Mark Wildyr's Blog, page 21
August 16, 2018
Mark Wildyr: Hem and Haw
Mark Wildyr: Hem and Haw: I seem to be stuck on short fiction, so that’s what we get this week, as well. Hope you enjoy this bit of nonsense. ***** Courte...
Hem and Haw
I seem to be stuck on short fiction, so that’s what we get this week, as well. Hope you enjoy this bit of nonsense.
*****
Courtesy of Wikimedia CommonsHem and Haw
I’d known Hem forever. That wasn’t his real name, of course. It was Jimmie. But everyone called him Hem. My name’s Karl, but to our world, I was Haw. We earned those monikers honestly from the time we were kids by constantly playing the old “After you, my dear Alphonse” routine. That started years ago and continues today. To wit: yesterday when we decided we needed a treat from the summer heat, we started our usual humdrum. “You wanna go to the diner or the malt shop?” Hem asked. “I dunno. You?” A shrug. “I dunno. Milkshake would be good.” “Malt shop makes them better.” “You think so? Diner makes good strawberries.” “Yeah,” I came back at him, “but I think chocolate shakes are better at the shop.” “Which one do you want?” Now it was my time to shrug. I’m not exactly sure how, but we ended up at the malt shop with chocolate shakes.
The day I noticed how Hem's broad shoulders stretched the polo shirt he wore, the way I thought about him changed. But it wasn’t something I could talk about to him or anybody else. If I opened my mouth about that, he’d give me a black eye and never speak to me again. The black eye, I could take. Never speaking to him again… no way. So I held my tongue and being around him became exquisite torture. The only thing worse was not being around him. We were equal in age—almost to the same month—but the mirror told me I lagged far behind him in physical development. Life wasn’t fair. First time I reached that conclusion. I guess I lived a sheltered life.
About six months after my epiphany, we were sitting on the floor in my family’s basement game room with a chessboard between us, concentrating on the game. At least he was. I was admiring anew his shoulders and his pecs beneath the thin shirt and the V of his torso. When he shifted position and spread his legs, I couldn’t help it. My eyes went right to the fly of his walking shorts. I swallowed hard and glanced up. His eyes bored into mine. I’d been flat-out caught eyeing his basket. “I been thinking about it, too,” he said. My mouth dropped open and my heart rate soared. “A-about what?” “Come on, man. I saw where you were looking.” “Was not. I mean, you didn’t. I mean—” Sweat trickled down my sides. “I’m not blind. You were studying my crotch,” Hem said “I… I….” I hawed. “That’s okay. I’ve checked out yours a couple of times.” “Y-you have?” “Sure. You interested?” “Maybe. You?” “Like I said, been thinking about it. You?” I watched his face as I answered. “Sometimes. I mean… yeah, interested. I guess.” “Me, too… I guess.” “What do we do?” I asked. “Dunno. This is new to me.” “Me, too. But what do we do now?” “Hell, I don’t know. You sure you want to do this?
“Yeah… I guess.”
*****Did Jimmie and Karl… uh, Hem and Haw, ever get together? What do recollections from your own past tell you?
Please take a look at my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. Amazon permits you to read a short passage from the books. 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.
*****
Courtesy of Wikimedia CommonsHem and HawI’d known Hem forever. That wasn’t his real name, of course. It was Jimmie. But everyone called him Hem. My name’s Karl, but to our world, I was Haw. We earned those monikers honestly from the time we were kids by constantly playing the old “After you, my dear Alphonse” routine. That started years ago and continues today. To wit: yesterday when we decided we needed a treat from the summer heat, we started our usual humdrum. “You wanna go to the diner or the malt shop?” Hem asked. “I dunno. You?” A shrug. “I dunno. Milkshake would be good.” “Malt shop makes them better.” “You think so? Diner makes good strawberries.” “Yeah,” I came back at him, “but I think chocolate shakes are better at the shop.” “Which one do you want?” Now it was my time to shrug. I’m not exactly sure how, but we ended up at the malt shop with chocolate shakes.
The day I noticed how Hem's broad shoulders stretched the polo shirt he wore, the way I thought about him changed. But it wasn’t something I could talk about to him or anybody else. If I opened my mouth about that, he’d give me a black eye and never speak to me again. The black eye, I could take. Never speaking to him again… no way. So I held my tongue and being around him became exquisite torture. The only thing worse was not being around him. We were equal in age—almost to the same month—but the mirror told me I lagged far behind him in physical development. Life wasn’t fair. First time I reached that conclusion. I guess I lived a sheltered life.
About six months after my epiphany, we were sitting on the floor in my family’s basement game room with a chessboard between us, concentrating on the game. At least he was. I was admiring anew his shoulders and his pecs beneath the thin shirt and the V of his torso. When he shifted position and spread his legs, I couldn’t help it. My eyes went right to the fly of his walking shorts. I swallowed hard and glanced up. His eyes bored into mine. I’d been flat-out caught eyeing his basket. “I been thinking about it, too,” he said. My mouth dropped open and my heart rate soared. “A-about what?” “Come on, man. I saw where you were looking.” “Was not. I mean, you didn’t. I mean—” Sweat trickled down my sides. “I’m not blind. You were studying my crotch,” Hem said “I… I….” I hawed. “That’s okay. I’ve checked out yours a couple of times.” “Y-you have?” “Sure. You interested?” “Maybe. You?” “Like I said, been thinking about it. You?” I watched his face as I answered. “Sometimes. I mean… yeah, interested. I guess.” “Me, too… I guess.” “What do we do?” I asked. “Dunno. This is new to me.” “Me, too. But what do we do now?” “Hell, I don’t know. You sure you want to do this?
“Yeah… I guess.”
*****Did Jimmie and Karl… uh, Hem and Haw, ever get together? What do recollections from your own past tell you?
Please take a look at my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. Amazon permits you to read a short passage from the books. 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.
August 2, 2018
Mark Wildyr: My Shallow Life
Mark Wildyr: My Shallow Life: markwildyr.com, Post #65 Had quite a few comments on “I’m My Own Man.” Hope the flash fiction piece I wrote for this week generates as ...
My Shallow Life
markwildyr.com, Post #65
Had quite a few comments on “I’m My Own Man.” Hope the flash fiction piece I wrote for this week generates as much interest. Here goes.
