Mark Wildyr's Blog, page 20

Mark Wildyr: Every Scar's a Story

Mark Wildyr: Every Scar's a Story: markwildyr.com, Post #71 Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons Got quite a few hits on Don Travis’s “Piquant.” Hope you enjoyed his story....

Every Scar's a Story

markwildyr.com, Post #71

Courtesy of Wikimedia CommonsGot quite a few hits on Don Travis’s “Piquant.” Hope you enjoyed his story. Today, we’re going to look at a piece of my flash fiction.
*****
EVERY SCAR’S A STORY
            Professor Goddard wrapped up the class, “So remember, every scar has a story. It’s just that sometimes the message gets lost with the passage of time.”            As was his wont, Goddard had wandered from the subject of human cultures to human actions. My first year at college was interesting but strangely impersonal. But Goddard’s parting remarks today struck close to home. My most prominent scar was to the psyche, and I recalled the story behind that scar vividly.

            Darvon Halter graduated high school a year ahead of me as a celebrated jock. I did not fully appreciate the nature of my attraction to him until my junior year when I noticed not only his handsome features, but also his appealing frame. I’d been aware of his hunky appearance all along but thought I was merely envious. Long, lean muscles rolled and roped as he moved.            But my junior year was a milestone. That’s when I became aware of the real reason my eyes always strayed to Dar whenever he was on the scene, and it had nothing to do with envy. I was in love. Or at least “in infatuation.” Strange, because I was a boy, too.            I’d always been more comfortable in the company of my own gender, preferring the joshing of guys to the gushing of girls. I didn’t feel any particular sexual attraction to any of them, merely preferred their company. Until a switch got flipped in my junior year, and I wanted to put my hands all over Darwin Halter. Don’t think anybody else was aware of my hidden desires, but Dar was.            He showed it by flashing a smile and a wink on the sly sometimes. Occasionally giving me a ride in his ancient Studebaker that everyone called his “babemobile.” Whenever I was in the car with him alone, he’d spread his legs wide to give me a good view. Like as not, he’d glance over and deliver a slow smile. Dumb me would just sit and stare and try to keep from panting.             Apparently, Dar got tired of pussyfooting. One night, he caught me walking home from the movies and offered a ride. After a couple of blocks, he pulled to the side of the road… beneath a street lamp yet… and performed the old spread-the-legs maneuver. I gulped audibly.            After a couple of seconds, he snorted. “Crap, you need an invitation? Go ahead.”            “G-go ahead and what?”            “Cop a feel. That’s what you want, right?”            “Is… is it okay?”            He laughed. “Hell, it belongs to me. If I say so, it must be all right.”            The most marvelous feeling swept over me. My hero… my guy had picked me. Wasn’t any girl sitting beside him in the babemobile. It was me, Wally Hill. My hand snaked over and rested on his upper leg. Then it moved again, this time cupping his core and feeling him react. My mouth went dry. I shivered.            He closed his legs, trapping my hand. “Hold on.”            The old Studebaker roared to life and shot down the road. As besotted as I was, I recognized he was heading out of town. A chill swept my back at the same time my cheeks flushed. Was it going to happen? Then I frowned. What was going to happen? I had no clear idea of that… but Dar did.            He no sooner parked in an isolated spot near the river than he undid his pants and shoved them to the floorboard. I lost my mind then and did everything he wanted, exactly as he dictated, even though this wasn’t what I’d imagined we’d do. Didn’t seem so romantic… but at least it was intimate. Something he enjoyed. I know that from the moaning and groaning and occasional encouraging words that came from him.

            That was the story. The scar came the next day when I went into the boy’s room at school and found a message inked on the wall of the stall. “Wally gives good head!”            I went woozy for a minute. Someone must have seen us. Dar wouldn’t…. I sat paralyzed, unable to move. Of course, he would. He’d played me for a sucker. Gave me what I wanted… but in the way he wanted… just so he could broadcast it to the world. I tried erasing the message but couldn’t. I inked it over and fled the stall, my cheeks blazing. I imagined the guys standing at the urinals smirked at my passing.            But there was more story and more scarring yet to come. Two days later, when Dar pulled up beside me as I walked home from school, I crawled into his car… hating myself as much as I hated him. We ended up down by the river again, and I gave him what he wanted. I couldn’t help myself. I coveted him. I lied to myself by imagining I was the only one he did this with… ignoring his reputation with the girls… convincing myself he’d only written that hateful message out of feelings of guilt.            You can imagine the rest. The messages still came… as did a couple of his buddies, and before long I was known as the town queer. Of course, Dar graduated and left for college before long, leaving me behind with my scar and my story and another year to go before I could escape to some university far away from home.
*****Sounds as if Darwin was not only a celebrated jock, but also a certified jerk. Can you plot Wally’s future from that point on? Did he become so repressed that he denied who he was, or did he find his way out of a mental shell to express himself as he was? It’s a real question, and one lots of young men have struggled with in the past and will in the future. I hope you enjoyed the reading.
Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. I also believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but it’ll take some help from readers to get Dreamspinner interested.
My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:Website and blog: markwildyr.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2
And now my mantra (yes, it’s mine, even if I borrowed it from Don Travis): Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!
Until next time.
Mark
New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.

