A Dragon Named Pedro (A Repost)

 dontravis.com blog post #558

 Image book cover of The Zozobra Incident

This week, I’m opting for a repost from May 2016. The following story is essentially lifted from my novel, The Zozobra Incident, except it is told from the viewpoint of Paul Barton, who becomes the significant other of B. J. Vinson, gay former marine, ex-Albuquerque cop turned confidential investigator. Actually, you might say it is from the viewpoint of Pedro, the small, tattooed dragon with a death-grip on one of Paul’s nipples.

 Why did I return to this story? I don’t know… maybe because I am considering writing an eighth novel to the series.

Enjoy.

                                                                                        

A DRAGON NAMED PEDRO

From his high perch, Pedro the Dragon’s lidless eyes seemed fixed on the man in swimming trunks lying on a poolside lounge. Good build, and probably handsome when viewed up close. He knew his owner watched the man as well. The brown nipple Pedro held in the talons of one clawed foot stiffened and puckered, a subtle but sure sign of interest.

****

Paul sat in the tall lifeguard’s chair at the North Valley Country Club and watched the man basking in the early morning sun. At this hour, they were the only two individuals at the swimming pool. Even though Paul was new to the club, he knew the man had an interesting history. B. J. Vinson—no one could tell him what the initials stood for—had once been a US Marine and then an Albuquerque Police detective before becoming a private eye. Intriguing.

But no more so than the man, himself. Strange colored hair… mocha he’d heard it called. Eyes as green as a polished Granny Smith apple. Chiseled features; handsome but not pretty. Lean and athletic. Good, tanned skin without blemish except for one scar on the inside of the left thigh. Scuttlebutt held that was from a gunshot wound Vinson got back when he was a policeman.

Although aware they were alone, Paul involuntarily glanced around to see if anyone noticed he was taking too much notice of a nearly naked man. Where he came from—Albuquerque’s south valley—interest like that would earn a guy a beating or worse. The thought startled him. Interest like that? Well, he couldn’t deny it. He felt the small, tattooed dragon on his left pec squeezing his nipple, making it stand up. And tingle. Pedro often set off so many nerve endings that it became embarrassing for Paul to stand up in polite society.

To avoid that eventuality, he climbed down from his elevated chair and snared a floating candy wrapper with a telescoping aluminum pole equipped with a leaf net.

“Kids,” he muttered softly with half an eye on the other man. The aroma of summer roses climbing the club’s adobe wall battled the odor of chlorine from the pool, distracting him for a moment.

Vinson reached for a glass beside the lounge and missed, spilling what appeared to be orange juice.

Paul dropped the skimmer and picked up the glass, holding it out. “Can I get you another?” Pedro gave a yank on Paul’s nipple when he noticed those fascinating green eyes studying the tiny tattoo.

“No, thanks. Nothing left but ice cubes, anyway.”

Pedro about went crazy at the sound of the deep baritone.

“But I appreciate your offer, uh….”

“Paul. Paul Barton.”

“Paul.”

He noticed the slight hesitation but decided not to enlighten the man. Aware he was a mixture of Hispanic and Anglo blood, he often got that reaction to his last name. But his mother had been the Latina; his father the Anglo. “Anytime,” he muttered as his eyes wandered the man’s lanky form, halting without intention on the purple scar.

“Bullet wound,” Vinson said.

“Damn, I’ll bet that hurt.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. That’s why I swim early in the morning. Therapy.”

“Swimming’s the best exercise in the world.” Paul felt his cheeks burn as he revealed himself as a dyed-in-the-wool water bug. He glanced down at his tight trunks. Well, dyed-in-spandex, anyway.

His cell phone piped “Dixie” on a nearby table. He eyed the other man as he answered the call. Jill Hardwick asked what time he got off work and suggested they go to a movie that evening. He told her “five” and said he had plans. As he finished the call, Vinson tossed him a wave and disappeared into the locker room. Pedro gave a final squeeze to Paul’s nipple, making him wish he could follow the detective to the showers. “Sorry, Pedro,” he mumbled. “Can’t think of a logical excuse.

**

By five-thirty, Paul felt foolish hanging around outside the club’s Moorish gate. He’d misread the situation… badly. BJ Vinson, PI, probably hadn’t given him a second thought once he left poolside. But Paul—as well as Pedro—had had sensed a strong connection with the attractive detective. Looked like they were both wrong.