*****
Courtesy of PixabayMY SHALLOW LIFE I lived a shallow, stingy existence in a deep, rich environment. For most of my eighteen years, I had imagined the time when I would leave my farm townhome behind for the wonderful life of a college student. That time was now, and it was nothing like my dreams. I had the scholastic part down okay, but the life eluded me. Everyone else was so cosmopolitan while I was… so provincial. In short, I didn’t fit. My dorm mate, who was from Dallas, devoted one afternoon to me and then abandoned me for more interesting company. I spoke the language of tennis and was a fair left-handed player, so most of my free time was spent on the courts. I developed a few sports friends but no drinking buddies. Again, my fault. I didn’t drink and turned down the few invitations that came my way. My attitude was prompted by a father who—if he was not an outright alcoholic—was at least a dipsomaniac. On a whim, I tried out for a minor part in a stage play. The character was an odd loner, and I knew how to play that part from the heart, so I was chosen. If a History major was adrift in a broader college milieu, he was totally asea in a Fine Arts setting. Once again, I was alone, sitting quietly while waiting to go onstage while other actors in the wings chatted about this and that. The names of noted playwrights and famous thespians and magnificent dramas flowed easily from their lips, drawing envy and an invisible but substantial curtain around me. But I also heard other things… whisperings about this student or that professor. Snippets that occasionally set my ears to flaming. I absorbed a world I’d never known about—or at least dared to talk about—in my little town. And as I listened, I began to recognize some things. Why I was a loner when my spirit cried out for companionship. Why I was different from other boys I’d grown up with. Why I liked to stand in the wings and watch the play when this one boy—Robert was his name—was on stage. Robert with the tousled, curly brown hair and green eyes and shapely physique and manly grace. And I slowly came to understand the reason for my malaise. I’d spent my life denying who I was because it didn’t fit with the norms of my rural Oklahoma roots. In all probability, Robert noticed the idol worshiper in the wings. He threw friendly greetings my way and encouraged me in the development of my role in the play. He included me in his comments and refused to be discouraged when I had no opinion on things he was passionate about. I reached the bone-jarring realization I was in love with Robert at just about the same time I learned he was in a long-term relationship with a senior basketball player. Crushed, I finished the run of the play, and despite accolades in the college newspaper, I abandoned the Fine Arts Department and returned to tennis. There had been a few changes since I left, but most of the guys I’d played with before were still there. Some complimented me on my performance. Others simply smirked that I’d exposed myself to a fine arts environment. As usual, I ignored them all. But one of the changes while I was absent from the courts was a transfer from a junior college named Randy. I took in his black, unruly locks, chocolate brown eyes, taut muscles, and broad smile and felt alive again. Not only that, but he talked to me, confided in me even. One night, as we left the court after a set of singles, he halted and spoke as if he were choosing his words carefully. “Didn’t know a university would be so… so clubby.” “Snooty, you mean.” He flashed that devastating smile. “Yeah, that’s it. How come you’re not?” “Because I’m different. I’m an outsider.” Those magnificent eyes swept over me, leaving me weak in the knees. “Yeah. Heard you were in a play or something.” He frowned. “But you’re not a Fine Arts major, are you?” “Nope History.” I shrugged. “It was just a one-time thing. Wanted to try it out, that’s all.” He studied me so intently for a long moment that I began to feel squirrely, smelling the aroma of non-existent lilacs and hearing the chimes of silver bells--equally imaginary. “How about we go for a beer?” I came so close, but my father’s image intruded. Such a fine man when he was sober, but a terror when he was drunk. “S-sorry, but I don’t drink.” Shocked by the look of disappointment on his handsome face, I hastened to add. “But I do like a strawberry milkshake.” “Malted milks are my favorites. Let’s go.” God bless strawberry milkshakes and malted milks—they led to such wonderful self-discovery during my freshman year in college.
*****Do you recall any such events back in your college days? I do. Hope you enjoyed the story.
Please take a look at my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. Amazon permits you to read a short passage from the books. 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 some 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, and keep on submitting. 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.
Had quite a few comments on “I’m My Own Man.” Hope the flash fiction piece I wrote for this week generates as much interest. Here goes.
*****
Courtesy of PixabayMY SHALLOW LIFE I lived a shallow, stingy existence in a deep, rich environment. For most of my eighteen years, I had imagined the time when I would leave my farm townhome behind for the wonderful life of a college student. That time was now, and it was nothing like my dreams. I had the scholastic part down okay, but the life eluded me. Everyone else was so cosmopolitan while I was… so provincial. In short, I didn’t fit. My dorm mate, who was from Dallas, devoted one afternoon to me and then abandoned me for more interesting company. I spoke the language of tennis and was a fair left-handed player, so most of my free time was spent on the courts. I developed a few sports friends but no drinking buddies. Again, my fault. I didn’t drink and turned down the few invitations that came my way. My attitude was prompted by a father who—if he was not an outright alcoholic—was at least a dipsomaniac. On a whim, I tried out for a minor part in a stage play. The character was an odd loner, and I knew how to play that part from the heart, so I was chosen. If a History major was adrift in a broader college milieu, he was totally asea in a Fine Arts setting. Once again, I was alone, sitting quietly while waiting to go onstage while other actors in the wings chatted about this and that. The names of noted playwrights and famous thespians and magnificent dramas flowed easily from their lips, drawing envy and an invisible but substantial curtain around me. But I also heard other things… whisperings about this student or that professor. Snippets that occasionally set my ears to flaming. I absorbed a world I’d never known about—or at least dared to talk about—in my little town. And as I listened, I began to recognize some things. Why I was a loner when my spirit cried out for companionship. Why I was different from other boys I’d grown up with. Why I liked to stand in the wings and watch the play when this one boy—Robert was his name—was on stage. Robert with the tousled, curly brown hair and green eyes and shapely physique and manly grace. And I slowly came to understand the reason for my malaise. I’d spent my life denying who I was because it didn’t fit with the norms of my rural Oklahoma roots. In all probability, Robert noticed the idol worshiper in the wings. He threw friendly greetings my way and encouraged me in the development of my role in the play. He included me in his comments and refused to be discouraged when I had no opinion on things he was passionate about. I reached the bone-jarring realization I was in love with Robert at just about the same time I learned he was in a long-term relationship with a senior basketball player. Crushed, I finished the run of the play, and despite accolades in the college newspaper, I abandoned the Fine Arts Department and returned to tennis. There had been a few changes since I left, but most of the guys I’d played with before were still there. Some complimented me on my performance. Others simply smirked that I’d exposed myself to a fine arts environment. As usual, I ignored them all. But one of the changes while I was absent from the courts was a transfer from a junior college named Randy. I took in his black, unruly locks, chocolate brown eyes, taut muscles, and broad smile and felt alive again. Not only that, but he talked to me, confided in me even. One night, as we left the court after a set of singles, he halted and spoke as if he were choosing his words carefully. “Didn’t know a university would be so… so clubby.” “Snooty, you mean.” He flashed that devastating smile. “Yeah, that’s it. How come you’re not?” “Because I’m different. I’m an outsider.” Those magnificent eyes swept over me, leaving me weak in the knees. “Yeah. Heard you were in a play or something.” He frowned. “But you’re not a Fine Arts major, are you?” “Nope History.” I shrugged. “It was just a one-time thing. Wanted to try it out, that’s all.” He studied me so intently for a long moment that I began to feel squirrely, smelling the aroma of non-existent lilacs and hearing the chimes of silver bells--equally imaginary. “How about we go for a beer?” I came so close, but my father’s image intruded. Such a fine man when he was sober, but a terror when he was drunk. “S-sorry, but I don’t drink.” Shocked by the look of disappointment on his handsome face, I hastened to add. “But I do like a strawberry milkshake.” “Malted milks are my favorites. Let’s go.” God bless strawberry milkshakes and malted milks—they led to such wonderful self-discovery during my freshman year in college.*****Do you recall any such events back in your college days? I do. Hope you enjoyed the story.
