Mark Wildyr's Blog, page 28

My, my! Another Month has Run its Course

Recently, a friend from my past has been much on my mind. Actually, he was more of an acquaintance than a friend, although I would have cherished being a part of his inner circle. He was a year older than I and touched my life only tangentially. If I am brutally honest, I likely removed myself as a candidate for close friendship because of fear. You see, Tony was quite comfortable living as a gay. Being a homosexual in those days and in that locale was potentially dangerous. He could be quite fey when he wanted, but mostly he appeared like everyone else on campus. Today I regret allowing my fear to deprive me of what could have been a treasured friendship.
I remember – probably imperfectly – the long, slow destruction of that vital human being from what was then a largely mysterious and terribly shameful disease. One that was spoken of in whispers or from behind hands: AIDS.
I don’t know why he’s been on my mind of late, but it prompted me to drag out what I call a “mood piece” I wrote after his death. I’d like to share it with you.
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WITHERED ON THE VINE
     Blinding sunlight hidden by cloud-capped tempests. A slender sapling prematurely gnarled by drought. A smooth, young melon rotted from within … withered on the vine. You’ve seen them all. Of course, you have.A bright future never realized. A quick, mischievous mind laid waste. Wiry swimmer’s muscles emaciated and atrophied. Tanned, silken flesh suppurated and splotchy. An indomitable spirit piteously eroded. You’ve seen them all? Then you must have known my beautiful Tony, felled by the poison whose name is whispered in fearful awe.     He was as incandescent as that golden sunbeam, as tenacious as the maturing oak, as sound as a prospering gourd. Joyful, flirtatious, puckish, engorged on sweet temper, sated by gentle good will, he shambled through life handsome and desirable, reconciled to being different from his fellows. Too late, he put aside promiscuity born of lively curiosity and turned to steadfast fidelity. The hateful venom had been ingested. Invaded from within, he began his long, horrid, inevitable diminuendo.     Struck down by God for abominable sin, the self-righteous proclaimed. Nay, the libertines decried, there is no God. How could an Almighty permit the destruction of such perfection?     They are wrong … all of them, their certain knowledge as corrupted as my friend’s shriveled frame at the apodosis. Fair Tony was no vexation; rather he was faultless splendor. No God of my acquaintance could be offended by his genial attendance. Challenged, perhaps. Unsettled, maybe. Enchanted … absolutely.     But if there is no God, then a terrible tragedy becomes a meaningless, insufferable, interminable catastrophe. If He does not exist, then who will pluck that unique, harmonious soul from the wretched human detritus left behind?     Such horror must not be the end; cannot be the ultimate Omega.
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I cannot hope, as I usually do, that you enjoyed the reading. Rather, I ask that it engender thoughtful consideration of the human condition. And perhaps, a prayer for the repose of the soul of Tony and the multitude like him. Please give me your feedback on markwildyr@aol.com.
Thanks for checking out the site.
Mark

New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.

