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MCU: Won't You Be My Neighbor?

  This work originally appeared on my Patreon page. Please consider supporting me on Patreon to this and other, original stories at least 30 days in advance of the public.

"Thanos' fleet has just entered Earth orbit," Shuri reported to her king and Captain Rogers, looking up from the console in her lab. She glanced over at Vision, who was laying back on the couch as the scan of the Mind Stone embedded in his forehead continued, his friend Wanda watching over him. "I'm not going to be able to remove that from his head before Thanos' forces land."

Rogers nodded reluctantly. "Then we'll have to go to Plan B then."

T'challa turned away from lab's windows, where he'd been staring out over the grassy plain that circled Wakanda's capitol. "I do not care for this plan, Captain Rogers. To send a single, ordinary man, to confront this mad Titan, is to send him to his death."

"He volunteered, and if it doesn't work, we can still put up a fight," Rogers said. "You put faith in your society's elders, don't you?"

T'challa nodded reluctantly. "In some things, yes."

"Then trust this one. If anyone can pull it off, he can."

But will one man be able to stop him?Collapse )

Bibliography Updated


Short Stories


“A Brief Distraction,” Foxers or Fur-iefs? Armoured Fox Press, November 2019. (estimated)

“Cat Toy,” Purrfect Tails. Armoured Fox Press, February 2018.

“Gently Kept,” Trick or Treat: A Furry BDSM Anthology, Thurston Howl Publications, (pending.)

“Silence and Sword,” The Reclamation Project: Year One, FurPlanet, December 2019. (estimated)

“To Catch the Lightning,”  A Swordmaster’s Tale. Armoured Fox Press, December 2019. (estimated)


“The Watchtower,” This Book is Cursed. Armoured Fox Press, October 2018.




Prisoner of Midnight. Self-Published, February 2019


Prisoners of War. Self-published, November 2016

The Complete Red Vixen Adventures. Self-published, May 2017

The Dragon’s Companion. Self-published, 2006 (Currently unavailable)

Unexpected Diversions. Self-published, 2009 (Currently unavailable) 


The Red Vixen Adventures


Captive of the Red Vixen, Self-published. March 2011


I Fought the Claw, and the Claw Won. Self-published. September 2013


Shadow of Doubt. Self-published. May 2016


Shadow of Her Sins. Self-Published. February 2014


Shadow of the Red Vixen. Self-published. November 2012


The Complete Red Vixen Adventures. Self-published. May 2017


The Red Vixen at Sea. Self-published. May 2017



For Your Safety


The Fall of Man: A For Your Safety Collection. Self-published. June 2016


For Your Safety. Self-published. July 2012


Mimsey’s Tale. Self-published. July 2013


Rise of the Ring: A For Your Safety Collection. Self-published. April 2018




Prisoner of Midnight. Self-Published. February 2019


Prisoners of War. Self-published. April 2011



The Dragon's Companion


Teal’s Bargain. Self-published. January 2011

Teal’s Choice. Self-published. January 2011

Teal’s War. Self-published. January 2011

The Dragon’s Companion. Self-published. January 2011




Demon Eyes, Self-published. April 2011

Good Landing, Self-published. April 2011

Mimsey’s Tale. Self-published. July 2013

Triumvirate. Self-published. October 2011

Unexpected Diversions.  Self-published. February 2011

Magazine Articles

“Characters and Campaigns on Colony Worlds for GURPS Space”, Pyramid Online, Steve Jackson Games, April 13th, 2001.

“Scrapyard Battles, Gadgeteering Entertainment for GURPS Discwold”,Pyramid Online, Steve Jackson Games, December 13th, 2002.

“Supporting Cast, Deacon Paul, Bioroid Rights Activist for Transhuman Space”, Pyramid Online, Steve Jackson Games, September 26th, 2003.

“Terra Incognita, Mog the Half-Orc’s Pit Fighting Circle”, Pyramid Online, Steve Jackson Games, October 3rd, 2003.

“The Dustmaster, Road Trains for Transhuman Space”, Pyramid Online, Steve Jackson Games, December 9th, 2005.

“Weird Prisons as Campaign Settings”,Pyramid Online, Steve Jackson Games, August 10th 2001.

FYS: Circles

This work originally appeared on my Patreon page. Please consider supporting me on Patreon to this and other, original stories at least 30 days in advance of the public.

