Thursday, December 31, 2020

WASTELAKAPI… Beloved (A Guest Post)

dontravis.com blog post #479


I appreciate your letting me express some personal feelings in the last two postings. I promised to get back to regular postings this week, and wouldn’t you know it, Mark Wildyr has a January 20th publication date for his fifth book in the Cut Hand series. (I think he’s calling it the Strobaw Family Saga now.) At any rate, he’s so pleased, he asked if he could do another guest post, so I graciously allowed him to do it.

 Mark has shared part of the novel with us before. The following scene comes in Chapter 7. The players are John Strobaw (Medicine Hair), His sister, Rachel Ann Haleworthy (Indian wife of Captain Gideon Haleworthy), their two sons, Idea and Gabe, Winter Bird, a Lakota warrior who loves John, and Ité Waste (Pretty Facem whose American name is Ethan Alan) a young Oglala who is fumbling his way to the Win-tay life. Sheriff Landreth is an Indian-hating lawman who’s dealt John grief for years. The location is John’s Turtle Crick Farm in South Dakota. The time is the spring of 1891, several months following the Wounded Knee Massacre.

 

****

WASTELAKAPI… Beloved

By Mark Wildyr

             Later that same afternoon, Rachel Ann and the boys joined me in the fields to do some desperately needed hoeing. I’d gotten a fair amount of work done before a rifle shot snagged my attention. I stood amidst some rapidly maturing pea vines and cocked an ear to the north. It wasn’t a signal shot. That would have come in threes. To warn off a varmint, perhaps. And then another loud report waved across the short prairie grass. And another. And then I heard the pop of smaller weapons.

I dropped my hoe and yelled for Rachel and the boys to get into the big house before snatching my Henry and running for Yellow Thunder. By the time we came pounding out of the corral, Ides was there to close the gate so the other animals wouldn’t get out. Both hounds raced along with me, yapping their heads off. As I cleared the fields, they halted and elected to remain at the farm.

I rode bareback, carelessly rushing to the last spot I’d seen the cattle. I was halfway to the breaks country along Trickling Water before I spotted some of the animals grazing calmly. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught another riding approaching at speed. Andre apparently heard the shots and was coming to help.

I hauled up beside Face, who was mounted on Star, his black gelding with a white spot on his forehead. He turned to acknowledge me.

“Rustlers,” he said. “Bird shot one of them.”

“How many?”

“Three. The other two had already cut out two head and were driving them toward the breaks. He’s on their trail.”

“Why aren’t you with him?”

“He told me to stay here. Said it might be a trick.”

“He’s right. Stay here. Come on, Andre. Let’s give Bird a hand.”

A quarter of a mile down the way, we came across a big gray that might have been a cavalry horse standing beside the body of a black man. Although the feelings were inappropriate, I was relieved Bird had shot a Negro. Landreth likely wouldn’t put up much of a fuss over him.

I urged Thunder ahead along Bird’s trail. At the mouth of the breaks country, we pulled up as we heard more shots. I motioned Andre across Trickling Water Crick. After he was in position, we both entered the breaks. Just a hundred yards in, I saw Bird sheltering behind a rock and throwing occasional shots at an unseen target in front of him. He turned at my approach and signed that two men had taken refuge in a shallow gully ahead. I caught Andre’s attention and motioned. He’d been around Otter long enough to read sign and apparently understood my arm signals. He dismounted from Scamp and crept forward slowly.

I dropped over the edge of the embankment and proceeded up the crick bed. Bird kept throwing lead to keep the hooligans’ heads down. Before long, I heard a shot from beyond the embankment and knew Andre had been spotted. But they likely didn’t know I was here. Not yet at least. I halted at what I judged to be the entrance to the shallow canyon where the thieves hid. The racking of a round into a rifle chamber told me I was exactly where I needed to be. Without stopping to think, I popped up and saw shock register on a gunman’s face before I shot him in the chest.

