Mark Wildyr's Blog, page 5

Down Where I Live (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 

Markwildyr.com, Post #228

 

Image courtesy of Freepik

 

Again, thanks to Don Travis for the guest post of Wally and Me. Hope you enjoyed the story. Today, we try something different.

 

* * * *

I lived in an ebony world, a smothering, unchanging lightlessness filled with absolutely nothing! Then there was a faint glow, although I didn’t comprehend ‘glow,’ any better than I understood ‘darkness,’ recognizing it only as a miniscule change in my Stygian cocoon. Then the meaningless noises intruding on this world of oblivion magically morphed into voices discussing some poor sucker in a coma. Who was in a coma? Before I could grapple for an answer, a headache came roaring up and everything shut down, sending me back into that unrelieved blackness.

The halo shone brighter the second time I surfaced. Two Hospital Voices hovered over me discussing CAT scans and trauma. Brain swelling and edema. Plish. Plosh. Mish. Mash. Mush. But one thing was clear…some dude was in real trouble!

I figured out I was the fucker in trouble the moment I heard my mother’s anxious voice falsely cooing how well I looked and how handsome I was. Panic bubbled up within me, and even though I couldn’t feel anything, I knew I was bucking something terrible, jerking like I was in the middle of a gigantic orgasm.

That special headache carried me back down where I lived even as I longed for another voice… an eighteen-year-old baritone still deepening with growing maturity, one that called me ‘Dumbfuckingshit’ and ‘Summabitch’ with an easy familiarity that sent a thrill knifing through me. Orion Dozier…best friend. Orry! Grew up together. Played soccer together. Whispered about sex together. Stumbled awkwardly toward a new kind of relationship until this fucking coma thing got in the way. Why hadn’t I heard his voice? His absence slugged me in the metaphysical solar plexus so hard I zonked out right then and there.

****

“Wake up, you summabitch!” The vibrant, masculine voice reached down where I lived and yanked me into the glow. Orry! Orry was here. “Stop faking it. Say something, dammit!” Even though I felt nothing, I knew he had pulled a chair up and held my hand. “Damn, Thad, I’ve been imagining all kinds of horrible things, but you’re still as handsome as the male lead in a ‘B’ movie. Man, I wish I’d been with you when old Butch rammed his Austin Healy into that oak tree.”

There was a strange sound like a gulp or a gasp before the voice went on. “Thought I’d lost you, man. Couldn’t have stood it. I love you, you dumbfuckingshit. There! How’s that for a confession? Guys aren’t supposed to say stuff like that, but it’s true. You wake up and get outa this bed, you hear me? We got lots of things to do yet. You’n me together. Things good asshole buddies do.” The voice halted for a moment. “Shit, what if you can hear me? They said we’re supposed to talk to you, but nobody said if you can hear us.”

My headache came thundering back as I wrestled with his words. They were important…if I could just wrap my arms around them. Then the engine shut down, and I went back where it didn’t hurt any more.

****

My days sorted themselves into Hospital, Family, and Orry, and I was lying there just below the surface in the time between Family and Orry when my whole body gave a sudden jerk. A jerk! Wasn’t that wonderful? I had moved! My legs tingled. Tingled, dammit! Gotta have feelings to tingle, and they fucking well tingled! Lordy mercy! My arms prickled. What does that say when a spasm and a tingle and a prickle are the high points of a guy’s whole frigging existence?

There was a commotion all around me, and I heard a Hospital Voice. “Paralytic spasm. Let Dr. Morris know when he comes in. It’s an encouraging sign.”

****

“Hey, Thad! Hear you practically got up and raped one of the nurses!” Orry was back. “Hey, man, it’s Friday night, and I told your folks I’d give them some rest. Gonna spend the entire night right here in this chair.”

My heart soared; my frame gave a little jump!

“Shit, man!” he squawked. A pause. “You okay, Thad? Don’t scare me like that.” I heard him scoot the chair over by the bed so he could give me the lowdown on the day’s events, but despite everything I could do, I sank back into that dark place while he was droning on.

“…realize how close we are, bro.” It was Orry. I about panicked wondering how much I had missed. He gave a laugh. “Remember camping out in the back yard when we were kids? I got a kick outa sleeping beside you. I always wanted to snuggle over and touch you. Did too, sometimes when you were asleep.” He gave an embarrassed snicker. “Got a hard-on every time.”

He took my hand, and I felt it! Sensations…warmth, pressure. A wonderful sense of comfort engulfed my nerveless body.

“Now I understand what was going on,” his voice got incredibly low and thick. “How come we never did things, Thad? You know, personal things? I always wanted to. I remember once you were wearing one of those muscle shirts, and I saw how your shoulders narrowed to a vee right down to your butt…like a man’s.” Another chuckle. “I about broke my neck trying to see my back in the mirror. And you know what? I was built like that too.”

He was quiet for a moment; I willed him to continue. “I remember when you got hair on your legs. I wanted to touch it, but that would have looked funny. And you got cock hair before any of the soccer squad. We used to tease you in the locker room about your black fuzz, but when it came in thick and curly, everybody got jealous. Wonder if you remember things like that about me?”

Of course, I do, I shouted soundlessly. Desperate to communicate, I felt my hand twitch.  He jumped so hard the chair scraped against the floor.

“Jeez, Thad! Did you do that on purpose? You trying to tell me something?”

I reached way down inside and pulled a muscle or something; my hand closed on his for a brief instant.

“You are! You’re talking to me! Okay…okay. We gotta rig up a system. You grip my hand once if you agree or just want my attention. Can you grip me twice to say no?” He paused expectantly while I laboriously tightened around his hand two distinct times. “Aw, man, that’s fucking wonderful! Oh, shit, that means you can hear me!” I caught the sudden fear in his voice. “That…that stuff I talked about…you know, about you’n me. Are you pissed?”

Two squeezes.

“No? That’s great man! I don’t think I could ever have told you face to face…well, you know what I mean.” The voice took on a husky timbre. “Remember when we jerked off together before graduation? I always thought we’d do it again, and this time we’d touch one another instead of just doing it to ourselves. Man, when you blew your nuts, I wished it was me making your eyes roll up in your head like that. I’ve skinned the old pole lots since then… always thinking about you. Wonder if you ever did it over me?”

This time, I squeezed once.

“You did? Oh jeez, I’m so hard right now I’m about to split! You…you wanta feel?”

One definite spasm. I heard him rise, and through the swirling fog of my dark world, I perceived a warm, pulsing lump pressed against my palm.

“That feels great, Thad. I’ve got on my sweats. I can get it out if you want. You want to feel it…I mean without anything between us?”

One right on the prick!

* * * *

I can imagine worse ways from beginning an emergence from a coma, can’t you? Do you think Orry would ever have made his feelings for Thad known without this situation. I don’t. Wonder what they’ll accomplish next time?

 

More Wildyr Tales, a second anthology of some of my stories, was published as an ebook on September 24. A print version should follow soon.

 

I expect the third anthology called Gabacho and Other Wildyr Stories to be released in January of next year.

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Wally and Me (Part 2 of 2 Parts), A Guest Post

 Markwildyr.com, Post #226

Image courtesy of dreamstime.com:

 

Here’s the second part of Don Travis’ “Wally and Me” guest post. Thanks, Don.

 

* * * *

By Don Travis

I paced my room for the next couple of days, unable to sleep or read or watch TV… anything. Calls stacked up on my cell phone, but I didn’t have the courage to answer them. All I could do was relive the moment a body fell from the cliff and my absolute premonition it was Wally. The deputy determined everyone had been drinking, and some of the boys were horsing around wrestling near the edge of the cliff to see who’d chicken out first.

