I don’t know what to call this


Hello, All.   I’m a mother to a teen girl and while I do not assume other parents don’t get angry about such things when I saw an account boasting a bio of “proud hebephile” I saw red. (note: a hebephile is someone who is sexually attracted to pubescent children.  Namely 11-14 year olds.  I obviously blocked and reported this guy.  I then, with some hesitance, unfollowed a few writer’s accounts I saw in his follower list.  In no way did I assume they approve of “hebephiles”. 

I was feeling exceptionally negative about the practice of immediately following folks back.  In this rash frame of mind, I posted about this, thus temporarily forgetting that bios do change and those writers I knew who followed the “proud hebephile” likely did this when his bio did not boast this information.  In other words, it wasn’t that they don’t check bios, it was just that this guy is a sneaky, shitty fuck. 

My decision to unfollow was unwise. 

I got called out (not by name) but by my post using the #writerscommunity hashtag by a much better known and more successful writer than myself.  So here I am, feeling like a bit of a dick.  Again. 

Obviously no one has a problem with a mom  (or indeed person…of which I am one) getting enraged about the potential normalization of a sexual taste for underaged girls. 

But Twitter writers get enraged when they feel you’ve abandoned them and made assumptions about follow practices and gone on a preachy thread about it. 

Now, I don’t feel like writing poetry or participating in the seduce me Sunday hashtag.  Being let on to the existence of a proud hebephile wasn’t exactly an inspiration for today’s themes and prompts.  Then pissing off a rather big member of the writing community due to an ill judged post, I’m in both “eww” and “Shit, Jessica…really?” mode.

I mentioned no one by name, apart from the reported account.

But it was bad judgement in reporting this by not privately notifying those who I noticed were following this degenerate and just doing a post. In all honesty I felt that I rarely if never have interacted with one particular account (and this is a great writer/poet, a funny person who I have literally no personal beef with), I was just wanting to get across the message of vetting who you follow.

Now, yes I do “house cleaning” generally with followers.  This I’m not sorry for.  If folks only follow me to get me to follow them then bugger off, or if their feed is purely promo or politics and nothing else (a bit is fine…but endless promos and political rants get tiresome).  Or if the account seems inactive then yeah…I probably will unfollow.  That sort of stuff is indeed my prerogative and I can encourage in my timeline what I want.  I’m not obliged to follow any and all writers just to be polite.

I need to work on being more assertive, less oversensitive and less hard on myself.  I’ve been told that by people who physically, personally know me and by Twitter friends.

BUT I will always say sorry for upsetting people when I genuinely feel I’ve been unfair.  There’s so much in the world of people feeling they don’t have to be accountable for their behavior that I am determined to reject that mindset.  I can’t control other people being entitled, petty, arrogant or narcissistic.  BUT I can admit it when I’ve been inappropriately preachy, short sighted and insensitive in my actions.  Being a “soft” or “nice” person isn’t a get out clause for upsetting people. 

I’ve been rash in unfollowing some people and in no way shape or form do I associate them with something as vile as the content within the blocked/reported account in question.  In hindsight a DM or general post before considering unfollowing would have been more level headed.  Bios do change, people can follow back whoever they want to follow back. 

I still recommend vetting people/checking bios when people can, I’m getting choosier and choosier about who I follow. 

I’m sorry for pissing off fellow writers and causing twitter drama.  It really wasn’t on my to do list when I woke up this morning.  All the same it happened and I regret it. 

I’m not leaving Twitter again though.  People can take unfollow me if they want, obviously they’ll refer to me directly or indirectly in a negative way whether I like it or not.  

Happy New Year. 






By jmnauthor3000



I am an oversensitive idiot sometimes.  I miss the point in what’s going on and don’t realize until later that what I thought was happening…wasn’t happening.  As an introvert, I can take harmless jokes as intentional mockery.  In that process, to whoever might be paying attention, I make myself look a fool.  In all honesty I am one…at times.  In other moments I’m like, really cool.    

So…I’m back on Twitter.  There is some shifty shit that happens on there, but it’s also a useful writer’s platform and frankly I missed a lot of people. 

The break did me good. I was able to put things into perspective.  I am going to manage my time a bit better. I spent some time with my manuscripts minus the obsession with hashtags and Twitter likes.

But one thing that I’ve really learned this year is this…admitting you’ve done something wrong is good for the soul.  The alternative is a dark place where you are vulnerable to the lesser side of humanity. 

All around us are the consequences of people digging their heels in, letting ego get the better of them and refusing to look at things differently.  It’s hard.  And the darker side of our nature creeps in, wanting to have a crack at others who we feel look down on us.  There’s also just downright anger. 

Anger is the midnight feed that turns gizmos into gremlins.  Sometimes we have a right to be angry.  Sometimes we are just being assholes. Understanding the difference can be a challenge.

Make no mistake…something is in the air trying to polarize us.  Trying to play on our insecurities.  Trying to isolate us from one another.  Sometimes that something is within us.  Our “inner twat” if you will.  