Please take a look at my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. Amazon permits you to read a short passage from the books. 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 some 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, and keep on submitting. 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.
July 19, 2018
I’m my Own Man (Part 2 of 2 Parts)
markwildyr.com, Post #64
Shall we find out how Joshua intends to live his life since he’s left home after his father catches him kissing another guy?
*****I’M MY OWN MAN
I slept fitfully in my car that night and woke the next morning feeling dirty and heavy-lidded and not thinking too straight. I crawled out of the car to stretch out the kinks and wash up in the men’s room at the town park. Thus far, I’d spent half my energy throwing mental darts at my father; at his insensitivity, at his physicality, his crudeness. The other half, I invested in feeling sorry for myself. Now in the clear glare of sunlight, I needed to decide what to do next. No way was I going back home… not right away. I bought a breakfast burrito and cup of coffee from the McDonald’s down the street and took them back to the park to escape people. I imagined everyone was staring at the town queer. Didn’t take long to achieve that distinction. Kiss a guy once… well, twice… and that’s all it took. As soon as the bank opened, I went inside and tapped my funds for enough money to take care of me for a week.Without thought or plan, I got in the Chevy and drove out of Wadlow. Before long, I found myself in Silverdale, the county seat not a dozen miles down the road. I hit their McD for lunch. While I didn’t know very many people in this town, I imagined they were all staring at the county queer. Damn, I’d been promoted in less than a day. Finishing my burger in their park—it was bigger than ours—I wondered what to do next. Drive on until I was somewhere nobody knew me? Sit and stew? Go back home and do the crawfishing papa would demand before he quit looking at me like I was an alien. Or just sit here and molt. “Joshua, is that you I see?” The heavy voice startled me into thinking papa had already tracked me down. I looked up into the florid features of James Rondell. Mr. Rondell owned the grocery store in Silverdale. He knew my dad from business and civic organizations they both belonged to. Friendly competitors was how my mom put it. I stood and accepted his hand. “Mr. Rondell. Nice to see you.” “You are not working today?” “N-no, sir. I’m taking some time off.” “Well, if you want to make some extra money for school, I can use a hand. I’m short a clerk. The wiener schnitzel went and got himself married.” My heart took a leap. “Really? Guess I could help out… if it’s needed.” “A lifesaver, my boy. That’s what you’ll be. For a week, maybe?” “I… uh, I guess so. Have to find someplace to stay. “Not a problem. My wife and I have a spare room. Outside entrance and everything. You’ll be welcome.” Mrs. Rondell was my mom plus ten years and ten pounds. She welcomed me into her home and made me feel comfortable. I’d found a soft landing… at least for the next week or so. The culture at Rondell’s Foods—the way they did business—fit like a glove. Except for wearing a blue apron instead of a green, everything was almost the same. Mr. Rondell and I went to the store at six each morning after a hearty breakfast to open and get things ready for the day. The butcher and another clerk—a middle-aged lady—completed the staff. At the end of a week, no one said anything about me moving out or not coming to work, so I continued as I was. At the end of the second week, Mr. Rondell wanted to stop for a cup of coffee before going home. As we settled into a corner booth at the restaurant, I understood he wanted to talk. “Joshua, you’re a good worker, and I want you to understand you have a job here for as long as you like. But I know you sometimes get lonely for your own home.” “S-sometimes. But I’m okay. If you still need me, that is.” “You work at the store. You see my need. But still—” “It’s not comfortable for me at home right now,” I blurted. “Yes, I know.” And I saw that he did. He knew all about it. My cheeks burned. “Let me tell you a little story,” Mr. Rondell continued. “There was this man who knew how the world should work and insisted his family live by its rules. But he had a son who saw things differently. A son who insisted on being his own man by falling in love with another man. His dad thrashed him good and told him to be normal, a good Christian.” Mr. Rondell took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “Then the son left his home and never came back. He and his friend moved out of town. A year later, word came to the family the son had been killed in an automobile accident. That papa never saw someone he loved dearly again.” “That… that was your son?” I stammered. He nodded. “My sweet Steven. He was a good boy even though I was too stupid to understand that.” He touched my shoulder. “I don’t want that future for you, Joshua. You are welcome here, but when you are ready to stand up to your father, Hilda and I will understand.”
Two days later, my knees nearly gave way when Toby Wolfson came through the door and walked up to me. “I need two bales of hay,” he announced with a lilt in his voice and merriment dancing in his eyes.” I had to clasp my thighs to keep from throwing my arms around him. “How… how did you know where I was?” “I live about halfway between here and Wadlow. Sometimes I shop here, and sometimes there. I heard you were working at Rondells. So here I am.” “Let’s go get that hay.” After we loaded the bales, Toby backed me into a corner and took liberties that had me panting so bad I could hardly stand it. Apparently, he couldn’t either because he backed off and asked when I got off work.” “Not till seven.” “I’ll meet you outside at seven. Then we can go somewhere where we’ll be alone.” “Okay, but I have something to do first. Can you hold off an hour or so?” “Yeah, if I don’t burn up between now and then.” “You better not. I’ll see you at the Wadlow city park at eight, okay?”