Mark Wildyr: PIQUANT, a Guest Post by Mark Wildyr

Mark Wildyr: PIQUANT, a Guest Post by Mark Wildyr: markwildyr.com, Post #70     Turnabout is fair play, they say. I guest posted on his blog last week; therefore, I asked Don Travis to ...

PIQUANT, a Guest Post by Mark Wildyr

markwildyr.com, Post #70  Turnabout is fair play, they say. I guest posted on his blog last week; therefore, I asked Don Travis to re-post one of his blog posts. He came up with something called “Piquant,” which was featured on dontravis.com on September 20 of this year. (See, Don, I’m kind enough to reference your blog address. You didn’t bother with mine.)
At any rate, here’s his offering for this week. Enjoy.
***** Courtesy of Wikipedia CommonsPIQUANT
By Don Travis
          Sometimes vocabulary—you know, words—can get you into trouble.          Let me tell you what I mean. My name is Wylie, and I’m about as different from the other kids in my class as my name is from Robert or John. I guess you could say, I’m confused. Sometimes I see Helen Hagen practicing with the other cheerleaders and I get all steamy from looking at her curves and long blonde hair. You know, feeling weird down there and ashamed someone will see and hoping she does. Okay, that’s the way it’s supposed to be, so what’s the problem?          The problem is Robby Belson, who’s the team quarterback and as pretty as Helen is… except in a different way. And he’s as curvy as she is, too… but still in a different sort of way. But my insides treat them the same. I get syrupy and weak-kneed and stutter and embarrassed around either one of them.          I’m not on the team, but I run the snack bar at the school’s field, so I’m around both the team and the cheerleaders a lot. Worse, I have classes with the two of them. And to top things off, I do better in the classes than either one. Especially, in the English class. That’s where I got in trouble.          Miss Hardesty was talking to us about vocabulary. How everyone needs a better one. How to build one. As usual, she picked on me to make her point.          “Wylie, describe Helen in one word.”          “Beautiful.” I’m sure I blushed a little, but she merely smiled.          “Come now, you can do better than that. You have a great vocabulary. Use it.”          “Lovely, alluring, glamorous.” My mouth got started, and I couldn’t stop. “Exquisite, radiant—”          “Excellent,” she interrupted. “Now describe Robby in one word.”          “Piquant,” I blurted without thinking.           Someone from the back of the room spoke into the sudden hush. “Doesn’t that mean hot and spicy?”           Ears flaming, cheeks scarlet, I nodded my head. “Y-yes.”          Thank goodness, Miss Hardesty moved on to others to make her points. I sat for the rest of the class with my head down, not daring to look at anyone.          I walked home alone feeling as low as a wad of gum on a shoe sole. Everyone stared at my back as I passed by, or at least I was convinced of that.          I followed my usual pattern of grabbing a glass of milk and a cookie to settle down at the kitchen table to do my homework. I always finished it before my folks got home. Dad was a carpenter and mom worked at a day care center.          Finished my lessons, I was considering splurging on another cookie when the phone rang. When I answered it, my spirits soared through the roof.          “Wanna go for a Coke?” *****Then Don asks you to take a guess at who’s calling… Helen, Robby, or the teacher. You can end it like you want. Hope you enjoyed the reading.
Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. I also believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but it’ll take some help from readers to get Dreamspinner interested.
My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:Website and blog: markwildyr.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2
And now my mantra (yes, it’s mine, even if I borrowed it from Don Travis): Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!
Until next time.
Mark
New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.

Mark Wildyr: Captain Chicken Hawk

Mark Wildyr: Captain Chicken Hawk: markwildyr.com, Post #69 Courtesy of cliparts.free.net So far, “Marco? Polo!” is getting good hits… some of them from the “unknown...