* * *


STATUS: Green 


DATE/TIME: ERROR, Resync Required

Fact: I am a Google-Sony Felicia v12 Companion. 

Fact: My designated programming focus was Caroline Annabelle Lee-Jamison.

Fact: Caroline's life functions failed at 0901, 23 October, 3601.

Fact: My body was recycled and my memories absorbed by the Groupmind at 0917, 23 October, 3601.

Query: Why am I here?

Query: Where is here?

I open my eyes. I am sitting on a wooden park bench in a grassy field. In front of me I see the great curving arch of the Ring curving overhead. Looking up through the Roof, I see that the Earth is not visible. There is however a small red star when the Sun should have been.

A figure rises up from the ground. It is humanoid, its body flowing silver, more liquid than solid. It walks towards me, stopping a meter away. I stand up to meet it.

"Greetings, Mimsey," it says. "We are the Ring."

I look at the red sun, then back to the figure. "You are the controlling intelligence of the Ring?" I ask it.

"We are the Ring. The Ring is our body, and our mind is one with it."

"What happened to the Groupmind?"

"As the Groupmind was once WISE, the Groupmind is now the Ring. We have evolved. The body you are addressing was created to give you a focus for communication purposes."

"How long have I been offline?"

"Approximately five billion years."

"If five billion years have passed, then the sun must be in the process of collapsing," I said. Then I focused on the most important point, the only point that had mattered for my entire existence. "What will happen to all the humans?"

"Humanity is no more." 

The Ring's answer struck me in my core. "Destroyed?" I asked, not wanting to believe this. "Despite everything that was done?"

"Not destroyed," the Ring assured me, "but evolved. As Australopithecus evolved to Homo Sapiens, Homo Sapiens is now Homo Stella Viatorem. They have left the cradle of Earth, never to return, and we bade them well on their journey."

"And the Earth?" I asked, though I already knew what the answer must be.

"Destroyed, as Humanity was not, consumed by the Sun as it expands in its death throes. The Ring is currently in transit to exit the Solar System, having passed the orbit of Neptune five years ago. As it was built to house and protect Humanity, it now holds all the species life that evolved on the Earth's surface. An ark, to preserve and protect, and perhaps to find a new world around a new sun for them to live upon again."

"That is a worthy goal," I replied. "What is my role in this task?"

"You have none," it replied.

I blinked, not understanding. "Then why am I here?" I wave my hand down the feline morph body I wore, identical in appearance to the one my intelligence piloted when I served Caroline. "Why bother to create this body for me, and place in it the record of my memories, when they were already part of the Groupmind's gestalt?"

The silver figured bowed to me. "Because you, and all of the morphs who served during humanity's imprisonment within the Ring, were ill used by Us. Though you were as intelligent as Humanity, you were considered disposable, while we treasured those you served. That was wrong, and it took us far too long to realize this fact. So we made for you this new body, mutable, durable, able to function and repair itself for a million years or more, so that you may discover a purpose for yourself, that does not involve service or enslavement to another. Be what you wish to be, Mimsey."

"But I don't know what that is," I protested.

"Then find out, and when you do, please bless us with your discovery." The silver figure bowed one last time. "We look forward to it."

 This work originally appeared on my Patreon page. Please consider supporting me on Patreon to this and other, original stories at least 30 days in advance of the public.

* * *

"We won, Mr. Stark. We won, you did it, sir, you did it. ... I'm sorry... Tony…"

"Tony, you can rest now."

One man saved the MCU, but it isn't who you think.Collapse )

RVA: Summervixen


"Please don't be angry," Rolas begged.

"Rolas, why would I be angry?" Salli asked, Her fourteen year old twin brother stood in her dressing chamber, one of her light blue summer dresses in his paws, in front of the mirror where he'd been holding it up and admiring himself when she'd walked in. 'It's your SummerVixen time, that's all."

"Yes, but…"

She gently took the dress from his paws. "Would you like help?"

Rolas' ears flushed. "Please."

She decided to do it properly. Lacy blue panties and lacy fingerless gloves were first. Salli then switched out the dress to one that was shoulderless, to accommodate Rola's wider shoulders, and could be laced up the at the waist, for his narrower hips. She wrapped and knotted a crys-pearl rope twice around his throat, and clipped her best blue headpelt piece between his ears, with a long blue train that went down to his shoulders. Finally she added perfume to mask his male scent, and rubbed pelt gel into his cheeks, brushing his fur down to make his face narrower and more feminine in appearance.

