Summary:
During the Civil War, two young soldiers on opposite sides find themselves drawn together. One is a war-weary but scholarly Southerner who has seen too much bloodshed, especially the tortures inflicted upon the enemy by his vicious commanding officer, his uncle. The other is a Herculean Yankee captured by the rag-tag Confederate band and forced to become a martyr for all the sins of General Sheridan's fires. When these two find themselves admiring more than one another's spirit and demeanor, when passions erupt between captor and captive, will this new romance survive the arduous trek to Purgatory Mountain?
One of Lethe Press's best-selling novels is be re-released with a novella "Camp Allegheny."
Summary:
In the sequel to Purgatory, Pvt. Ian Campbell, a deserter from the Confederate army, has abandoning family and cause, to rescue his Yankee lover, Drew Conrad, from the cruel abuses he endured as a prisoner of war. During the chaotic spring of 1865, the mismatched comrades make the arduous trek to the presumed safety of Ian's home. But the territory they must cross is not only hostile to recreants and Northerners but to those few men who understood what Walt Whitman meant by "And your very flesh shall be a great poem."
Winner of the Lambda Literary Award for Best Gay Romance! Also the Pauline Reage Novel Award winner for 2015! This new edition includes an original short story of Mann's beloved Civil War characters.
**According to Lethe Press, Salvation is Re-releasing in September of 2022**
Purgatory #1
CHAPTER ONE
Amid the whizzing of Yankee bullets, there’s a sharp gasp at my elbow. “Ian, I’m hit,” Sam groans. Our black-haired color bearer is bent at the waist, as if bowing to some spirit the rest of us can’t see. Then he straightens, clutches his chest, stares over at me, and grimaces. Before I can do anything, Sam staggers, gets caught in the ragged folds of the flag he’s carrying, spins, and falls, the Stars and Bars wrapped around him like a huge red-and-blue bandage.
“Ian. The flag,” Sam moans, blood spilling from his lips. The flag’s red is brighter now, as his wound wells. Inside the blue stripes, the white stars flush scarlet. “You got to save the flag.” He heaves himself onto one elbow and starts tugging at the fabric swathing him.
“No! I don’t want to move you,” I say, easing him back against the muddy wall of our rifle pit. “You’re tangled in it. Easy, Sam! Lie back.”
I’m about to examine his wound when a roar fills my ears. I rise long enough to look over the breastworks. Across the field the Yanks are pouring toward us through gray sheets of falling sleet, unloading their rifles into our thin line. My God, there are so, so many of them. It’s like a damned deep-blue tidal wave. Despite the brim of my cap, my spectacles are spattered with wet, making it hard to see. Still, I swallow hard, aim at the Federals, and fire. The rifle-butt slams my shoulder; the smoke fills my nose. Far in front of me, to my pleasure, a foe screams and falls.
“Damn you,” I sigh, less in anger than weariness, “why can’t y’all just go home?” Tearing open a cartridge with my teeth, I load up again. I’m about to aim when a Union ball chunks into the mud to my right. I duck, falling to my knees. When I look down, Sam’s eyes are dull.
“He’s dead, Ian. Leave him! Leave the flag.” Sarge’s voice is even, his hand heavy on my shoulder. “It’s over. The Valley’s fallen. If we don’t move fast, we’ll be captured.”
My uncle’s face is set, his gray eyes bright over the silvery flare of his moustache. He points to our left. He’s right. Mounted Yanks are breaking through the trees, about to flank us. “And Early’s leaving.” Now Sarge points behind us. There, atop a low hill, wild-bearded General Jubal Early and his staff are mounting up to flee.
“Rockfish Gap! Retreat!” Sarge shouts to the remains of our little company, all huddled here together in icy water behind the breastworks. “Let’s go, boys! We’ve got to get over the bridge or we’ll be cut off!”
We sprint west, through the town of Waynesboro. Around us Yankee balls are flying. Behind us are booms and shouts. Here are our horses, in a little stable owned by an old friend of Sarge’s. We have few mounts, this late in the war, so we double up, as usual in times of crisis. Sarge’s helping me up behind him when a young black woman appears beside us. She’s shivering, a shawl over her shoulders, a dirty bonnet on her head. Her face is a shiny brown, her cheeks hollow.
“Here, sirs,” she says. “Missus said you could do with these.” She proffers a poke. I grab it. “Said you soldiers needed it more’n we.”