My lesson this year is that you should never tolerate bullshit.  Don’t be a sap.  But never give in to the side of human nature that wants to dig its heels in, despite knowing a mistake or misunderstanding has occurred, refuses to say I’m sorry and demands giving the world or whoever you wronged a big “fuck you…I’m entitled to my sanctimonious indignation…I ain’t going back on shit.”   

Very, very few people are entitled to sanctimonious indignation. 

Anyway, Merry Christmas, Blessed Yule, hope you all had a Happy Hanukkah earlier this month and Happy Holidays.    







By jmnauthor3000

Silver Throat


Limping, simpering along

A washed up swan song

Your beard above the lace

Pretty bard’s poker face

Stuck in a hell of a rut

Useless feeling in the gut

Knees are cold from the floor

There wasn’t room for one more

Retching the miserable wretch

A cur that won’t fetch

It’s the simplest thing

The silver throat refusing to sing.





By jmnauthor3000

The Boss by Abigail Owen #BookReview


Welcome everyone, to my review of Abigail Owen’s two new releases, The Mate (a prequel) and The Boss.

Prepare yourselves because I over think everything.  Even reviews of shape shifter romance.

I have worked with Abigail Owen before.  She’s a delightful lady who can churn out a love story like it’s nobody’s business.  I volunteered to read her latest releases in exchange for an honest opinion.

So…let’s get down to some story, dragons, sex appeal and character types.  Let’s get a little uptight….perhaps a little weird or over-analytical.  Then…we’ll relax. 

Having read some of Abigail’s YA stuff, I was curious where she’d take steamier grown up romance.

Let’s start with The Mate.  It’s a shorter story involving Fallon, the younger brother of Finn (the male lead in The Boss).  Fallon is summoned to a choosing ceremony in France.  Owen’s world involves dragon shifters of different colors (some are fast, some brutal fighters, some better at espionage depending on whether they’re blue, gold, black, etc.).  The Dragon clans come from all over the world and settle in colonies elsewhere.  They involve themselves in the human world investigating arson, helping with forest fires, etc.  Owens’ dragons can absorb fire back into their bodies.  Oh…and the men are mostly on the tall side, with striking eyes and rather virile. 

I feel I have to say something here.  I’m all about welcoming different standards of beauty for both men and women.  I don’t think it’s fair to expect every dude to look twenty eight, have a six-pack and a jaw line to rival any personal trainer/male model.  

At the moment I’m keen to see love stories involving characters who struggle to get up a flight of stairs, who are a bit softer around the middle and a bit rougher around the edges.  The thing with these hot dragon shifter ultra male dragons is…yes they are super attractive (handsome shaming is unfair, even if not as nasty and damaging as fat or ugly shaming)…but looks ARE secondary to the love.  The Mate and The Boss are about the specific connection between the specific characters more than “oh that guy has abs and is thus worthy of love and sexual fulfillment”…sort of deal.   

I’m critical of double standards.  We’ll get to that in a bit.  This is supposed to be fun. 

Anyhoo, another aspect of this dragon shifter world is that male dragons can’t fall in love with and have little dragon shifter babies with just anyone.  They need to find a female hidden in the human world who is secretly a “dragon shifter mate”.  Signs of being one of these lucky ladies include a hidden brand on the back of the neck or maybe starting fires without intending to.  Once recognized, these ladies are then presented to a council of sorts who choose possible male dragon shifter mates and they go through a process of spending time together until ultimately the lady chooses her mate out of the male dragon shifters. 

Almost everyone is hot here. I guess flying around and working in the business of catching arsonists and containing fires keeps you fit.  Plus, other worldly creatures in paranormal romance stories tend to be on the attractive side.  Just relax and enjoy it, Jessica…jeez. You aren’t perpetuating unfair standards of beauty by enjoying a damn good shape shifter romance. 

Okay.  This is the clincher.  This is important.  The mating ceremony itself involves the couple (now Council approved) getting some alone time, getting intimate and then the male gives his lady mate one hell of a kiss involving pushing his fire inside of her with his mouth (he is still in human form btw but they can summon their fire all the same).  This, all being well, means that his woman is transformed into a proper dragon shifter and they then live (for a very long time) happily ever after.  All not being well, (meaning the match was not meant to be), the dragon fire burns the woman from the inside and she dies a horrible painful death in her would be lover’s arms while he watches in helpless terror and despair.

In The Mate, Fallon is taken aback when he sees a possible mate for him, chosen by the Council to be a previous (as far as he was concerned, human) colleague named Maddie.  These two really, REALLY liked each other while working on an arson case a few months previous.  However, seeing as Fallon did not recognize any “dragon mate” qualities in Maddie…he had to ignore his feelings and he buggered off.  She was annoyed (as you would be) by his abrupt departure from her life.  She was pretty into him (as you would be).  Maddie is a funny t-shirt wearing, independent sort who is a little freaked out by suddenly finding out about the existence of dragon shifters (as you would be).

I won’t give too much more away…The Mate is a prequel to The Boss. 

