Blackout

Finally have one finished! Big Thank you to Columbine, who helped me get over the hump.

We walked out to the car, Jacinta keeping a loose hold on my right arm. She opened the back door:

“OK, sit in on the seat, then swing your legs in.”

Being a good girl, I did as I was told. Naturally, twisting around into a car pulled my skirt up; she leaned in, caught the hem, and tugged it into place.

“I’ll climb in the far side and take your handcuffs off.”

She closed the door, walked around the back of the car, got in:

“You’re people.”

Plus the Frog
Suzan Donamas

Trail Drive
A Short Story

It was getting dark. The sun had already dropped below the horizon but on the plains the twilight lasts a little longer, so the stranger, drawn by the light of a fresh fire, could easily steer a horse through the low scrub.

The cattle were well settled in a basin where there was a small watercourse and some green grass alongside as well as tender tips on some of the brush. They would settle well and could be easily watched from just above the campsite where the water flowed out.

My phone rang; I was jolted awake; Janet. I answered, quite disoriented as I was in another room. I hadn’t even woken when I’d been moved.

“Hi; how you?”

“More to the point, how are you?”

“Fine. I've just woken up; what time is it?”

“7:10pm; did I wake you?”

“Yes; but I’m glad you did. I just wanted to let you know what happened.”

“You’re all over the news… and you’ve been identified from the pictures of where you tripped up the gunman. How’d you get away?”

Jeannie Dreams
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

It was as if I flew to the edge of space, and found heaven from there. It sounds as corny as the old TV show, but it turned out to be true, in a very strange way.

Track Ban
A Vignette
By Maryanne Peters

If you really know your horses, on track betting is the way to win. People who treat horseracing as a game of chance are fools. Why not toss a coin? That is chance and probability, but if you know horses and courses and watch the animals and their riders and the track close up and in the flesh, then it is not a gamble, it is the exercise of special skills.

Charity Auction
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

It was a charity event. I was wholly committed to raising money for research into the treatment of myeloma, a disease that killed my dear mother.

I suppose that myeloma is not a disease that people think demands immediate attention. Some people live with it, and some, like my mother, die – there is no known cure.

People are Complicated
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

I was an experienced transvestite. I had been closeted for years. I denied it to myself and did not tell my wife the full extent of my need to dress. She was open to “kinky sex”, but she drew the line at anything more than that. I decided that I would lie to her as well as myself.

Drew Balor was at 1st fairway of Three Rivers Country Club in a tux pacing back and forth while taking a long drag from his cigarette. He wished he could calm down but knew he would not. His nervousness has been building up for the last year so how he felt has been par for the course for him. This state of mind all started by him asking Becky Stewart to be his wife. All the groom wanted was for this day to be perfect for who he saw as his perfect mate.

I found out on Friday the 22 of May in 2026 that E.E. Nally, one of our prolific writers in the Whateley Academy stories, passed away on April 30^th, 2026. It’s with great sorrow that I bring this news to you all. I had chatted with him almost every day or two for quite a while but he had fallen silent somewhere in the middle of February. I thought maybe he was in the hospital and unable to communicate with me but, as I feared in my imagination, he had gotten worse and eventually passed away.

Tracy Lane, 2026.
Released into the public domain.

The Shadow Theatre

---

It was a night of shadows and flickering light, the television humming softly in the corner. Just another listless evening in with my folks watching some faded Hollywood musical, a tale of "The Olden Days," when trains ran on steam and streets bustled with carriages; no different from a dozen others I'd seen over the past year or two. Or so I thought...

Mount Olympus at last.

With apologies to Ambrose Bierce author of the famous American Civil War story. There was no redemption in that story, nor is there any in this.

Only read on when you have read the Cautions.

This story reflects the attitudes of the time in which it’s set.

The groups involved are not important. The story is about attitudes, not politics.

******************************************************************************************************************

{This is a very short story by my standards}
The art of the window dresser is easy to understand. Their goal is to grab passersby's attention, then entice them to come into the store and, hopefully, persuade them to spend a lot of money. That is the theory… In practice, it only works sometimes.

In sophomore year there was a new girl in school. There was nothing special about Mary. Well, that was what everyone else but me thought. I always felt she was special. Ok, so she was not beautiful. Cute perhaps in the girl-next-door way. Not one of the popular girls. While smart far from the top ten students in our class. Not an athlete. Actually, she was prone to various illnesses so she didn’t take PE and was she was away from school for a long time in after Christmas. Not a recluse either . Just one of the girls. But for some reason she was the girl of my dreams.

Mothers in Law
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

Some say that if you want to know what your wife will be like in 20 years time, meet your mother in law. But for me, I have two mothers in law. Which one would she be like?

Noise; lots of it. I’m cold: I must have shivered as someone wrapped a warm blanket around me. Drift away again…

Noise again, light… My mother’s voice:

“I think he’s coming around.”

“Let’s have a look.”

Male, foreign, heavily accented.

“Ah; you back to us, yes?”

“Grunt”

“Whatyouname?”

“Huh?”

“He’s asking you for your name.”

Mother’s voice again.

“Name… Aisling…”

“It’s his stage name…”

Opening eyes, lights on ceiling, a man standing over me, white coat, stethoscope.

This is a story about a trans woman taking her first steps into the big bad world. ( not my usual sex stuff )

I looked out of the window of my small bedsit one last time as I steeled myself to face the world. I held my breath and nearly scrambled out of my front door and the main door. I forced myself not to run up the path. I had been watching to make sure my neighbours were not approaching or leaving. A few steps and I was on the street.

The sun was warm, even at 10AM. I collected the oars of the rowing boat from the machinery shed where we kept two pairs hung carefully on the wall. This was my first time using the boat this year, the first time I had felt able to bring it out. I walked the 200 yards to the lake and waded in. The boat, fastened by its painter to a post on the shore, was deliberately left some way out to stop the cows causing damage by scratching themselves against it.

Prayer Group Tale
A Short Story for BJ
By Maryanne Peter

I was one of those sinners who had real doubts about Christian Feminization. I knew that my desire to have sex with other men was wrong, but it seemed to me that cutting away part of my body was going too far to fix that. I was counselled to attend a prayer meeting of feminized Christians. The expected dress was “feminine, conservative and comfortable”. Although I was not a crossdresser, I did my best to meet expectations.

In this part our "victim" agrees to transition and is surprised by what is possible.

I couldn't sleep when I got back. It was the first time I had experienced actual pleasure since this all started. I just couldn't reconcile feeling pleasure having sex as a woman.

I was a guy. sex with men was shear humiliation most of the time. At best is was a chore. A chore that I learned to mentally block out.

"Ohh, yes baby. Do me, You're so big" etc. All this to encourage them to finish so I could leave. At worse, it was mental torture. When they would say things like.