More from ECHOES OF THE FLUTE

As I told you in the last post, ECHOES OF THE FLUTE, the third book in the CUT HAND series, is available on Amazon Kindle. The print version should be released by STARbooks Press on or around March 15. So it becomes an Ides of March publication. Does that bode ill, I wonder? Nah. That was Caesar’s problem, not mine.
At any rate, I have now posted the first chapter of the new book on this site for you to read. For this month’s regular blog posting, I wanted to bring a little more of the book into focus. In the following scene, John Strobaw (earth name: War Eagle), the half-breed grandson of Cut Hand, finishes work in the forge at Teacher’s Mead and decides to go for a swim. He is unexpectedly joined in the Yanube River by Matthew Brandt (Shambling Bear), the Yanube-Brulé orphan who grew up on the Mead after River Otter brought him there following the murder of his mother and brother. Matthew, who feels his Indian blood much stronger than does John, has just returned from one of his frequent jaunts, and this is their reunion. This scene comes in Chapter 2 of the book.###     Standing bare-assed in the water washing away the day’s grime, I caught a glimpse of someone out of the corner of my eye. Before I had a chance to react, a naked form leapt from the riverbank and tumbled us over into the water. I shrugged him off and came up fighting.     Matthew, laughing like a ten-year-old, splashed water in my face. “Hah, you would be a dead man if I was doh-kah.”     My fear turned to delight. I rubbed the water out of my eyes and shook my head. “You’re not a hostile. You’re just a skinny tepee Indian living in the past.”     “Tell that to the ah-kee-chee-dah at Greasy Grass.”     “What do the soldiers at Little Big Horn know about you?”     His naked chest swelled. “I was there.”     “You were at Little Big Horn? At the Custer battle?”     Excitement burned in his dark eyes. “I was there.”     “That’s a big one.”     “If you’re talking about my pipe, you’re right, but I was there fighting blue coats.”     “You’re full of it. How many did you kill?”     He sobered. “One. Maybe two.”     “Seems like a warrior would know how many he killed.”     His chin went up. “There speaks a man who’s never seen the elephant or fired a shot in anger. Things get all mixed up in battle. You never know what’s going on. Not even….” His voice dried up. “Not even exactly what you’re doing.”Bear wasn’t pulling my dink. He was serious. I didn’t know what to say, so I asked him when he got back.     “Half an hour back. After we said hello, Ma told me to go put on some decent clothes.”     Ma didn’t permit breechclouts at the Mead. She considered them uncivilized.     “Rachel Ann told me you’d walked down the river, so I came here instead of putting on pants.”     “You back for good?”     He shrugged. His shoulders had filled out, but the part about being skinny was true. He’d lost weight. He was leaner but harder.     “Might stay a while,” he answered. “But who knows when I’ll have a hankering to move on again.”     “Good. One of the coach horses that pulled in Thursday’s still limping. You can doctor him.”     “That wasn’t the only place I was.” Something in his voice made me look at him. “I fought at the Rosebud with Crazy Horse. He’s a great man, Eagle. Never seen a man fight like him. We beat the War Chief Crook at Rosebud Creek.” He spoke as if remembering was reliving. “After riding all night to get there, we fought for six hours. Crazy Horse was everywhere. He talked to me—more than once. Said he was proud of me. We made the Americans turn back at Rosebud so they weren’t there to fight at with Custer at Greasy Grass eight days later.”     Greasy Grass was what the warriors called Little Bighorn. I held my tongue, afraid of drawing him back from wherever he was.###I hope that intrigues you enough so you want more. If you’re so inclined, please post your comments on any of my books on Amazon. They help me keep on writing. As usual, I also encourage feedback at markwildyr@aol.com.
Thanks for reading.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.

Nation Johnson

Oughta let you know the third book in the Cut Hand series is now available on Kindle. Echoes of the Flute will be out in print form about March 15, according to the publisher, STARbooks Press.
Let’s try some more flash fiction this week. Give me a head’s up on it, will you?###NATION JOHNSONNation Johnson stood in front of the mirrors in the locker room and dropped his towel. The place was deserted except for Hector Muñiz, who was still in the shower. Nation liked what he saw. Good-looking dude, even if he did say so himself. As he took in his wide shoulders and defined pecs, he began to psych himself. His big cock thickened ever so slightly, bringing a crooked grin to his face.He knew Hector was there even before the Latino kid walked up beside him and gave him a sideways look. Handsome stud … almost pretty. The white towel snugged around his trim waist contrasted nicely with the jock's brown skin.“Nation, you’re a weird dude." Hector ran a comb through his damp black hair. “Your name’s even weird. How’d your folks come up with that, anyway?”“Didn’t. My little brother couldn’t say Nathan, and I’ve been Nation ever since.”“Like I said … weird. That’s you.”“Like how?”“Like you standing around admiring your own body. If that ain’t weird, what is?”“Hey, I got a good bod. Hot as hell. You know I can get a hard-on just staring at myself?”“See what I mean.”“Don’t believe me? I’ll show you.” Nation stared into the mirror. His green eyes moved from his face and slowly went down his body. In a minute, his cock stirred. Then it began to grow. Before long, it throbbed in the air.“Be damned,” Hector said, giving Nation’s hot tool a sidelong glance.“You can do it, too.”The dark youth shook his head. “Can’t.” “Sure you can. Try. Just look up and down your body. That’s a good chest, man. And those areoles, they’re huge.”“Shut up.”“Go on try it. Stare at your eyes first. Right. Now move down to your nipples. Left one first. Now the right. That’s a deep belly button. Fix on it.”Hector cleared his throat. ‘Man, I—”“Don’t talk,” Nation interrupted him. “Just stare. Look at that bush. Nice and thick and curly. Now look at—” Nathan laughed in triumph. “See. You’re getting hard. Man, it’s growing fast. Oh, oh, oh! Big. Always knew you had a big one.”Hector spread his legs and swallowed hard. “Feel like a fool standing here bare-assed and hard. I—”“You’re right. We can’t waste something that good.”Abruptly, he knelt in front of Hector and took the bobbing, seven-inch rod into his mouth. The Latin soccer player flinched and started to draw away. Then he sighed and thrust his hips forward. Nation grasped the firm thighs to steady himself as he went to work in earnest.Within minutes, Hector gave a gasp and busted his balls, pouring semen into Nation’s eager mouth. After a long sigh, Hector took a step backward, stumbled, and ran for the lockers without uttering a word.Nation stood and smiled. Worked like a charm. Again. Next week he was going to try it on Nigel Bright. Nigel was the real dreamboat of the team. That decision made, he took himself in hand and went to work masturbating himself. ###Appreciate you spending a few minutes with me. Please take a look at the other pages of the site and give me some feedback.
As always, thanks for reading.
Mark
Note: New posts are published around the first of every month.
Comments are welcome, not only on this post, but also about any relevant subject the reader wishes to discuss.