“Thank y’all kindly,” I gasp. Now get inside.” As if to highlight my words, a bullet sings through the air between us. The servant gives a little shriek, turns, and disappears into the stable.
“Git!” Sarge goads his horse, and we’re off, through the gray town, over the bridge, through a fresh fall of sleet, and onto the road up into the Blue Ridge Mountains. It’s a sad rout, our little band fleeing as fast as we can. I almost lose my cap in the rush. One arm around Sarge, one clasping my hat on my head, I look around as the wintry landscape rushes by, grim fields turn to forest, and we ascend the steeps toward the gap. Sam, damn it. Poor boy fallen in the folds of the flag he’s carried so proudly for so long, the Stars and Bars become his winding sheet. But the rest of us Rogue Riders, yes, there’s that shabby George, grimacing as usual, with one of the twins mounted behind him. And Jeremiah, my handsome buddy from back home, black shaggy hair flying in the wind, with scruffy Rufus clinging to his waist.
Behind us, the report of rifles continues. By the time we’ve reached the mountaintop, however, there are no sounds but horse hooves, men panting, and wind whistling through the gap. We’re atop the narrow ridge now, winter-gray mountains rolling out around us as far as the eye can see.
“The boys without mounts are prisoners by now,” Sarge says, and spits. There’s General Early, on a rocky ledge, staring down into the valley with his spyglass. He curses, cocks back a flask, and curses more. Sarge dismounts, hands me the bridle, says, “Check on the boys,” and strides over to Early. They begin to confer, Sarge’s voice low and even, Early’s occasionally rising into sharp profanity. God knows what’s next for us. Months of trying to defend this valley, but there are just too few of us now. We’re whipped. I’m feeling what most of us are feeling, I suspect: part of me wants to fight on defiantly to the end, and part of me wants to throw down my gun and head home to my family.
I’ve just dismounted and am about to check the contents of the poke the slave-girl gave me—I sure as hell hope it’s food, because we soldiers are always starving—when a hand grips my shoulder. “Hey, Ian.” It’s Jeremiah, brushing the hair out of his eyes. His face is thin, his features sharp. He’s lost his cap. “Sam?”
I shake my head. “He’s gone, Jeremiah. Fell with the flag.”
Jeremiah sighs. “Oh, no.” He looks down the mountain toward the town. He hugs me, quick and hard, then steps back. “And are you sound? Were you wounded? Me, I almost caught a ball in—”
Rifles below. Closer. “Boys! Yanks!” Sarge shouts and points. I look down the road, and there’s a little group of damned bluecoats heading up the hill.
“Shit!” Jeremiah mutters. We load fast, what’s left of our little band. “Fire!” Sarge and Early shout simultaneously. Shoulder to shoulder, we pour fire down the mountain. A few answering guns, and the Yanks retreat. I guess they figure we’re not much of a threat anymore, no longer worth their bother, and I guess they’re right. Maybe they’ve had enough of a sweeping victory for one day. If Stonewall Jackson were still alive, or my hero, that magnificently bearded Turner Ashby, leading his wild horde of cavalry, we’d tear their Yankee asses up, but those days are long gone. It’s March 1865. Jackson’s been dead nearly two years, Ashby nearly three.
Day’s about done, but we wait, arms at the ready, lined up along the wooded ridge, waiting for further attack. When, a few hours after dark, it seems clear that the Feds are probably settling into their luxurious meals by the fire—those lucky bastards and their long supply trains—we Rebs settle in, starting our own campfires and preparing what pissant rations we have remaining.
Sarge, striding around to check on things, counts us. Twenty-three left. Five missing, fallen, or captured back in Waynesboro. He shakes his head and chews his lower lip. “No need to pitch tents. We’re moving on tomorrow,” he announces before returning to General Early’s campfire.
I sit on a log beside the fire and count them, my remaining messmates. Jeremiah, with his kind eyes and patchy black beard, has somehow, miraculously, retained his banjo in the rout and is tuning it up. He grew up just a valley over from me along the Greenbrier River back in West Virginia. We got to be pretty good friends at community events like corn-shuckings and molasses stir-offs, even working some fields and garden plots together in between trips to our favorite swimming hole. For a moment I feel some of that old desire for him I knew back home. I always feel a flicker of it in the mornings, when I see him bare to the waist and bathing, splashing water on his face, his lean chest and belly coated with black hair. Ever since my first youthful infatuation with him, I’ve always loved hairy men. One of the reasons I so doted on Thom, God help me. Not that I’ve shared that fact with any of my fellow soldiers, of course.