I dropped behind the earthen embankment as the second man was bringing up his rifle. His bullet showered dirt down on me. I stayed down as Andre opened up. When the firing stopped, I risked a look and saw both rustlers lying on the ground. Without taking my eyes off the fallen men, I climbed the embankment and whistled all clear to Bird as I examined the two men in the dirt. Both were dead.

We located their horses, along with two of our cattle, deeper in the draw and draped the dead rustlers’ bodies over their mounts. I had just recovered Thunder when we heard gunshots out on the prairie. Abandoning everything, we headed straight for where we’d left Pretty Face. Once we cleared the entrance to the breaks, I saw him standing his ground and throwing shots at half a dozen riders bearing down on him. The rest of the gang, likely.

We rode hard to intercept the hooligans, but it was obvious we wouldn’t reach them before they rode down Face. As a man, the three of us pulled to a halt and took careful aim with our rifles. We were lucky to hit anything at this distance, but one man pitched from the saddle, gaining the group’s attention. Another rider pulled the wounded thief aboard his mount and raced after the others who had turned south at a dead run. I prayed Rachel Ann and the boys had heeded my call to remain in the house.

I told Face to remain on guard and sent Bird back for the bodies while Andre and I kept on the trail of the fleeing rustlers. They rode breakneck through my cornfield and pounded through my yard. Before they made it over the wooden bridge, Rachel Ann and one of the boys – Ides, probably – were tossing lead at them. Once over the crick, the gang turned west. Andre fretted over Libby and Dex, but I was confident the group was on the run. They’d hole up in their hideout and lick their wounds for a while.

Bird was slow to bring in the bodies, so I headed north to intercept him while Andre remained at the house to lend my sister and her family support.

I found Bird and Face working to settle down the skittish steers. The animals hadn’t stampeded, but they’d spread far and wide. I joined their efforts, and before long, the memory of the recent excitement faded sufficiently in those bovine heads for the cattle to return to grazing. Only then did Bird and I gather the three bodies. I wanted a look at one in particular. There had been something vaguely familiar about a man I’d seen at the mouth of the draw. We found the horses with bodies sprawled over their saddles munching grass at the far end of the breaks. I looked at the cadaver, but still wasn’t certain. Death changes a man. The features go slack. I’d wait for Andre to confirm my suspicion this was one of Landreth’s deputies.

As I rode into the farmyard trailing three horses each laden with a dead man, Andre met me in front of the house, two excited boys at his side. Ides rushed in to examine what were probably the first human corpses he’d ever seen. Gabe hung back and clutched his mother’s skirts when Rachel Ann came outside. Her features told of the battle raging inside her. A mother’s instinct was to protect her sons from the sight of such violence. Her red blood won the struggle. This was all too common among tribal families, and often the bodies were of loved ones. Her sons needed to see the world they lived in.

Andre confirmed my belief that one of the dead men was Deputy Sheriff Fred Atchison. This raised the question of whether Landreth, himself, was involved with the gang. After some debate among ourselves, Andre and I took the bodies to town. I wanted to see Landreth’s face when he discovered his fellow lawman among the dead rustlers. I also wanted to see his reaction when he learned a red man killed a white deputy. If I had a problem, I needed to face it head on.

Hauling a body down a town’s street tends to collect attention. An Indian with three bodies gathers a crowd. Nobody seemed to focus on Andre trailing along behind. Everyone looked first at the dead men and then at me.

Landreth emerged from his office on stiff legs when we called him out. His beady eyes locked onto mine after they casually raked the three dead men.

“Rustlers, I said. “They hit us this morning. These three diverted our attention while six others bided their time and went after the whole herd.”

“They get the job done?” Landreth asked, his tone unreadable.

“Nope. Our guard on the herd stood his ground. They’d have overrun him except we showed up and winged one of them. They crossed Turtle Crick and headed west.”

Andre nodded to the horse closest to Landreth. “You oughta take heed of this one, Sheriff.”

The lawman stepped off the boardwalk and lifted the dead man’s head by the hair. He let go and stumbled backward. His wild eyes speared me. “Damnation, it’s Fred! You shot my deputy.”