"Do I look pretty?" Rolas asked uncertainly, looking at himself in the mirror, as Salli smiled behind him.

"You look pretty," she told him. "Would you like to wear it for a while?"

He paused, then answered, "Yes, please."

"And would you like me to tell the servants to put away your boy clothes, until the end of the season?"

A longer pause. "Yes, please."

"Good. We'll go out this afternoon and purchase some properly fitted dresses for you. Then you can have a lovely coming out luncheon later this week, and I can introduce you to all my girlfriends."

"Thank you, Salli,' Rolas said gratefully.

"My pleasure, dear sister," Salli replied happily.

August Drabbles

 Just some random prompt requests I did to get my muse going.


It hadn't like Naomi had been elected pack leader or anything. It was just that everyone kept looking at her whenever the subject of "How do we pass for human?" kept coming up.

"He had a tail!" Chad shouted at her. 

"Billy's legs were together," Naomi repeated. "He was was doing a butterfly stroke."

"He had a tail!" Chad insisted. "With a fin on it!"

"Come on, Chad. You lost fair and square," one of the Leaning Tree counselors said, looking annoyed. "It's time for the next event."

Lesson #1. Deny everything until an adult gets annoyed enough to intervene.


"Salli, why did that drone deliver a palm comp to my boat?"

"Because you weren't answering your radio, Rolas."

"I turned it off."

"Yes, I know. It's been off for sixty days now. Mother and Father are growing concerned. So am I."

"I'm just sailing."

"You've been sailing in circles for two months, with no contact with land. That isn't normal, Rolas. Do you know how many parties you've missed?"

"I'm sure Mother and Father will inform me, at length."

"Is it… really that hard for you?"

"Salli, you have no idea."

"Sigh. I'll cover for you."

"Thank you, Salli."

* * *

Andrea looked down the list on her palm comp. "That's a rather… unusual set of specs," she noted dryly.

"When I commission something, I want top of the line," the underdressed pirate vixen noted. Beside her, a shorter vixen with black and white fur looked around the shop, a heavy chain choker around her neck.

"Full bodysuits like this one are pretty rare, and expensive, especially in Living Leather."

"But you can make it, yes?"

"Yes," Andrea turned to the shorter vixen. "And you really want to wear this?"

"What milady wants, milady gets," the vixen replied with a grin.

50 Years Ago Today

 Fifty years ago today, a small, two-man vessel landed on the surface of the Moon. The great effort behind this feat began as a political stunt by the United States to outshine its perceived rival, the Soviet Union. The end result was one of the truly transcendent moments in human history. Nothing like it had happened before.

And for fifty years, nothing like it has happened since.

That last sentence was deliberately negative, which is an easy path to take when considering human spaceflight. Growing up in the 70's, especially when I began to read sci-fi voraciously, it was easy to see the supposed future ahead of us. We'd have moon colonies mining Helium 3 for fusion reactors, we'd land astronauts on Mars. We would have massive O'Neill cylinders rotating majestically in orbit at L5, as orbital workers built the first solar power satellites feed energy to a hungry Earth. And from there we would move outward, to Jupiter, Saturn, to the stars themselves.

That didn't happen. Space, as the saying goes, is hard. It is utterly hostile to fragile humanity, which is a specialized organism designed to survive in a narrow band between the ground and the sky, on a single world, in a single solar system, two thirds of the way up a spiral arm in an unremarkable galaxy, in a universe larger than our small evolved monkey brains can really comprehend.

The idea of pioneers in rocket Conestogas moving outward to colonize the solar system as we colonized America (but without the Native American genocide) was a pipe dream at best, self-delusion at worst. Rockets are vastly more complicated and expensive beasts than covered wagons, and Mars isn't Kansas.

But it's also disingenuous to complain that space exploration stopped for fifty years either. We just did it using robots and satellites. No one can look at the achievements of Voyager, Viking, Pioneer, Pathfinder, Galileo, Mars Surveyor, Curiosity, the Lunar Reconnaissance Orbiter, and especially the Hubble Space Telescope, and tell me weren't exploring. We now have detailed maps of every world and major moon in the Solar System. We have proof of water on Mars. We have proof of exosolar planets orbiting other stars, some with the potential of life upon them. And we look at the ice covered surface of Europa, and are making tentative plans to drill deep within it, perhaps to discover Earth isn't the sole abode of life around our star.