Wally had lost his footing and slipped over the edge unexpectedly, dropping straight down into the shallows. Broke his neck, the medics said. Each time I heard that diagnosis, a loud crack rang in my head and a pain played up and down my back. But mostly, I was empty. Mom had to force me to eat, and most of it wouldn’t stay down. When they talked about going to the viewing, my blood ran cold and I shrank inside myself. I refused to get in the car.

In private, I cried like a baby, remembering the times we were babies and boys and adolescents. Thinking how good it felt to throw my arm around his shoulders, or better yet, when he laid an arm over mine and talked in my ear like nobody else in the world mattered as much as me.

My mother spent a lot of time over at the Hamners, helping Wally’s mom through her grief, I guess. Dad suggested I go over, but I couldn’t. My muscles froze. My skin crawled. All I could do was shake my head.

I got away with it until the funeral. My dad insisted I put on a suit and get in the car with them for the drive to the funeral home. The place was packed, but the Hamners had reserved seats for us near the family. I kept my eyes down as we walked the aisle to our place. Then I glanced up and caught sight of the coffin, which was nothing but a steel box where you’d be locked in the dark from now until eternity. My muscles gave way, dumping me onto the pew. I swallowed a sob.

I thought the service would never end. Mrs. Hamner cried and Mr. Hamner kept taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes with a handkerchief. I sat dry-eyed. You have to feel something to cry, and I didn’t feel anything. The hymns almost got to me a couple of times, but only because they weren’t the ones Wally would have chosen. He’d want Elvis crooning “Hound Dog” over him, or Johnny Cash roaring about a “Ring of Fire.”

When it was over, the ushers sent everybody to the front to take a final look at Wally. The family, which seemed to include us, were last, and there wasn’t any way I could get out of it with my dad’s hand on my back propelling me forward. But it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be because it wasn’t Wally lying there in a suit and tie. He looked too peaceful. And Wally hadn’t been peaceful. He was on edge, excited, alive! Every day in every way.

Then we did it all over again at the cemetery, except the coffin was closed, so I didn’t have to look every which way to keep from staring at the Wally who wasn’t Wally. I remained staid and stolid until they started lowering him into the ground. Then I went to wait by the car where I marveled that the sun still shone and the clouds still billowed overhead and the breeze blew fresh on my face. I never noticed things like that unless Wally mentioned them, and he’d been lots more aware of our surroundings than I was. But all those things were still here even if Wally wasn’t. That’s when I said goodbye to him.

Once the crowd broke up and we were back in our car, dad looked over his shoulder at me in the back seat of the Oldsmobile. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

I shook my head.

“I know you don’t appreciate it now, son, but you’ll always be grateful that you went to pay your respects at his laying away.”

I nodded, my throat too dry to speak.

My folks insisted I go next door with them to the Hamners’ after we got home. Everyone was gathering there to eat and talk and lend sympathy and support to Wally’s parents.

I felt like someone slapped me on the back of the head when I saw Mrs. Hamner talking to the neighbors who lived on the other side like nothing had happened. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but otherwise she seemed normal. I spotted Wally’s dad talking to the pastor and smiling. Somebody laughed in a corner of the room, and a line of people waited to fill paper plates like it was the Fourth of July picnic all over again. Some of the football team, who’d been on the bluff that day, stood in another corner talking to girls.

I reeled back against my father, my mind screaming. What was the matter with these people? They’re all acting like it’s a holiday. But it isn’t. It’s the day we buried Wally!

A sob I couldn’t stop escaped me, catching Mrs. Hamner’s attention. The moment she started toward me, I bolted, almost knocking down the choir director on my way out the door. I made it to the front fender of the Oldsmobile parked in our driveway before the tears broke loose, blinding me. I hunched over the hot metal and let the sobs wrack my body like blows from a cat o’ nine tails.

After a while, I heard footsteps. I swiped away enough tears to make out it wasn’t my mom. It was Mrs. Hamner. I backed away, murmuring, “No… no.”

She folded me in her ample arms and pressed my head to her shoulder. “It’s all right, Bobby. It’s all right.”

I fought her momentarily, but she pressed me back to her shoulder. “It’s my fault,” I whispered. “My fault.”

“You get that wretched thought out of your head right now, Bobby Twillinger. It was no such thing.”

“I-I thought you’d blame me because I didn’t go… go with him.”

She held me at arm’s length and stared into my tear-devastated face. “Maybe you would blame me because I didn’t stop him from going.”

“Do you know what made Wally who he was?”

I closed my eyes and shook my head.

“His spirit of adventure. His daring nature. His willingness to try things.”

With a shudder, I nodded.

“And do you know what kept him grounded. Kept him here with us as long as he was? You. He loved you like a brother, Bobby. Everyone thought he was a wild kid. In a way, he was. But do you know why he wasn’t out of control? Because he listened to you. Most of the time. And he was a better boy… man for it.”

Clinging together for support, we bawled unashamedly while the sun Wally and I had shared and the blue sky we both admired beamed down on us as if nothing had happened. In the cosmos, perhaps nothing had. But in our reality, the world had fallen off its axis. Our task now was to put it back in place. Not an easy thing to do.

The next day, Mr. Hamner came to the door and asked for me. When I appeared, he pressed something into my hand. I turned the key to the old Ford convertible I’d ridden in a thousand times over in my hand and stared up at him.

“Wally would have wanted you to have it.”

I swallowed hard and thanked him before he turned and walked down the driveway. Something happened to my heart as I watched him go. I saw my dead friend as he would have been twenty years from now. A good man. Generous. Strong. Quiet, his wild days firmly behind him.

I would drive that car until the wheels came off, until like the one-horse shay of lore and legend, it gave up the ghost. After all, it was the last tangible connection between Wally and me.

 

* * * *

Unfortunately, not all stories—like life—don’t end happily. I would consider Don’s story as a mood piece. Thanks for contributing it.

 

More Wildyr Tales, a second anthology of some of my stories, was published as an ebook on September 24. A print version should follow soon.

 

I expect the third anthology called Gabacho and Other Wildyr Stories to be released in January of next year.

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Wally and Me (Part 1 of 2 Parts), A Guest Post

 

Markwildyr.com, Post #226

Image courtesy of dreamstime.com:

 

Don Travis and I are still guest posting each other’s blog sites. I hope you liked his “What’s in a Name,” last week. This time, it’s a two-parter. Hope you enjoy it.

 

* * * *

By Don Travis

 Wally Hamner was the proverbial “boy next door,” the guy who was always there. We grew up together like that… next door. Two peas in a pod, my dad used to say. We played together in diapers and in shorts and in big boy long pants. We were buds even though he had me by a year. It hurt a little when he got interested in sports and developed other friendships. But I adjusted and came to grips with it.

What I had that the others didn’t was proximity. Proximity and history. It was easy to hop the fence and join me in the back yard and pick up a conversation from yesterday or the day before after he returned from this excursion or that. We talked with an ease that neither of us had with anyone else. I knew his ambitions—to be a fighter pilot—as well as his aspirations—to marry Mary Sue Klonheim and build her the biggest house in town. I knew his fears—snakes—and his joys—double chocolate milk shakes in addition to Mary Sue.

The summer between our junior and senior years, respectively, I came to comprehend how I served him. I was his conscience, the brake to his recklessness. I was his anchor. Strange, because he was older than me. Maybe it was because I wasn’t willing to jump out of a moving car on a dare or let someone shoot a pencil out of my mouth. I wasn’t as audacious as he was. I was the one to back off when things went too far. One of the best things about Wally was that even if he didn’t follow my example, he respected it and never talked down to me because of my natural passivity, as he called it. He’d always say something like “Oh, come on, Bobby, what’s it gonna hurt?” But when I balked, he never held it against me. Still, I suspected that was why he turned to others as we grew older.