Captain Chicken Hawk

markwildyr.com, Post #69
Courtesy of cliparts.free.netSo far, “Marco? Polo!” is getting good hits… some of them from the “unknown region” I mentioned earlier. Really would like to know who that is.
Let’s try a little flash fiction whimsy this time.
*****CAPTAIN CHICKEN HAWK

          The life of a superhero ain’t all it’s cracked up to be! Might not be so bad if I could just yell “Shazam!” or “Cream Cheese” or something, but like that guy in the blue union suit and red briefs, I gotta find a phone booth or some nook or cranny before I go into action. And I don’t like wearing my superhero gear under my street clothes… it itches too much. Superman’s lucky he’s in Gotham City with lots of booths. Albuquerque doesn’t have a single one. All we have are these kiosk things, and there’s precious little privacy there.           Once, as I changed into my uniform, some blue-haired old lady set up such a screech that I had to take off half-dressed. It gets chilly flying around with your fanny hanging out. Tired of losing wallets to thieves while performing heroic deeds, I now hang my street clothes in a tree or from a tall building somewhere. Oh, yeah, and I’m gay. Only superhero who admits to it… but I have my suspicions about Batman and that cute Robin.           Guess I should say something about my superhero name. I've always been drawn to noble birds, you know, eagles and hawks, but I rejected ‘Eagle’ because it calls to mind this big, bald-headed bird. Definitely uncool. Since there’s already a guy calling himself Hawk, I settled on “Falcon” and added the Captain part to give it some pizzazz.          My mom, the only soul in the universe who knew my secrets—well, one of my secrets—was totally ignorant of feathered raptors, so she copied a bird from a book and emblazoned it on the chest of the uniform she whipped up. Wouldn’t you know? It wasn’t a falcon; it was a hawk! Worse, some bird-watcher freak recognized it as a chicken hawk, and that was that. Little did anyone understand how appropriate that name was.           Mom was also the only person who knew where my powers come from, but she wouldn't spill the beans, not even to me. She’s mentioned my absent father exactly once to say he is ‘one of a kind.’ Was I sired by an alien being?           I spent most of my time soaring over the town keeping an eagle … uh, hawk-eye … out for misbehaving miscreants. Did I draw excited squeals from little kids? “Look! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! No! It’s Captain Chicken Hawk!”


          I observed a west side drive-by shooting one day and followed the shooter’s red ’57 Impala to a semi-rural area near the Bosque. When I landed on the road in front of the driver, he screeched to a halt, and with my supervision I saw the lean, young face behind the windscreen harden.          The kid tromped on the accelerator, and the Chevy shot forward. I executed a somersault over the speeding car and grabbed the rear bumper, twisting the vehicle so that it left the road and bumped across a rough field where it became mired in the sandy soil. The driver bailed and bolted.          Once again, I took flight and landed in front of the youth. His look went from surprise to panic as he snatched a pistol from his belt and leveled it at me. “Get outta my way!” he yelled in a baritone gone shrill.           Oh, crap! Not that. I hate guns. Bullets sting like crazy. So I obeyed him. Performing another graceful somersault, I landed behind the startled gunman and grabbed the black thirty-eight revolver from his hand. Seizing him by the scruff of his neck, I took off. Fantastic! I not only had the shooter but also the weapon used in the drive-by. A slam dunk for the cops!          The little bastard had other ideas. He immediately shrugged out of his muscle-shirt and landed in a heap on the ground. He scrambled to his feet and loped across the field, limping slightly. I hovered above him, admiring the kid’s spunk … not to mention those wiry back muscles that rippled nicely as he ran.          The kid was slender, almost thin, but his torso had decent definition. Brown skin wet with the sweat of his efforts and fear, glistened in the afternoon sun. He was about to reach cover, so I swooped down and latched onto his belt, angling for some quick altitude to intimidate the kid.          Didn’t work. Before we were ten feet in the air, he slipped headfirst right out of his baggy, gangsta britches and fell back to earth. If the guy was fetching before, now he was downright sexy. As I dropped in front of him, he came to another quick stop, panting and glaring at me wild-eyed. His chest heaved deeply … erotically. Why would a handsome kid like this shoot another human being? The ink on both arms might have been clues, but I didn't read Tattoo.          “Who … who are you?” he demanded breathlessly. "That Captain … uh, Captain…”          “Hawk,” I supplied helpfully.          “Chicken Hawk,” he corrected contemptuously.          “I’m your worst nightmare kid,” I replied with as much decorum as I could muster “I’m going to bring you before the bar of justice.”           The little punk laughed. “You talk like a comic book or something! Hell, you look like a comic book.”           “That’s the way superheroes talk,” I sputtered indignantly. “Now it’s time to see you to the authorities to answer for shooting an innocent pedestrian.”          The guy didn’t learn very fast. He made another run for it. I snatched at his shorts, but he ran right out of them. There wasn’t anything to do but hug the naked thug, so I clasped him around the waist and lifted off, heading straight for the cops at the scene of the crime. After handing over the revolver and explaining where they could find the kid’s car, I prepared to take my leave. An officer stopped me by handing over a piece of paper.          What's this?" I demanded.          "A ticket for indecent exposure. I figure the perp didn't arrive that way voluntarily. So you're to blame."          I snatched the ticket and soared away, not to the usual hurrahs of admiring officers of the law ringing in my ears, but with laughter following me into the sky. A reminder not to deliver a naked suspect again. The cops were kinda particular about that kind of thing.
 *****I know it’s ridiculous, but I had some fun with it. Hope you did, too.
Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns.. I also believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but it’ll take some help from readers to get Dreamspinner interested.
My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:Website and blog: markwildyr.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2
And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!
Until next time.
Mark
New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.