Just as he started walking to the employee’s parking lot, a white Impala swung to the curb and stopped. The hunky detective rolled down the window and leaned across the seat. Without exchanging a word, Paul hopped into the passenger’s seat as Pedro did his thing beneath the tight polo shirt. Feeling the need to say something, Paul went trite.

“Hi, Mr. Vinson.”

“Call me BJ or Vince. The Vince comes from Vinson.”

“What do most people call you?”

“BJ.”

“Okay, then I’ll call you Vince. At least when nobody’s around.”

“Where can I drop you?” Vince asked with a smile.

Paul’s grin almost split his lips. “Wherever you’re going is okay by me.”

Pedro must have approved because the inky claw spasmed, squeezing Paul’s tit almost painfully.

 

*****

The story stirred a feeling of nostalgia in my worn breast. Hope you enjoyed it.

 See you next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

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

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 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.

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

Almost Me

dontravis.com blog post #557

 Image courtesy of unsplash.com

 

It appears to me that our protagonist last week chanced upon a fairy fairy. Sorry, couldn’t resist that.

 

This week, we’ll stay with the mystic a bit longer. Tell me how you like this offering.

                                                                               ****

                                                                       ALMOST ME

The path, rocky and uneven, made it difficult to find my footing given the shadows thrown by the surrounding forest and the fading light as the sun began its journey below a horizon hidden by towering trees. I cursed myself for not having returned to the house to saddle Thunder or harness one of the carriages. But I had already been far afield on foot when I cottoned to the time and grew aware of the approaching hour the summons from his lordship had specified. Faster to complete the trek by foot.

And so it was, but I would arrive flushed and unseemly and likely be required to remain overnight. Nay, I’d borrow a steed for my return home. Earl Harold was not an onerous liege, but I preferred other company. And why was the “invitation” for me alone, excluding my father… even as a courtesy? Word would have reached the manor by now of the delirium in possession of my sire. By rights, I should have ignored the Earl’s message and remained at Father’s bedside.

I broke free of the woods and paused at the edge of the broad expanse of lawn surrounding the pile of stones called High Wethersby Hall. Dark turrets husbanded the gathering gloom while tall spires desperately clutched at the last rays of the dying Sol. A dismal place despite flickering lights at many of the windows.

Before stepping from the tree line, I caught sight of an indistinct figure near the east corner of the building. I drew breath to hail the individual, but my call died in my throat. One blink of the eye… and the figure had disappeared.

“My word, that was odd,” I muttered to myself. But perhaps not. The man, and I was certain the figure had been masculine, had been near the corner of the manor house and likely simply stepped out of sight. Resisting the urge to check on a possible intruder, I maneuvered the grassy lawn to the graveled walkway leading to the front door of the hall.

Why did I assume it was an intruder? It could have been a servant, a groom, a guest. Almost endless possibilities loomed, yet “intruder” stuck in my brain. That being said, there was something oddly familiar about the phantom. My father! He had moved like my father in his younger days.

One of the earl’s servants answered my knock and stepped aside with a mumbled acknowledgment, “Master Saxon.”

I handed him my cane, alas my hat remained on its customary peg at home. “Evening, Pushkin. I am here at the invitation of his lordship. But I need a place to wash up and make myself presentable.”

“Yessir. His lordship is expecting you. Right this way.”

Once he showed me to a small side room with washstand and toweling, I dismissed him upon learning my liege was in his library. So it wouldn’t be a family visit. That would have been held in the drawing room. My curiosity heightened as I washed my face and hands free of dust and combed my mop of hair into some semblance of order.

Earl Harold did not rise to greet me as I entered the library. He merely glanced up from a ledger, snatched off his reading spectacles, directed me to a seat opposite his escritoire, and leveled a look at me. I took in his lean features, frizzy hair the color of ashes, and firm downturn of the mouth. This was not a social call.

“Josiah Saxon, there is no possible excuse for your behavior.”

I straightened in my chair. “I apologize, sir. I came here directly from the fields.”

“I’m not talking about your dress, man. I mean your behavior.”

“I don’t understand. How has my behavior proved offensive?”

His lordship’s cheeks took on color. “Playing the Peeping Tom on my daughter and her friends is not offensive?”

My chin dropped. “Beg pardon, sir?”

“Don’t bother with denials. My daughter saw you clearly, as did her two friends.”

I gasped. “Lady Esme saw me intruding on her privacy?” Not that I wouldn’t have liked to cast gazes on that fair flower and inhale her perfume, but this was a false accusation.

“Precisely. And she called you out on it.”