By that summer, Wally had the reputation of being wild, at least among the adults. Ours was a small town where neighbors knew everything there was to know about neighbors. The fact that I couldn’t go too far overboard without my folks learning about it made me feel safe, but it chafed Wally. The budding fighter pilot in him wanted to break the bonds of small-town boundaries and soar. So it goes without saying he was usually in trouble to some degree.

Because of his venturesome nature, it was strange that my folks never tried to put the kibosh on our friendship. And his mom positively glowed whenever I came over. I didn’t get it then, but she probably figured my level-headedness to be a blessing. Funny how folks look at the same thing and see it differently. Wally considered it as timidity.

As we approached that last school year before he’d go off to college, the age difference between us didn’t seem so big as it had awhile back. More often than not, Wally invited me to hang with him and his jock buddies, and I did. But it wasn’t a comfortable fit because I was the naysayer, the wet blanket, the raincloud hanging over the group whenever they wanted to drag race or take a plunge off the cliff on the south side of Webber’s Lake. Or worse yet, when they boozed before racing or jumping off the cliff.

The Fourth of July of my sixteenth year is imprinted on my mind—on my psyche—as if applied by a red-hot branding iron. My aunt and uncle and their daughter from the next town over went with us to the lake for the holiday. Virtually the whole town was there, including the Hamners. We no sooner arrived than Wally stopped by to get me to go join his gang atop the bluff across the lake. But out of a sense of duty—probably misplaced—I stayed behind with my cousin Helen, a fifteen-year-old pain in the butt, as Wally hopped into his old ’49 Ford convertible and headed off for fun and games while I played nursemaid

As we ate fried chicken and “fixin’s” and listened to Helen whine about this or that, my eyes continually strayed to where distant figures cavorted atop the cliff. Occasionally, someone dove into the water, exciting “oohs” and “ahhs” from those of us who happened to see. There was talk of how dangerous that was and whether we should send a deputy sheriff—who was eating with his family a couple of tables away from us—to put a stop to it, but nothing came of such talk.

I happened to be watching when someone fell from the cliff. It was different from the others. The figure wasn’t diving knife-like into the water, it was dropping sideways and would likely land in the shallows. My heart fell into my stomach as tiny stick figures collected at the top of the bluff, gesticulating and yelling, their voices echoing off the water and faintly tickling our ears like the irritating buzz of swarming mosquitoes or the sizzle of fat in a hot skillet. Three or four of the boys dived off the cliff

Others on this side of the lake had seen the fall as well, and the deputy was finally dispatched to check out the situation. By now, most of the boys on the cliff-top had joined others in the water and clustered in a group at the bottom of the bluff.

My heart fell into my stomach as a heavy sense of foreboding pressed on my heart and rendered me dizzy. My blood seemed to have pooled in my shoes, rendering me incapable of doing anything besides sag against the concrete picnic table and gasp for breath. My dad and Mr. Hamner raced for the shore and jumped in one of the boats taking off across the lake. As I tried to stand, Mrs. Hamner restrained me. The haunted look in her eyes sent chill bumps sweeping over me.

“Stay here, Bobby,” she mumbled. “Stay with your mother and me.”

“Was it him? It-it was Wally, wasn’t it?” I stuttered.

“Hush up. We’ll know soon enough. God help us, we’ll know soon enough.”

* * * *

Thanks, Don, for your previous post. And for the first half of this one. Readers, let me know how you like his stories.

 

More Wildyr Tales, a second anthology of some of my stories, was published as an ebook on September 24. A print version should follow soon.

 

I expect the third anthology called Gabacho and Other Wildyr Stories to be released in January of next year.

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

“Hush up. We’ll know soon enough. God help us, we’ll know soon enough.”

What’s in a Name (A Guest Post)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #225

 

Image courtesy of clipartix.com:

 

This week, Don Travis and I are guest posting each other’s blog sites. The one he’s chosen to give me is a flash piece called “What’s in a Name.” Let’s see, shall we?

 

* * * *

By Don Travis

 

Mirrian-Webster defines corker as something exceptional. If so, Aiden Corker was aptly named. That described him right down to his toenails, and believe me, I’d seen him right down to those bare toenails. Not like I would have preferred to see him, you understand, but in the locker room at the pool or in the showers after a game of golf. To me, he was walking perfection. Handsome. Built. Bold. Smart. Considerate. And—unfortunately—totally heterosexual. I was so consumed by living on his fringes that I’d even looked up the meaning of his first name. Aiden. English meaning a fiery young man.Nailed it!

I had an unusual Christian name, as well, although my family name of Smith was about as common as you can get. My first name was kinda symbolic, as well. Eban was likewise English and meant stone. And that’s the way I got around Aiden… rock hard. My mind went sort of flinty, too. My tongue might as well have been stone because it didn’t function very well in his presence. If you get the idea I was awed by Aaiden, you’d be right.

The summer after we graduated Rainsville High—me as valedictorian and Aaiden as salutatorian—I attended a scout camp in the mountains in the northern part of the state. To my delight—and terror—Aiden was there, as well. I almost packed up and went home when I found he shared a bungalow with me and four other guys. But he made it easy, taking the time to talk to me like I was a regular guy, not a tongue-tied idiot. Before long, I could say “good morning” and “good afternoon” without stuttering.

Halfway through the camp, the scoutmasters sent us on field trips, one of which was overnight… and I was paired with Aiden. I enjoyed the walk among the fragrant pines and spruce and along ridges that opened to vast vistas across broad canyons. Jays and other birds flitted among the branches and chirped at us as we passed. I fed a chipmunk scraps from my mess kit before scouring the stainless-steel vessel with sand.

Twilight found us on a flat piece of ground near the peak of a mountain at about 11,000 feet. It had been a glorious day, and I’d not given thought to sleeping arrangements. So I was surprised to find myself helping set up a two-man tent and horrifically thrilled that Aiden was pounding pegs into the stony earth right beside me. We would share the tent. Wow!

He was so casual about it that I soon put aside my apprehension and enjoyed his company. He really was a great guy… in addition to being handsome and sexy and totally desirable. Later, when we turned in, I watched out of the corners of my eyes as my tentmate stripped to his skivvies—black Haines briefs—and slipped into his sleeping bag. He did it in a hurry, not because he was shy, but because at this altitude, the nights were cold even in the summer. I wondered if he eyed my plain white jockeys as I crawled into my own bag.

“Brrr,” Aiden said. “Shoulda brought PJs.”

“Yeah, they should have warned us.” I bit down on my tongue after that pedestrian reply.

To my delight, we spent a few minutes talking about the day’s hike and a couple of the counselors before he doused the flashlight and settled down for the night. It took me a long time to go to sleep. I kept fighting the urge to reach across the couple of feet that separated us to make sure he was really there. If nothing else, I could always say I spent the night with Aiden Corker. Let them make of that what they will.

 ****

 

I wasn’t really asleep. It was too cold for that, but I was in a stupor when a hand shook my shoulder.

“D-damn, Eban, I’m freezing. How about you?”

“Cold. Uncomfortable. But not freezing.”

“Your fart bag must be better than mine. Can I crawl in with you? I’ll put my bag over the top of us.”

My mouth went dry as I nodded my head before realizing he couldn’t see me. “Y-yeah. Sure.”

Then Aiden Corker, my idol, my wet dream, unzipped my bag, told me to turn on my side, and crawled into bed with me. I barely noticed how cold his flesh was, all I knew was that Aiden’s chest pressed flush against my back and Aiden’s basket was shoved against my butt.

“Better,” he pronounced after a moment. “You all right?”

I wasn’t. A vital part of me was mimicking the English meaning of my first name, and my sphincter was twitching like crazy. But I swallowed hard and mumbled, “Yeah.”