Andre hawked and spat on the ground. “Didn’t know it was Deputy Atchison until we got him. He was busy tossing lead at me until John caught him exposed.”

“Maybe he thought you was one of the rustlers.”

“No, Sheriff,” I said in a level voice. “He was one of the rustlers. He was with these other two. They rustled two cows and made a lot of noise, so we’d go after them. They thought one man was on their trail, but Andre and I joined Bird and Ité faster’n they thought.”

Landreth went red in the face. “Son of a bitch! No wonder we been having trouble running those yahoos down. Fred was keeping us clear of them.” He went even redder as another thought hit. “Wait a minute. You don’t think I was one of them, do you?”

Andre spoke before I could. “Dunno. I guess what happens from now on will give us the answer to that.”

 ****

You can leave remarks for Mark on his email at markwildyr@aol.com

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

Oops, almost forgot my mantra: Keep on reading, keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

And finally, HAPPY NEW YEAR!

 See you next Thursday.

 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time. 

Thursday, December 24, 2020

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO MY READERS AROUND THE WORLD

 dontravis.com blog post #478

Photo Courtesy of impfashion.com

 


First, thank you to all the readers who responded with sympathy and understanding regarding the loss of my friend Stan Rhine, which was the subject of last week’s post.

 Today is another moment of personal indulgence, although on a happier note. I wish everyone a happy holiday season. For those who celebrate Christmas or those who observe Hanukkah or those who follow other festivals have a great and reverent time. In the face of the pandemic, harsh political feelings, rising racism, and economic hardship, I extend my fervent wish… nay my prayers... that we all safely maneuver these troubled waters and come out safe and happy on the other side.

 I don’t have any fancy cards or emojis or things of that sort, but that doesn’t mean my wishes aren’t sincere. God Bless (in whatever form you recognize Him or Her) and stay safe.

 Next week, I’ll be back on a regular schedule… I promise.

 ****

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 

See you next Thursday.

 

Don

 

New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Thursday, December 17, 2020

Mourning the Loss of a Friend and Colleague

 dontravis.com blog post #477




           

 Allow me a moment of personal indulgence, please.

Today, I don’t want to post a story, or cite from a novel, or talk about the wonderful state of New Mexico. I want to tell you about a friend and fellow writer. Dr. J. Stanley Rhine was a retired University of New Mexico professor, whose field was Forensic Anthropology. He spent a good part of his career traveling the western states visiting archaeological sites, examining bones to determine how ancient peoples lived and what they ate. After the notorious riot in the New Mexico State Penitentiary that took place February 2 and 3 in 1980, he was called in to identify some of the thirty-three dead inmates, some of whom were horribly mutilated. I cannot help but believe the experience of viewing “fresh kills” for the purpose of identification was much more traumatic than examining the dry bones of yester-century, but given his intensely laid-back personality, I doubt if it raised his heartbeat an iota. In fact, I could see him become far more animated at discovering something new from a dusty old bone from the 1700s. Not that he wasn’t empathetic—he was—but he viewed things as a scientist.

Stan was a standout in a crowd. Tall and wiry, he stood ramrod straight with a shock of white hair worn in the Mark Twain style and a thick white Samuel Clements mustache and was instantly identifiable. He spoke in a soft, low voice that required close attention to keep from losing what he was saying… and usually when he spoke, what he said was worth understanding and retaining. He wrote in a similar manner, a tight, small, cramped hand that almost required a magnifying glass to read. In fact, he belonged to a luncheon group of writers who completed the meal with a series of round robin stories (where each member adds a sentence or thought and passes the story to the next reader for like treatment), and one of our members sometimes carried just such a glass to read Stan’s contribution. Stan unfailingly added a moment of wit to each such story.

Retired, he maintained an office at UNM where he wrote short stories with clever O. Henry twists. I often told him he spent seven hundred words just to deliver a ten-word surprise. He was a perfect blend of wit and wisdom.