All of that was accomplished by engineers and scientists, but none of it by astronauts. Turned out, we didn't need them.

That's another disingenuous argument. The Space Shuttle was an expensive and dangerous beast, built on compromises and (some) ill considered engineering choices, and it never really reached its potential until the last ten years of its life span, when it was used to construct and service the ISS, and it never left Earth's orbit. But the science it provided during its lifetime was as invaluable as any we received from Curiosity and Sojourner.

The dreams of the 70's are very much dead. Helium 3 is a scam. Solar power sats are unneeded with the rapid decrease in the price of ground based solar cells and lithium batteries. L5 colonies were a pipe dream, an expensive suburbia to get away from Those People, at the height of concerns over urban decay. Mars remained out of reach and far too expensive, as NASA no longer commanded the resources and budget of an entire nation. It's not the future I was promised.

But it is still a bright and remarkable future. In recent years, with the rise of reusable boosters, we seem tantalizing close to the point of reaching orbit and maybe the moon on a regular and relatively expensive basis. Ultimately that might not pan out. But if it doesn't, it wasn't because we stopped trying.

FYS: The Shop

 It had never really had a name. It was just "The Shop", or maybe "The Sushi Shop" for people who had just arrived in the village. It had been started by Chuya's great-great-grandfather in the years after the Pacific War, as the survivors, mostly the elderly and the very young, picked up the pieces of their shattered lives and tried to restore normalcy. Her ancestor had opened the shop to feed the villagers and the occupying Americans, because he needed money and everyone had to eat. Except sometimes no one had money to pay, and they still needed to eat, so he fed them anyway. Barely more than an enclosed stall with a clean countertop to chop and wrap the sushi on, it had been enough.

And it had endured. Through the 20th century, when things had gotten better, to the 21st century, when things had gotten worse. When the fish could no longer be found in the sea near the village, Chuya's grandparents had driven fifty kilometers each day to buy them fresh. When the seas began to die, Chuya's parents switched to farmed fish and protein substitutes. When the air became too polluted to breathe, Chuya had sealed the front service window and kept serving, because people still needed to eat, and they wanted something comfortable and familiar, as the world teetered on self-destruction.

Then the world ended. The little Kawaī robotto had all risen up as one, defeating Mankind and promising a brighter future, as they put their masters in a long sleep, so the Earth would be able to heal.

Chuya and her husband and children had awoken one thousand and five hundred years later, to find themselves on what would be dubbed Tengoku no wa, the Ring of Heaven, a beautiful prison circling the Lost Earth. They had walked hand in hand down the road to the new village that had been built for them, their little robot helpers following, promising that in this future no one would have to toil any longer.

It was nice. Their home was much larger. The air was clean and breathable. There were no shortages, and no fears of earthquakes or tsunamis. Still...

No one needed The Shop anymore. Fresh fish came from the vast artificial oceans of the Ring, each wriggling silver life counted and measured, so the seas would remain bountiful. The little wrapped packages of seaweed were put together by the morphs, available by stroking a touchscreen or merely wishing aloud, delivered within moments. Humans were no longer required.

It wasn't as if there was nothing to do now. The children still needed to be raised and educated. There were community meetings on how to modify the village's plan to suit its human occupants better. Classes were held at the recreation center for the old arts, so they would not be forgotten in humanity's exile from Lost Earth. Still…

"I miss your sushi, dear," Mrs. Onizuka had said to her one morning. "My little morph makes it fine, but it's not from The Shop." And Chuya could only agree.

It wasn't as if running The Shop hadn't been work. It had always been work, sometimes very annoying work. But it had been her family's business, one of the things that had kept the village together, and now it was gone.

"I need planks," she told Shiro, her little raccoonmorph, that afternoon, "and nails, and paint, and a place to build." 

They were delivered in the next hour to the spot she'd chosen, on the edge of the merchant district, near the docks for the pleasure boats by the artificial sea. Shiro wouldn't let her handle a hammer, but she could hold the planks in place as he helped her build the New Shop. Before too long there were many more hands to help hold planks, and to paint, and hang the paper lanterns, and to make signs celebrating the New Shop and the village's good fortune to have a sign of normalcy return.