“Kinda close quarters, isn’t it?” he remarked as he settled himself more comfortably, which involved pressing his package against me. Was it my imagination, or was something taking place down there? Whoops. Not my imagination.

“You know,” he said, putting his arm around me and pulling me closer. “I’ve wondered what this would be like since we were both sophomores.”

I didn’t have to do a thing while Aiden lived up to his name. A fiery young man!

* * * *

Thanks, Don, for lending me one of your stories. Hope my readers enjoyed it. Likewise, hope yours enjoy mine on your blog site.

 

More Wildyr Tales, a second anthology of some of my stories, was published as an ebook on the 24thof last month. A print version should follow shortly thereafter.

 

JMS Books accepted the third anthology called Gabacho and Other Wildyr Stories and scheduled it for release in January of next year.

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

Mark

 

ew posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

A Trip to the Dentist

 Markwildyr.com, Post #224

 

My short story this week is a bit different from those I usually write. Actually, it’s taken from a scene from a novel that was cut during an edit. Did I make a working short story of it? Let me know.

 

* * * *

            

Billy walked out of the schoolhouse and saw the ranch’s Jeep parked at the edge of the playground. Joe, one of the Bucking O’s cowboys sat in the driver’s seat smoking a thin cigar.

“I about give you up. Boss said to come get you and go pick up Mitch in town.” Mitch was the ranch owner’s son and Billy’s best friend.

“What about my horse?”

Joe glanced to the pasture south of the reservation schoolyard. “Ain’t he okay there?”

“I guess so, but I don’t want to leave him after dark.”

He climbed in and watched Joe manipulate the gears. Someday, he was going to learn to do that. When they arrived at Milton Valley Junior High, Mitch stepped off the curb and gave Billy a friendly punch on the shoulder as he hopped into the back seat.

“You’re taking this better’n I expected.”

Billy’s spine went stiff. “What? Taking what?”

“I ain’t told him yet.” Joe pulled away from the curb.

“Told me what? Where are we going?”

“Nowhere much,” Mitch answered. “Just to the dentist, that’s all.”

Something cold ran right up his backbone. “Where?”

“To dear old Doctor Gumbacher.”

“Who?”

Mitch grinned at him. “Doctor Hans Grumbacher’s House of Pain.”

“Cut that out,” Joe said. “It ain’t all that bad.”

“Unless he finds cavities, then he bores a hole in your teeth with a drill. Buzz, buzz, buzz! First he sticks this big needle in—”

“Paul!” the cowhand yelled. “This your first visit to a dentist, Billy?”

“Uh… yeah.”

The cowpoke took a draw on his cheroot and let a stream of smoke whip away in the wind. “What, eleven-years-old and never been to one before? Guess that ain’t too bad. I was fifteen, I think.”

When they arrived, the place didn’t look that bad. Pictures on the walls of warplanes blasting away with cannon and machine guns were neat. The horse-faced lady behind the desk greeted Mitch by name before turning to quizz the new patient, asking all kinds of questions—personal things—seeming startled that he lived on the nearby Apache reservation.

After Mitch went in to see the doctor, Billy picked up a magazine and started leafing through it, stopping to read an article about Nazi medical experiments in concentration camps. He didn’t understand all the big words, but he caught enough to know some of the bad guys had escaped to South America or somewhere. He put down the magazine and started worrying about what was going to happen in the doctor’s office. His mouth was dry, and his legs made jerky movements by the time Miss Horse Teeth called his name.

She put him in a padded chair with spidery arms holding basins and hoses with pointy things. His armpits went damp when he spotted a tray of knives and picks and other doodads.

“Let’s get some X-rays first.” The woman covered his chest with a heavy bib and put a white thing in his mouth. Then she pointed a ray gun at him and ordered him not to move.

That’s when it hit him. Hans Gumbacher. German doctors and ray guns. Escaped Nazis with death rays. He was in a nest of mad German scientists! He heard a click and a hum. They’d got him. Would he just fall over, or would it kill him slowly? Feeling dizzy, he started to scramble out of the chair.

“No, no, young man. You stay right where you are.” She rushed in and aimed the death ray at his other jaw before backing out of the room. “Don’t move a muscle.”

The ray must not have worked the first time. Maybe it was a new weapon they were testing. He tore out of the chair. Her feet came pounding again. He expected her to be angry, but she was still smiling. They were sly, those Nazis.

“Young man, you simply have to sit still.”

Billy surrendered to fate, screwed his eyes shut, and waited for the ray to singe away his flesh. He was a goner, anyway. Another click and a whirring sound. Could they take a picture of his brain and read everything he’d ever thought? Finally, Miss Horse Teeth was finished.

“There, that didn’t hurt, did it? Here are pictures of your very own teeth.”

She laughed when he recoiled at the ghostly image of teeth with no skin over them. He touched his mouth to check that everything was still there.

“They aren’t too bad for a young man who’s never seen a dentist before. See these little black spots? They are cavities. The doctor will have to take care of those. There are only two, so it won’t be a problem.”

Cavities? He bounced out of the chair, but she caught him.

“You stay right here. The doctor is almost finished with Mitch.”

As soon as she left him alone, he started getting sleepy. Was he their zombie now? Then Dr. Gumbacher, a solid man with gray hair and steel-rimmed glasses, loomed in the doorway. “How do, Mr. Billy.” His voice was gruff, but his mouth and eyes smiled.

Billy’s heart almost stopped. Gumbacher was a German! An escaped mad doctor was about to experiment on him right in Milton Valley, and he was helpless! His arms and legs began acting independently of his brain again.

“He’s a little nervous on his first visit, Doctor,” Miss Horse Teeth said.

Was that code? Was she warning Dr. Death he was onto them?

“No one’s going to hurt you.” The German doctor’s words might have meant more if he hadn’t been holding a huge needle up to the light. Some kind of secret Nazi poison dribbled out the end.

Billy squirmed so much the man had trouble inserting the needle. The sting wasn’t bad, but poison shooting into his flesh hurt like crazy. When the needle finally came out, the mad scientist promptly stuck it in the other side of his mouth.

Then he was deserted again. Those people had a way of vanishing in a hurry, but they were smart. There was no way out except right through the middle of them. Or by the window. Miss Horse Teeth came back with a handful of doodads, a cluster of evil-looking burrs that looked like… drill bits! They were going to drill his head open.

As soon as the woman left, he started dying in pieces. His nose itched. When he touched it, his hand told him his nose was there, but his face said it wasn’t. His nose was dead! He felt his upper lip. It was missing. The ray…it killed you in pieces.

His grandmother! Maybe her Eagle Power could save him. He bolted from the chair and ran to the window. It wouldn’t budge. He grabbed a small metal stool and drew back to sling it through the glass. Just as he was about to let go, someone caught him by the belt.

“Whoa, pardner! Whadda you think you’re doing’?” It was Joe. “They said you was acting up, but why’re you trying to break the Doc’s window?”

“Joe! Leggo! I’m going dead!” His voice sounded all slurry. “Can’t feel my face.”

“Ain’t supposed to, kid. That’s what happens.”

“That’s right, young man. I ought to have told you what to expect.” Dr. Death grasped him firmly by the arm and put him back into the torture chair. “You are going to go all numb. You understand numb? Goot! That medicine I put in your gums with the needle makes you lose feeling in the mouth. So it won’t hurt when I take out the bad part of the tooth, ja?”

He was outnumbered. The woman, the doctor…even Joe. The evil doctor started drilling. It didn’t hurt, but the grating noise rattled his head.

“There,” Dr. Death growled after what seemed a long time. “Got one. Now, let’s see about the other side.”