A member of our Wordwrights Writing Group that met for years at the North Domingo Multicultural Center, Stan wrote authoritative articles on Western railroads and published two volumes of his short stories, Talking Dogs, Singing Mice and Other Shaggy Dog Stories and An Omnium Gatherum (both available on Amazon). The titles are a perfect expression of Stan’s complexity.

Part of that complexity is demonstrated by the fact that while he was quite loquacious when speaking of other people and their efforts, few among the group of around forty people or so who attended our Wordwrights class knew little about his personal life, he held those details close. His instructions for his own disposal after death were typical: No funeral, no memorial service, no nothing. But everyone… and I mean everyone liked and respected Stan Rhine.

Tragically, Stan suffered a fall on Wednesday, December 9, which resulted in a skull fracture. Other problems developed, and Stan passed away in the morning hours of Sunday the 13th. According to his wife Sue, he was sedated and in no pain.

He will be missed by all who knew and loved him. Our thoughts and prayers are with Sue and his family. Rest in Peace, Stan.

 

A further note. This identical lament is posted in the Mark Wildyr blog as we both knew, respected, and loved Stan.

The usual jumble of links and sources have been deleted, although I’ve retained the mantra as it is something San agreed with wholeheartedly.

 ****

 I’ll be back to normal on the next post… I promise. But I had to say goodbye to Stan.

 My Mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

 Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Thursday, December 10, 2020

The Cutie-Pie Murders (Another Look)

 dontravis.com blog post #476

 Photo Courtesy of pinterest.com


On July 7, I posted part of Chapter 1 of my new novel now making its way through the Dreamspinner publication process. Inasmuch as I received the 3
rd Edit for my review today, we’re getting closer to a release date. Since this is fresh on my mind, I’d like to give you more of the novel.

 The following comes from the beginning of Chapter 2. You may recall that in Chapter 1, our hero BJ Vinson traveled to Santa Fe to visit an inmate named Zancon Zapata who made it plain he wanted to engage BJ to exact retribution for the murder of his nephew, Mateo (Matt) Zapata.

 In the passage below, Matt’s father, Juan Zapata visits BJ to engage his services to investigate the murder. Does he want the same thing as his imprisoned brother? Let’s see.

****

 THE CUTIE-PIE MURDERS

 Hazel Harris Weeks stuck her head through the door of my downtown private office. “Fellow here by the name of Juan Zapata. Says he has an appointment.” My office manager’s voice held a note of censure. One more thing I’d neglected to tell her.

I swung my feet off the corner of the desk and sat up straight. “Called him on the way back from Santa Fe yesterday.”

Hazel frowned. “Any relation to Zancon Zapata?” Hazel had taught alongside my parents in the Albuquerque public school system and had been my mom’s best friend. When I lost my parents to a car wreck, she’d appropriated the job of surrogate mother. Fortunately, her late-life marriage to my business partner Charlie Weeks eased that burden. Even though Hazel didn’t totally understand my lifestyle, she’d grown as protective of Paul as she was of me, and she knew every detail of what the Saints had done to him.

“Somebody killed Juan Zapata’s boy. He’s entitled to the same respect as any other paying customer.” The word paying would get to her faster than any other explanation. She nodded and disappeared.

A moment later, she ushered a younger, healthier version of Zancon into my inner office. The man’s overcoat was damp from scattered snowflakes falling outside. Thank goodness my trip to Santa Fe came yesterday. Today’s snowfall didn’t amount to much in the city, but if it was flurrying here, it was likely heavier in the mountains. I stood and gripped the man’s outstretched hand.

“I’m Juan Zapata. I understand my brother filled you in on my problem yesterday.”

“B. J. Vinson. Everyone calls me BJ. Zancon told me about your son’s death but gave me no details. Said you’d explain it.”

Juan flushed and took the seat I indicated. “Sounds like something he’d do. My son was gay, Mr…. uh, BJ. And that’s something Zancon can’t deal with.”

“Why don’t you fill me in?”