I gained my feet and stood ramrod tall. “Milord, I was overseeing work in our fields for the entirety of this day. In fact, I walked to the hall directly from our northernmost pasture. If I have given offense, it was not by spying on Lady Esme and her friends.”

“You dare to stand there and deny your perversions?”

“Aye. I do. Because the charge is patently false.” I hastened to correct my language when the earl came halfway out of his chair. “Lady Esme is simply mistaken. May I not ask her about the incident?”

The earl didn’t stutter, but he came close. “Y-you want me to involve my daughter in this offensive discussion?”

“I should merely like to assure her I would do no such base thing. I believe I can convince her of my innocence. And you, as well, sir. I was in full view of several of our laborers for a good part of the day. The remainder of the time, I was tending my father, who is ailing, as I’m sure you have heard.”

“Aye. I sent my doctor to him. Not much to be done, I hear.”

“I fear that is true. He’ll be taken from us soon. In a way, he already has been.”

“How so?”

“He lives, but he lives in the past. He talks to my mother and my aunts, all of whom are long gone. He will join them soon, I fear.”

“Josiah, you and your father have my sympathies, but his impending loss does not release you from the consequences of your behavior.”

“Milord, may I be so bold as to ask a boon? Allow me to return home. Once my father’s situation is resolved—one way or the other—I will return and make my defense against these charges.”

The earl stood and delivered me a long, uncomfortable stare. “Very well. Go home to your ailing father. Once that ordeal is over, we will talk again. You should know that my intention was to have my servants place you in a carriage and deliver you to the proper authorities. But that can wait.”

Given the circumstances, I could neither remain in the hall overnight nor request the loan of a horse to ride home. Thus, I departed the same way I had arrived, on my own two feet.

I had nearly gained the cover of the wood when I heard a voice behind me.

“Son.”

I whirled at the familiar voice to find my mother standing behind me. My breath deserted me. My ma’am was taken away a decade ago by a fever. “M-mother?”

She stepped backward when I moved toward her. “I apologize for your troubles. This should not have happened. It’s all your father’s doing. Joseph should simply have gone easy. Instead he’s fighting, calling on us.”

“Mother, I don’t understand.”

“No, I suppose you don’t. But….” She halted and inclined her head as if listening. “It’s your father. Joseph needs me now. Goodbye, son.”

“Don’t….”

As with the apparition near the manor earlier, one blink of the eyelid and she was gone. Staggering as if dealt a body blow, I reeled on toward the waiting path. I needed to get home. Make sense of all this. “Hurry, Joss, hurry,” I muttered to myself.

“Brother!”

A deep voice, also somewhat familiar, came near to costing me my balance. I steadied myself and turned to face whatever was there.

What was there was me. Well, almost me. By a full moon’s glow, I perceived hair darker than my brown.  A noticeable lentigo adorned his right cheek. A fraction taller.

“W-who are you?” I managed to get out, despite paralyzed vocal cords.

“I am Jacob, Josiah. Your brother. Your twin.”

“I have no brother.” I struggled to put conviction into a faltering voice.

“Aye, you have. Or had. I died at birth. And the family concealed the fact from you. You see, I strangled on your umbilical cord, and they sought to spare you guilt.” The man, creature…apparition, gave me a speculative look. “I’m pleased you grew up to be a handsome, well-formed man.”

“Why?”

“Because that gives me form, as well.”

I drew a sharp breath. “It was you!’

“Who invaded the lasses’ privacy? Alas, I’m afraid so. I’ve been denied so much and have so little time to satisfy a myriad of curiosities.”

So many questions flew around in my head I grew addled. But Jacob, seemed to know them.

“It was our father. In his dying delirium, he summoned me. Me and mum.” His expression grew sad. “I’ll go when he does.” His image flickered. “And I fear that will be soon.”

“Wait!” I shouted. “We have to get to the manor. You have to tell his lord—”

His image faded alarmingly. The voice weakened. “Not enough time, I suspect.”

And then I blinked. He was gone.

As the import of his disappearance struck me, I lurched down the dark, wooded path toward home, knowing full well that my father had died.

Another thought struck like a pole ax between the eyes. How would I ever convince Lord Harold—or the authorities—of what actually happened?

 *****

I’d say our protagonist is in quite a pickle. And I haven’t figured out how to get him out of his difficult situation. Can you? Suggestions welcome.

 See you next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

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

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 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. 

I Took a Road and Chanced Upon a Fairy, Part Three of Three Parts

dontravis.com blog post #556

 Image courtesy of dreamstime.com

 

Well, he’s tasted one of each, what more could he want? Even so, I’ll bet he’s whittling his butt off for the next trip to marketplace in Stockcroft.