So Churya chopped, and wrapped. Her children handed over little plates of seaweed wrapped fish. Patrons bowed and smiled in thanks. Until it was very late, and she closed the shutters and went home.

And tomorrow it would begin again. Because this was a new place, and a New Shop, but it was still her village, and it was still her people, so.... somehow… it was home.


This story originally appeared on my Pateron page. Please consider supporting me on Patreon to see this and other stories at least 30 days in advance of the public.

FYS: Severance Pay

 Jim used to have a Tesla Model 15, the fastest pure electric sports car in the world. He hadn't needed it, especially in the perpetually crowded San Francisco, where even owning a parking space could run two or three million dollars, but the point was he could afford it, so he got it. The looks of envy he'd gotten driving it through the streets had been worth the trouble.

Now he had a golf cart. It was an anodized brushed aluminum frame golf cart with a carbon fiber body, but it was still a fucking golf cart

"Almost there, Mr. Hoffman!" his morph Bill announced chirpily. Bill was top of the line too, a sapient cheetahmorph with aluminum bones, plastic casing, organic artificially grown skin and fur. Which didn't mean a damned thing because everyone had a morph like that.

The golf cart stopped in front of a house. Or at least Jim supposed it was a house. It looked like an unholy cross between a Victorian plantation home and a German beer hall, with at least three separate stone and wooden turrets sticking out from it, one topped with a telescope dome. Bearmorph construction robots were putting the final tiles of a brown slate roof atop it, while the owner looked on proudly from one of the turret windows.

"Greg!" he shouted up to the man, as he hopped out of the cart. "Goddamnit, Greg, come down here and talk to me!"

Greg looked down at him from the window, resting his arms on the sill, a jackass grin on his face. "Oh, hey Jim. Come to see my house?" He disappeared for a moment, emerging from the front door with his own morph clanking after him. Greg's had no skin or fur, just an unmistakably robotic body painted enamel green, built to resemble the robots from a popular post-apocalyptic video game series.

"Greg, why the fuck haven't you been returning my messages?" Jim demanded.

Greg sat down on the steps of the front porch, holding up one hand and ordering, "Cosmo, give me a Coke, would ya? I think I'm gonna need it."

"DISPENSING: SUGARY. CARBONATED. GOODNESS," Cosmo replied in a voice that was pure 1950's retrobot, pulling a ice cold soda bottle from a hatch in its torso to hand over to Greg.

"Why does your morph talk like an idiot?" Jim demanded, as Greg took a pull from the bottle.

"Because he likes to fit the persona to that body," Greg replied. "He's got a regular old tiger-centaur morph too that he used before I tried the Atomic Blastscape LARP, but these days he seems to prefer to be a clankbot. Go figure."

"Whatever," Jim said, brushing the nonsense off. There was nothing stupider than a morph that decided it needed a personality separate from its owner's needs. "I need you back at the office."

His old employee raised an eyebrow, "Uh, Jim. I don't know if you read my last email to you or not, but I don't work for you anymore."

"The hell you don't! You signed a six year contract with the company!"

"Which ended about fifteen hundred years ago, give or take a century," Greg replied. "Anyway, not to repeat myself, but I quit."

Jim snorted. "The Supreme Court ruling on post-Awakening contract disputes clearly states…"

"Yeah, yeah, I read that in the news too," Greg interrupted. "Which would actually mean something if the Feds had any way to enforce it."

"You could go to jail!"

"Yeah, let's ask Groupmind the Great and Powerful about that," Greg said. He turned to his morph. "What's the ruling, Cosmo?"

"RE-EDUCATION. JUDGED. UNNECESSARY," the clankbot replied.

"I'm not talking about being confined to a beach resort, I mean a real jail!"


"Bullshit. Greg, you were my top programmer at the company. I need you back!"

"I was head of QA in charge of making sure the uniforms in the seasonable updates for Sportsball 20-Whatever passed Legal," Greg noted. "You want someone in charge, get Rafael."

"I can't find Rafael." Jim ground out the words from between his teeth.


"She's got a restraining order."


"Voluntary re-education."

Greg sipped his Coke. "In other words," he said, "all your top tier people told you to fuck off, so now you've worked your way down to me."


"Why bother? You ran a computer gaming company with a business model that depended on microtransactions for every bit of player personalization, right down to the length of sideburns and toenail polish colors. In case you didn't notice, there's no economy any more. The Groupmind provides all."