The racket started again. When it ended, they came at him with a strange metal band that looked like it was made for squeezing things to pieces. It was—for squeezing teeth. They put two of them in his mouth. Spit, absent a few minutes earlier, now flowed. The woman plopped something else in his crowded mouth, and he heard a slurping noise. He screwed his eyes closed and thought about Child-of-Water and all the dangers he’d faced.

Finally, the doctor and nurse stepped away and congratulated themselves on their work. But they weren’t finished with him yet. The horsey lady scraped and picked around in his mouth and called it a cleaning.

It seemed like hours before the doctor presented him with a new toothbrush and said he could go. He bolted through the office and climbed into the Jeep.

Mitch didn’t exactly laugh at him, but it was obvious he wanted to. Nobody said much on the way to pick up his horse at the schoolyard, except Joe told him not to come to work until tomorrow. The cowboy also left a box of aspirin in case his teeth started aching.

His grandmother said nothing when he entered the gowa, but he noticed her watching his mouth. Had Eagle told her about the dentist, or was it because he dribbled when he tried to eat? By the time he went to bed, his lips and tongue had returned from wherever they’d been. His whole mouth ached a little, but he stayed away from the little white pills. He’d survived the Nazi doctor once. He wasn’t about to take any more chances.

* * * *

Did it work, or not? I’m interested in your reaction. By the way, as a disclaimer, the protagonist in the story is from a reservation simply because that’s the contest of the novel it was lifted from. The child could have been Caucasian, Black, Asian, Alien… or whatever.

 

More Wildyr Tales, a second anthology of some of my stories, is due out September 28.Aa third anthology called Gabacho and Other Wildyr Stories will be submitted to JMS Books shortly after that date.

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Mountain Cat, A Short Story

 Markwildyr.com, Post #223

Image courtesy of freeimages.com:

 Got a lot of hits on last week’s post about my emerging novel Ides, but no comments. Really wanted to know what you thought about it.

 

This week, I’m offering a short story. I’m interested in your reaction to it.

 

* * * *

             

Upon arriving at Rusty Blade Windmill, where they intended to set up camp, Wolf Farley piled out of one of two Ford Broncos. He and the other three men unloaded their horses from trailers, then broke out grub and ate while making plans. No one was in charge of the hunt, so each expressed an opinion.

Buck Wingfield, who’d found the carcass of the puma’s last victim when he drove up to unfreeze the pump on the windmill, showed them where it happened. There were still prints, so Wolf decided to track the lion a distance.

Rusty Blade sat in the Capucha foothills in the middle of the Edge of Mountain Indian Reservation, and this disorganized party had been commissioned by the reservation’s cattlemen’s organization to track and kill a cat that was taking a toll on the tribe’s herd. All were of the blood.

Snow, splotchy down on the desert, was a couple of inches deep here, and Wolf encountered deeper drifts as he climbed. Following faint scratches in the snow and occasional bare patches of earth, he found four perfect paw prints, the rear right badly mangled.

His breath caught in his throat. Lyle Hunter had a mangled right foot. The only imperfection in his otherwise perfect body. It was not easy to look at, but didn’t put a limp in his lover’s gait. In fact, Lyle moved with a grace that was sorta catlike.

But for this cougar, it was bad news. “Gotta get you,” he said half to himself, “or it’s a steady diet of beef from now on.”

Wolf gave up the chase in a small box canyon where the cat had gone up a steep rock wall. Darkness was falling, and pulling himself up that shelf hand-over-hand wasn’t a good idea.

Beaver handed him a steaming cup of coffee when he walked back into camp. Between sips, he reported what he’d discovered. All agreed the mangled paw was the cat’s death sentence.

There were two small groups of cattle in the immediate area, so they decided to split up and try to deny the beast another meal. If they could get him hungry enough, the lion might get careless. Clarence and Buck headed off to Sloping Hills a mile or so northwest to keep watch over the second herd. Wolf and Beaver remained at Rusty Blade.

The cat tried three times over the next six days to get at the cattle in one or the other of the locations, but they managed to keep him from a kill.

****

Beaver nursed a tin of coffee beside the campfire. “We’ve been out here a week. That cat’s gotta be starving.”

Wolf took a sip from his cup. “I figure he’ll come tonight. And he won’t be so easy to chase off this time. Hope Clarence and Buck are figuring the same way.”

“They’ll be on the lookout. I’ll take first watch, okay?”

Wolf kicked out of his boots, loosened his clothing, and slipped into a sleeping bag even though he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Thirteen days ago—even though it seemed more like a year—his world had shattered, and facing tonight was no easier than facing last night. When the bag was warm from his body heat, he pulled his cold rifle in beside him and lay back to deal with whatever ghosts came in the dark. He must have slept because the next thing he knew Beaver was shaking his shoulder.

“He’s here. Cattle are jumpy.”

Wolf stepped into his boots and buttoned up his sheepskin. Shivering slightly, he clamped his cold hat onto his head and scooped his rifle from the fading warmth of his sleeping bag before moving cautiously after Beaver. The cattle stirred nervously around the tank, shying away from the mountains. The moon hid behind a bank of clouds.

“Damn, it’s a black night!” Beaver whispered. “Hey! Couple of heifers broke away.”

“Stay with them!”

Suddenly, the two strays set up a loud bawling. A vague shape took form in front of them. Both men raised rifles but held fire. A frightened cow, the whites of her eyes glowing like foxfire, lumbered past. The second heifer, her bawling now almost a squeal, was still in ahead of them. There was a quick clatter of hoof beats, a thud, and then silence.

“Hot damn!” Beaver yelled. “He got one.”

“Don’t let him get away!” Wolf veered toward the mountain. The moon reappeared suddenly, and he saw it. The cat, weighed down by the dead yearling, seemed to be running in slow motion. Wolf pulled off a round. The cat kept moving. On the second shot, the cougar dropped the carcass and bounded away.

“Get him?” Beaver puffed noisily.

“Naw. But I made him give up a good meal.”

“Wanna drag it back down to the camp?”

“No. I’ll hunker down by that rock and see if he comes back for it.”

“He won’t.”

Beaver was right. By daybreak the cat hadn’t returned, and Wolf was almost frozen. They gulped a hurried breakfast and saddled up. The cat’s trail turned into the same box canyon. They searched the floor of the balsam. Tracks led in, but none came out. The cat went down the mountain by one route and came back up through this canyon. They sat down in an out-of-the-way place and scanned the high stone walls while a plan percolated in Wolf’s head.

“He goes home every night up this canyon. I’m going to stay up here. As soon as he stirs up things down there, scare him off. I’ll hear your rifle fire and be watching for him.”

“You ought not tackle this fella alone. He’s pretty damned hungry. If he don’t go for you, he might get your pinto.”

“You’re right. Let me get my bedroll, and you take him back down with you. If nothing happens, come get me in the morning.”

After they arranged a series of signals with rifle fire, Beaver started down with the two horses, tossing a warning to be careful over his shoulder.

Wolf spent the rest of the day digging out a hiding place for himself, while keeping half an eye on the ridge. Nothing moved. He had wanted to stay in the canyon all day rather than come back later because his spoor along the trail would be fainter. This left him alone with his thoughts for hours.

Right in the middle of covering his bedroll with leaves and fallen branches, the recollection of Lyle Hunter lying beneath him in a motel bed slammed into his head. Then he and Lyle jumped naked into a stock tank to frolic. He and Lyle climbed Sleeping Turtle Butte, where they’d made love for the first time. In his fevered mind, they wrestled, played chess, and slept in the same bed whispering private thoughts and loving the night away.