****

                                  I TOOK A ROAD AND CHANCED UPON A FAIRY

I worked hard that next week to craft my carved images. Pleased by such prosperous industriousness, I failed to admit to myself I was seeking yet another enchantment until little time remained before I must set off for Stockcroft. I contemplated a dog… a soft, cuddly puppy to provide companionship as only they can do. Or perhaps a cat to keep rats away from the corncrib. But what if they could exist nowhere but in that enchanted forest?

As I looked through my supply of wood, a particular cottonwood root called to me as aptly fitting the human figure. But what sort of human? Man or woman? Lass or lad. I knew not.

I sat down at my workbench and took a knife to the wood. With nothing firmly in mind, I found myself cutting first an image shaping up as a woman, and then a muscled man. I whittled and cut and sanded until it was fit for neither. I sighed in disappointment. A fine piece rendered into a formless hunk befitting nothing but a frog. So I accepted my disappointment and carved a frog. I gazed at the ugly creature a moment before throwing it upon the mantlepiece. I’d put it with my other creations later. Someone, possibly some child, might find it decorative.

Upon the dawn of market day, I dragged from my bed and made ready to set out on my journey. At first determined upon the cobbled highway but soon changed my mind and set off upon the track that ran through the enchanted forest.

I know not why I approached the first clearing with such anticipation, but it did, only to be dropped into disappoint with no sign of a fairy. Truly, this magic place could give but one brief appearance for my creations.

A vacant second clearing sent me near into despondency as I recalled here was the spot that delightful youth had touched my flesh, sated my lust. At that moment, I acknowledged to myself that his was the touch I preferred. The lass had been delightful, but the lad had been extraordinary.

Despondent, I trudged onward, my bag of carvings becoming heavier and heavier with each step. Then, far down the trail, I saw the unmistakable glow of yet another clearing. Strange, I did not recall a third in my prior travels on this pathway.

As I entered the glade, I discerned some sort of creature sitting in the middle of a circle of sunlight. It took a moment to realize it was the very frog I’d created and left forgotten on the mantle beside the carving of the maid and the youth.

While I stood grappling with the meaning of this all, the creature spoke.

“Gronk! Sing me a song—gronk—and I’ll grant you a wish.”

“I have no wish for anything you can offer,” I snapped.

“Gronk. Be not so certain, my fair, young—gronk—lad.”

“I’ll not sing a song to the likes of you,” I said.

“Gronk, then you have wasted both effort and time. Gronk. What have you to lose by offering me a ditty?”

“Very well.” I chose the same song of a lonely sailor I’d sung for both fairies except I made the lyrics as gross as imagination would allow.

I faltered as the frog disappeared in a puff of smoke, to be replaced by a princely young man as golden as my carved maiden and as virile as my sculped lad. “Now what is your desire?” he asked in a resonant baritone?”

“Y… you,” I gasped.

“Then have me, you shall.”

By “have,” he did not mean as either the lass or the lad had meant. I had him all right, as much of him as I could take. He left me spent and exhausted on the forest floor, this princely fairy. I never made it to market that day, meaning I would eat potatoes every day for a week. But somehow I didn’t mind.

Lying exhausted in the grass with sunlight warming my naked body, my mind scrabbled around trying to settle on what to carve next to leave on my mantlepiece.

*****

I repeat my question of last week: How come I never stumbled upon a fairy? Perhaps I did and didn’t recognize it. What about you?

See you next week with something new..

Stay safe and stay strong.

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

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

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. 

I Took a Road and Chanced Upon a Fairy, Part Two of Three Parts

dontravis.com blog post #555

 Image courtesy of dreamstime.com

 

My stars, he whittled a comely lass, and his carnal desires were rewarded. What will happen next? (I’m sure you don’t know.)

****

                                  I TOOK A ROAD AND CHANCED UPON A FAIRY

The following week, I bundled my newest creations and set off for the village. My steps took me to the cobbled highway, but my mind quickly centered on the wonderful diversion the trek through the enchanted forest had produced last time. I quickly turned away and made for the forbidding woodland trail.

Yet when I reached that same glade dappled by the same sun, disappointment arose in my gullet. There was no one there. No fairy, no young woman with yellow hair and wide, inviting hips. My day turned gloomy, but now committed, I plodded on down the chosen, gloomy road.