My mom was overjoyed when I walked through the door to our house; papa, more like flustered. But he recovered fast. “So, you just stroll in here after walking out. How you know you’re welcome?” “Be quiet, Louis,” mom snapped. “Of course, he’s welcome.” “If he can behave himself. If he can be a man.” I walked over to where he sat and took the newspaper out of his hand. “That’s why I’m here. I want to explain something to you.” “You explain to me?” “Yes. Apparently, you haven’t learned much from life. In too narrow a rut, I guess.” “Joshua, don’t speak to your father like that.” “Sorry, Mom. But this is between him and me. Papa, there’s more to being a man than just loving a woman. I take care of myself, make my own way. I’m responsible and reliable.” “Yes, but—” “Let me finish. So in my eyes, that makes me a man. But I’m not you, papa. I’m my own man. And if you can accept that, maybe I’ll come back home. But until you do, I won’t enter this house again.” I crawled into the Chevy a tormented man. It felt good to stand up to my father and express myself, but I hadn’t been raised to go against his wishes. Had I irreparably separated myself from my family? Unsettled and uncertain, I was steadied by the sight of Toby waiting for me at the park. Without a word, we piled into his pickup and drove out of town. An hour later, all of my doubts were swept away. I was truly my own man… with a man of my own.
*****Looks like he landed on his feet. How did he put it? A soft landing. I’m pleased for Joshua and Toby.
I wonder how Don Travis's readers liked the story. It was a guest blog, you'll recall, on his website.
Please take a look at my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. Amazon permits you to read a short passage from the books..
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 some 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, and keep on submitting. 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.
Shall we find out how Joshua intends to live his life since he’s left home after his father catches him kissing another guy?
*****I’M MY OWN MAN
I slept fitfully in my car that night and woke the next morning feeling dirty and heavy-lidded and not thinking too straight. I crawled out of the car to stretch out the kinks and wash up in the men’s room at the town park. Thus far, I’d spent half my energy throwing mental darts at my father; at his insensitivity, at his physicality, his crudeness. The other half, I invested in feeling sorry for myself. Now in the clear glare of sunlight, I needed to decide what to do next. No way was I going back home… not right away. I bought a breakfast burrito and cup of coffee from the McDonald’s down the street and took them back to the park to escape people. I imagined everyone was staring at the town queer. Didn’t take long to achieve that distinction. Kiss a guy once… well, twice… and that’s all it took. As soon as the bank opened, I went inside and tapped my funds for enough money to take care of me for a week.Without thought or plan, I got in the Chevy and drove out of Wadlow. Before long, I found myself in Silverdale, the county seat not a dozen miles down the road. I hit their McD for lunch. While I didn’t know very many people in this town, I imagined they were all staring at the county queer. Damn, I’d been promoted in less than a day. Finishing my burger in their park—it was bigger than ours—I wondered what to do next. Drive on until I was somewhere nobody knew me? Sit and stew? Go back home and do the crawfishing papa would demand before he quit looking at me like I was an alien. Or just sit here and molt. “Joshua, is that you I see?” The heavy voice startled me into thinking papa had already tracked me down. I looked up into the florid features of James Rondell. Mr. Rondell owned the grocery store in Silverdale. He knew my dad from business and civic organizations they both belonged to. Friendly competitors was how my mom put it. I stood and accepted his hand. “Mr. Rondell. Nice to see you.” “You are not working today?” “N-no, sir. I’m taking some time off.” “Well, if you want to make some extra money for school, I can use a hand. I’m short a clerk. The wiener schnitzel went and got himself married.” My heart took a leap. “Really? Guess I could help out… if it’s needed.” “A lifesaver, my boy. That’s what you’ll be. For a week, maybe?” “I… uh, I guess so. Have to find someplace to stay. “Not a problem. My wife and I have a spare room. Outside entrance and everything. You’ll be welcome.” Mrs. Rondell was my mom plus ten years and ten pounds. She welcomed me into her home and made me feel comfortable. I’d found a soft landing… at least for the next week or so. The culture at Rondell’s Foods—the way they did business—fit like a glove. Except for wearing a blue apron instead of a green, everything was almost the same. Mr. Rondell and I went to the store at six each morning after a hearty breakfast to open and get things ready for the day. The butcher and another clerk—a middle-aged lady—completed the staff. At the end of a week, no one said anything about me moving out or not coming to work, so I continued as I was. At the end of the second week, Mr. Rondell wanted to stop for a cup of coffee before going home. As we settled into a corner booth at the restaurant, I understood he wanted to talk. “Joshua, you’re a good worker, and I want you to understand you have a job here for as long as you like. But I know you sometimes get lonely for your own home.” “S-sometimes. But I’m okay. If you still need me, that is.” “You work at the store. You see my need. But still—” “It’s not comfortable for me at home right now,” I blurted. “Yes, I know.” And I saw that he did. He knew all about it. My cheeks burned. “Let me tell you a little story,” Mr. Rondell continued. “There was this man who knew how the world should work and insisted his family live by its rules. But he had a son who saw things differently. A son who insisted on being his own man by falling in love with another man. His dad thrashed him good and told him to be normal, a good Christian.” Mr. Rondell took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “Then the son left his home and never came back. He and his friend moved out of town. A year later, word came to the family the son had been killed in an automobile accident. That papa never saw someone he loved dearly again.” “That… that was your son?” I stammered. He nodded. “My sweet Steven. He was a good boy even though I was too stupid to understand that.” He touched my shoulder. “I don’t want that future for you, Joshua. You are welcome here, but when you are ready to stand up to your father, Hilda and I will understand.”
Two days later, my knees nearly gave way when Toby Wolfson came through the door and walked up to me. “I need two bales of hay,” he announced with a lilt in his voice and merriment dancing in his eyes.” I had to clasp my thighs to keep from throwing my arms around him. “How… how did you know where I was?” “I live about halfway between here and Wadlow. Sometimes I shop here, and sometimes there. I heard you were working at Rondells. So here I am.” “Let’s go get that hay.” After we loaded the bales, Toby backed me into a corner and took liberties that had me panting so bad I could hardly stand it. Apparently, he couldn’t either because he backed off and asked when I got off work.” “Not till seven.” “I’ll meet you outside at seven. Then we can go somewhere where we’ll be alone.” “Okay, but I have something to do first. Can you hold off an hour or so?” “Yeah, if I don’t burn up between now and then.” “You better not. I’ll see you at the Wadlow city park at eight, okay?”