Time slowed, his movements slowed, the world slowed—except for the memories racing through his mind. The car barreling out of the night. The drunken driver—a white man—walked away while Lyle, beautiful, handsome Lyle, lay crumpled beneath the broken steering wheel. His lover was buried before Wolf got out of the hospital to pick up his shattered life. Alone in the middle of a reservation where cousins and uncles and aunts abounded. But alone, nonetheless.

He blinked and discovered it was twilight. How long had he sat like a blind man? What if the cougar had crept up on him? Would he have seen it? Did he care?

He tried to remain alert until the last of the light faded. Then he crawled into the sleeping bag, taking his rifle with him so it wouldn’t freeze. Was what he was doing right? The lion was wild and free. His blood cried that these were good and proper things. But the cattleman within him came up with another answer. The cat ceased to be natural when it turned to killing beef. Cattle were not its natural prey. Wolf fell into a childhood habit.

“Mountain Lion, forgive me. You are hurt and cannot live the way the Power intended. This is a kindness I seek to do you.” For good measure, he added that the white eyes in Washington made him do it.

The cold woke him. It was still dark, but dawn wasn’t far away. A frigid breeze swept up from the desert. Good! The cat wouldn’t catch his scent. The faint sound of a gunshot bounced around the narrow canyon. Moments later, two rapid shots told him Beaver had missed the cat. If the animal got away with a beef that would slow him down. If he didn’t, he’d head straight for his lair.

Wolf tried to stay alert, but his world crowded in on him again. His grandmother came to say she told him nothing good would come of loving a man. In the old days, that would have been fine, but not today. Not with white eyes running the show.

The ghostly gray touch of dawn drew him back to reality. The cat could have come and gone, and he’d never have known. He shook his head, willing the ghosts of his past to remain in his past. The growing light gave the canyon an unreal, otherworld appearance. The wind wafted down the canyon. Damn! The cat would smell him.

He froze. Instinct stilled every muscle. The lion was here! He almost missed it. A tawny blur bounded toward him before he could free his rifle from the bedroll. He almost felt relief. Would Lyle be waiting for him?

At the last moment the cat spotted him and veered left, knocking a tree limb Wolf had used to camouflage his position into him. The rifle flew from his fingers. The cat streaked by.

Wolf scrambled for the weapon. The beast was halfway up the wall of the canyon, climbing with a grace that made Wolf think of Lyle, when he swung the rifle around. The gun roared. The puma stumbled, gathered himself, and sped on. Wolf cocked the rifle and got off another shot. The cat screamed and clawed the air with its forepaws. The tawny form tumbled end over end in space, falling with a muffled thud into a deep bank of snow. Wolf walked up, not caring if the lion was wounded and dangerous or dead and harmless. But the cat was dead. Dead like his lover.

Blind with tears, Wolf raised his rifle and fired three rapid shots into the air, summoning the others.

 

* * * *

Let me know what you think.

 

More Wildyr Tales, a second anthology of some of my stories, is due out in September. By the way, I have a third anthology called Gabacho and Other Wildyr Stories coming out from JMS Books in September.

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Another Look at My Novel, Ides

 Markwildyr.com, Post #222

 

Image dreamstime.com:

 

Lots of hits, but not many comments on Bifurcated Man.

 

This week, I’d like to take a second look at the last novel in the Strobaw Family Saga (the Cut Hand series). As I’ve said before, this one is dealing me fits. Slow going. On June 2, I posted the Prologue to the novel and solicited comments. Didn’t get much. So today, I’d like to take an excerpt from Chapter 1 of the novel. Again, I ask for your comments. Am I on the right track or foundering in deep water?

 

Here we go.

 

* * * *

Chapter 1

 

Approximately one year earlier, Fort Yanube, South Dakota

 

Something bit into my back, slashing through my shirt and setting my flesh afire. Giving an anguished grunt, I whirled to face my tormentor and was surprised to see Sergeant Courtland Dawson drawing back for another lash of his quirt. Marybell’s father’s face was afire, his lips drawn into a snarl. I rushed him, but not before the quirt struck again, slashing sideways across my left cheek. He lost his grip on the leather when I bowled into him, but he recovered quickly and rocked me with a fist to the side of my neck.

I went down and rolled, coming back onto my feet in a boxer’s stance. My dad had taught me the basics, but the sergeant was the bigger man and simply overpowered me. I got in a few licks before some noncoms arrived and pulled us apart. My split lip stung as I smiled at his bruised eye. He’d have to face his troops with a shiner…given him by a teenager.

Dawson shook off his restrainers and stabbed a finger at me. “You stay away from my little girl, you hear me, you fucking breed!”

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that word, nor its adjective, but it was the first time one of my dad’s subordinates had said it aloud in my presence. I saw red as the sergeant stalked away, muttering to himself. He was barely out of sight before someone called the men in the vicinity to attention, and I knew my father had arrived.

“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded. His eyes registered shock when he saw me. “Ides, what happened?”

“Disagreement, sir,” I muttered as I picked up my scattered books, the last day of school marred by the unexpected attack.

My father put hands on my shoulders and spun me around. “Boy, someone’s taken a lash to you. Who was it?” Facing me once again, he put a hand to my cheek, and I knew the quirt had left its mark.

A bluff, weathered man with hashmarks all over the arms of his uniform arrived. Sergeant-Major MacLaughlen. Shortly thereafter, my dad abandoned the field to him and led me across the parade ground to our quarters.

Ma moaned aloud at the sight of me, her normally dark features going even duskier. “William!” she exclaimed but bit off her questions. No doubt she knew Pa would get explanations out of me soon enough.

He held his tongue until she had cleaned me up and applied what stung like horse liniment before beginning his interrogation.

“All right, son. An explanation.”

“I dunno, Dad. He caught me with his quirt while I had my back to him.”

“He?” Mom asked.

“Sargeant Dawson,” my pa said.

A little gasp escaped her. “Marybell’s father?”

“That’s right, Rachel Ann, Marybell’s father.” My dad fixed his stare on me. “And why would he do that?”

I shrugged and winced. “I dunno. I didn’t do anything.”

“Have you been sneaking around and seeing the girl on the sly?”

“No! Well, I shared some of ma’s venison jerky with her a couple of times. All we did was sit up against the back of the headquarters building and eat it.”

“And?” he prompted.

I avoided my mother’s eyes. “And I kissed her… once.”

“Is that all?” This time it was a demand.

“Yes, sir. I swear. And she kissed me back, so I guess she liked it.”

“Has Sargeant Dawson told you to keep away from his daughter?”

I winced at the recollection. “Just today…after the dustup.” I shot a glance ma’s way. “Called me a breed.”

“Meet my eyes, Ides, and swear what you’ve told me is true.”

I swung my blue eyes to meet his. “I swear it, Pa. I just kissed her… once.”

“And you didn’t force her?”

“No, sir.”

“I believe you, William. Now you leave everything up to me. No payback, do you understand?”

When Major Gideon Haleworthy called me “William,” I knew he meant business. Normally, he used my nickname of Ides, like everyone else on post.

“Yes, sir, I understand. Not sure he does, though. If…”

“You leave Sergeant Dawson to me. This might be a good time for a visit to your grandfather at Teacher’s Mead,” he suggested.

“Gideon!” my ma exclaimed. “Surely, tomorrow will do as well. He’ll miss his graduation ceremony tonight if he leaves now.”

This had been the last day of school for me… maybe forever. I’d earned the credits I needed to graduate the post’s high school. Hang the ceremony, just give me my diploma. But I kept my mouth shut and took in the haunted look of my father’s eyes.

“I’m, sorry, Rachel Ann, but I think it better he takes this afternoon’s train to Mead’s Crossing.”

“I’d rather go to Turtle Crick,” I said quickly.

“Easier to face your Uncle John than your Grandfather Cuthan, I take it.”