After another mile or so, my sack of carvings growing heavier by the step, I spotted a light far down the darkened landscape. Aye, yet another clearing where Sol sent his arrows to provide light and warmth.

As I neared, I discerned a slender figure seated on a rock, chin resting on a hand. Had my lass returned after all? Nay. As I drew closer, a youth sprang to his feet and favored me with a broad smile.

My eyes skittered around the small clearing without discerning my fair maiden, only this oddly familiar young man with brown eyes and dark hair. With a start, I realized this was my second carving taken to flesh and bone. My eyes fell to the narrow waist and slender hips my fingers had often explored… at least in the oaken version of the fair youth.

“Welcome stranger,” he cried in an uncertain baritone. “For the price of a song, I’ll grant you a wish.”

“Aha, fortune strikes,” I cried. “So I can sing up a wagonful of gold, eh?”

The smile dimmed before growing again. “Nay, not riches of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, but other joys you might crave.”

“Then I know not what to wish for,” I said.

“Aye, you’ll think of something.” His smile turned brilliant. “So sing me a song.”

I chose the same sea chanty without bothering to clean it up. He clapped and laughed delightedly as I came to the raucous end.

“Wonderful And now your wish. What do you desire?”

“My mouth said, “You,” although my brain didn’t know where the word came from.

“Then have me, you shall,” he called, reaching for the tie to his trousers.

Once again, I arrived late at the marketplace in Stockcroft and fell on the stone steps before the church while customers bought my entire stock of carvings. Alas my neighbor with a wagon was nowhere in sight, so I stumbled down the highway to my cottage, arriving exhausted, yet somehow elated.

That night Ilay abed sleepless as my mind raced over my last two trips into town. Two awesome ventures, one vying with the other for ascendency. Heretofore, I’d never lain with a maid, much less a youth, and I struggled to assign each its proper place in my store of experiences. Each had its own accommodations, its own sense of titillation, of carnal release.

On the dawn of the next market day, I rose early, anxious to tackle the journey through the enchanted forest. My steps were rapid and anxious as I approached the first sundrenched clearing in the forbidding forest. No one. Nothing.

With anxious steps, I hurried down the path between tangled, dark boughs of trees of an uncertain origin. The second clearing, loomed. But it, too, proved empty, barren of either human or fairy folk. Disappointed, I completed the remainder of the trek to sell my wares, empty of the joy I had erroneously contemplated.

That night, as I lay abed, I came to understand my plight. The enchanted forest could endow my carved images with but one life. Immediately, my mind set to grappling with what I might claim next.

*****

I repeat my question of last week: How come I never stumbled upon a fairy? Perhaps I did and didn’t recognize it. What about you?

Stay safe and stay strong.

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

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 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. 

I Took a Road and Chanced Upon a Fairy, Part One of Three Parts

 dontravis.com blog post #554

Image courtesy of dreamstime.com

How many of you anticipated the ending of “Nightmares” last week? Hope I took some of you by surprise… but you’re a pretty perceptive bunch, so maybe not.

This week, we start a different kind of journey. Hope you’ll stick with me for it. Here goes.

****

                                  I TOOK A ROAD AND CHANCED UPON A FAIRY

I often trekked to Stockcroft to trade my wares and had done so since before my parents became Blessed Angels in the Good Lord’s heaven. My ma had always insisted I take the main road ’stead of the path through the wood. Being a lad, and later a young man, I was often tempted to defy her instructions, but she always mumbled and made the sign of the cross when she gave these instructions, so I curbed my curiosity and went to the village by way of the cobble-stoned roadway. There were usually others afoot on the highway, so the walk—though long—was often pleasant. My wood carvings usually excited conversations, and often I made my first and possibly second sale long ere reaching Stockcroft.

Two of my creations, I held to myself, generally out of sight of my dam and sire. But, alas, they were no longer in the cottage, so I boldly exhibited the carvings on the mantlepiece these days. One was an image of a fetching youth passing into manhood, with a cute nose, brown eyes, smiling lips, and curly locks falling over his smooth forehead. Somehow his narrow waist and slightly flaring hips drew my fingers to them, as did the slight bulge at the groin. I’d immediately snatch my hand away and look to see if I’d been caught out. But there was no one to scold me these days.

The other piece sharing the mantlepiece with the youth was a fair young maiden of similar years. Her nose was likewise pert, but her eyes were stained blue, and her hair draped her shoulders and rested upon a pleasing bosom. Just as often, my guilty fingers would touch that full breast and explore her broad, inviting hips.

