I stare at the phallus and its package between my legs. It’s tiny and weird. It doesn’t belong between a girl’s legs, yet it’s there. I poke and prod at it. Like it was about to explode.

I take a knife and gently stab the phallus’s package just enough to cause some pain. I stop before the knife breaks the skin. I hate pain as much as I hate my disgusting testosterone balls. I wish I didn’t feel pain. I wish I could just be numb. I also wish I had a scalpel. I could give myself an orchidectomy.

How should you respond when you “lose” someone in your family? Should you stop talking to them and just don’t acknowledge their existence, well that’s what I did now I just feel like an utter dickhead.

I tried to take my 'grounding' with grace. I tried to think of myself not as a prisoner of my hotel – which seemed to be crawling with security people... I wasn't sure whether they were from our corporate parent, the local authorities or the hotel's management, none of whom I presumed, would want a violent tragedy associated with their brands. I tried to pretend we were 'ultra-VIPs', so important that the world came to us and we merely 'held court'. That was how I tried to frame this, to keep myself from going stir crazy. It wasn't terribly effective.

Long, long ago, when humans were just beginning to form into tribes and learning to hunt and live together, there was a land far, soooo far to the west across the Unending Sea, where there lived a people who espoused peace and the well-being of all peoples.

Their land was called Leroqand and the Leroqandi people were known for their mediation during disputes of all kinds.

‘Halleluiah’ – possibly

This began as a series of jottings on how Hate & Hell are what 'They' want and deliver to our minority. I added Hope but then decided that it would be worth aiming for a viable Halleluiah as well.

“Daleks. A big Dalek. We got to hide. It’ll kill us.”
Em was really frightened. But then when I was seven I hid behind the sofa when the Daleks came on a 19 inch tv screen during Dr Who. And I liked the Daleks. I turned and dropped down wrapping her in my arms in a big hug.

This is the story of Tommy, who, when we first meet him, is a very curious twelve-year-old. He has to know about everything, how it works, why does it feel like this, what happens if I do this, and so on. One day he asks his mother, what’s it like to dress in pretty things? And, as happens, once he starts dressing in pretty things there is no going back. But what’s behind this? Is he a cross-dresser, or is there something more behind it. Why does he want to do it more? Why does the girl next door like it when he dresses in pretty clothes? Why does he feel he is the girl that he’s dressed as? Why do all of his friends and family accept this part of him? Will a trip to New Mexico answer some of these questions, or will he have more questions than answers when he returns home? Will there be another girl, another spirit? Will he or she find himself or herself? Will he like what he finds?

We get to the doctors and signed in. It wasn’t long until we are called. They measure Charlie in height, weight, and blood pressure. They ask her if she has any allergies. She has a weird allergy to salmon oddly enough. Finally, we are sent to an examination room.

We sit in silence until Charlie breaks it with “I hate these rooms. The doctors always make you wait too long.”

“I know what you mean. They always like to make you nervous while you wait for them.”

“Do you think it’s an unspoken rule that you have to make your patients wait?”

The next day, I woke up earlier than usual. I did my morning run, did my hygiene and made breakfast just as a groggy Charlie came down rubbing her eyes.

I smile, “Good morning, princess.” Charlie doesn’t say anything, but gives me a tired smile and hugs me.

Charlie looks around and questions, “Where if Mrs. Blue?”

“Oh, Mom’s still asleep. She’s getting a little too old to wake up in the morning. Don’t tell her I said that.” Charlie giggles and we have breakfast.

The next day

I hear a loud, screeching, “AAAAAAAAAAH” enough to make anyone jump up off the couch and see what’s going on. I turn and see Charlie, or at least I think it’s Charlie, on his butt at the bottom of the stairs. I run to him and crouch down.

“Are you alright, Charlie?”

He turns and stares at me wide-eyed, “So, what Carmilla was telling me was true. You did take me home.”

I smile at him, “Of course, how are you feeling?” He talks to his second self? Interesting.

It started on a rainy summer afternoon when I was seven. My sister Emma is two years older than I am and she and I get along. After lunch we had started playing board games, as we often did when we could not play outside. It was about two in the afternoon when my sister stood up and declared, “I’ve had enough of these board games. Let’s do something fun and different.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“You know, people say we look alike. Let’s see if that is true. Come on up to my room. I’ve got an idea.” I knew that I had a ‘pretty’ face, and had been mistaken for a girl on numerous occasions.