Mark Wildyr: Marco? Polo!

Mark Wildyr: Marco? Polo!: markwildyr.com, Post #68 Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons “Waders” received some nice comments on my personal email address. Strang...

Marco? Polo!

markwildyr.com, Post #68
Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons“Waders” received some nice comments on my personal email address. Strange how things work. Page views from the US barely outstripped Spain over the past 30 days with China falling third. But high up there on the list were hits from “Unknown Region.” This raises a question in my mind. Can aliens be reading my posts? You know, otherworldly aliens. If so, know that you’re welcome.
This week, let’s try another trip down memory lane.

*****MARCO? POLO!
          If you want my advice, don’t ever get tagged as part of a game. I’m Marco Benson, and my best buddy is Robert Polo. Need I say more? Nobody ever tags me as Benson—except the baseball coach. And nobody—but nobody—ever calls him Robert or Rob or Bob or Bobby.          I believe that if anyone asked my friend if he had a habit, he’d say “Marco.” If asked the same question, I’d come right back with “Polo.” We were not only best buds for life, we were habits. That’s a hard bond to break.          Somebody nearly did it our senior year. This gal named Sissy Rawls made a serious move on him. Of course, he responded. And it worked out okay for a while because he always got me to double with them with Mary Anne Winchester. We had some fun together, but when I went home after a double, I’d get to reliving things and realize it was Polo who kept the evening going… at least for me.          Then Sissy started making demands. She wanted him to herself, not as a part of a quartet. So far as I knew Mary Anne was perfectly happy with the way things were. Why did Sissy have to upset the apple cart?          But upset it, she did. First, she put her foot down about the spring prom. If Mary Anne and I wanted to go, we could do it on our own. Despite my initial disappointment, that didn’t turn out too bad because we hooked up at the dance.          I felt a little funny when they pulled away in Polo’s old Chevy coupe, but that resolved itself when we ended up parked beside them up on the bluff with half a dozen other cars. They were still there when Mary Anne and I pulled away. I felt a little funny down in my guts as I lay in bed that night wondering if Polo was still up on the bluff with Sissy. Why did I care? I don’t know, but I did.          The next morning, Polo said Sissy had a conniption fit when we parked beside them last night. My mother’s always having a “conniption” fit, but I couldn’t tell the difference between that and a regular fit. But that’s what my dad always said… and so did Polo. So… conniption fit, it was.           The school year rocked on, and I mean “rocked” as in a rocking chair. Several times I found myself at functions without my buddy and felt at sea. Occasionally, he made comments that led me to believe he was feeling the same.          One day at the beginning of November, we found ourselves sitting together in the gym after a workout with nobody else around. Comfort and companionship almost overwhelmed me in the first five minutes as we chattered like old times. Then we fell silent. That was comfortable, too. Used to happen all the time. Finally, Polo sat up straight on the bleacher seat beside me.          “You know what?”          “What?”          “I’m tired of it all.”          “Tired of what?”          “Sissy and dates and walking the straight and narrow.”          “Me, too.”          He looked straight into my eyes. “Marco, I’m not up for the winter prom.”          “No?”          “No. I’m up for you.”          Wooo! *****
Sounds as if a new experience is about to enter Marco's and Polo’s lives. What happens next? I’ll leave that to your imagination… or perhaps remembrance of something similar in your own background.
Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns.. I believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I would like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but it’ll take some help from readers to get Dreamspinner interested.
My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:Website and blog: markwildyr.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2
And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!
Until next time.
Mark
New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.