My mom was overjoyed when I walked through the door to our house; papa, more like flustered. But he recovered fast. “So, you just stroll in here after walking out. How you know you’re welcome?” “Be quiet, Louis,” mom snapped. “Of course, he’s welcome.” “If he can behave himself. If he can be a man.” I walked over to where he sat and took the newspaper out of his hand. “That’s why I’m here. I want to explain something to you.” “You explain to me?” “Yes. Apparently, you haven’t learned much from life. In too narrow a rut, I guess.” “Joshua, don’t speak to your father like that.” “Sorry, Mom. But this is between him and me. Papa, there’s more to being a man than just loving a woman. I take care of myself, make my own way. I’m responsible and reliable.” “Yes, but—” “Let me finish. So in my eyes, that makes me a man. But I’m not you, papa. I’m my own man. And if you can accept that, maybe I’ll come back home. But until you do, I won’t enter this house again.” I crawled into the Chevy a tormented man. It felt good to stand up to my father and express myself, but I hadn’t been raised to go against his wishes. Had I irreparably separated myself from my family? Unsettled and uncertain, I was steadied by the sight of Toby waiting for me at the park. Without a word, we piled into his pickup and drove out of town. An hour later, all of my doubts were swept away. I was truly my own man… with a man of my own.
*****Looks like he landed on his feet. How did he put it? A soft landing. I’m pleased for Joshua and Toby.
I wonder how Don Travis's readers liked the story. It was a guest blog, you'll recall, on his website.
Please take a look at my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. Amazon permits you to read a short passage from the books..
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 some 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, and keep on submitting. 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.
July 5, 2018
Mark Wildyr: I’m my Own Man (Part 1 of 2 Parts)
Mark Wildyr: I’m my Own Man (Part 1 of 2 Parts): markwildyr.com, Post #63 Courtesy of Free Images Back to fiction this week. There follows part one of a two-part story about being ...
I’m my Own Man (Part 1 of 2 Parts)
markwildyr.com, Post #63
Courtesy of Free ImagesBack to fiction this week. There follows part one of a two-part story about being gay in a small town in the Oklahoma Bible Belt. Hope you enjoy it. By the way, this story is posted as two guest blogs on dontravis.com.
*****I’M MY OWN MAN
My name is Joshua Scrivener. I’m eighteen, and I clerk full time every summer in my father’s grocery store. To some people that was all there was to me. Those three things constituted me. My papa probably looked upon me more as a grocery clerk than as a son. But I was more. Lot’s more. I was human with human feelings and I had thoughts about things besides lettuce and ham and olives and… Well, you get the idea My problem—my emancipation you could say—started the day Toby Wolfson strode into Scrivener’s Groceries. He took my breath away and sparked thoughts about things you never give voice to in this little bible belt town of Wadlow, Oklahoma. I tried not to gawk, but there was no way to avoid noticing his broad shoulders and heavy chest struggling to break through the thin shirt that covered them. Or the way he tapered to a narrow waist. But it was the face that made me blush and stumble over my words. Dark and hawkish, it proudly proclaimed his Choctaw blood. I instantly lusted to see him—Lord forgive me—naked. Stark naked. The bemused smile on his broad mouth let me know he knew he flustered me. Did he understand why? I blushed at the thought. Toby paid for a couple of bales of hay, and said his pickup was already at the storeroom delivery dock. He accompanied me back and helped pile the two heavy bundles into the bed of his truck. He thanked me before introducing himself and offering to shake. He held my sweaty hand in his for a long moment after we exchanged names. His onyx eyes locked onto mine. “How about a beer sometime?” I swallowed so hard that I gulped. “I-I don’t drink.” “That’s okay. Don’t think we need alcohol for what’s between us. I drink strawberry. Bet you drink Coke.” “D-Dr. Pepper.” He grinned, making me weaker in the knees. “Same thing. See you soon.” With that, he dropped into the back of the pickup and vaulted over the side with such manly grace that I almost gasped aloud. Moments later, he drove down the alley and turned left onto Main Street. I closed my eyes to capture the imprint of his handsome, laughing face on the back of my lids. What did he mean what was between us? My dad’s heavy voice startled me. “Joshua, what you doing standing around back here. The canned bean section needs restocking.” “Yes, papa. I just helped—” “Yeah, yeah. I saw. Come on, get moving.” As I rushed to grab a case of lima beans, I wondered if I’d ever see Toby again? Oh, Lord? Did I say that aloud? In fact, I saw him that very night down at the Arrow Theater a couple of blocks from our store. Me’n my next-door neighbor Charlie were seated on the aisle near the back of the auditorium when Toby and a pretty, dark-haired girl took seats a few rows ahead of us. So Toby dated girls, did he? Course, he did. Just like the rest of the male world. My stomach fell away when she settled against his shoulder. That coulda been me. The lights dimmed, and the film started, but my eyes were glued to two dark heads nestled against one another. I ached by the time the lights came up. Literally ached.
A week later, my idol walked through the doors to Scrivener’s Grocery. Fighting a case of Toby-induced vertigo, I managed to understand he needed hay again. I took his money, and we walked back to the storeroom where he helped me load his bales. Then he transfixed me with those startling eyes. “How’d you enjoy the movie the other night?” he asked. “Okay. Saw you… and your girl. She’s pretty.” “Thanks. She’s okay, but we’re not that tight. Let’s just say she likes me more’n I like her.” His slow grin made me back against the wall of the stockroom in order to remain upright. “He moved in front of me, invading my space, but I didn’t mind even though it made my mouth go dry. “You and the dude you were with are bud-buds?” “I-I don’t know what that is.” Toby laid a hand on my shoulder. “I can show you, if you want me to.” “I don’t know. Maybe.” He leaned into me and put his lips to mine. I think I groaned. He opened his mouth and invaded mine with his tongue. I about slid to the floor. He pulled his head away, still pinning me with his body. “Does that help you make up your mind?” “I-I—” He cut me off with another kiss. I closed my eyes and felt my soul stirring. Birds twittered, or maybe it was a ringing in my ears. I know I moaned this time. He reeled backward, his eyes wide. It took a moment to realize papa had him by the neck with one hand and by the belt with the other. In a second, Toby flew through the open dock door into the back of his pickup. I got to the door in time to see him scramble to his feet and start for the dock. “Toby!” I shouted. “Don’t. Please.” His smoldering look softened as his gaze shifted to me. Unclenching his fists, he hopped out of the pickup bed and jerked open the door. “And don’t come back,” my father yelled at the retreating truck before turning on me. “You… you’re disgusting. What was you letting that fellow do to you? What comes next? He screw you on the hay bales? Pervert!” He turned and stomped back into the store. My face burning, my innards strangely hollowed out, I tore off the green apron I always wore and stalked out the door. The moment I bailed out of my old Chevy in our driveway and entered the house, I knew Papa had called and ratted me out. Mama stood in the kitchen, baking flour dusting her hands as she looked at me through haunted eyes. “Oh, son,” was all she said. It was enough. I packed my bag, hugged her, and drove away without saying a word.