The Boss is the main event.  The main male player here is Finn, Fallon’s older brother. Now Finn…has previously experienced the very very bad version of the mating ceremony.  It gave him PTSD and he isn’t all that keen on finding love again.  He’s too traumatized (as you would be).  That’s the last time I say that, I promise. 

Enter Delaney, a (by all immediate observations) human who has an issue with a stalker, black outs and fires.  She’s also suffered a horrendous loss in her life due to fire.  She’s very sweet and a tad self-sacrificing.  Finn is literally, The Boss of a hot shot crew of dragon shifters (including Fallon although he’s away pursuing Maddie in France while Finn’s story is going on) who sort out rogue shifters up to no good and contain forest fires…stuff like that.

There’s political upheaval in the Dragon world while all this is happening which makes things awkward for the potential couples.  Not everyone is into this stringent, old world Mating Council choosing ceremony deal.  There’s going to be more of this, I can tell.  I can smell the elements of loyalty at all costs, the get with the winning team types, betrayal and espionage potential is all there.  It’s about to kick off in dragon shifter world. 

Make no mistake, this is a fully built, international, functioning world with its own politics, history, shady characters, hardships, rises and falls.  Owen could probably tell you how each individual shifter’s house is decorated and on what date they pay their electric bill every month.  She’s likely also catalogued every t-shirt Maddie owns and what fitness equipment Levi uses most.

This is not some hastily thrown together paranormal nonsense just so that heterosexual cis females can read about sexy magic jaw line abs guy doing the lucky girl next door (who also happens to be gorgeous). 

Let’s be honest after Twilight and 50 Shades everyone and their mother was like “I want to make money by writing about sexy yet crazy unrealistic one dimensional dudes who get really REALLY into the girl next door *cough* who is like me!” 

As I’m sure Abigail Owen and many, many other romance or erotica or hell…ANY writers in general making a living from your craft is not a given.  Like at all.  Let’s bat that myth right out of here….

Abigail Owen (whose other pen name is Kadie Scott), is a professional.  Her writing is polished, she’s an experienced story teller. She’s well aware of the tropes and dynamics at play in romance books.  She knows what works because she’s a fan of the genre itself.  She can world build in her sleep.  She brings two people who as a reader, you can invest in.  You can see why they would be drawn together.  The chemistry is palpable. My heart broke for Delaney and Finn as what they’d been through before meeting is integral to the story.  

These are realistic characters apart from the whole dragon shifter, fire breathing magic mating symbols deal. 

Suspension of disbelief, you BEAUTY!  

Another aspect of The Boss is that it’s…like really sexy.  Like it’s entering into proper erotica territory at certain points.  There’s dirty talk.  There’s a pair of dragon shifters named Keighan and Rivin who….okay you know what?  No spoilers.  I was rather taken aback by the level of steam.  There’s this one shifter named Levi and…okay.  It’s worth reading.  Owen is not done.  There’s more to come.  All the lovely fellows who work for Finn are going to have their day in the sun. 

I’m going to over-analyze a bit again. As stated before, I’m a cis female, heterosexual, fifty shades of really into paranormal stuff sort.  You could say I fit somewhere in Abigail Owen’s target audience.  You could say that.

I do get upset by the abundance of imagery involving women with perfect peach butts, tiny waists and dewy complexions who incidentally could rarely pass for over twenty five.  Yet I also get that always having topless, not an ounce of fat on them muscle dudes with the flawless jaw lines who could rarely pass for over thirty five images of “hot” men isn’t fair either.

Again, I’m not trying to handsome shame poor Finn or Fallon.  They were designed by Abigail Owen not just to appeal to the likes of me, but also to tell a story.  And by the way, they don’t have it easy.  Owen really messes with them and their potential happiness. 

She’s not all “Yes my beautiful darlings, that nasty villain just tried to hurt your special lady….but don’t worry he’ll give you an attractive scar that will make you extra manly before you easily defeat him and ride off into the sunset for some naughty time…” 

She’s really more “You are really messed up and your world is cruel.  You could easily live for thousands of years in pure misery.  Prepare for suffering.  Suffer. Suffer. Little bit happy. Get exceptionally aroused.  Suffer. Naughty…naughty stuff.  Fight.  Suffer.  Funny….now really very naughty…” Okay I won’t do a spoiler like I did before.

Anyway I don’t want to gorgeous shame female Instagram models or lady adult performers who likely are there to appeal to cis male heterosexual Fifty Shades of hot co-ed sorts…I just want to be real here. 

There was a lot of guffawing over “Mom porn” a while back.   I remember well my Dad poking fun at my Mom for reading “bodice rippers” back in the eighties.  Personally…I still love a good bodice ripper.  Hello…Natasha Blackthorne. 

I despise that term by the way, ”Mom porn”…not bodice rippers.  That’s an awesome term.  I’m a firm believer in the integrity of a good bodice ripper.  Not everyone can write a good one though.  I would be interested in Abigail Owen having a go.  Maybe she will one day. 