Here’s George, a mousy little man from the Valley who’s always smelling of tobacco. Behind his back, I call him Weasel-Teeth, not only because of his ugly maw but his vindictive nature. George is spitting into the fire, jaw working his customary plug. He broods, no doubt over today’s rout, his lip curling every now and then to flash sharp teeth. There’s a Bible in his hand, but he doesn’t seem to be reading it. Instead, he stares into the flames or into the dark forest. We used to be civil. He used to look at me, I think, the way I used to look at Jeremiah, but the combination of his perpetually sour moods and his Bible rants have made his presence increasingly obnoxious. More and more, he spends time with those redheaded New Market twins. I think he enjoys bossing them around.
And here’s Rufus, our ever hungry cook, auburn chin whiskers looking red-golden in the firelight as he simmers beans with what’s likely to be the last of the bacon. As good hearted a man as I’ve ever known, with a wonderfully foul mouth when he’s in his cups, which is as often as Sarge can procure us strong drink. I think Rufus has handled a gun only six or seven times in these four long years of war. His genius isn’t slaughter; it’s keeping warriors alive. Bless him, he can start up a fire and make a good meal out of next to nothing faster than anyone I’ve ever known, and that includes my mother and that slew of aunts back home.
Beans, cornmeal, hardtack. That’s all we’ve eaten for weeks, ever since we left winter quarters near Staunton. We’re all lean as split rails. Little left ration-wise, plus we’ve been on the move the last week and have been in no position to receive packages from home. God, I remember the war’s first years…the boxes of cookies and fried chicken and canned milk and fruit pies my parents sent me. Damn, I just want to be home by the fire, smelling the wood charring on the hearth and one of my mother’s pies baking.
“What y’got there?” Rufus nudges my elbow, sniffing at the mysterious poke I have yet to examine.
“Don’t know yet,” I say, fumbling it open. “Here,” I say, knowing how much Rufus loves to handle food. “While don’t you tell me? A slave girl back in Waynesboro gave it to me. Said it was from her mistress. The way she looked, poor haggard thing, I doubt that household could much afford it, but here it is nonetheless.”
“Ah, Virginia! Her citizens take care of their brave defenders, as Sarge would say.” Smacking his lips, Rufus rummages. “Let’s see… Ummm… Well, lookee! Dried apples! Ain’t that nice? And these funny thangs? Lil’ red beads? Ain’t those—”
“Yep. Rose hips,” I say, peering over his shoulder. “My Aunt Alicia says they keep off the scurvy. She used to send them to me back when we got packages from home. Remember? You’ve made me tea with them.”
“Yeah, right. Ruby-red and sour as hell, in need of about four cups of cane sugar! Helps keep off scurvy? Hell, ain’t she half-Indian?”
“Cherokee, yes.”
“Well, I question her judgment, if you don’t mind me—”
“I do mind you saying so. Keep in mind that I’ve got some of that Indian blood too. What else we got there?”
Rufus can be a little backward. God knows what he’d say if he knew about my desires for men. Fortunately, he’s also easily distracted by anything edible. “Oh, well, now…a loaf of bread!” he gasps. “Praise the Lord! Any sweetenin’? Yep, here’s some honey. And, ummm, a slice of ham! That, hmm, well, that’s it.” He releases an exaggerated sigh. “I sure could have done with a…”
“Chicken pot pie? Beef roast? Half a hog?”
Rufus grins, swatting my shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. Any of that. Here, now. Y’hold onto that,” he whispers, handing me the poke. “And don’t let George have any. The bastard called me a hell-bound mooncalf and a heathen, just ’cause I took me a little nip last Sunday. I’m not feeling especially charitable toward him lately, Lord forgive me.” Rufus spits onto the frozen ground and returns to his pot of beans.
The sleet clouds have dispersed. A few stars wink overhead. We sit in silence around the fire while Rufus cooks. Jeremiah fiddles with his banjo, plays a bar of one melody, then shifts to another, then stops. Normally, this is the time a few of us would sing, and I might even tell a bawdy story, but after today’s defeat, no one’s in the mood for anything but a meal and a bedroll. God knows where we’ll be marching tomorrow.
