Brian Fence's Blog

Jacob stood outside a quaint little cottage nestled at the edge of the Henry Hudson Trail in Keyport. Back in New Jersey, he thought. The air was crisp, infused with the scent of pine and wildflowers. He straightened his tie and adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit, heart pounding with anticipation.

Jacob had been assigned to retrieve a vital artifact — a mystical crepe pan said to possess the power to make anyone able to make crepes suzette, though he had no doubt Hats Munroe had a more devious purpose in mind. The pan, according to intel, had been hidden away by an eccentric dwarf named Bartholomew.

The rumors had first started to spread through the ranks of Jacob’s branch of the United Nations that Bartholomew was the possessor of the said object. Jacob was tasked with convincing him to kindly lend the crepe pan to the UN, ensuring that it would not fall into the wrong hands.

“Gods forbid the malakim learn to make French cuisine,” he muttered under his breath.

As he approached the cottage, Jacob marveled at its whimsical charm. The roof was adorned with colorful mushroom-shaped shingles, and vibrant flowers bloomed in the window boxes. He took a deep breath, knocked on the door, and waited.

After what seemed like an eternity, the door creaked open, revealing a weathered face framed by a long white beard. Bartholomew peered at Jacob with eyes that sparkled with what must have been some sort of ancient, prescient wisdom.

“Ah, you must be Agent Orange,” Bartholomew said in a voice as gravelly as the earth beneath Jacob’s feet. “I’ve been expecting you. Come in, come in.”

Jacob stepped inside the cozy cottage, his eyes scanning the room. Shelves lined the walls, stacked high with books and curiosities. Sunlight filtered through from stained-glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the room.

“Please, have a seat,” Bartholomew gestured to a plush armchair beside a crackling fireplace. “Would you care for some tea?”

“Thank you, but I’m here on a rather urgent matter,” Jacob replied, declining the offer politely. “I’ve come to discuss the crepe pan; not banter with Warwick Davis.”

Bartholomew’s eyes twinkled mischievously as he settled into his own chair. “Ah, the crepe pan,” he said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “A marvelous artifact, indeed. It’s been in my family for generations.”

“I understand its significance,” Jacob said earnestly. “That’s precisely why I’m here. The UN believes that the crepe pan could be misused by those with ill intentions. We seek to ensure its safety.”

The dwarf leaned forward, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “And how do I know that you’re not one of those people with ill intentions?” he asked.

Jacob rolled his eyes and put his hands behind his head. “I assure you, Mr. Bartholomew, I am a dedicated agent with Binah clearance. My sole purpose is to protect the world from those who would misuse powerful artifacts such as this. A crepe pan.” Annoyance was starting to creep into Jacob’s voice.

Bartholomew scrutinized Jacob for a moment, then nodded approvingly. “Very well, Agent Orange. I believe you are genuine. However, I simply cannot hand over the crepe pan without any assurance that it will be returned safely to me.”

“I understand,” Jacob said, his tone forcibly calm and composed. “What assurance do you seek?”

Bartholomew’s eyes brightened as an idea formed in his mind. “I have a favor to ask. There’s a small farmer’s market in town, populated by humans and magical creatures alike. They celebrate a grand hullabaloo for the Fourth of July festival every year, and this time, they’re running low on supplies. I need you to procure a barrel of honey from them before they run out. It is a precious commodity and will ensure my… schemes go on as planned.”

“A barrel?” Jacob asked incredulously. Mystical crepe pan or no, Jacob was under no inclination to don a beekeeper’s getup and harvest an excessive amount of honey. Still, Munroe’s orders were orders. And no one screwed with Munroe’s orders.

Jacob eventually nodded, albeit a bit reluctantly. “Consider it done, Mr. Bartholomew. Once I’ve acquired the honey, I’ll expect the crepe pan in return.”

“Excellent,” the dwarf replied. “You will find the farmer’s market by the bay. The honey merchant’s name is Kenworth. Tell him Bartholomew sent you, and he will assist you.”

Jacob rose from his chair, ready to embark on his mission. “Thank you for your trust, Mr. Bartholomew. I will not let you down.” This whole conversation made Jacob sick to his stomach; he hated bartering.