So, I acknowledge that expecting men and women to maintain certain standards of beauty in order to be considered sexy and appealing is wrong. I believe that encouraging these character types to be considered models on which to base our own real actual lives and relationships is…daft. 

It’s not real.  Neither are male model/personal trainer looking fireman dragon shifters who are also chivalrous yet vulnerable loveable yet hard assed hero devil may care magical ethereal gazed crime solvers fantasy husband material. 

But it is a fun, well crafted paranormal romance read in a sea of others intended to base their appeal on “hot guys or hot ladies.”  Rather than basing it on world building, character and story.  The hot thing is just a really cool bonus. 

This actually accomplishes what great paranormal romance is supposed to do: suspension of disbelief, getting drawn into a world, seeing it unfold, rooting for the characters, being interested in what will happen next, accepting the fantasy, escaping for just a little while, putting a smile on our face and making our hearts race. 

In reading characters who are beautiful outside as well as in, going on a journey some might dismiss as frivolous guilty pleasure…I had a really good time.  Thanks Abigail. 





By jmnauthor3000

Mighty Nyx

Below is a continuation of the previous story I wrote under the last post.  I’m really just playing at this point, seem to need an instant outlet.  Anyway.  We begin with Sylva…

Mighty Nyx

There is a time during the evening when I’m finally alone.  His voice leaves my head and he goes and does…what he does.  I always imagined Morpheus to be omnipresent, how a god should be.  Yet there were moments when he wasn’t around.  Lately, they’ve become few and far between. Not this one though.  In the hour before I get ready for bed, before I get ready for him…I am alone.

In this hour after sunset, after a meal and dishes, I decided to summon her.


She came to me once, via the Morpheus-induced chanting of another.  A man, a boy declaring his devotion.   It’s a long, silly story but she saved me.

“Imagine your surprise, Morpheus…when you expected me to do my usual chant for you, take my bath, light my candle and you found me, unwilling to fall into your arms.  Your. Invisible. Fucking. Arms.”

He looks more real than ever.  Young…his low brows raising just enough to reveal his concern, dark eyes widening.  I reach out for him and as usual he is just out of my reach, despite being right before me.

“I smell sandalwood…” he says.  I never use sandalwood.

I show him what I did.  He sees inside me and knows what happened not thirty minutes ago.

“Dark night bathes me, all save the glittering stars, shrouded.  I dedicate this to you, mighty Nyx.”

Smoke fills my nose as I continue,

“Come to me, Nyx.  You were my friend once. You made your presence known, dimming the light of all save those you chose.”

He shakes his head, saying “she doesn’t always…” then stops.

A hand grasps my shoulder, so firm it almost hurts.

Then I’m thrown onto the bed.  My body submitted to the force, flying onto my mattress with a bounce.  The view of my ceiling is marred by a hooded figure draped in black.  I can’t see any face or fingers.  Just a shadow.

Morpheus whispers in my ear,

“In case you’re wondering, Sylvia…Nyx has many forms and facets.  For all we know, she may have completely forgotten about you.  Are you sure you didn’t summon Thanatos by mistake?”

With that, a hand comes out and pushes back the hood.  It’s Nina…or Nyx’s chosen human form.  For when she was dealing with me, anyway.  But she’s angry.  She opens her mouth and the voice that comes out is deeper than I remember.

“I’m overdue for killing someone.  So it’s really a shame you just HAD to summon me!”

Her eyes go demon black.  Then she narrows them and they become the deep brown I recall. She looks like a Greek woman again.   She’s aged but that isn’t a negative.  Her face has depth.  It’s known passion as well as pain.  She’s no longer playing a student.

“Oh, I see…is this god still bothering you?

Morpheus is close, saying nothing.

I hear the sea in my ears and look down at my body.  I’m not myself.  I’m huge, a Greek god of impressive proportion, yet shrunk enough to be upon my bed.

It’s the grey hairs on my built chest that are most unnerving.  That and a form of desire I literally never had any chance of feeling in my actual body.

Nyx sits on top of me and I grit my teeth.  This is so messed up.  She’s actually straddling me and my reaction is freakishly natural.  Lithe fingers stroke my hair, which isn’t my hair and I grunt.  She grins like a maniac.

“I know you’re in there, Sylvia.  Don’t think I won’t do this.  You know I’ve really got a thing for Poseidon. Care to watch, Morpheus?”

His breath is near my ear.  But I can’t feel it.  I do however, definitely feel her.

She grabs my throat, hot palm pressing against my Adam’s apple, which is again…odd.  My vision dims, like I’m being swallowed inside the night itself.  Which, I suppose I am.

“By the way, if I hadn’t lain next to you the other night he might have smothered you in your sleep, which I see he keeps having a little crack at every now and again…just to let you know who’s boss, eh Morpheus?”

He laughs, softly.  The way a lover would laugh when teasing a partner.  “Sylvia knows where her heart lies.” He says.

With that she strokes my chest and her face goes somewhat…impersonal.  “Nothing is free, Sylvia.   I need something from you, if you want my help.”