The man on the other side of my desk blew through his nostrils in exasperation. “I don’t know a hell of a lot. I misspoke saying Matt was gay. He was probably bisexual. He’s had a couple of girlfriends over the years, but I suspect he’s had a few boyfriends, as well.”

Score another one for Zancon. He not only wanted me to kill his gay nephew’s murderer, but he’d come to a gay investigator with the request. Probably figured it took one to know one. Some things never change.

“Let’s start with the basics,” I said. “Tell me about Mateo. I understand he was eighteen. Was he still in school? Live at home? Have his own place? Show me the young man before you tell me about his murder.”

Juan took me literally, dragging out his billfold and handing over a snapshot. The kid almost took my breath away. Beautiful eyes the color of rich humus. Curly hair so dark it was barely short of black. Thin nose, broad sensual lips. This guy was movie star handsome with enough irregularity to his features to render him sexy.

Juan sighed before starting down the road of his son’s short life. “Mateo… Matt… finished high school last year, a year ahead of most of his classmates and enrolled at the University of New Mexico. He wanted to be a commercial photographer. But I think that was just so he understood the camera. His real ambition was to be a professional model.”

“He had the looks for it. Did he live on campus?”

Juan shook his head. “Had a small one-bedroom apartment on Princeton. Half a block south of Central. Easy walk to his classes.”

I learned a lot about Matt Zapata while his father worked around to something obviously difficult to face, the thing Zancon hadn’t wanted to discuss yesterday. Matt was a swimmer. A tennis player. A whiz at poker. Popular with girls and guys alike. Played a mean guitar and had a decent singing voice. Finally, Juan hesitated. He’d arrived at his destination.

“Although I provided for his needs, Matt was always independent. He’d recently taken a job. I discouraged the idea, saying he ought to enjoy these college years, but he wouldn’t listen.”

He was dragging his feet again, so I cut straight to the chase. “What kind of job.”

Juan averted his eyes. “He never actually told me, but from what I can gather, he was an escort. He… ah, he was an amazing kid. He fit in any social circle you could imagine. And when he dressed up in a suit or tux, he was really something.”

“Who did he work for?”

Juan tapped the arm of his chair, a nervous gesture. “Best I can figure, he was freelance. He booked his calls through a phone service. He was new to it. Only had a few assignments before… before….”

“Did he die on one of those assignments?”

Juan Zapata dropped his head to his chest. “I don’t know. He… he was found on the West Mesa.”

He swallowed hard, but I could see he had more to say. “And?”

“My son was naked. At least that’s what they tell me. And….”

I spared him the agony of continuing. “Let me get a copy of the police report and talk to a couple of people, then we’ll discuss this again.”

“So you’ll take the case?”

“At the moment, I don’t see why not. Is there a question in your mind about it?”

He lifted anguished eyes. “My brother is someone you shot and put behind bars. My son might have been a call boy. So—”

Mr. Zapata… Juan, was Matt a good man?”

“To me he was.”

“And his life was taken from him. Tell me, are you looking for justice for your son or revenge?”

A startled look passed over his face before understanding dawned. “I am seeking justice, BJ. Find the bastard who killed Matt and get him tried, convicted, and locked up for the rest of his life.”

I thought for a moment. “Locked up in Santa Fe where Zancon is waiting.”

“Send him somewhere else, I don’t care. Just so he can’t slaughter someone else’s son.”

“The police can do that for you.”

Juan dry washed his face. “Zancon and I agree on one thing. The cops will take one look and consider it simply as some gang killing a queer. I want someone fighting for me. For Matt.”

“I need to clear this with a couple of people first, but who your brother is and what you think your son might have been will have nothing to do with my answer. I should be able to call you by Monday afternoon.”

“You haven’t mentioned your fees. Please rest assured I’m willing to meet them. And the funds will be mine, not Zancon’s.” He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I’ve taken the liberty of writing a retainer check. Please let me know if it’s adequate.

I glanced at the amount. “This will do just fine.”

