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My Novella & Short Stories


Meet Prometheus Jones, the protagonist of The Corporatorium, my absurdist, hysterical faux memoir of life in Corporate America. The story is told episodically in a series of weekly blog posts. Read Season One here. Season Two starts August 1, 2018.


Vampire Rising isn't really about Vampires. It is about anyone who is different and subjugated because of that difference. It is about love found in hopeless places. It is, in short, us.

Vampire Rising, an allegorical novella
"To be a Vampire is to know your pale skin,
and red lips offend others."

It’s the mid twenty-first century. Anti-Semitism, racism, sexism and homophobia have been consigned to the dustbin of history. The world is run by “the state,” and Christian zealots, whose chief governing tools are fear and oppression. It’s a wonderful time to be alive—unless you’re a Vampire. Vampires are despised, and feared, and subjected to discrimination and unspeakable violence.


When Barnabas is mortally wounded during an anti-Vampire attack, Gatsby must forget everything he has known, and learn to trust.



Vampire Rising Book Trailer




Buy:


Damaged Angels, a collection of short stories
2013 Rainbow Award Runner-Up, Best Gay Contemporary General Fiction

Welcome to the Merry-Go-Round where love struggles to grow in the shadows under the rainbow.

The 13 stories in this collection give voice to the invisible, the damaged: the drug addicts and hustlers, the mentally ill, the confused, and the men who fall in love with them, all of them bravely trying to make a place for themselves in the world of unbroken men. These stories explore the possibility that less-than-perfect is sometimes perfect.






Damaged Angels Book Trailer

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The Corporatorium: I Am Prometheus (Episode One)

I am Prometheus. Prometheus. Say it slowly, roll the letters around in your mouth. Prometheus. It is not my real name but it is name most fitting for me. Prometheus, the creator of mankind and its greatest benefactor, chained to a rock, his liver eaten daily by an eagle, in eternal damnation for stealing fire and gifting it to mankind. Yes, there are definite similarities between us.
I am Prometheus, and this is my story. Except it’s not my story. I wish it was, but I am not unique or special. This is the story of untold millions of hapless chaps and chicklets caught up in the grinding gears of the corporate machine.
This is a faux memoir told episodically. You will be inclined, at times, to laugh at us, and cry for us. Do not hold back either impulse. That is the point of sharing this story—to remind us that life is nothing but a series of small comedies and tragedies. What is important is what we take away from each occurrence, what we learn from each calamity and joy.
What will be…

An Open Letter to Senator John McCain

This post is an open letter to John McCain—usually this blog is dedicated to the “Writer’s Life.” To an extent it still is since writers are people and, so I tend to write about my experiences, even those unrelated to writing because those experiences are a part of this writer’s life and often influence my writing which though I write fiction, that fiction is, more often than not, informed by reality. So here goes.
Dear Senator McCain:
I am begging—yes begging, and normally I’m too proud, too arrogant to beg but in this instance, there is too much at stake, too many people at risk to stand on pride—John McCain to change his mind and vote against Trump's tax bill. As Mr. Spock said in one of the Star Trek movies, “The needs of the many outweighs the needs of the one.”

We lost our father, a veteran, and a good man to cancer on November 8. He had access to healthcare. And, we did not have to worry about the cost of his care—even if we had to pay out of pocket, we had him covered. T…

Ruminations on Home

Last Thursday, August 16, marked 11 years since we moved into our house. I have lived in this house longer than I have lived anywhere else since I left my parents’ home to attend Penn back when Ben Franklin was still on the faculty. The day we moved in, perhaps sensing I was home at last, I told my mother, who always wrote my addresses in pencil in her address book, to write this one in ink.

I used to dream of buying Lucy Ricardo’s farm house in Connecticut. Later, I dreamed of buying the Brady Bunch split level. As a kid, I‘d spend hours pouring over the Sears catalog imagining the kitchen in which I’d install Avocado Green—or perhaps, Harvest Gold—appliances.
In eleven years, we have battled contractors, mice, squirrels, termites, and floods. Yet, I feel safe—at home—here, in a place whose rooms are decisively painted—let’s face it, it takes commitment to paint rooms red or pea soup green or chartreuse—and hung with non-mass-produced art including local artist and good friend Brenda H…