With a final nod, Bartholomew bid him farewell. Jacob stepped out into the sunlight. He followed the path, guided by the rustling leaves and a chorus of birdsong.

As he walked, Jacob couldn’t help but reflect on the curious nature of his mission. A covert UN agent tasked with acquiring honey from a dwarf-commended farmer’s market to obtain a magical crepe pan — it was certainly a tale for the ages, one that probably needed a good slug of vodka or Fireball to recant.

After a long trek through the woods, Jacob finally arrived at the quaint town center. It bustled with activity as humans (or things pretending to be human) prepared for the festival. He made his way to Kenworth’s honey stall, a small venue adorned with beehives and the sweet aroma of golden nectar.

Kenworth, a jovial-looking man with a bushy black mustache, greeted Jacob warmly. “Ah, Bartholomew sent you, did he? You must be the, uh, procurer, he spoke of. Well then, take a gander, and we shall discuss the honey.”

The honey merchant and Jacob haggled over the price, each trying to strike a fair deal. Eventually, they settled on an agreement, and Jacob purchased a barrel filled with the finest honey in New Jersey, a somewhat dubiously named the ‘Garden State,’ for about two hundred USD. Hell, it wasn’t his money; he used the agency’s Amex.

With the barrel of honey in tow, Jacob retraced his steps along the wooded path, mindful of his posh trainers. The barrel itself was lighter than it should have been; Jacob could tell it had been magicked. Perhaps there was more to New Jersey than he liked to admit. He couldn’t wait to return to Bartholomew and fulfill his part of the bargain and shed the soft vibrations that simply oozed from the barrel.

Upon reaching Bartholomew’s cottage once more, Jacob knocked on the door, snapped his fingers thrice, and the way opened. The dwarf welcomed him inside with a grin.

“I trust your mission was successful?” Bartholomew asked.

Jacob nodded, placing the barrel of honey gently on an uncluttered table. “I’ve returned with the honey, as promised. It wasn’t cheap.”

Bartholomew clapped his hands together, his joy evident. “Marvelous! You have proven yourself to be a trustworthy agent, Master Orange. As promised, here is the crepe pan.”

From a nearby shelf, the dwarf retrieved a gleaming pan, etched with ancient symbols and shimmering with magical energy. Jacob’s breath caught in his throat as he marveled at the artifact’s beauty. This was some sturdy magic indeed, and old.

“Remember,” Bartholomew cautioned, his voice filled with a mix of warning and hope. “The crepe pan must be used wisely. Its power is not to be taken lightly.”

Jacob nodded solemnly, a deep sense of responsibility settling upon him. Crepes suzette for days.

“I assure you, Mr. Bartholomew,” Jacob reaffirmed, “the crepe pan will be safeguarded and used only for the greater good. Our agency will ensure that it remains out of the wrong hands.”

Bartholomew’s eyes softened, his gaze fixed on Jacob. “I believe you, Agent Orange,” he said softly. “May the pan serve its purpose well in your capable hands.”

Jacob wasn’t sure he had capable hands for crepes, but with that, Jacob bid farewell to Bartholomew and left the enchanting cottage, crepe pan in his possession. As he walked back through the woods, a sense of purpose filled his heart. It was as if he suddenly understood the gravity of his mission and the responsibility that came with possessing such a powerful artifact. Old memories of watching Julia Child welled up in the back of his mind.            

Back at HQ, after an alarming teleport where Jacob almost materialized in Kviv, Jacob presented the crepe pan to his superior, Hats Munroe, outlining the precautions taken to secure it. The artifact was placed in a vault, protected by the latest security measures and monitored around the clock (a rotation of which Jacob thankfully wasn’t included).

Months passed, and the world continued to spin, unaware of the mystical crepe pan tucked away within the UN’s chambers. Jacob resumed his duties, working tirelessly to protect and serve humanity.

But deep down, he couldn’t help but wonder about the wishes the crepe pan could grant. He pondered the responsibility of holding such power, the temptation it could bring, and the importance of using it for the greater good.

Masquerade — a million paper faces on parade!

Well, it’s been many months since I’ve updated. Life has been a bit topsy-turvy, but the good thing to know is that Freewoman, Jacob, and The Janet Project are all near completion. Huzzah!