I can’t go back.  I’ve summoned Nyx, Goddess of Night.  If I plea to stay in the care of Morpheus he’ll find all manner of ways to torment me in my dreams.

There’s something on the bed side table   I grasp for it with hands that are not my own.  There’s a flash of lightning in the sky, illuminating the room.  An ancient bronze dagger shines in my right hand.  When darkness returns, thunder rumbles and Nyx laughs.

Anyone else would imagine Zeus was expressing his discontent.  I understood he was helping her show me where the athame was.  The flashes and rumbles were obedient, submissive atmosphere.  Not like the storms I remember as a child.

“I should have left you dormant on that dream beach with your sea god boy toy.”  Morpheus mutters.

An instinct I don’t understand turns my head and I grit my teeth at him.  It seems I am unable to move, despite my visual strength.

He grins.  “She’s made you…solid.  I can make you do anything, you know?  And make it seem sooo real.”

This is humiliating.  I can almost feel how Poseidon must have felt under her spell.  Deep, wanton urges to be her pet surpass all reason.  For a moment, I don’t even know who I am.  Who am I more afraid of?

Lightning flashes and reminds me of the the knife in my right hand.  Tunnel vision, like a black funnel to Nyx as she stares down like I’m a piece of meat.

I stare back, take the knife and slash my left palm with a cry, presenting it to her.  It stings and it’s possible the cut is too deep.

“I summoned you, Nyx.  For freedom from the god, Morpheus…”  I pause, my actual voice escapes Poseidon’s lips and tears sting my eyes before I carry on.

“Morpheus who has infiltrated my dreams, subdued me and snared me.  I want to be free.  In exchange for this…I’ll give you myself, mighty Goddess.  I’ll devote myself to you.”

My dripping palm is before her and the ocean rises around us like we’re on a sinking ship.  That’s Morpheus…threatening to drown me.  Before I give over to the terror of drowning in my own bedroom as a helpless lummox copy of a Greek god, Nyx grabs my hand and sucks the blood from my palm.

As she does, the waters subside and Morpheus’ presence fades.  I hear a soft curse as he leaves.  I am myself again.  It’s Nyx who whispers in my ear.  I smell blood.  Her full weight is on me.

“You are lovely, Sylvia…but I was really enjoying that other form.  Oh well…”  She dismounts from me, wiping her lips.

I shoot up, expecting to wake from some odd dream. Yet she’s still there, only now perched in front of my window, a satisfied smile on her face.

It’s the dead of night.  Hours have passed since the confrontation with Morpheus.

“You won’t be able to go anywhere during the day now, Sylvia.  At least, not at first.”

“What…am I a vampire?”

Nyx chuckles.  “No, dear.  You are just…mine.”

I realize now in summoning Nyx in such a formal way, what I’ve sacrificed.





By jmnauthor3000



So, as it’s summer and actual proper writing time is scarce….I am limited to stealing five minutes here and there to interact with the writing community on Twitter.  Thanks to the hashtag games…some of my favorites are #BadWordSat and #Satsplat…and I try to get involved with #vss365.  Below is a little short based on those themes/tweets.  It’s like not being able to get to the gym (and ironically, I haven’t been to the gym in months)…not being able to steal myself away for three-four hours, five days a week and just focus on my WIPs.  I’m in demand from grown ups and children and one small canine at the moment.  But I’m not posting today to moan about the demands of grown up life.

Without further ado…here are Sylvia and Morpheus:

One arm and one leg dangle over the bridge. The concrete, cold and unloving beneath my back, is a weak barrier to him.  While the sky above echoes with all the noise of any capital city, the river below carries his voice.

“Just roll over, join me.”  he whispers from flowing waters.

I wince, “I’m in bed, I’m in bed, I’m in bed…”

“The river bed is soft, warm.  Why, it’s intimate even.  We could, what is it you mortals say…fu.”

“Fuck off.”

“Now, Sylvia, that’s not very nice.”

He thinly veils an angry tone.  I don’t usually talk back.  I’ve always been so in awe, so devoted.

Looking up at the slate grey sky, it’s like an eternal day, but I’m asleep and robbed of warm light.

I miss her….Nyx.  I miss her and it feels as though she’s never been part of my life.  That’s what he’s doing, removing any familiarity with anyone else.  I’m dreaming of some random capital city, It’s a labyrinth of unknown people and places.  Strange smells.  Angry, sweary shouts from motorists.

For a moment, the sky flickers a darker color.  He is in my head, he knows I’m thinking of her.  He’s pretended to be her before.  A strong female savior.  Raven hair flying in the wind as she rides in.

“Do you really think she has time for you?  She was momentarily interested, it was years ago.”

I start to shiver.  I know I’m in bed, If I could just wake up and pull the covers over myself, or even better, go have a hot shower and walk out into you know…the world.  I’ve got to get to work.

He keeps doing this every night, trapping me for as long as possible in a dream.  Only it gets deeper and deeper. It’s not about being sleepy anymore…he’s made his realm inside my head.

“Hold me, Sylvia…hold me in your arms…” his voice has a mocking tone to it. not cruel, more…teasing and flirting.