“It’s not Grandpa Cuthan,” I said, “as much as it’s everyone else. There’s a host of people at Teacher’s Mead. Heck, it’s a whole town now. But it’s just Uncle John and Ethan at Turtle Crick. Besides, maybe they’ll give me a job.”

“For the summer,” Ma put in. “I want you in college this fall.”

“But I need to find something till then,” I said, not really agreeing. “And if they don’t have anything for me, there’s the Liberty Ranch right is next door. Dexter and Libby might need help.

“All right,” my father agreed.

He started to leave, but I halted him with a question. “What are you going to do to him…the sergeant, I mean?”

“If he’s honest and forthright in answering for his actions, I’ll take his stripes and transfer him.”

“But you won’t cashier him?”

“Let’s get this straight, Ides. I’ll not take any action because of his assault of my son. What he’ll answer for is viciously attacking someone on an Army post. He’ll pay, but not with his career. That would not be fair to his wife and daughter. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir. Uh, can I take ’Stelle with me to Turtle Crick? She’s out of school too. And I know she’d like to see Uncle John and Ethan.”

Gideon Haleworthy glanced at Mother. She nodded. “All right, if Estelle wants to go, she’s free to do so. But that puts a rein on how long you stay. Be back here in a week.”

“Two weeks…that’s not too long, is it?” I asked. “Especially, if I get a job.”

A look of sorrow claimed my father’s features as he nodded. “Two weeks for both of you unless you find work. But you bring Estelle home, regardless.”

I knew that look. I’d seen it all my life. He loved my mother, and he loved me…us, but life had taken dark twists and turns before we came to live in the commandant’s lodging at Fort Yanube. We’d lost my little brother, Gabe, to a sniper’s bullet when some land grabbers shot at Uncle John and struck my five-year-old brother instead. To the rest of them, Gabe was dead. But he was constantly with me. I experienced his presence and heard his voice—grown more mature over the passing years—and took comfort in our bonding. He was often the voice of reason in my world.

And while my father liked and respected my mother’s brother, Gideon Haleworthy was never able to truly reconcile himself to John Strobaw’s deviant nature. While that was of no consequence to the tribal side of our family, it went against the grain of the wasicun…the white men. Although admittedly, the attitude of the conquerors had negatively affected the acceptance of Two Faces by many of the tribes.

But my pa’s big problem was me. My mother, half Yanube and half white, was born of Cuthan Strobaw—known to the People as Dog Fox—and Mary Jacobsen Strobaw at Teacher’s Mead some forty-three years ago. Pa was pure Boston Irish, so I should have been an eighth blood, yet my features were as Indian as Uncle John’s…or even Grandfather Cuthan’s, save for eyes as blue as my father’s. Growing up on an army post during the so-called Indian Wars had proved a demanding task.

Yet, here I was, all of eighteen-years-old—or eighteen winters, as the tribal members of my family tolled time—an Army brat just graduated from the post’s school. To my father, with his yellow hair—now beginning to gray a bit—and fair features, it likely seemed I was a troublemaker. Yet, in truth, it was trouble that sought me.

 

* * * *

Let me know what you think.

 

More Wildyr Tales, a second anthology of some of my stories, is due out in September. By the way, I have a third anthology nearly ready to submit to JMS Books called Gabacho and Other Wildyr Stories.

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Bifurcated Man (Part Two of Two Parts)

Markwildyr.com, Post #221

Image Courtesy of freepik.com:

 

Last time, Joe Hunter, who’s passionately in love with his wife, Valdy, discovered a handsome client of his is interested in a casual relationship. Joe’s confused that he’s even considering the idea.

 

Let’s see what happens next.

* * * *

I tried to keep our relationship on a business basis, but eventually I accepted Rick’s challenge at racquetball, figuring it was a public, manly undertaking.  Unfortunately, I forgot about the shower in the locker room afterward.  The guy was built like he was sculpted from granite.  According to my night visions, he was hung like the proverbial horse, but in the flesh, he looked little better equipped than I was.

Later at the bar, he stirred his drink absently and gave me a smile.  “I measure up okay?”

“What?”  I hoped I kept the alarm out of my voice.

“Hey, it’s natural.  Checking out the other guy in the locker room’s a time-honored tradition.  By the way, you check out A-okay.”

I’m sure I blushed.  “Rick, will you quit this homo bullshit!”

His calm gaze unnerved me.  “Not homo.  Bi.  Bisexual.  Bifurcated…one limb with two branches.  Every man alive has some female traits, and I’m pretty good at picking up on those with more than their share.  You claim you’ve never been with a man, but I’m willing to bet there have been a few who caught your interest.  Deny it if you want, but you’re intrigued.  Next you’ll turn curious.  Then you’ll be interested.  And one day, we can enjoy one another.  In my candid opinion, that meeting will be cataclysmic.”

Like a certified idiot, I sat in the bar and got so looped he insisted on driving me home.  We were silent until he pulled up to the house.

“Thanks,” I mumbled.  “I’m not really drunk, but I appreciate you hauling my ass home.”

“I’m going to claim a reward,” he said.  “I’m going to touch you, okay?”

He took my stunned silence as acquiescence.  His hand landed on my inner thigh and slid up to my genitals.  He explored the shape of my cock and cupped my balls.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered.  “One of the handsomest, sexiest men I’ve ever seen.  Golden blond.  Great green eyes, sorta cloudy.  Not like green eyes usually are.  Good build.  A real man.  But your pheromones talk to my pheromones, Joe.  They scream like crazy!”

When my cock threatened to react, I pushed his hand away roughly and swallowed hard. But my throat was so dry I could not muster an objection.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, “I’ve ached to do that from the first moment I saw you.  I gotta confess, I go crazy imagining you fucking your wife.”

My temper finally flared.  “You leave Valdy out of this!” Was he was psychic? It hit me that however ephemeral, he shared our intimacies.

“I intend to, Joe.  This is just between you and me.  I don’t want anyone else in the bed.”

“Fuck you, Ailman!” I snapped, opening the car door and bailing out, dead sober now.

“You’re beginning to get the idea!” He laughed and drove away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with my mouth gaping.

****

Valdy became the most sexually sated woman in New Mexico.  I made love her at the drop of a hat to reassure myself I was a man capable of satisfying the most attractive woman alive.  And then fate intervened.  Frigging, fucking, son-of-a-bitching fate!  William Henry Bannerman, Valdy’s father, had a mild stroke.  I accompanied my wife to New York, but Valdy stayed on with her mother while I returned to work.

I avoided Rick for the first week, but on Friday we both ended up at the same reception at the country club.

“How are you holding up, Joe?”

“Fine.  Do you know you’re the only person alive who calls me Joe?”

“I know,” he replied with aplomb.  “And Valdy?  I hear she’s back in New York.  Will you give her my best?”  I nodded mutely.  “Well, if you need me, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks,” I said, grateful that he moved on.

I left as early as I decently could, which was a mistake.  Unwilling to return to our big, empty, abode house, I drove around aimlessly, but when I passed the gay cruise section of East Central Avenue for the third time and caught the eye of a cute teen hustler, I came became frightened.  I was so sexually charged when I got home that I jerked off with an image of Rick Ailman in my head.  This time, it almost seemed he touched me with ghostly fingers.  God, I was torn in two directions…bifurcated, just like he’d said!

****

I held out until almost midnightSunday.  Before I quite knew what I was doing, I dialed the phone and prayed he would not answer.

“Hello?” came the smoky voice.

“R…Rick?”

“Joe?  Joe, is that you?”

In some dark corner of my mind I recognized I had kicked over the traces to something I could not control.  I was right the first time…Rick Ailman was dangerous!  My voice box paralyzed with fear, I hung up, hands shaking violently.