Nary a six-month had passed ere my dam’s warnings about this or that or the other began to fade, along with her proscription of the forest track. So one day, I forgot her warnings and found myself on the way to Stockcroft via the forbidden trace. It was not long before I rued my choice. The trees closed in upon me before I accomplished a quarter of a league of my trek. My steps faltered, yet I placed one foot in front of the other upon spotting what appeared to be a sun-drenched clearing ahead.

My steps faltered as I discerned a figure in the midst of the clearing, but curiosity drew me onward until I saw it was a fairy. She was fair and fully as tall as I, yet there was no doubt in my mind she was a fairy. Lo, she was the embodiment of my figurine, right down to golden hair and eyes as blue as the sky.

As I drew near, her luscious, pouty lips broke into a smile and she spoke, her voice a clear crystal bell. “For the price of a song, I’ll grant you a wish.”

“I know not what to wish for.”

“Aye I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“What sort of song?”

“Whatever your heart desires.”

The church gospel I’d been mulling suddenly no longer seemed appropriate, so I chose a sea ditty, cleaning up the words somewhat. Although I’m no music hall tenor, I can carry a tune. When I finished, she clapped her hands and laughed.

“Wonderful. And now what would you like?”

I am certain I blushed at my answer. “You”

“And have me, you shall.”

The fairy was as good as her word, and I arrived late at Stockcroft on uncertain legs. And even though I plopped on the church steps unable to muster the energy to move, I sold all my carvings and caught a wagon ride home with a neighbor who lived a league beyond my cottage

*****

 How come I never stumbled upon a fairy? Perhaps I did and didn’t recognize it. What about you?

 See you next week when our unnamed protagonist has to decide on trying the enchanted track or not.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

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

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 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.

Nightmares, Part Two of Two Parts

dontravis.com blog post #553

Image courtesy of dreamstime.com

Last week, the gay kid Lyle was cornered in the boy’s room at his high school, stripped naked, and tossed into the hallway where half the student body saw him. He fled home where he found little, if any, support. Now what happens?

****

NIGHTMARES

I don’t have words to describe how I felt when I walked through the school doors on Monday. Smiles and giggles hidden behind cupped hands were bad. Sympathetic looks, mostly from girls, weren’t any better. The curled lips and disgusted frowns were worse, but at least they were honest. But the baddest of all was being called out of class to go see the principal, a prissy little man who went out of his way to make his attitude clear about fags… in my opinion because he was one.

“Lyle,” he said when I stood before his desk. “Friday was inexcusable. I won’t tolerate public nudity in my school. What were you thinking?”

“Wasn’t my idea… sir.” The “sir” came hard because I had no respect for this dominating, tinpot tyrant.

“What are you saying? Explain yourself.”

There was no doubt in my mind that he knew exactly what had happened and who perpetrated the event, but he was gonna do what everybody did… take the easy way out and blame it on the homo. Me.

“Four of them cornered me in the boy’s room, stripped me naked, and threw me out in the hallway.”

“What!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who?”

I clamped my mouth firmly shut. Although everyone knew, if I confirmed it aloud, I’d not only be a queer fag, I’d be a queer, fag rat squealer. And this bastard wouldn’t do anything about it, anyway.

“I asked you who, Lyle.”

“You know who…sir.”

The silence stretched out as his weak, blue eyes glared at me across the desk. “Very well, if you won’t put a name to these… delinquents, I’ll have to assume there were none, and that you chose to strip and expose yourself to the entire student body. I will also have to inform your parents of your outrageous actions. Do you have anything else to say for yourself?”

“No sir. Just that I’m telling you the truth… and you know it.”

“Don’t be impertinent. You are suspended from school for one week. Do not show your face around here until next Monday. Is that understood?”

“Yes sir.”

I studied the slate floor tiles as I walked back into the hall and straight out the front doors, keenly aware of the other students—my beloved classmates—and teachers carrying on their lives as if nothing had happened. Well, something had happened. And that was the real abomination.

Mom didn’t know what to do or say, so she managed one brief hug and mumbled about how much she loved me, and that was that.

The old man was strangely quiet for about an hour after he came home from the office, and then he cut loose with a lecture and a belting. The lecture was a rambling, semi-coherent thing about there being no fags in his family in living memory. The belting simply raised red welts on my backside and legs. Then the household settled into a seething stew of hostility.

That was the night, my dreams began to take form. The red was anger; the blue, fear. A yellowish haze in the background was cowardice.