Halloween is coming, and we’ve still yet to decide on our costumes/plans, but the beautiful Autumn air and promise of pumpkins have my spirits uplifted. Let’s get down to the nitty gritty of it all, shall we?

Freewoman has about one more chapter to go (sorry for making you wait almost ten years!) and then goes through the rigorous red-pen-editing process. After that it’s time to focus on my sexy magical spy, Jacob Orange, and the conclusion of his first adventure. There will be more.

I was blessed enough to get to see the limited run of Masquerade, an immersive play that takes the beloved Phantom of the Opera right into your inner thighs. It was gobsmackingly amazing. It felt like every song was there just for me and Sanjiv. I’m obssessed.

I’m going to give you a little treat; a tidpit from Freewoman!

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I love you.”

“Don’t thank me for this,” Lenna replied. Her voice was stronger than it should have been. Where were her trembles and warbles? Where was the kicking in her stomach? I’ll cry later, she told herself. “I love you too. Bastard.”

Raif beamed, a little color peeking out of his clouded face. “And promise me one more thing?”

The knife was about an inch from the knot of hair Lenna had balled into her fist. She halted. “Name it.”

All the happiness melted away from Raif’s eyes as he fixed the steeliest of gazes on Lenna. “No more ghran.”

Uh-oh!

It’s been forever and a day. I wish I had more to share, but writer’s block got me all sorts of backed up. Here’s a lil’ snippet of my current work (yes, Freewoman and The Posh Tales of Jacob Orange are still being worked on… sort of).

Anywhoozles, I wrote a sonnet; I like form, and everyone has to get their inner Shakespeare wiggling now and again, am I right?

Sonnet #3

Beneath the moon, where hearts as one do beat,
Two souls entwine, though worlds apart they stand.
One dark as night, the other fair as sweet,
In love’s embrace, they touch with tender hand.

The heavens weep for joy at their embrace,
While whispers rise like winds in quiet groves.
No fear of race or shade their hearts erase,
For love transcends what mortal mind behooves.

The starry sky does bow to their accord,
No more does shade define the heart’s pure flame.
In every kiss, they bind their spirits toward
A future bright, beyond the bounds of name.

Let not the world cast stones nor words condemn,
For love, as true, defies the hearts of men.

2024 was a giant, god-awfully smelling load of horse muck for me. What does any damsel do in distress? Cut their hair off and dance and scowl, of course.

Happy 2025, everyone!

Artwork © Brian Fence 2025

So, one of my clients is Meta (that means you, everyone — Facebook, IG, Threads, Whatsapp), is down and I have nothing to do but wiggle my mouse. In the meantime, I put my chapbook to music courtesy of AI. Some might not approve, and certainly a live band would be better, but some of the songs aren’t so bad. All the lyrics are my own, and technically I own the rights to the music as well. Check it out!

https://suno.com/playlist/2599ac7c-aaf0-4a32-8abb-9073579f6b70

Artwork, Music, and Lyrics © Brian Fence 2024

“Hey, Beef Wellington! Try to keep up, won’t you?” Jacob was not pleased to learn that Binah-level clearance involved mentoring younger agents. In his case, Jacob was tasked with a roly-poly new recruit by the name of Wells Jenkin. He was plump, didn’t seem to have much affinity for magic, and worse off, Jacob strongly detected the odor of sheep. Jenkin was from Wales.

“So, so, sorry, Mister Orange!” The young man in his pressed suit struggled to keep pace with Jacob as they marched down a busy street of tourists near Niagara Falls, the Canadian side.

Jacob spared a glance to turn his head and glare at his companion. “Cut it out on the mister stuff,” he shouted. “And hustle!”

Wells nodded, visibly panting, and mustered to keep up with his teacher. “What,” he gasped, “should I call you then?”

“Jacob is fine, though if Victoria were our handler today she’d insist on ‘Agent Orange’ — but for reasons you can assume I’m not too fond of that. Some people call me JO, but those someones usually find themselves organ-less, lying in a bathtub deep in the heart of Mexico.”