*****
Can you feel Joshua's pain and uncertainty a fear as he drives away from the home he's known for eighteen years? Let's see how he recovers in the next segment.
Please take a look at my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. Amazon permits you to read a short passage from the books.
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 some 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, and keep on submitting. 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.
Courtesy of Free ImagesBack to fiction this week. There follows part one of a two-part story about being gay in a small town in the Oklahoma Bible Belt. Hope you enjoy it. By the way, this story is posted as two guest blogs on dontravis.com.*****I’M MY OWN MAN
My name is Joshua Scrivener. I’m eighteen, and I clerk full time every summer in my father’s grocery store. To some people that was all there was to me. Those three things constituted me. My papa probably looked upon me more as a grocery clerk than as a son. But I was more. Lot’s more. I was human with human feelings and I had thoughts about things besides lettuce and ham and olives and… Well, you get the idea My problem—my emancipation you could say—started the day Toby Wolfson strode into Scrivener’s Groceries. He took my breath away and sparked thoughts about things you never give voice to in this little bible belt town of Wadlow, Oklahoma. I tried not to gawk, but there was no way to avoid noticing his broad shoulders and heavy chest struggling to break through the thin shirt that covered them. Or the way he tapered to a narrow waist. But it was the face that made me blush and stumble over my words. Dark and hawkish, it proudly proclaimed his Choctaw blood. I instantly lusted to see him—Lord forgive me—naked. Stark naked. The bemused smile on his broad mouth let me know he knew he flustered me. Did he understand why? I blushed at the thought. Toby paid for a couple of bales of hay, and said his pickup was already at the storeroom delivery dock. He accompanied me back and helped pile the two heavy bundles into the bed of his truck. He thanked me before introducing himself and offering to shake. He held my sweaty hand in his for a long moment after we exchanged names. His onyx eyes locked onto mine. “How about a beer sometime?” I swallowed so hard that I gulped. “I-I don’t drink.” “That’s okay. Don’t think we need alcohol for what’s between us. I drink strawberry. Bet you drink Coke.” “D-Dr. Pepper.” He grinned, making me weaker in the knees. “Same thing. See you soon.” With that, he dropped into the back of the pickup and vaulted over the side with such manly grace that I almost gasped aloud. Moments later, he drove down the alley and turned left onto Main Street. I closed my eyes to capture the imprint of his handsome, laughing face on the back of my lids. What did he mean what was between us? My dad’s heavy voice startled me. “Joshua, what you doing standing around back here. The canned bean section needs restocking.” “Yes, papa. I just helped—” “Yeah, yeah. I saw. Come on, get moving.” As I rushed to grab a case of lima beans, I wondered if I’d ever see Toby again? Oh, Lord? Did I say that aloud? In fact, I saw him that very night down at the Arrow Theater a couple of blocks from our store. Me’n my next-door neighbor Charlie were seated on the aisle near the back of the auditorium when Toby and a pretty, dark-haired girl took seats a few rows ahead of us. So Toby dated girls, did he? Course, he did. Just like the rest of the male world. My stomach fell away when she settled against his shoulder. That coulda been me. The lights dimmed, and the film started, but my eyes were glued to two dark heads nestled against one another. I ached by the time the lights came up. Literally ached.
A week later, my idol walked through the doors to Scrivener’s Grocery. Fighting a case of Toby-induced vertigo, I managed to understand he needed hay again. I took his money, and we walked back to the storeroom where he helped me load his bales. Then he transfixed me with those startling eyes. “How’d you enjoy the movie the other night?” he asked. “Okay. Saw you… and your girl. She’s pretty.” “Thanks. She’s okay, but we’re not that tight. Let’s just say she likes me more’n I like her.” His slow grin made me back against the wall of the stockroom in order to remain upright. “He moved in front of me, invading my space, but I didn’t mind even though it made my mouth go dry. “You and the dude you were with are bud-buds?” “I-I don’t know what that is.” Toby laid a hand on my shoulder. “I can show you, if you want me to.” “I don’t know. Maybe.” He leaned into me and put his lips to mine. I think I groaned. He opened his mouth and invaded mine with his tongue. I about slid to the floor. He pulled his head away, still pinning me with his body. “Does that help you make up your mind?” “I-I—” He cut me off with another kiss. I closed my eyes and felt my soul stirring. Birds twittered, or maybe it was a ringing in my ears. I know I moaned this time. He reeled backward, his eyes wide. It took a moment to realize papa had him by the neck with one hand and by the belt with the other. In a second, Toby flew through the open dock door into the back of his pickup. I got to the door in time to see him scramble to his feet and start for the dock. “Toby!” I shouted. “Don’t. Please.” His smoldering look softened as his gaze shifted to me. Unclenching his fists, he hopped out of the pickup bed and jerked open the door. “And don’t come back,” my father yelled at the retreating truck before turning on me. “You… you’re disgusting. What was you letting that fellow do to you? What comes next? He screw you on the hay bales? Pervert!” He turned and stomped back into the store. My face burning, my innards strangely hollowed out, I tore off the green apron I always wore and stalked out the door. The moment I bailed out of my old Chevy in our driveway and entered the house, I knew Papa had called and ratted me out. Mama stood in the kitchen, baking flour dusting her hands as she looked at me through haunted eyes. “Oh, son,” was all she said. It was enough. I packed my bag, hugged her, and drove away without saying a word.
*****
Can you feel Joshua's pain and uncertainty a fear as he drives away from the home he's known for eighteen years? Let's see how he recovers in the next segment.
Please take a look at my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. Amazon permits you to read a short passage from the books.
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 some 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, and keep on submitting. 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.
June 21, 2018
Mark Wildyr: HOME
Mark Wildyr: HOME: Welcome Visitors! Read on and find out who Mark Wildyr is. An early interest in history and a fascination for Native American cultures...
Cut Hand, a Historical Novel
markwildyr.com, Post #62
Artist: Maria FanningThis must be nostalgia month for me. My last post was about Johnny Two-Guns, this one is a further look at Cut Hand. Note that in the title of this piece, I labeled it a historical novel. Some look at the book as a gay love story. To me, it is history as lived by two men who happen to be in love. Think about it. There’s a difference between the two approaches. Perhaps you’ll tell me what the book means to you.