“How’d Sam die?” George asks. He’s put away his Bible; now he’s whittling a stick with jerky movements.
“Ball in the chest,” I say. “Just before Custer’s men came in from our left. He faded fast, was dead by the time we retreated. Poor boy fell with the flag wrapped around him. Eighteen years old. Crazy kid,” I shake my head and smile, wiping some wet out of one eye. ”The boy sure could dance a jig. Don’t think any of us ever beat him at cards. And that spasmodic pet squirrel of his…”
“Damned fine eating, that critter was, especially with the peanut sauce Rufus made.” Jeremiah laughs. “We told Sam that miserable thing would bite him to the bone sooner or later.”
“Custer,” snarls George. “Sheridan and Custer. God damn them. May those names live in infamy. May they end in agony.” He shakes his head and spits tobacco juice into the fire. “Too damned many of them. Our left was hanging in the air. What did General Early expect us to do?”
“He’s done the best he could with what he has,” I say. “We only have a thousand or so men left.”
“Had a thousand men. Most of that number never made it out of Waynesboro.” George releases another arc of brown spit. “Look around you. We’re the end of it, boys, the end of it. All that’s left of the grand Army of the Valley. If Sarge hadn’t gotten us out of there… Damn. All those prisoners. Poor bastards’ll end up in prisons up north. Elmira. Camp Chase. You think we’re starving now, boys, imagine being in one of those hellholes.”
“They got all the flags too,” says Jeremiah, giving his banjo a mournful pluck before putting it back in its battered case. “And the wagons. And our artillery. Even got General Early’s headquarters wagon. “
“Caught Dr. McGuire too, dammit. Of course they beat us. Those bluecoat bastards had thousands, as usual. Thousands. Thick as fleas. As lice.” George claws his crotch meaningfully. “Legion. The Bible says it. ‘Their name is Legion, for they are many.’ Damn them. I hope the Lord has a special space in hell for every one of them. Especially after the Burning last fall. I know the Bible says to forgive, but, Lord, how can you forgive men who torch your home and barn and shoot your livestock?”
We’ve all heard this rant before, and none of us blames George for it. He lost everything when the Yanks under Sheridan burned the Valley. So did Sarge. Seems like justified hatred to me. Still, it’s safe to say that we don’t want to hear such words tonight. It only makes us feel more like failures. Instead of exacting grand and brutal revenge on the invaders, we’re huddling atop the Blue Ridge, a broken little crew.
“Where do you think we’ll march tomorrow?” I say, trying to change the subject.
“Petersburg, maybe? To join General Lee in the siege?” Jeremiah says, scratching his armpit. As hairy as he is, the lice we all suffer from must be building little villages all over him. As much as I love a furry chest, it’s a handicap when the graybacks come to call. I should know, possessing some slight body hair myself. Sometimes I think I can feel the goddamn things crawling over me at night, looking for new nooks to invade. Sometimes I think about shaving off my beard to get rid of them, but as small-built as I am, my beard’s one of the few things that make me look like a man.
“Petersburg, then!” George runs his hands through his hair and coughs. “Damned hair’s falling out,” he says, shaking strands off his fingers. “Petersburg. Lots of Yanks to kill there.”
Supper spares us more of George’s vitriol. “It’s ready, boys,” says Rufus, circling the fire, ladling beans into our tin cups. I take a bite; the beans are tender albeit few, not nearly enough to satisfy, and the bacon’s tough, its taste edging toward rancid. Still, it’s a better meal than I’ve had for days, so I eat eagerly.
After dinner, we roll out our oilcloths by the fire. I’m still hungry, and I’m exhausted and sad, thinking of Sam. Before bedding down, I slip into the darkness to piss. Here, in ceaseless wind, is a flat ledge overlooking the valley. Those flickering lights, miles down the Blue Ridge, are the lamps of Waynesboro, and, just beyond, the campfires of the enemy, a huge lake of pinprick fire. Who knew an ideal as vague as Union would bring them down here and keep them down here for so many years? Why can’t they just leave us be? If we Rebs had known there were so, so many of them, would we have ever volunteered for this war?
Well, yes. I would have, though I’m bone weary of it by now. I want it over—God help me, even if it means losing. I just want to get home. I want my own little farm in the mountains where I grew up, even if I have no one to share it with. Men like me, I don’t know if we’re ever lucky enough to find mates. Lord knows Thom couldn’t leave me fast enough.