Tuesday night, the yellow came more into focus. Who was the coward? I was, obviously, because I didn’t fight my nature and try to be somebody else for them. My father for being a bully who hid his head in the sand. My mother… I didn’t want to think about that one. I had her sympathy, but she didn’t lend me her strength. The principal for acting on what was convenient, not on what he knew. That rat bastard Clark Harbinger for….

Maybe he wasn’t a coward at all. As twisted as his thinking was, he’d done what he wanted to and to hell with the consequences. No, he wasn’t a coward, but he was still a rat bastard.

Then I proved I was the biggest coward of them all by crying through the rest of my dream.

****

The days loomed hard and heavy into the future. I stayed in bed late in the morning until my bladder chased me into the bathroom. I ignored the shower and lived in my pajama bottoms for the rest of the day, playing games on my computer and visiting web sites. Strange web sites. Web sites that hinted at revenge. Others that demanded it. Still others that explained how to achieve it.

When I refused to come to the table, Mom brought plates of food and left them outside my door. I’d hear her come and go, and then I’d snatch open the door, grab the food, and wolf it down in a hurry so I could get back to the web sites. I even worked up the courage to post on a few of them. Lo and behold, I found sympathy there. Not just meaningless words of “so sorry” or “poor you,” but exhortations to stand up for myself. Stand against the world.

I’d have sudden bouts of uncontrolled weeping during which I’d huddle in the fetal position on my bed while tears flowed. Then I’d sleep… and dream. Even in the daytime. Dream of revenge, of exposing the cowards who ruled my life, let me down.

One day, Thursday, I think it was, I daydreamed of the revenge I’d take on Clark. I showed up at his door, taking him by surprise. In this coherent, satisfying dream, I advantaged his astonishment and shoved him inside where I twisted his arm behind his back until he cried “uncle.” Then I raped his ass while he begged me to stop. Then he implored me not to stop. He liked it. The frigging pansy liked it.

But my night dreams grew redder… and darker. I couldn’t see what was happening, but something was, and I could feel it. Something with more red. Something with loud noises and crying and begging and pleas for forgiveness. Roiling, riotous, nightmares that left me frightened and contented and exhausted and hopeful, all at the same time.

My father tried to intrude on my isolation, but I surprised us both by standing up to him, returning threat with threat and deflecting vile accusation with dreadful riposte. He left me alone after that.

Gradually, I came to treasure those days I had dreaded before. As Monday grew closer, I became more anxious, more resentful. Sunday night’s dream grew more tumultuous, more fearsome than others. I seemed to be more involved, feeling my muscles moving as I fought my way through the increasing horror of the night. Until suddenly, everything went quiet, and I slept peacefully.

It was morning, Monday morning. I knew I had to go to class and face the disdainful looks of teacher and student alike. But I couldn’t. Another dream claimed me. Not another one, the same one. Full of motion and color and fear and disgust.

I felt as if I were moving. Going somewhere. But I had to do it for real. Time for school. To face… to face…

I opened my eyes and glanced down at myself. I was still in my pajama bottoms, but they were fouled with a dark brown crust. Had I soiled myself? No… blood. It was dried blood. My chest was speckled with it too. But I didn’t feel injured.

I stood puzzling until I gradually grew aware of where I was. At the granite steps to the school. Semi-naked and filthy right in front of my loving, embracing, supportive high school. Then I realized I held something in my hand. Something my father loved more passionately than he loved his wife… or his son. His AR-15 rifle. I hefted it as I eyed the big, double doors.

Then as if blinders had been ripped from my eyes, everything finally came clear. Enervated, I darted up the steps.

 *****

 Well, it went where far too many of our bullying and prejudices and mistreatment go these days. The far right claims it’s not guns that are responsible, it’s the sick bastards who wield them. The other side say it’s because assault—military-style—guns are too accessible. Has anyone considered that maybe it’s the way we treat our marginalized, vulnerable individuals may be a big part of the equation? Yes, inappropriate weaponry is far too accessible. And yes, the weapons themselves don’t commit the atrocities. But they sure make it easier to accomplish.

 That’s all… until the next unspeakable, unthinkable event.

 See you next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

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

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 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. 

Nightmares, Part One of Two Parts

dontravis.com blog post #552

 Image courtesy of dreamstime.com

 Well, my creepy side’s back again.

Let’s see where it leads us.

 

****

NIGHTMARES                    

Life wasn’t easy for a homo in my little southern Oklahoma town. Not when I was growing up, at any rate. I’d always been different. Even my father despaired of me. His constant refrain was, “Lyle, you need to get out more,” his code for saying “Hey, ’fraidy pants, go play some sports.” Sorry, not interested. Rather read. That way I can get out of this hick, small-minded town, at least for an hour or so.