Secluded Sand

I’ve noticed that Albuquerque author Don Travis, with whom I have crossed swords during so-called interviews on this site, has started posting what he calls “flash fiction” on his blog. Well, what he can do, I can do better. (Actually, he’s not a bad guy, but he’s such a twerp it hard to stop tweaking his nose.) At any rate, what follows in my first effort in this genre. Let me know what you think.

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SECLUDED SAND
The gently rising slope, relatively smooth and easy to maneuver, led to a secluded patch of sand nestled against the ocean side cliffs. I’d discovered it a few months back and favored the spot for its privacy and protection from the sometimes chilly sea breezes. Today, as I approached my solitary haven, I halted as a pair of feet came into view. Nice feet, shapely. But they meant my spot was already occupied. Swallowing my disappointment, I started to turn away when the toes arched down and then pulled back toward the heavens. Then the heels ground into the sand and began a little dance, jerking in an uncertain rhythm.
I moved forward a bit. Bronzed calves lightly sprinkled with fine, dark hair. Soft grunts. Fascinated now, I inched forward again. Nice, tensed thighs. Now the legs moved to a steadier rhythm. Another twelve inches forward, and I caught my breath. Full scrotum, hard, thick cock wrapped in an eager fist.
I couldn’t help myself. Drawn by a deep need, I came into full view. The handsome young man lying naked on a beach towel froze for an instant before attempting to cover his genitals with his hands. Impossible. He was too big.
I met his frightened brown eyes and smiled. Flushed, he gave a tentative, embarrassed grin. Wordlessly, I lifted my chin. He paused a moment and then slowly removed his hands. His straight, hard cock pulsed to the throb of his excited heartbeat. I nodded approvingly and took a look at the whole man.
Youth, really. A college boy or an enlisted recruit from the nearby army base. Dark brown hair, generous mouth … now drawn into an uncertain frown … really great arched brows and eyes. My gaze took inventory as he lay naked and vulnerable before me. Wide shoulders, some brawn to the arms and upper chest, but not the gym-rat kind. These muscles came from work or sports. Narrow waist. A faint six-pack. Hairless torso, but a thick brown bush around that intriguing tool.
I smiled again and nodded. He took my meaning and grasped himself, starting with an uncertain jerk, but he soon found a rhythm, a beat. His eyes spoke, saying he took pleasure from my observation. He liked me watching him. Gave him an added charge.
He increased his tempo. His toes began that up and down dance again. His facial muscles tightened. The tip of his tongue appeared between his teeth. He blinked rapidly. His fist increased the length of its strokes. His left hand caressed his chest, brushed large, erect nipples. A groan followed a strangled gasp. His eyes never left mine. His body convulsed, and the tool in his hand swelled with the load of semen blasting out of its slit. A gob hung in the air a moment before splashing against his tanned chest. A second … a third … a fourth followed as he closed his eyes and gave himself over to the contractions. He was still pumping his hand and oozing seed when I nodded in admiration and turned to make my way back to the beach.
All the way down that incline, my mind imagined the ticklish tingle of his nipples, the electrical charge building behind his sac, the tipping of the muscles over the edge. The delicious, nothing-else-like-it rush of jism through his vitals. There had been a time when I would have fallen atop him and rubbed my engorged cock in his cum to fuck his flat, hard belly.
But that was before Afghanistan. Before the patrol. Before the IED. Before this blessed wheelchair.
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Note: New posts are published around the first of every month.
Comments are welcome, not only on this post, but also about any relevant subject the reader wishes to discuss.
 

Payback Continues – An Interview on River Otter

Last month, Don Travis, the author of The Zozobra Incident and The Bisti Business (Martin Brown Publishers) questioned me about my novel, Cut Hand (STARbooks Press). That so-called interview was a pathetic attempt at payback for me doing a guest blog on his www.dontravis.com. That didn’t come close to equating with my doing an entire post for him (count the words in his contribution … eighty percent of them are mine!) so he’s doing another one this month. What follows is our crossing-of-swords on River Otter.