“All right… Jacob.” Wells clutched a parcel, about the size of a football, to his side. It was twice enfolded in bubblewrap and enchanted to stay inconspicuous.

Jacob turned and ushered Wells to a stop. His ginger hair, needing a cut, flapped about in the breeze from the nearby waterfalls. “There’s a good lad. So you know the mission brief, correct?”

“We’re,” Wells said, “to deliver this package to a certain someone by the entrance to ‘The Maid of the Mist.’”

Jacob took a moment to fish into the pocket of his denim coat and pull out two garish yellow ponchos, one for each of them, that were alarmingly big for the size of his jacket.

Wells whistled. “That’s tidy magecraft, sir. Mister Orange. Agent Orange. Jacob.”

“Well, just announce my presence to the world, you silly chit.” Jacob stuffed one of the water-proof ponchos into Wells’ free arm. “Put that on; it’s sealed. I had R&D work on in because I can’t stand cold water. Can you work shadows yet?”

Cloaking oncself in a veil of night was the nearest form of invisibility Jacob’s agency offered and was part of the basic of training for field ops, but he had heard Wells hadn’t exactly passed with flying colors. That sheep-shagger.

“I think,” Wells said, “I can manage. May I ask a question… Jacob?” The poor sod was still trying to catch his breath and figure out Jacob’s queer sense of decorum.

“Bang away.”

“Why are we running?”
Jacob merely grinned. “I’m hazing you, Wellington. Now, into this alley here…”

Stepping gingerly in his new trainers — the last ones were eaten by an ooze — Jacob tugged Wells into a small crevasse between a café and a bank. The street was rife with passersby, and they needed to be inconspicuous with this dead drop.

“Okay, give me the parcel.” Jacob more or less took it from Wells before the eighteen-year-old had time to blink, let alone parse the directions.

“Shroud yourself. Remember, your aptitude goes into my report at the end.” Christ, he sounded like Victoria. He was surprised he hadn’t acquired her curt accent as well.

Wells adjusted his jacket and brushed some imaginary lint off his shoulder. “Do we need to, sir? Er, Jacob? There’s plenty of crowd to blend into.”

Jacob sighed. “I read your records, Agent Jenkin. Well, rather, Doctor Munroe made me read them. Why I got tasked as your mentor is still a mystery to me, as the man never seems to explain anything, but for the time being you’re in my care. Now make like an overweight star on Strictly Come Dancing and disappear.”

Wells visibly winced and drew in a sharp intake of breath. Jacob watched as he closed his eyes and sweat, already dappling his forehead, began to run down his brow and slick his nose.

“it’s coming, Mis… Jacob,” he stammered, “I promise!”

Jacob ran his fingers through his hair. His magic could run laps around this boy’s, and Jacob was only a few years out of graduate school. Annoyed, he grabbed his force-fed pupil’s hand.

“Shadows,” he murmured. Normally he wouldn’t need words of power for such a simple glamour, but he worried about Wells’ stability to maintain the illusion. “Cover him with darknesss, so that he may walk as night. Inumbrare.” And he crossed himself with Catholic rites.

Immediately around Wells a sort of misty darkness began to writhe about his feet; it slowly and steadily slid its way up his body until he was covered in motes of darkness, barely visible in the dim light of the alleyway.

“Mister Orange!” exclaimed Wells, forgetting Jacob’s addressing protocol. “You’re not supposed to help me with spells!”

“Wellington, consider this a one-off. Mum’s the word.” And Jacob pressed one finger to his nose before turning his gesture into a swift flourish, gathering shadows around him and obscuring his form.

“I can barely see you,” whinged Wells. It grated on Jacob’s ears.

“Well, that’s the point then, isn’t it?”

“How will you see me?”

“Since I cast the spell, I can see you like a sheep at a shearing. The others? Not so much.” Jacob decided he should probably stop on his sheep euphemisms. The poor Welsh.

“Oh… oh, okay,” said Wells; Jacob’s words had probably struck a nerve. On to happier things!

“Keep to the sides; don’t engage anyone, and we should be fine.” Jacob nodded at their dubious delivery. “Whatever that is, the sooner this test is over, the sooner you get your marks. Apprentice.”

“Yes, sir! I mean, Jacob, sir!”