“Why don’t you show yourself, Morpheus? Why can I never see what you really look like?”

“I’m a god…can’t you try and imagine?”

“You’re the only god who cannot touch mortals physically.  You can take any form, get into any sleeping mind…but you can’t touch and you aren’t tangible.  So…why do you talk about us being together in some way like two humans could be together?”

His voice is so close to my ear, it’s like I could guess the shape of his teeth, the size of his mouth.  I still can’t turn or move, but my bed is becoming more real.  Because that IS where I actually am.

“Sometimes, Sylvia the way two can become closest, become one…is by entwining their minds.  No mortal could do that for you, no amount of fluid exchanging, fleshy friction and filthy whispers can do that.  Only I have access to your core.”

With that, my eyes open.  The bridge, the river, the city is all gone.  It’s morning.  I roll over, and I swear I see an imprint of someone having been in my bed.

…to be continued….




By jmnauthor3000

Study This Profile


Study this profile

The trail of crumbs

Favorite cookies

Youth’s clever vines

Erase those lines

Far as the eye can see

Search me

It was better then

Way back when

Fools, the dead

Neglected mess

Always more

Never less

Swallow it, you bitch

Your choice, your voice

Betrayed Brave

Tortured slave

Choke on tales of freedom

Cookies and crumbs


To the morally bankrupt


To the wicked one


To the highest bidder

Dripping with diamonds

Spilling from coarse bags like sugar

Granules melting onto hay

Molasses churned to rum

Falling like acid rain

Drown in rivers of gold

Swallow it, you bitch

A statue’s throat

Slashed by bitter blades

Our lady, come save me

Be the goddess

They’ve striven to gag

To stamp labels upon

As whore or hag

Hold the light high

Greet them at the door

Protect all sons and daughters

Those forgotten children in between

Be as nature intended

Varied and vast

As individual and free

As love is intended to be seen









By jmnauthor3000



Going to extremes

To feel anything

Or nothing

Then a certain death

Like a vampire has sucked me dry

Stuffed me with salt

Glued me to sheets

Rotten with my own remains

Pride is a fictional memory

I can’t seem to dig up

No dignity

No monument to my shame

It’s invisible

The pink girly version of anger

A sparkly shade

Of nobody cares

And everyone forgot

The original sin

I never had the pleasure of committing



By jmnauthor3000

Writing it out…


Some days I don’t feel like writing.  But then I know what that means.  It scares the shit out of me. 

I’m not the best writer.  My stories could do with more work.  My WIP needs more work.  There will always be someone out there better than me, with far more interesting ideas.  Probably considerably better looking too.  And with one of those Instagram perfect butts.   I swear to god, if I see that peach emoji one more time…

There might be clicky, mean spirited, judgey types who just don’t like my face or my name or where I come from and decide to reject or ignore me in whatever way possible.  Maybe they’re insecure.  Maybe I’m insecure.  I AM insecure.  I don’t actually know them. 

In those terrifying moments when I don’t feel like writing, I remind myself that this feeling is temporary.  It isn’t going to last forever.  And it doesn’t. 

But that gaping black hole of no purpose, no direction, not tired and yet the opposite of energized.  That depleted and flavorless void threatens to take me somewhere I can’t afford to go to.  Where I sense but not hear my own screams. 

I try to fill it with food and booze but such pleasures are agonizingly fleeting and I am a greedy monster who comes from a long line of greedy monsters.  I have the feasting tendencies of a Roman emperor. 

I am at times, my own emotional vampire. 

But it can and does pass.  Eventually the wretched monster within me sleeps.  Eventually I’m satisfied. 

And I realize that the only wholesome thing about my actual person is my writing. 

I’m not the first to say that writing saved me. 

But it did.  And it does.  And no matter how hard I try to ruin everything, writing never leaves me. 

It’s stronger than my demons. 

So, ignored or shunned though my work may be called by those who matter, it’s pretty bad assed. 

I’m scared. 

But more importantly, I’m pretty fucking scary. 




By jmnauthor3000

The Salvation of Thomas Winterborne


Colonial Rhode Island….


There was a beauty that arrived with the cold that Thomas Winterborne drank in, though it did no good to alleviate his mounting thirst.

Will it always be like this? He wondered.

It was that time of the year when winter’s chill triumphed over summer’s heat.  Insects were silenced, birds fled and the fertile green forest slowly went to sleep.  Death awaited the glory of its true season.

So, here he was staring down a leaf strewn road, lined with large, drowsy orange and yellow trees.  The thing that was most alive was the wind.  It was busy, fetching and carrying the cold like buckets of water, tossed into the air to nurture the chill.

Thomas Winterborne’s eyes begin to ache.  He winced but it did no good.

It’s the light.  The rising sun.  I should have known.

Thomas craved darkness like he used to crave a warm blanket.  But the dawn attacked his flesh like an infection.

“AH!”  Thomas doubled forward, his bones and muscles refusing to obey. There was a fence lining the road, yet outside that fence was a vast field and no trees.  The trees could only afford so much protection.