I’d been called queer ever since I was fourteen, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t even know what I was or would turn out to be at that age. In the four years since, I’d heard it all: queer, homo, fairy, sicko, fag, bitch, fruit… oh, and abom, short for abomination. Those four, hard years left their mark on me. I was a loner, instantly latching onto the few who were willing to be friendly, only to have to let go when they got driven away by the prevailing attitude of our peers or else move out of town.

I learned early on that withdrawing was my best course of action. Drawing in the horns, taking pleasure in my own company. Bound to leave a mark, and I guess it did. For a while, I’d react like an eager puppy to any guy who gave me any attention. And some of them did, until I realized what they were looking for. And I gave it to them, for the most part, hoping they’d be appreciative enough to claim me as a friend. Yeah, right. They’d come sneaking around when they needed their ashes hauled, and then go back to being the jerks they really were. That’s when I went into my shell.

Then came the day Clark Harbinger and his gang cornered me in the boy’s room at the high school.

“Well, if it isn’t the town fruitcake,” he said as I stood at the urinal draining the last few drops. “Hey, look, guys,” he said, raising his voice, “Abam has a cock like the rest of us. Too bad he doesn’t know what to do with it.”

Despite the fact he had three of his goons with him, I let my mouth get away from me. “Oh, yeah. Drop your drawers, and I’ll show you.”

“Got a better idea, queer. You drop yours, and I’ll show you how a man uses his equipment.”

“Man? Baboon, maybe, but a man? I doubt that.”

Both of us ignored the fact that two days earlier, Clark had come sniffing around, and I’d yielded to pressure and given him a blow.

“Drop ’em,” he ordered.

“Screw you, Clark Harbinger, and the dinosaur you rode in on.”

“Okay, guys, he needs persuading.

I fought like a son-of-a-bitch—in my own ineffective way—but in short order I was naked as a jaybird. They hadn’t even left my socks on before they threw me out into the hallway where every student in school was passing on the way to the next class. There was a shocked silence until a few “Oh’s” broke the spell. Teeters and sniggers and guffaws soon filled the hallway.

Humiliated, I scrambled for the bathroom, but Clark was on his way out and shoved me over on my butt. Really exposed now, I scrambled to my feet and raced through the boy’s room door where I found my clothes stuffed into two different commodes. I fished them out and wrung them as dry as possible before putting them on and racing for home.

My mom looked shocked when I sailed through the door in sodden clothing. I said I’d got caught in sprinklers, but I could see she didn’t buy my story. Nonetheless, she let it go, and I made straight for my room where I took a long shower before donning dry clothing. After that, I huddled on my bed fighting tears and dreading my father’s arrival home from work. No doubt he’d have caught wind of what happened by that time. How would he handle it? He’d either give me a belting for not standing up for myself or ignore the whole thing. He was pretty good at avoiding unpleasant situations.

Ignoring it was what he chose. But supper that evening was a solemn affair. All of us kept our eyes on our own plates and talk was reduced to mutters of “pass this” or “pass that.” My little brother Charlie knew something was going on because he kept looking at each of us, but he kept is mouth shut. That was okay. He’d find out soon enough. The whole damned, opinionated, hypocritical town would find out.

The nightmares started that night.

I don’t remember much of the first one. Vague, frightening images… but I couldn’t say what was frightening or why. Lots of reds—I hadn’t known I dreamt in color—and blues. Clark was in it, at least his laughter was. He laughed so loud I woke up once and stared into the darkness wondering what was going on. But I dropped off again ell into the same vague, unformed, yet somehow terrifying dream. I woke up exhausted and terrified of going to school.

I took an easier breath when I realized it was Saturday. I’d had two whole days before I had to face that nightmare… this time a living nightmare.

Mom fixed a special breakfast that morning, so I knew she’d heard all about the school incident. Her eyes were soft and sympathetic, her lips constantly moving, yet she never said a word about the incident. I didn’t know if that was good or bad. Not facing it would be easier in the short run, but a little motherly comfort would have been welcome right then.

Dad had already taken refuge on the golf course where he’d stay all day. That way, he could avoid the issue… heck, avoid his biggest embarrassment—me.

*****

 Where in the world is this going? I haven’t written the rest of it yet, so I don’t know. Maybe you have some suggestions. Feel free to express them.

 Until next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

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

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 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.