeup than usual, and wearing my best lacy undies to get me in the mood, I put on my white cocktail dress, bolero, pill box hat, and a totally impractical pair of 4” stilettos which would be difficult on the grassy areas around the rails, and for the first time really felt myself to be a glamorous attractive woman.

I’ve written over one hundred stories for BC and a handful of non-TG novels. Picking a favorite is treacherous – but this story just might be it.

Each chapter is written with a new narrative character to allow us to get to know the main character from various perspectives. Each chapter could be a standalone story.

You will be angry at the start of the story. The rage you’ll feel is needed to complete the entire picture. Please don’t be put off – the story ends as it should.

Suicide is a very dark topic and too real, to too many in our community. This story deals with a suicide -- but it is far from as dark as you might imagine. It tells the story of a transvestite from the point of view of his wife, his daughter, his mother-in-law, his best friend, a psychiatrist -- and herself. If somehow this story brings you down, I apologize, as it's not written to elicit that response.

TG heroine Mantra (Malibu Comics) realizes that she is missing six days of time and finds herself living in a completely different (and disconcerting) version of her own life. Is she having delusions, or has the world itself changed into something strange and new?

The Governess
A Short Story based on American History
By Maryanne Peters

It was in the year 1703, 20 years ago, that I first came to work for Edward Hyde, His Lordship Lord Cornbury, then His High Mightiness the Governor of the Colony of New Amsterdam, now the state of New York in the Americas. Now I am Lord Cornbury, soon to die, while he who once was His Lordship, leads the life he always wanted on those distant shores.

A Friend when Needed
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

Tad looked suddenly very serious. The game was long over and the last two pieces of pizza had gone cold. Beer had been drunk: enough to lower the inhibitions but not enough to drop them both into a stupor. He looked at Jason, squarely in the eyes.

“I can trust you, man,” he said, “I know I can. We’ve been true pals for so long that I feel I can tell you anything. I can, can’t I?”

Lois came in and saw my look of confusion. “This is so weird,” I said. “And awkward.”

“It’s only awkward if we make it awkward,” she told me.

Truth in Tears

by Erisian

My dad was never one to go to church, nor one to talk about what he believed. As a teenager I asked him once if he believed in God and even now I remember his reply. He looked at me carefully from behind those antiquated black-rimmed glasses of his and said simply, “Doesn’t matter if I believe or not, son. God is either there or he isn’t. But this life, well, this life is mine to live as I choose.” At the time I was frustrated that he didn't answer the question; it wasn’t until much later that I realized he had in fact answered something perhaps far deeper.

He was like that, my dad.

“We have to get you a phone, and I guess we should talk about allowance.”

“What did you give Celine?” I asked.

He laughed. “Celine was a thief,” he replied. “You don’t need to give money to a thief.”

In romantic comedies someone holds off telling something important,
and it screws up everything.

You watch the film, and find yourself shouting, “Just say it! Just tell her!”
but they don’t. It’s always “the wrong time.”

Chapter 3.6

I rejoined John in observing Sylvia. Our people were being forced downstairs, and we were helpless to stop it. We watched as they came were herded to the palace, and then the throne room. I gasped as the shimmering air coalesced into a man.

"Here they are, my Lord, " he told Amos, who was sitting, once again on his throne.

Molly Grows Up
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

Thanksgiving was fast approaching. Despite a blisteringly hot summer, there was already some snow at higher elevations just to the west of Denver. Ma had said more than once that this was a sure sign of a hard winter ahead. I knew from bitter experience that her track record in forecasting the weather was better than any of the TV weather women.

Head Injury
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

Part 1 - Mike

I remember those few minutes after I regained consciousness so very well.

I opened my eyes and reached to my face. There was a tube in my nose. I knew immediately where I was, I was in the hospital. But then I looked at my hand. I looked at the back of my hand and it did not look right. I found myself thinking that my hand should be beautiful. That is needed to be smooth and soft and that the nails should be shaped and polished.

It was a perfectly fine day.
My espresso was perfection: overly sugared with whip cream along the top.
The coffee kept me level-headed—zen in a cup. Nirvana. A way to get my mind to not think about the forty-five minute drive it took to get to work from the suburbs. I had no issues getting from my apartment to the local Starbucks and then onto the “they call it an interstate highway, but it’s a parking lot”, just like Joni Mitchell said.

“If you walk out of this room, if we never see you again,
I will think about you every day.
I won’t want to, but that’s what will happen.”