He was trapped.

Whenever the fledgling rays grasped at him through gaps in the branches above, that burning pain smothered his flesh.

Then a smell hit his nostrils that entranced him yet tormented him further.

Blood.  This was different to the cavorting warlocks he’d encountered last night.  One of whom had been his father, a man who had always sworn by his godliness yet who only dealt with demons.

However, this blood wasn’t tainted with greed and wicked conjuring.  There was clean, animal blood.   Horses.

Two men.  One driving the carriage, another inside.   Their intentions were indiscernible given the presence of animals and his own pain.

I should imagine I will get better. Wait…get better at what?

“You there!”

In his other life, Thomas would have fled and hid behind a tree.   He’d have been ashamed of being a wandering vagabond, unable to cope with sunlight.   Yearning for something, he wouldn’t have been able to name.

Yet now, a new instinct over-ran his senses as a carriage door opened.

Thomas stopped and bit his tongue, forcing his eyes to remain open despite the agony the morning was subjecting him to.

“Good day, sir.”  His voice was controlled to the point of sounding foreign to his ears.

“May I offer you assistance?  You appear as a man who has had far too long in the tavern.”

One corner of Thomas’s mouth turned up.  He folded his hands and replied humbly.

“I am sober, sir.  But I have an ailment where the light doesn’t agree with me.  I had to come out to seek sustenance in the forest, but the sun has taken me by surprise and I find myself disorientated.”

The gentleman inside the carriage was a few years older.  His shoulders were straight, he held himself similar to the way English officers did.   With the haughty discipline required of any occupying power.

“Rather dangerous, don’t you think? Wandering in the woods all alone?  The natives could be anywhere.  There’s nothing for it.  You’ll have to come with me.”  The gentlemen reached his hand out.  Thomas accepted the man’s grip, thirst and hunger rushed his senses, nearly robbing him of decorum.   It was the sensation of the other’s pulse, beating a vigorous rhythm within rivers of blood flowing just behind the calloused flesh.

Likely affluent, this was still a healthy man who knew hard work.

The shelter within the carriage was an immediate balm to Thomas’s affliction.

“Goodness man, you’re pale as death.  Yet your skin is on fire.  Are you quite well?   Drive on!”  he shouted, knocking on the roof.

Thomas leaned back in the seat, the clip clopping of the horse hooves and rocking of the carriage a natural lullaby.  He grinned sleepily.

“I have always been like this.  It was foolish of me to be in day light.  It’s a childhood condition I’m afraid.  My dear mother could hardly go out with me as a boy.”

The lie came from his tongue with ease.  Where had his shame gone?

“I am called Benjamin Williams.  I have a house, not far from the fort.   It’s…nice and dark, if you need somewhere to stay.  Unless, you have family..”

“I have no family.”

“No?  You answered so quickly.  You don’t have a wife or..”

“No.”  Again Thomas answered quickly.  Fatigue was making him cross and as the carriage ambled along the forest road, slumber beckoned him to submit.

“Are you..”  Benjamin’s voice was muted suddenly.  Thomas’s consciousness was extinguished like the flame on a candle.

Thomas awoke in a mercifully dark room.  His head snapped towards a gust of air that blew over his body. A black cloth covering the window billowed, revealing the world outside.

He saw a fading orange sunset shifting into dusk.

I cannot remain awake long while the sun is out.  And when night falls, my eyes open again. 

Thomas swallowed and winced when a heartbeat thrummed from somewhere nearby.

“Hello, Benjamin. “  Thomas said, recalling the man from the carriage.  Footsteps sounded and the door to whatever chamber he was in opened.

“You wake, finally.  I wondered if I should send for a physician.  But then, I imagine no doctor could help you.”  The feather mattress sank with Benjamin’s weight.

Thomas sat up, keeping his eyes locked on Benjamin as he searched for some sort of threat.

Benjamin smiled and said, “Childhood afflictions that carry on into adulthood, are rarely curable. What regretful ailments we are forced to bear, eh?”

Then, Benjamin removed his outer coat and began unfastening his shirt sleeves and rolling them up.

Thomas remained still, although thirst was starting to tug at his control.

“You’ll have to get used to it.”  Benjamin said

“What do you mean?”

“Being thirsty.”  And before Thomas could think of a reply, Benjamin had placed his bare wrist before Thomas’s lips.

Like a magnet, Thomas clamped his mouth around Benjamin’s flesh.  Teeth that were his and yet not sunk deep into the skin, avoiding bone yet drawing on the rich flowing river within.

Thomas’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he had visions of the orange and yellow forest path.  Only this time, the leaves turned red and fell from the branches, dropping on the road like drops of crimson rain.

The tormenting light cooled and darkened, easing his memories of the morning’s pain as well as nourishing him.

He squeezed Benjamin’s wrist and pressed it even closer to his mouth.

Inhaling sharply, he flung himself back against the headboard, cracking the wood.

Benjamin didn’t flee.  Rather, the man appeared flushed, his chest heaving and a small amount of sweat dotted his forehead.