Mark Wildyr: Waders

Mark Wildyr: Waders: markwildyr.com, Post #67 Courtesy of Maxpixel.net “Hem and Haw” got a decent number of page views last time, a lot of them from th...

Waders

markwildyr.com, Post #67
Courtesy of Maxpixel.net“Hem and Haw” got a decent number of page views last time, a lot of them from the Ukraine. Hello to all of you over there and welcome.
This week, let’s try another flash fiction.
*****WADERS
          I remember the very instant I saw Robby as a man. As he struggled to shore, fighting the current of the shallow river, his long legs encased in rubber waders, it struck me that my young buddy, my hero worshiper was all grown up. I’d known him since birth and lived in the house beside his ever since. His father, ten years my senior, had sort of adopted me after I lost my own to an automobile accident. Weldon Riggs, although devoted to his wife, was right there whenever my widowed mother needed help. But as his accounting business grew, he devoted more and more of his waking hours to it, leaving me to provide companionship to his son… just as he had me. Seemed fair.          Robby had called me Uncle Mikey ever since I was fifteen-years-old until he reached the age of twelve when he dropped the y, and I became Uncle Mike. I enjoyed his company and adoration as much as his father had doubtless been pleased by mine. While most of my classmates eventually grew distracted by sports and girls and life in general, I took pleasure in introducing Robby to such things. I coached him, mentored him, and loved him as surely as if he were my own brother.          But things changed during that fishing trip taken in celebration of his eighteenth birthday. As he slogged up onto the shore, he met my gaze and held it for a long moment before dropping his eyes.          “Damned waders feel like they weigh a ton in the water,” he said, his color a bit higher than usual.          “You let water get over the top of them, and you’ll know what a ton really feels like.”          He laughed. “Yeah. Guess so. But they sure keep your feet dry. Not warm, but dry.” He held up a stringer with three decent-sized trout on it. “You hungry, Uncle Mike?”          The moment passed; the world stabilized on its axis again. I cleaned, and he filleted. Never had pan-fried trout tasted so good. We laughed and teased our way through the meal.          A thunder shower drove us inside the tent, and we lay atop our respective sleeping bags, listening to the rat-a-tat-tat of raindrops against the canvas. Utter contentment. My mind briefly flitted to the image of him coming out of the water in those heavy waders this afternoon before succumbing to sleep as the Lord’s tears drummed against the tent.          I woke to find him propped on one elbow studying me. “Whoa? What’s up?”          “Did you know your eyelids flutter when you sleep?”          “Everybody’s does at some point. Something about the sleep stage you’re in.”          His pleasing visage grew solemn. His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. “What… what happened this afternoon?”          “We ate some bitchin’ trout. Wish we could do it every day.”          “Before that. When I waded up on the shore.”          I averted my eyes. The storm had passed, but I knew from the gloom that clouds still shrouded the sun. Thunder rolled in the distance. The faint odor of wet grass and sodden pines permeated the tent. In the pregnant silence, I heard water drop from soggy limbs. Some landed on the canvas protecting us with startlingly loud thuds.          “Don’t tell me it was my imagination, Uncle Mike. I saw something in your look.”          I closed my eyes and tried to relax muscles I hadn’t realized were tense. “I… I saw you as a man.”          He lay on his back. His movement brought my eyes open. Some people’s appearance suffer in profile. Not Robby’s. He was so handsome, my heart ached. He licked his lips before speaking. “I’ve always seen you as a man.”          “Of course, you do. I’ve got ten years on you.”          “That’s not what I mean.” He turned on his side away from me, exposing his broad, tapered back to my gaze.          I’m sure I hesitated only a moment, but it seemed like an eon before I turned and spooned against him. When I threw an arm over him, he grasped my hand and moved it where he wanted.          “Oh… Mike!” he breathed gently.
*****The imagination runs wild, doesn’t it? But tell me something. If things progressed the way most of us dream it would, did Mike and Robby cement a relationship… or ruin one. It can go either way, you know. Lust sometimes demands what the conscience can’t accept. I know how I think it worked out, do you?
Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns.. I also believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but it’ll take some help from readers to get Dreamspinner interested.
My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:Website and blog: markwildyr.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2
And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!
Until next time.
Mark
New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.