Inwardly groaning, Jacob flicked the piercing in his ear and wondered which was the worst of two evils. “Handler, do you copy?”

“Hey there, JO!” called a boisterous battlecry into Jacob’s eardrum.

“Aphy? Is that you? What on earth are you doing as a handler?”

“After the incident with the Eyeballs and a bar fight or three, I requested some lighter work from Doctor Munroe. He was more than obliging.”

Lighter work? Victoria would have Aphrodite’s guts for garters if she heard her profession described as “light work.” Jacob allowed himself to smirk.

“Status?” he asked.

“You rendezvous in fourteen minutes. Better get a shuffle on.”

Jacob nodded, mostly to himself and then looked at his protégé. “All right, mate?”

“Yes… Jacob.”

Suppressing an almost dietetic urge to roll his eye, Jacob grabbed Wells by the hand and pulled him out of the alley. There were still massive throngs of people: tourists taking selfies and gorging on poutine. Jacob kept close to the side of the bank and pushed Wells out in front of him.

The poor lad was shivering from nerves. How on earth did he get cleared for field duty? Jacob would have to write a very scathing report indeed if he didn’t want Wells to end up dead in a ditch somewhere. For now he just hissed, “Proceed, Jenkin, to the attraction’s entrance. I’m right behind you.”

It was a pity, Jacob mused, that their cloak of illusion didn’t ward off smells. He wondered if he should propose something to R&D; Jenkin stank like a skunk in heat. Even on-goeres who were too involved and deceived by Jacob’s magic turned up their sunburned noses after catching of whiff of them. Deodoraant, Jacob thought, was probably a better idea.

The bank they passed was old, back from trailblazing times, and despite the bustling crowd it didn’t look much modernized. The brickwork was in dire need of repair and flecks of paint peeled off its door.

“Twelve minutes, JO,” Aphrodite’s voice chimed in his ear. He daren’t respond lest he drew the crowd’s attention. Jenkin, for his part, did his best to inch his way forward, eyeing the package nervously. Jacob wondered why neither he nor Wells hadn’t been briefed on its contents.

Oh well, he thought. It was probably something utterly banal and useless for the purpose of testing the wee mageling. Jacob slinked along the bank’s exterior, letting his fingers trail along the bricks. Just a few more minutes, he reckoned, and they could make the drop and be on their way. He hoped that their contact was more adroit than his pupil.

That was when he sticked a finger in it. “Wellington,” Jacob said in a harsh whisper.

“Did you make sure the package was sealed?”

“Ye…es, Mister Orange. I mean Jacob. JO?”

Jacob ignored the nomenclature and took a gander at his new trainers. Just like before, a slimy intensely green substance covered the toe of his shoe. Ichor.

Remember to cherish your loved ones, both here and departed. Happy Thanksgiving!

Artwork © Brian Fence 2024

Christopher S. McLean, August 3rd 1981 – October 28, 2024.

We’ll always have each other, my love. 星になれたらいいな。

Artwork © Brian Fence 2024

It’s that time of year again… spooky time! As I get ready for a great night with friends, I have a couple of issues to address.

Some people have been trying to reach me on Facebook, but my account was hacked and then suspended. I’ve reached out to Meta and hopefully they’ll resolve the issue. I am alive and can be reached here or on Instagram.

Next, hubby got very very ill this month and was in the ICU for over a week, which made me start going grey with nerves. Erp. He’s out now and on the mend, so thanks to all of those who sent well-wishes and prayers. He’ll be okay. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

In short, Jacob’s launch has been pushed back by a bit due to how insanely busy I’ve been this October. I promise to get some new content up to keep the momentum going come November, so I ask for your patience and continued support!

xoxo

Brian

PS — I haven’t forgotten about her, either:

Artwork “Chibi-Halloween Brian” and “Lenna Faircloth” © 2024 Brian Fence

A ginger for justice. He travels the world at his Agency’s whim, solving various crises with his reliance on shadow magic and a good dosage of Catholic school training. Half American, half English, Jacob Tennyson Orange is an unpredictable but capable agent to deal with.

Artwork “Jacob Tennyson Orange” © 2024 Brian Fence