I relieve myself over the ledge, and then I head back to the welcome warmth of the fire. There, exhausted as I am, still I do what I usually do before sleep: reread letters from home. I lie on the hard, sleet-scattered ground, wrap myself in my oilcloth, pull the packet of letters from my haversack, and study a random few by firelight.
Salvation #2
CHAPTER ONE
I’m a man of great good fortune, waking up to the warmth of Drew Conrad. Beneath our rough blanket, his big body’s nestled against me, his bandaged back pressed against my bare chest. What would my fellow Rebel soldiers say were they to see me now, with a Union soldier curled up in my arms?
Both Drew and I are mighty lucky to have survived this war so far, and the love we’ve found together has been godsent. He’s my Achilles, and I’m his Patroclus, though neither of us feels like a Greek hero after all we’ve been through. We’re worn down to the bone, as if running from both the invading Union and my own beloved Confederacy has aged us by decades.
In war, as in life, nothing is simple. I can’t hate all Yankees, for Drew is one. I can’t admire all Southerners, for I well remember the cruelties my company mates inflicted on Drew during his time as a prisoner of war. And I can’t rest like an old man in this barn loft any longer, because I must lead Drew home to safety.
I rub my eyes. Gray light. It’s barely dawn. My wounds ache; my belly growls. I’m desperately in need of a few more hours’ rest. What disturbed my sleep? Are foes near?
Careful not to disturb my Yank, I roll onto my back, grab my jacket, pull spectacles from the pocket, and slip them on. Loft hay’s heaped about us; above are webby rafters, the roof sounding under a mid-March shower. Yesterday, we’d hoped to get to Eagle Rock by nightfall, but the deluge drove us to take shelter inside this abandoned barn. Last night we fell asleep to rain’s soothing sound; this morning it continues, a steady drizzle. Another cold wet day in the Virginia mountains. Another day closer to home. Another day closer, God willing, to this terrible war’s end.
I’m groggy, ready to slip back into sleep, when there’s a sudden rustling, very close. I start, now wide awake. Soldiers? Bluecoats or graycoats, they’re all potential enemies. I ease my pistol from my hip holster, push the blanket off, and sit up. My bare-chested Yank is snoring softly. I crawl over to the loft’s edge, where I have a good view of the barn’s floor. Nothing but straw, empty stalls, and old horse dung. I stagger to my feet, thighs shaky after the steep climb up Purgatory Mountain day before yesterday and yesterday’s rough walk along the James River. I make a circuit of the loft, peering through gaps between the boards. Nothing outside but a foggy, weed-choked barnyard.
That rustling again, and a soft whir. Behind me. I turn, pointing my pistol, only to see, in the rafters, a pair of mourning doves. One’s preening the other.
Chuckling with relief, I holster my pistol and return to my snoring lover. He grunts and sighs as I slip back under the blanket. Beneath the bandana knotted around his neck, he’s still wearing the slave collar I locked on him the day he was captured. Once it signified his status as a prisoner of war; now it signifies our mutual bond.
For long moments, nestled against him, I stroke his shaggy golden hair and study his broad bandaged back. Three times my uncle beat him, with belt or bullwhip, during those miserable weeks that Drew was the captive of our ragtag Rebel band. And George, that ferret-faced bastard, stealing Drew’s trousers and boots, cutting an X into his back, blacking his eyes, gleefully administering that fourth and final whipping. He hated Drew because he wanted him, I think. But we escaped. And none of our wounds have festered. Thank God for herbal salve and isinglass plaster.
I slip an arm around Drew and pull him closer. My sweet Yank shifts and yawns. My hand ranges over his muscled breast, stroking the thick hair there. I finger a soft nipple. Drew yawns again, then sneezes, then coughs. He presses his chest against my hand, clearly grateful for the attentions.
“Yeah,” he growls, hoarse with sleep, barn dust, and March-damp air. “That’s mighty nice, Ian.”
We lie there, warm and close for a long moment. Then there’s a distant clopping. We both freeze with fear as the sound moves closer. Horses’ hooves, and now men’s voices.
“Get dressed, and then keep real still,” I hiss in Drew’s ear. We button up fast. I pull my pistol. Drew grabs his rifle, the one he wrested from the Yankee sharpshooter who nearabout ended me on Purgatory Mountain. We lie there, face to face, in dusty hay, as prepared as we can be. “And don’t sneeze, for God’s sake.”
