Here are some stories I’ve written over the years on a variety of subjects. I like to think of my genre as ‘romantic horror. Just don’t read ’em if you don’t enjoy that kinda stuff. Is her captor a psychopath or something worse? She doesn’t know what they want with her, but it may turn out to be far weirder than she could imagine. Layla, a desperate young woman, goes in search of her mysterious, kidnapped girlfriend Iris. She soon finds herself in the clutches of the sadistic cult who had enslaved and imprisoned Iris for years. Peek into the Evil Dolly’s mind and find out what kind of slave you must become! Or decide what kind of slaves your friends will be. Not exactly a story by itself, but you can construct your own daydream tales out of the results, be they good or bad. There are literally hundreds of possible combinations. It includes mind control and non consensual cyberneticism.
A doll and candy pink puddles. It’s meant to be historical flavor for the old Second Life Latex Dolls group. It likely won’t make much sense to the uninitiated, but I’m putting it here anyway. A reporter investigates a novel form incarceration and gets much more than she bargained for. No, the image links aren’t supposed to work, they’re there for atmosphere. Keywords: kidnapping, orthopedic braces, saliva, dolls. That’s right, I said hair abuse.
Not something you see often, which is why I wrote it. Don’t ya hate when that happens? I also wrote it in my teens. Please excuse its flaws, it was my first story. I wrote it when I was sixteen. At the request of a reader, we are posting it on our website. Marshall, Your editorial on xenophobia touched my heartstrings. As your readership may know, I am currently in the University of Minnesota Medical Center receiving excellent care after my bone marrow transplant on Nov. Every day a nurse walks in who is a little different than me.
She or he might be Somali or Hmong or Japanese-American and have a little bit of an accent – just like those old Croats I used to listen to on the northside of Virginia. Or, my nurse’s assistant may come in to take my blood pressure and tell me how she fled the war in Liberia when she was a young woman and what a wonderful opportunity it is to be here in America. Then the housekeepers come in, they’re in a hurry, they say hi. They are Somali or Ethiopian or Liberian. One was a male who stopped emptying the wastebaskets and talked to us. About how he came from Ethiopia five years ago because of tribal conflicts. He already had a master’s degree in chemistry and is now working two jobs while going to school to become a pharmacist so he can give his three children a college education.
I could go on and tell you that one of my transplant doctors is from Brazil and my primary oncologist is from India. She came to get her degree at the U of M and decided to stay on here to pay back for the great education she received from our state. So, it’s puzzling to me that some of my friends and their children have forgotten that they are the children and grandchildren of immigrants. That they came to America for the same dream, to make life better for themselves and their families. And they were treated as badly as today’s immigrants. I can’t help but relay the story told to me by one of my dad’s best friends. They had milk cows on the northside of Virginia and it was Bruno’s job, as a 12-year-old kid, to deliver the milk in the morning to the mining locations – Lincoln, Higgins and Minorca – which sat above the hill north of Virginia.