While vacationing in the Yukon, Vecchio and Fraser find themselves stranded after a deadly illness sweeps across North America. Struggling to survive in a hostile environment, they soon find themselves at odds with each other over how to rebuild their lives.

For both men, it's a painful lesson that sometimes the only way to survive is to surrender.

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A Better Man (18,000 words) 
Published Feb. 2004 in "Hawk & Handsaw"

Back from Florida and his failed marriage, Ray Vecchio deals with the reality of Fraser’s new partnership with Kowalski.

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Clothes Make The Man (9,200 words) 
Published Feb. 2004 in "Hawk & Handsaw"

by Morgan Dawn and Muriel Perun

Fine Italian leather shoes. Lanyards. Silk ties. Red serge. A story about dressing… and undressing…

Excerpt:  "Forget the shirt, Fraser. I have dozens like that at home. Besides, it was too big for me anyway." He stood back and eyed his partner thoughtfully. 

"I know what’d cheer you up. Let’s get a few outfits for you. Ones that won’t make you look so—baggy and bright. There’s a men’s shop I go to that might have something that’d suit you."

"That’s not necessary, Ray, really. You don’t have to do this."

"Oh, come on, Fraser. We’re friends, aren’t we?" Fraser nodded hesitantly. "And friends help each other. Tell each other truths, the kind of truths other people won’t tell you. And I am telling you, as my partner, you gotta do something about the clothes."

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Snapshots (4,000 words) 
Published in Concupiscence 4 (by Manacles Press) 1995

Excerpt: The needle was clean—he made sure by dipping it into the rubbing alcohol kept under the sink. He paused to look over the rest of the "fixings"—carefully handling the spoon, sterno can and rubber hose. And the heroin, spilling whitely against the darkened room. He had pulled the curtains close to the window—not out of shame—it wasn’t shame or fear or loathing that brought him to grip the needle in his right hand and shake the alcohol free. He was here because he wanted to be.

In His Father's Shoes  (12,000 words)
Still in print in No Holds Barred #22, published October 2000

What if Luke had never escaped Vader at Cloud City?   How far would he walk to be in his father's shoes?

Excerpt: The man stretched his stiffening legs and walked four or five steps. The small barred window leaked sunlight into the isolation cell. He had been sitting, gazing stolidly for the past two hours, waiting or some inner prompting or divine guidance. None came. "Damn you, Bodie," he said. He spoke mainly for the benefit of his own ears, since there was no one to hear him. Even if there had been, the phrase had been uttered so many times before, with so many different inflections, that it would have warranted no reply. It had become his silent prayer and his waking curse. Reaching a decision, he bent down to retrieve the razor and began wielding it with careful precision. He had to hurry if he wanted to finish before the screws arrived.

Hide & Seek (40k)

Excerpt: Doyle slapped the roof of Bodie's Capri. His gaze moved between the road and the open forest and Bodie, and back again. It centered straight on Bodie's eyes, swooping in for the coup de grace.

"So you think I can't match you in the field. How much do you wanna bet?"

Bodie did not want to bet anything. He wanted to be as far away from Doyle, this village, this question as possible. But five years of studying Doyle told him that he'd have to play this one through or he'd never have any peace.

"One month's salary." Doyle grimaced."No way. I'm not letting you off that easy. Cash means nothing to you. When I win, I want it to hurt. No, I'd take the three wishes from you Bodie."

"Eh?" Bodie was afraid to ask. "Three wishes?"

"Or three favours. However you want to say it. When I win, I want you to do me three favours. Over the next year."

Doyle smiled then, a wide, disarming smile that offered little warmth.

Between Dreams We Lie Awake  (101k)
Pub: Roses and Lavender 2, Allamagoosa Press, February 1998 

Excerpt:

Africa, 1968

Bodie woke, feeling his body jerk. Tense, he listened for sounds. All he heard was the African brush murmuring in the morning breeze. Fuck these dreams. They were getting worse. Uganda, Paraguay, Chile, Laos, Indonesia. Places he’d never been. London too. A place he never wanted to see again. Blurred spaces and blurred faces. His head hurt. He swallowed. He had had too much to drink the night before, and the last hand-to-hand had been particularly vicious. Still, it had been worth it. The poor bloke had given him Krivas’ location before passing out. Reflexively, he checked for his knife under the sleeping pad. He always slept with it handy. 

Soon, his mind chittered. He had been tracking Krivas for months now. He was broke and tired, and had caught only restless snatches of sleep for too long. Whatever this last dream was, he couldn’t remember too clearly. But it had been nasty.