I’ve prayed a lot since this damnable war started, and it’s definitely time to pray again. I’m a Rebel deserter, and my lover’s a Yankee soldier, until day before yesterday a prisoner of war. That’s a very inconvenient combination for March of 1865. If the bluecoats find us, I’ll be sent off to some miserable prison camp up North to starve, freeze, and die. If my fellow Confederates find us, he’ll be a prisoner again, perhaps even mistaken for a spy and hanged, and I’ll be court-martialed and probably shot for desertion.
I take in the beauty of Drew’s bruised face: his pale, high forehead, frightened blue eyes blackened with blows, shoulder-length yellow hair, honey-gold beard, white teeth chewing his full lower lip. I grip his bare shoulder, bump his brow with mine, and silently pray. Please, God, we’ve come this far. We’re both so young, so far from home, trapped inside this terrible war. But You’ve brought us together, given us leave to fall in love. You’ve helped Drew survive long marches nigh naked and barefoot, and bloody beatings, and the torture of being bucked and gagged in the snow. You’ve helped us escape cruelty and Drew’s captivity through the well-timed gift of that Yankee bombardment. Please don’t let us get caught now. Please help us get on up the James, Craig Creek, the New, and back to my family in the western mountains. Please don’t let us be parted.
The riders pause beside the barn. It sounds like there are four or five of them. They confer. One asks another for a cigar. One slurps, from a flask or a canteen. Then they move off, slowly, voices and horse hooves fading into the distance, leaving us with the tapping of the rain on the barn roof and our own anxious breathing.
I try to ignore the shaking in my hands.
Drew lays the rifle in the hay and rests an arm athwart my hip. “Glad they’re gone, whoever they were. Damn, I needed that sleep. I slept like the dead.”
“Me too.” I sheathe my pistol and bury my face in Drew’s chest hair. “I dreamed that the war was done. That the South won. It was a beautiful summer day. The trees were full of fruit and the fields were thick with grain. And all the bluecoats stacked their arms and marched home.”
“Even me?”
“No. Not you.” Wrapping an arm around his neck, I pluck straw from his golden beard. “You’re staying with me.”
Drew smiles. “Fine with me.” He returns the favor, brushing chaff from my black-whiskered chin. “Let your crazy Confederates have their independence. As long as we’re together. I might have to pass as Confederate for a while. Till your kin get used to me. Till I convince them how handy I can be around a farm.” Drew sits up and stretches. He gives his mat of blond belly hair a vigorous scratching. “Damn lice.”
I claw my unkempt head in sympathy. “One more curse we’ve shared. All right, let’s get on the road.”
Jeff Mann grew up in Covington, Virginia, and Hinton, West Virginia, receiving degrees in English and forestry from West Virginia University. His poetry, fiction, and essays have appeared in many publications, including The Spoon River Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, Shenandoah, The Gay and Lesbian Review Worldwide, Crab Orchard Review, Appalachian Heritage, Best Gay Poetry, Best Gay Erotica, and Best Gay Stories. He has published three award-winning poetry chapbooks, Bliss, Mountain Fireflies, and Flint Shards from Sussex; five full-length books of poetry, Bones Washed with Wine, On the Tongue, Ash: Poems from Norse Mythology, A Romantic Mann, and Rebels; two collections of personal essays, Edge: Travels of an Appalachian Leather Bear and Binding the God: Ursine Essays from the Mountain South; six novels, Insatiable, Country, Cub, Fog: A Novel of Desire and Reprisal, which won the Pauline Reage Novel Award, Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War, which won a Rainbow Award, and Salvation: A Novel of the Civil War, which won a Lambda Literary Award and the Pauline Reage Novel Award; three novellas, Devoured, included in Masters of Midnight: Erotic Tales of the Vampire, Camp Allegheny, included in History's Passion: Stories of Sex Before Stonewall, and The Saga of Einar and Gisli, included in On the Run: Tales of Gay Pursuit and Passion; a book of poetry and memoir, Loving Mountains, Loving Men; and three volumes of short fiction, Consent: Bondage Tales, Desire and Devour: Stories of Blood and Sweat and A History of Barbed Wire, which won a Lambda Literary Award. In May 2013, he was inducted into the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival Hall of Fame. He teaches creative writing at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg, Virginia.
Purgatory #1
Salvation #2
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