After he took his leave, I talked to the two people who had to be consulted, Charlie and Hazel Weeks, the retired cop who happened to be my partner in Vinson and Weeks, Confidential Investigations, and my office manager. They expressed no reservations about the case. Hazel even smiled when I laid the retainer in front of her.

****

 It looks as if BJ is hooked. He’s willing to work with Matt’s father, but he wants nothing to do with the uncle who he put in prison several years ago. Can he keep the different interests of the two separate?

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

 The following are buy links for my BJ Vinson mystery The Voxlightner Scandal. The next one, The Cutie-Pie Murders,

 Dreamspinner: https://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/books/the-voxlightner-scandal-by-don-travis-11285-b

DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-voxlightner-scandal-by-don-travis-537-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Voxlightner-Scandal-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B07VL33P99

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-voxlightner-scandal-don-travis/1132632844?ean=9781640809260

iBooks: https://books.apple.com/ca/book/the-voxlightner-scandal/id1473985039?mt=11&ign-mpt=uo%3D4

Google: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=H3ilDwAAQBAJ

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/the-voxlightner-scandal

Universal Link: https://books2read.com/u/4AxPDo

 My personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting remarks on the old dontravis21@gmail.com.

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:

https://www.dsppublications.com/books/abaddons-locusts-by-don-travis-486-b

https://www.dsppublications.com/books/abaddons-locusts-by-don-travis-487-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Abaddons-Locusts-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B07JLHKJLY

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/ca/book/abaddons-locusts/id1439968525

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/abaddon-s-locusts

Google: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=R0Z0DwAAQBAJ

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/abaddons-locusts-don-travis/1129769593

 See you next Thursday.

 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Thursday, December 3, 2020

Living Next Door to Adonis, Part 2 of 2 Parts

 

dontravis.com blog post #475

 


Last week we left our nameless hero—well, protagonist, at least—staring through the window as his next door neighbor stood naked and aroused. What in the world could possibly happen next?

 

We’ll find out this week.

****

LIVING NEXT DOOR TO ADONIS

 

A couple of days later, I left the library and walked to the shuttle stop to wait for a bus. As I stood contemplating nothing, a blue Chevy Malibu halted. I couldn’t believe it when the passenger’s window came down, revealing Adonis in the driver’s seat.

“Ride home?” he called.

My head nodded like crazy even as my legs refused to move.

“Well,” he said in a pleasing baritone, “come on.

I managed to make it to the car and slide in the passenger’s seat.

“Tom,” he said, offering a hand.

“D-Dave,” I replied, grabbing his outstretched hand like a drowning swimmer clutching a lifeline.

The off-campus dorms weren’t far, and he spent the time talking about everything except what I wanted to discuss. As he pulled into the underground garage to his building, he glanced at me.

“How come you closed the blinds to your window the other day?”

Here was my chance! “I’ll come up to your place and explain it all.”

He eased into a parking place and turned off the motor. “Naw… don’t think so. So what are you majoring in, anyway?”

“Screw that. I’ll answer your question. You got me all hot and bothered, and then when it came to the finale, you disappeared from view. You get a bang out of teasing me?”

“Something like that, I guess. Normally, I’m rather reserved, but I guess I got a momentary charge out of being an exhibitionist.”

My mouth went dry, making it hard to speak. “Did you finish the job? Jerking off, I mean.”

His teasing grin appeared, making my stomach roll. “Maybe. Maybe not. Tell you what, leave your drapes open tonight.”

“You gonna do it again?”

The smile broadened as he reached for his door handle. “Maybe… maybe not. We’ll keep a little suspense in the air.”

“Okay, but tell me one thing. What does your middle initial stand for?”

“You know my middle initial?”

“It’s A.

“How do you know?”

“I looked you up in the Annual. Thomas A. Astroea.”

“What do you think it stands for?”

“Adonis.”

A big grin split his lips. “Flattering.”

Pissed, I snapped back. “Maybe so. But from what I read, he was a selfish son of a bitch.”

“You figure that’s what I am?”

“Well… a tease at any rate.”