There was something in the air, Thomas could barely discern as it was so alien.  Yet the excited look upon Benjamin’s face…

Was something like when he’d seen Mary, his beloved,  trying to caress Prince, who had been their slave.

Merely from the memory he now knew that Mary’s advances were against Prince’s will.  At the time he’d been only confused and betrayed.   He’d spent much of his life yearning for Mary Hawthorne’s caresses.

As it turned out, she only desired men when she had control.   When she preyed upon the one she touched.  She could drive a hard bargain with Prince, demanding a lusty performance.  Not all women were like Mary, he reminded himself.

Before he could consider anything else, Benjamin’s hand was on his cheek.

“So…astounding.  I often wondered if there would be creatures in this New World what are in tales in England and Europe.  Did a witch do this to you?  Did…did one of the savages do this to you? I’ve heard they can do magic.”

Thomas sighed, Benjamin’s blood tasted like wine made from berries and meat cooked over flames.  There was a lust radiating from the man who, despite being older had an aura of naivety about him.  His accent suggested he was reasonably new to the colonies.

Thomas licked his lips and said, “We rarely encounter the savages.  Father used to speak of great slaughters and righteous victories.   I think, savages have much more to fear from us than we from them.  We are the monsters who dream of being holy, yet we operate with cruelty and trickery that would make the devil proud.”

Benjamin tilted his head, nodding slowly before saying,

“Hmm, I do fear the consequences of the sins committed in this land.  But you are not like that.   I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.  We can do great things together, you and I.  You will be…exceptionally strong.  You have an air of someone to be feared.  The young man in the woods…imagine it!  I am good at hiding.  Our services could…be useful.”

Benjamin stood up and bit his fist and faced the window.  He ran his other hand over the top and back of his head, clutching his loosely tied hair.  He released the brown grey strands and turned back around, his blue eyes wide.  He all but lunged at the bed.

Benjamin’s face drew closer to Thomas’s.  All Thomas could think of was meat dripping with juices and swallows of berry wine.

Thomas placed his hand upon Benjamin’s chest, the pounding human heart beat inciting him to grip and bite the man, so fierce and sudden was this urge.

Instead, he said in a tight voice,

“Tell me, are you from England?  Do you have family here in the colonies?  Do those stationed at the fort know of you?”

To stay Benjamin’s visible disappointment, Thomas reached out and placed his hands upon his arms gently at first, then he began to knead the taught muscles as a sculptor would manipulate clay.

Thomas’s touch was obviously a distraction for Benjamin, whose brows were knit together, wariness warring with lust.

Benjamin said, “Tell me, you have killed before?”

“Yes.” It was no lie.

“So have I.  Only, my victim was a fellow soldier of the King.  I was….young and foolish but he was not a good man you should know.   My family had money, though much of it was spent to put me in hiding.  My parents died, mercifully I suppose, I’d been such a burden despite their love for me.  After some time in Europe I was led here.  I am…a different man.  This is a new life.  I have yet to make my presence known at the fort but soon no doubt they will know of me.    I’m….rather good at espionage as it turns out.  And here, in this wild place I will make my mark.  However, secret it will be.”  Benjamin smiled and winked.

Thomas’s chest fluttered with memories of all things belonging to a yearning heart.  Sorrow sang in his mind, reminding him of his absent pulse.

But what sort of existence was it?  Perhaps one worth forgetting.

His previous life of unrequited love and misery faded like a ghost fleeing the scene of its mortal death.

A heaven of satisfaction and love could be his.

But then again…who is this man?

“You will use me?”  Thomas said, doubt slithering into his happier thoughts.

“I will.  As I should imagine you will use me.  But, trust and faith are necessary to take full actions.  Else we’d stumble in half steps, starving before we even reached the dinner table.  Imagine such foolishness, Thomas.  People would become hollow corpses, expiring inches away from sumptuous feasts.  So, do you trust me?”

“That depends…what is on the dinner table.”  Thomas replied.

“Will you partake with me?”

“I would like to.”

“Then let me make the decision for you.”

Thomas’s next words were all but strangled in a coarse, savage kiss.   Ecstasy roared within him.

Instinctively, Thomas knew his strength was superior to Benjamin’s.  Yet he allowed Benjamin’s rough hands to ruthlessly guide him in an act he’d only heard mention of in Father’s horror stories.

Details were always denied, but the insinuation was crystal clear.

What hell awaits God’s enemies when he sends his glorious angels to punish them. 

Nausea nearly rushed Thomas at the memory of Father’s oily, murderous voice.   This, was nothing like tales of shameful wickedness he’d heard.

Indeed, sleep well Father.  What a loathsome demon you were.

And for the first time in Thomas’s existence on God’s vibrant, conflicted earth he experienced joy that only comes with the freedom to choose one’s own path.  Benjamin was like an angel.  Both were unrepentant in enjoying the gifts of this world and other higher planes.

Thomas Winterborne’s rescue from the light turned out to be his utter salvation.



















By jmnauthor3000