The following takes place in Chapter 14 as Billy Strobaw returns to Teacher's Mead following a winter in Yawktown among the whites after he's lived for several years among the Indians. It is worth noting that Billy had labored endlessly to educate receptive members of the band, and Cut Hand had been his star pupil. We pick up the tale as Billy enters the stone house at Teacher’s Mead to find a note pinned with a knife to the inside of the door.***** CUT HAND
A Strobaw Family Saga
Beloved. When I discovered your desertion, I was angry beyond all reason, and Morning Mist despaired of my sanity. Then I remembered my pledge that you were free to return to your people although you would rip my heart from my breast and take it with you. That you have done.If you are reading this, then welcome home! You have returned, and perhaps my heart can be restored to its proper place, and a friendship bound by love and respect can be revived and strengthened. Know this—Cut Hand loves you always, William Joseph Strobaw. Even so, I recognize the strength of your reasoning and accept that we are divorced. Knowing I can never cover you again is hurtful, but if that is the case, I will endure. We will endure. Love, Cut.I dropped my head to my arms on the planking of the table. How did I ever believe I could leave him? Whether or not there was a physical relationship, the object of my devotion was here, and here I belonged.I reread the letter, noting with pride the beauty of his composition. While most of the people in Yawktown could neither read nor write, this wild son of the plains penned a hand the envy of Moorehouse College. Upon examination, the writing seemed somewhat fresh, leading me to hope the People were back from winter quarters.This was affirmed when Otter sauntered through the door as though I had never left. He delivered the sad news of Yellow Puma’s passing during the winter, followed quickly by the death of the misco’s old friend, Spotted Hawk. Badger now served as shaman. The fate of the band was in the hands of a new generation of leaders.My young friend also brought the welcome news that Buffalo Shoulder’s shunning had been lifted, even though he still indulged alcohol more than was seemly. Otter laced the sour amongst the sweet. Cut Hand was now a proud father. Morning Mist laid a great belly and delivered a boy-child named Dog Fox. Damnation! Cut’s seed was powerful! He must have lined her on his first covering.Otter was coming fifteen now and looked the part. Gone was the baby fat from his lean frame. Fully as tall as I, his shoulders flared over ribs muscled with sinew and gristle. The light, genderless voice had broken, taking on an adolescent timbre. In actions, however, he was the old Otter, well named because of his playful ways and sudden bursts of energy. He spent the night with me, bedding down in the east side of the house while I crawled into what once was my marriage bed and the scene of countless beautiful couplings.Lone Eagle showed up the next day, and the change in him was startling. Just shy of eighteen, he looked to be two years older. His deep, vibrato voice and self-conscious swagger announced to the world “here walks a man.” Arrogance rode his shoulders more comfortably now, mellowed by confidence, smoothed of the brash, uncertain edges. He, too, acted as if there had been no interlude since our last meeting. They both spent the night.Cut Hand, Bear Paw, and Buffalo Shoulder appeared the next morning. All my jealousies fell away at the sight of Cut Hand’s magnificent bearing and physical beauty. Our handshake was long and endearing. Finally he stepped away and allowed the others to greet me with much pounding of backs and sly ribbings.Cut and I sat alone at the kitchen table before the fire while the others inspected my new rifles. He told me of Yellow Puma’s last days and how his father spoke of me with affection. Toward the end, the ailing man complimented his son on his wisdom in selecting Teacher as his first mate. Then we both sat without words, working through fresh sorrow for the loss of a father and a friend.
*****As I’ve said before, Cut Hand was with me many years before he became a book. At various times in my youth, he was a Mohawk, a Mohican, a Comanche… but eventually, he became his true self… a Yanube, a mythical band related to the Sioux.
Please take a look at the novel. If you’ve already read it, please post a review on Amazon. I really would like DSP Publications to bring out River Otter and Echoes of the Flute and Medicine Hair, as well as the unpublished Wastelakapi… Beloved. But we have to generate some sales in order to get it done. Amazon permits you to read a short passage.
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 some 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 adopted mantra (I stole it from Don Travis, but he doesn’t mind): Keep on reading, keep on writing, and keep on submitting. 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.
Artist: Maria FanningThis must be nostalgia month for me. My last post was about Johnny Two-Guns, this one is a further look at Cut Hand. Note that in the title of this piece, I labeled it a historical novel. Some look at the book as a gay love story. To me, it is history as lived by two men who happen to be in love. Think about it. There’s a difference between the two approaches. Perhaps you’ll tell me what the book means to you.The following takes place in Chapter 14 as Billy Strobaw returns to Teacher's Mead following a winter in Yawktown among the whites after he's lived for several years among the Indians. It is worth noting that Billy had labored endlessly to educate receptive members of the band, and Cut Hand had been his star pupil. We pick up the tale as Billy enters the stone house at Teacher’s Mead to find a note pinned with a knife to the inside of the door.***** CUT HAND
A Strobaw Family Saga
Beloved. When I discovered your desertion, I was angry beyond all reason, and Morning Mist despaired of my sanity. Then I remembered my pledge that you were free to return to your people although you would rip my heart from my breast and take it with you. That you have done.If you are reading this, then welcome home! You have returned, and perhaps my heart can be restored to its proper place, and a friendship bound by love and respect can be revived and strengthened. Know this—Cut Hand loves you always, William Joseph Strobaw. Even so, I recognize the strength of your reasoning and accept that we are divorced. Knowing I can never cover you again is hurtful, but if that is the case, I will endure. We will endure. Love, Cut.I dropped my head to my arms on the planking of the table. How did I ever believe I could leave him? Whether or not there was a physical relationship, the object of my devotion was here, and here I belonged.I reread the letter, noting with pride the beauty of his composition. While most of the people in Yawktown could neither read nor write, this wild son of the plains penned a hand the envy of Moorehouse College. Upon examination, the writing seemed somewhat fresh, leading me to hope the People were back from winter quarters.This was affirmed when Otter sauntered through the door as though I had never left. He delivered the sad news of Yellow Puma’s passing during the winter, followed quickly by the death of the misco’s old friend, Spotted Hawk. Badger now served as shaman. The fate of the band was in the hands of a new generation of leaders.My young friend also brought the welcome news that Buffalo Shoulder’s shunning had been lifted, even though he still indulged alcohol more than was seemly. Otter laced the sour amongst the sweet. Cut Hand was now a proud father. Morning Mist laid a great belly and delivered a boy-child named Dog Fox. Damnation! Cut’s seed was powerful! He must have lined her on his first covering.Otter was coming fifteen now and looked the part. Gone was the baby fat from his lean frame. Fully as tall as I, his shoulders flared over ribs muscled with sinew and gristle. The light, genderless voice had broken, taking on an adolescent timbre. In actions, however, he was the old Otter, well named because of his playful ways and sudden bursts of energy. He spent the night with me, bedding down in the east side of the house while I crawled into what once was my marriage bed and the scene of countless beautiful couplings.Lone Eagle showed up the next day, and the change in him was startling. Just shy of eighteen, he looked to be two years older. His deep, vibrato voice and self-conscious swagger announced to the world “here walks a man.” Arrogance rode his shoulders more comfortably now, mellowed by confidence, smoothed of the brash, uncertain edges. He, too, acted as if there had been no interlude since our last meeting. They both spent the night.Cut Hand, Bear Paw, and Buffalo Shoulder appeared the next morning. All my jealousies fell away at the sight of Cut Hand’s magnificent bearing and physical beauty. Our handshake was long and endearing. Finally he stepped away and allowed the others to greet me with much pounding of backs and sly ribbings.Cut and I sat alone at the kitchen table before the fire while the others inspected my new rifles. He told me of Yellow Puma’s last days and how his father spoke of me with affection. Toward the end, the ailing man complimented his son on his wisdom in selecting Teacher as his first mate. Then we both sat without words, working through fresh sorrow for the loss of a father and a friend.