“Gotta go now, Dave. But you might open your drapes tonight around eight.”

 

I fixed myself something to eat, washed the dishes, cleaned up the apartment, and got all my studying done… and the damned clock still read only seven-thirty. I glanced out the window and saw Adonis still seated at his desk working on what seemed to be his own homework. Too restless for TV, I set about getting ready for bed, hours earlier than I normally did. After slipping on the comfortable lounge pants I normally sleep in, I returned to my living area and took a seat at my desk.

As I did so, Adonis glanced up and brightened with a smile. He motioned toward his own torso with a hand and mouthed the word, “Nice.”

Assuming he meant my own bare flesh, I gave him a “Thanks.”

With that, he rose and disappeared from view. After about a normal shower time, he walked back into the room without a stitch, and stood in front of the window as he vigorously dried his mop of hair. Even before he finished, he was becoming aroused… as was I. Then, as I sat with my mouth hanging open, he proceeded to stroke himself to orgasm.

I’d never seen anything as erotic in my life. Forget the straining cock in his hand, the look on his handsome face as he went over the edge was something I’ll never forget. He shuddered his way through a long climax and finished up leaning against his desk as if exhausted. With a nod and a weak grin, he covered himself with a towel and walked out of sight. I waited, but he didn’t reappear that evening.

Sleep was slow to come that night, so I finally gave in to temptation and masturbated, the image of the handsome hunk next door foremost in my mind.

The next morning was Saturday, so I slept in later than usual. When I finally roused and finished cleaning up, I glanced out the window before fixing me something to eat. I did a double take. His desk was clear. The photo that had always sat at the corner was gone. The painting on the far wall was gone. I watched for hours, but Adonis never showed. By Sunday evening, I was forced to face the fact…he had moved. I no longer lived next door to Adonis.

The impact that had on my life was unbelievable. I went into mourning as if I’d lost a treasured member of the family. It was all I could do to attend classes, to keep my grade point average up. What was the use? He’d gone… left me… abandoned me. How could someone I’d only spoken to one time in my life have become so important?

I took to adopting his habits. I’d shower and wander my small apartment naked. Then the following weekend, as I stood beside my desk drying my hair, movement caught my eye. I glanced up and saw this dude in Adonis’s old apartment. This good-looking guy with a shock of sandy hair and eyes that were probably blue or green—I couldn’t tell from this distance—stood with his handsome mouth agape as he stared through the window at me.

A grin crawled across my lips as I deliberately cupped my genitals. His nose was pressed against the pane of his window as I slowly began to move my hand… rhythmically.

 

****

 

Did it turn out the way you thought? Wasn’t the way I pictured the story, but we all know that the characters write their own stories, the author doesn’t. At any rate, I hope you enjoyed the read.

 

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

 

The following are buy links for my BJ Vinson mystery The Voxlightner Scandal. The next one, The Cutie-Pie Murders,

 

Dreamspinner: https://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/books/the-voxlightner-scandal-by-don-travis-11285-b

DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-voxlightner-scandal-by-don-travis-537-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Voxlightner-Scandal-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B07VL33P99

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-voxlightner-scandal-don-travis/1132632844?ean=9781640809260

iBooks: https://books.apple.com/ca/book/the-voxlightner-scandal/id1473985039?mt=11&ign-mpt=uo%3D4

Google: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=H3ilDwAAQBAJ

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/the-voxlightner-scandal

Universal Link: https://books2read.com/u/4AxPDo

 

 

My personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting remarks on the old dontravis21@gmail.com.

 

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 

Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:

 

https://www.dsppublications.com/books/abaddons-locusts-by-don-travis-486-b

https://www.dsppublications.com/books/abaddons-locusts-by-don-travis-487-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Abaddons-Locusts-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B07JLHKJLY

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/ca/book/abaddons-locusts/id1439968525

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/abaddon-s-locusts

Google: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=R0Z0DwAAQBAJ

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/abaddons-locusts-don-travis/1129769593

 

See you next Thursday.

 

Don

 

New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

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