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Travis: Okay, Mark, you used to be a nice guy. What the hell happened?
Wildyr: I don’t like weasels.
Travis: If the readers were here in this room, they’d hear a heavy sigh, an audible sign of my suffering injustice in wounded silence. But they’re not, so lets get on with this thing. I’ll begin with the same question as last time. Why did you writer River Otter?
Wildyr: A couple of reasons. Aside from my interest in Native American cultures, like many other writers, I became a captive of my own novel. I had developed an emotional attachment to the people who populated Cut Hand and felt a need to continue their story through the survivors.
Of course, readers requesting a sequel likely had an influence, as well. After all, these were mostly perfect strangers who had become invested in the characters I’d created to the point they contacted me. That’s a powerful motive for any fiction writer.
Travis: ¨Why was the second book centered on Otter. Wouldn’t it be more natural to write of Cut Hand’s son, Dog Fox?
Wildyr: I considered making this the story of Dog Fox, whom Billy Strobaw renamed Cuthan Strobaw in order to help the boy survive the coming holocaust. But Billy’s widower, Otter, kept insinuating himself into the story to the point that it became his narrative. He was the keeper of Billy’s journal and had lived through all of what Billy and Cut Hand had endured. Besides, the underlying theme of the novel is the change in the social and legal status of deviants. Such a lifestyle was accepted and sometimes honored among many native cultures. Yet, as the tribes became infected with the white men’s “Christian” way of thinking, these men and women found the rock foundations they’d built their lives upon turning to sand.
Travis: Of course, Otter, a blood Indian, taking the white officer, James Morrow, as his mate complicated matters even more so.
Wildyr: Absolutely. White men taking native women might have been relatively common, but it was also widely looked down upon. Imagine how a white man living as a paramour to an Indian man would have been received. With a bullet or a hangman’s noose, most likely. There would have been no tolerance for that whatsoever among the Americans.
Travis: Yet that was true in Cut Hand, as well. Cut Hand was a native warrior. Billy, a white frontiersman.
Wildyr: Very true, but consider the era and the circumstances. In Billy’s time, the Yanube—Cut Hand’s tiospaye or band—was isolated. Billy was the People’s first real contact with Europeans. The tradition of berdaches was well established among the Yanubes and other tribes in the area. Even so, Billy and Cut spent anxious days wondering how the band would regard a red and white union. As it turned out, the Yanube’s understanding of human nature was such that they were accepted … once they had the approval of the chieftain, Yellow Puma, and the shaman, Spotted Hawk.
However, during the timeline of River Otter, Teacher’s Mead is a way station for the stage and not nearly so isolated from foreigners. Morrow Farm, Otter’s and James’s home, is only seven miles from Yanube City and the fort. They have white farmers as neighbors. Altogether different … which is the theme of the novel.
Travis: A reader recently asked me if I have a favorite passage in my novel, The Bisti Business. Do you have a favorite passage in River Otter?
Wildyr: I read your dontravis.com blog post of Thursday, November 28 and saw you picked a contemplative, pastoral scene that comes early in the first chapter, even though you said you didn’t have an actual favorite passage. Well, I do have a favorite. It is also a quiet, rustic scene. Although it’s appeared in this blog before, I don’t mind reproducing the two paragraphs that come at the beginning of Chapter 4 on Page 25. Otter has gone to a spot on the banks of Turtle Crick seven miles north of Fort Yanube to begin his life with James. Upon leaving Teacher’s Mead earlier in the day, he’s foiled an attempt to assassinate Cuthan (Dog Fox) and ended up killing one of the would-be murderers. Now he arrives at the site of his future home and settles down to await the arrival of James.
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I was tired. It had been a long, demanding day. The shooting of a human being took its toll on any caring, feeling man, and I considered myself to be of a sympathetic nature. I picketed the two horses on opposite sides of camp to double the chances of detecting unwelcome visitors. Patch was trained to give warning of predators. The mare was a shadow jumper.
I settled on the coarse blankets of my bedroll and breathed a silent song to the Great Mystery. The spread of the heavens—shot through with glittering stars, both noble and mean—made a vast dome of the black sky. I studied the Seven Persons, which Billy had called the Big Dipper. A faint breeze cooled my face and carried the comforting rustle of swaying boughs gently to my ear. The heavy fragrance of pines on the hummock—so different from the scant perfume of cottonwoods along the crick bank—laid the sharp taste of resin on my tongue, or so it seemed. I stilled my doubts, calmed my breathing, and closed my eyes to slip away into sleep.
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Travis: I can see why you selected it. This short scene manages to engage all of the five senses without making a big point of doing so. It could be a study in sensory writing.
Wildyr: Thank you, but flattery doesn’t get you off the hook.
Travis: What do you mean? This more than pays my debt.
Wildyr: If you say so.
Travis: Ingrate.
Wildyr: Weasel.
 Note: New posts are published around the first of every month.

Comments are welcome, not only on this post, but also about any relevant subject the reader wishes to discuss.