*****As I’ve said before, Cut Hand was with me many years before he became a book. At various times in my youth, he was a Mohawk, a Mohican, a Comanche… but eventually, he became his true self… a Yanube, a mythical band related to the Sioux.
Please take a look at the novel. If you’ve already read it, please post a review on Amazon. I really would like DSP Publications to bring out River Otter and Echoes of the Flute and Medicine Hair, as well as the unpublished Wastelakapi… Beloved. But we have to generate some sales in order to get it done. Amazon permits you to read a short passage.
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 some 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 adopted mantra (I stole it from Don Travis, but he doesn’t mind): Keep on reading, keep on writing, and keep on submitting. 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.
June 7, 2018
Johnny Two-Guns, Another Look
markwildyr.com, Post #61
Artist: Maria FanningSomeone contacted me recently about how much they enjoyed—and identified with—Johnny Two-Guns, a character in my novel of the same name published in March of 2016. Since I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for Johnny, I decided to give you another look at the novel. The following scene takes place while Johnny and Roger Mackie are driving south from Montana toward Arizona. They are still getting to know one another. The shy Johnny has just confessed he’s never experienced an intimate relationship with a woman. The following scene occurs in Chapter 3 of the book. The first speaker is Johnny Two-Guns.*****“Do you think bad of me?”I set the cruise control on the car and shifted my feet to a more comfortable position. “For what?”“Because I haven’t done it with a girl? Almost twenty-one years old, and I never done it. Everybody else I know has.”“Or claim they have,” I said. “I don’t think any less of you. You may not have fucked a woman, but I sure as hell wouldn’t want to get into a fight with you. You might be too much man for me to handle.”He laughed. A burst of genuine mirth. “How old were you when you first… you know, had sex?”My stomach rolled and my upper lip started itching. My nervous system threatened to go out of control. Christ, was I becoming a predator? I snatched a quick look at him and decided he deserved an honest answer. “Johnny, we’re talking man-to-man here, right?”“Sure.”“What you say to me goes no further. What I say to you stays with you, right?”“Okay.”“All right. I had sex for the first time when I was eighteen. I had sex with a girl the first time when I was nineteen.”There was a long silence as he puzzled over that one. “I didn’t mean doing it… well, to yourself.”“I know you didn’t. And that’s not what I meant.”“Then how…?” His voice died away. Then, “Oh.”“Now can I ask you a question?”“Yes.” Wariness edged his tone.“Do you think any less of me because I told you the truth?” “I guess not.”*****I don’t care what your orientation is, this is a tender moment when intimate confidences are exchanged.
Please take a look at my novel Cut Hand. I really would like DSP Publications to bring out River Otter and Echoes of the Flute and Medicine Hair, as well as the unpublished Wastelakapi… Beloved, we have to generate some sales in order to get it done. Amazon permits you to read a short passage.
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 some 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
Thanks for being a reader. I'm going to adopt fellow Okie author Don Travis's mantra--with his permission--as my own: Keep on reading, keep on writing, and keep on submitting. You have something to say, so say it!
Mark
New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.
Artist: Maria FanningSomeone contacted me recently about how much they enjoyed—and identified with—Johnny Two-Guns, a character in my novel of the same name published in March of 2016. Since I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for Johnny, I decided to give you another look at the novel. The following scene takes place while Johnny and Roger Mackie are driving south from Montana toward Arizona. They are still getting to know one another. The shy Johnny has just confessed he’s never experienced an intimate relationship with a woman. The following scene occurs in Chapter 3 of the book. The first speaker is Johnny Two-Guns.*****“Do you think bad of me?”I set the cruise control on the car and shifted my feet to a more comfortable position. “For what?”“Because I haven’t done it with a girl? Almost twenty-one years old, and I never done it. Everybody else I know has.”“Or claim they have,” I said. “I don’t think any less of you. You may not have fucked a woman, but I sure as hell wouldn’t want to get into a fight with you. You might be too much man for me to handle.”He laughed. A burst of genuine mirth. “How old were you when you first… you know, had sex?”My stomach rolled and my upper lip started itching. My nervous system threatened to go out of control. Christ, was I becoming a predator? I snatched a quick look at him and decided he deserved an honest answer. “Johnny, we’re talking man-to-man here, right?”“Sure.”“What you say to me goes no further. What I say to you stays with you, right?”“Okay.”“All right. I had sex for the first time when I was eighteen. I had sex with a girl the first time when I was nineteen.”There was a long silence as he puzzled over that one. “I didn’t mean doing it… well, to yourself.”“I know you didn’t. And that’s not what I meant.”“Then how…?” His voice died away. Then, “Oh.”“Now can I ask you a question?”“Yes.” Wariness edged his tone.“Do you think any less of me because I told you the truth?” “I guess not.”*****I don’t care what your orientation is, this is a tender moment when intimate confidences are exchanged. Please take a look at my novel Cut Hand. I really would like DSP Publications to bring out River Otter and Echoes of the Flute and Medicine Hair, as well as the unpublished Wastelakapi… Beloved, we have to generate some sales in order to get it done. Amazon permits you to read a short passage.
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 some 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
Thanks for being a reader. I'm going to adopt fellow Okie author Don Travis's mantra--with his permission--as my own: Keep on reading, keep on writing, and keep on submitting. You have something to say, so say it!
Mark
New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.
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