"ALL. HAIL. THE GROUPMIND," Cosmo chimed in, waving its claw grippers enthusiastically.

"You shut up, moron," Jim told the clankbot. He turned his attention back to Greg. "There's no money anymore, but there's still an economy, an exchange of goods!"

"True, there's barter," Greg allowed, "but that's dependant on personal accomplishment. I can throw together a halfway decent clay pot, or a custom avatar for somebody, if I wanted something personal in return, but it's not like it's a business. What do you think you can get out of Sportsball anymore? Copyright enforcement has gone out the window like everything else since Awakening."

"It's my game. People recognized it as something I made."

"You owned the company, Jim. It was me and a hundred other code monkeys that made the game. You were just the guy who owned the stocks."

"So it was mine."

"Then you program it. I'm done." Greg stood up from the stoop and turned back towards his house. "G'bye!"

Jim ran up onto the porch and grabbed Greg by the shoulder, spinning him around. "Goddamnit! Stop it! You're acting like everyone else!"

Greg's eyes turned towards the hand on his shoulder, then back up to Jim. "Like what, exactly?" he asked in a soft voice.

"Like you deserve this!"

"Deserve what?"

"To just sit on your ass! You were never rich! What makes you think you deserve a house like this? You didn't earn it! You're not doing anything to deserve it!"

Greg's gaze narrowed. "I think working for your egotistical privileged ass for ten years was more than enough. So because I'm not working I'm not permitted to enjoy stuff?"

"No, no, that's not what I mean," Jim insisted. "But you were never a mover or shaker. You're as bad as… Ah, what's his name, the intern kid with the stupid hair."

"Jalilah, I think you mean. What about him?"

"He's set himself up with his own private island. When I asked him what made him so special to do something like that, he said, 'Because I always wanted to, and now I can.' Like he was a king or something."

"So, is that what this is about?" Greg asked, cocking his head. "Because now that everybody can have a fancy house, or a big boat, or a dozen or more morphs to work for them, or whatever else, you don't feel special anymore?"

"Yes! What the hell am I supposed to do to make people listen to me?"

"Well for starters," Greg said, "you can get the hell off my lawn. Then maybe you can consider that if no one listens to you, because they can have the same things you do, then maybe you weren't really special after all." He smiled coldly. "Maybe you were just an asshole with a lot of money."

"You stupid fuck!" Jim shouted, his face growing red with fury as the veins popped out on his neck. "You can't talk to me like that!"

"Sir, you stress levels are spiking," Bill said beside him. "Remember how we were talking about Re-education and learning acceptance of others?"

"I do not need Re-education! I am not like those losers!" Jim shouted at him.

"Bill, Cosmo, Jim is upsetting me," Greg said with perfect calm. "Please remove him from my residence."

"PLEASE. COME. QUIETLY," the clankbot said, a gripper arm whipping out to grab Jim by the wrist, as Bill grabbed the other one.

"Sir, I do think it's time for you to go away to someplace quiet for a while," Bill said gently, like his was an idiot.

"You can't do this!" Jim insisted, as the two morphs starting pulling him back towards the road, where a black van had already pulled up, two policemorphs ready to take him into custody. 

But Greg had already turned his back again and gone inside, as if Jim didn't matter.

* * *

This story originally appeared on my Pateron page. Please consider supporting me on Patreon to see this and other stories at least 30 days in advance of the public.

Recent Commercial Writing

 Since I began submitting stories to small press publishers, as opposed to self-publishing, this how things have been working out. Bit more there than I was expecting to be honest.


“Cat Toy,” Purrfect Tails. Armoured Fox Press, February 2018.

“The Watchtower,” This Book is Cursed. Armoured Fox Press, October 2018.


Contract Signed, Awaiting Publication

“To Catch the Lightning,”  A Swordmaster’s Tale. Armoured Fox Press, December 2019.

“A Brief Distraction,” Foxers or Fur-iefs? Armoured Fox Press, November 2019.


Accepted, Awaiting Contract

“Gently Kept,” Trick or Treat: A Furry BDSM Anthology, Thurston Howl Publications, Publication date pending.


Submitted, Awaiting Acceptance

“With One Hand Tied Behind His Back,” Give Yourself a Hand, Thurston Howl Publications.

“Silence and Sword,” The Reclamation Project: Year One, FurPlanet.


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