I could have simply refused to answer the chimes, but I was standing in the foyer dressed only in my robe when he rang.  I opened the door and backed away.

“Joe!” he breathed, crushing me in an embrace.

All resistance collapsed.  I wanted to be in those strong arms.  I yearned for that full, sensual mouth.  I needed his hard body against me.  I kissed a man for the first time and was rattled to the core.  He laid me on the carpet and opened my robe.

“You are such a fucking man!” he breathed.  And then that overpoweringly masculine animal took me in his mouth.  The moist warmth was indescribable.  He tore off his shirt and brushed my smooth chest with his mat of black hair.  He kissed me again, and then drifted slowly down my torso, his lips and tongue trailing his fingers.  I broke into a sweat lying motionless on my back.  When his tongue twisted in my pubes, I placed my hands behind his head and guided him to my sack.  I got so hard I thought it would split!

He took me again, rhythmically bobbing up and down, twisting his head gently, curling his tongue around my glans.  I groaned aloud as Rick Ailman expertly sucked my cock until I could stand it no longer.  When I shouted a warning, he came up and jerked me to orgasm.  I erupted, spewing cum over my chest like an eager adolescent.

My glow of pleasure turned to alarm when he stood and shed his trousers.  His rigid cock pulsed with excitement just as in my dreams.  A small drop of pre-cum glistened at the slit.  He was bigger than I thought.  Thick.  The crown shone in the dim light of the foyer.  After displaying himself proudly for a moment, he straddled my body, sensually rubbing himself across my belly, moving slowly upward, leaking lubricant like a faucet with a bad washer.  For a moment I thought he had cum.  Groaning aloud, he rubbed the tip across my lips, presenting himself.

My feeble protest died as his cock brushed my mouth.  Suddenly, all I wanted was to please this exciting man.  My lips parted; he entered slowly.  Withdrawing, he pushed himself forward again, the bottom of his big rod riding over my tongue.  He poked against the back of my throat, and I gagged.  He withdrew and tried it again.  I controlled my reflexes this time.  Urgently, he began to thrust, making me forget my reluctance.  I put my hands on his butt and pulled him into me as he fucked my mouth.  Abruptly, he jerked away and shot all over my belly.

Without speaking a word, he rose and stood over me with a semi-hard cock dripping semen.  Rick Ailman was the sexiest human I had ever known.  When he reached for me, I allowed him to pull me to my feet.  Together, arms around one another, we mounted the long, curving stairway to the second floor.  I trembled at what was yet to come…fear or anticipation?  I would know soon.  I hoped I had enough stamina for the night…and an ample supply of sturdy condoms!

 

* * * *

So now we know. Joe got together with Rick… and liked it.

 

More Wildyr Tales, a second anthology of some of my stories, is due out in September. By the way, I have a third anthology nearly ready to submit to JMS Books called Gabacho and Other Wildyr Stories.

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Bifurcated Man (Part One of Two Parts)

Markwildyr.com, Post #220

Image Courtesy of freepik.com:

 

You guys seem to like Gabacho. So do I, but let’s go to something new this week. Enjoy.

 

* * * *

Meeting Valdy, my future wife, during intermission at the Metropolitan Opera was a fantastic, unexplainable, gold-plated stroke of luck.  Actually, I had been wandering the fringes of the crowd keeping an eye on a handsome young stud who caught my attention.  Although I was at a loss to adequately explain it, I was occasionally attracted to some hunk, inevitably an overt heterosexual, although I merely speculated and never acted on such impulses.  There was this adorable young second lieutenant at Dix who tempted me mightily, but I had sense enough to keep some distance between us.  As I stood pondering my confusion in the foyer of the Metropolitan between acts of Offenbach’s The Tales of Hoffman, a stunning vision in a simple, elegant gown of Egyptian linen floated up and handed me a drink.

“You look like a bourbon man.  I’m Valdessa Bannerman.  Valdy for short.”

“Love it!” I lied gallantly. Single malt Scotch was my drink.  “Joseph Hunter.”

To make a long story short, five months later, Valdy and I were married in the Fort Dix base chapel where I had traded my banker’s three-piece suit for captain’s bars when I was called to temporary duty.  That handsome second lieutenant was my best man.

Valdy fit seamlessly into my life when we came home to Albuquerque a deliriously happy golden couple; me, tall, blond, and slender with manly lumps, and Valdy…Lord the curves she packed into that svelte form!  Her eyes were a pale blue that darkened when she was excited.  Mine were as green as the patina of a weathered cathedral dome.

I took immense pride in the adoration Valdy inspired among my social set, yet I was feral enough to recognize danger when it surfaced.  And Rick Ailman was dangerous.  Even so, the handsome, personable builder of luxury homes was of interest to me as a banker.  Five minutes after they were introduced at the Mayor’s Charity Ball, he had Valdy on the dance floor turning heads.  Thereafter, it seemed that everywhere we went as a couple, Ailman showed up to sweep Valdy into his hard-muscled arms on some dance floor or the other.  I held a tight rein on my temper but did a lot less kibitzing and a lot more dancing at public functions.

“I do believe you’re jealous,” she cooed once, a soft smile stretching those luscious lips.

“Nonsense!” I responded, beginning to color a bit.

Despite my denials, later, as I lay panting and exhausted, I realized the truth of it.  At the very moment of climax, I held an unwelcome image in my mind of a naked, dark-haired Adonis screwing my wife with his massive cock…Rick Fucking Ailman!

****

Vice Presidents are trumped by Executive Vice Presidents, and that is who assigned me the Ailman account.  Under such conditions, social encounters are impossible to avoid even though I put things off as long as possible.  Eventually, Rick took the initiative and not only invited me to a working lunch, but also a round of golf afterwards.  Albuquerque’s persistent spring winds had abandoned us until next year, but the true heat of the season had not yet arrived. Towering, snowy thunderheads far to the west blotted the sky, a perfect day for golf at a mile above sea level.

As we waited for the green ahead of us to clear, Rick parked the cart we shared in the shade of a cottonwood and stretched one foot out on the grass.  I dug dirt from my cleats with a tee.

“Glad to see you’re relaxing a little,” he said out of the blue.

I looked at him in surprise.  “Hey, I’m a laid-back sort of guy.”

“You are…except around me.  Your defenses always go up when I’m around.”

Since there was no denying it, I might as well get it out in the open.  “Gotta admit that’s true.  You set off my alarm bells.”

“Why?”

I shrugged and equivocated.  “I don’t know.  It’s just a personal reaction, I guess.”

I endured the study of his sable-fringed brown eyes for a long moment before he gave a low chuckle.  “It’s your wife, isn’t it?  You come on like gangbusters when I dance with her.”

“Look, drop it.  I’m capable of separating my personal and professional lives.”

His silence lasted thirty seconds; his gaze made me uncomfortable.  “You don’t get it, do you?” he snorted.  “Talk about babes in wonderland.  It’s not your wife I’m interested in…it’s you!”

I don’t know why I laughed aloud, probably because I didn’t believe him.  After a moment, he joined in.  Then some invisible power flipped a cosmic switch, and we sobered.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Dead serious.  Look, I like women.  Hell, I love women, but occasionally I swing from the other branch of the tree.”

“Not with me, you won’t!” I blurted.

“Joseph, modesty aside, I’m something of a cocksman, but occasionally I’ll spot a certain kind of a guy and my interest kicks in.  Right now, you’re that guy.”

Mental pictures of my curly-headed lieutenant danced before my eyes.  “Get over it.”

“Come on, are you telling me you’ve never made it with another guy?”

“That’s none of your business, Ailman, but I’ll answer you anyway.  No, I haven’t.  I’m happily married and in love with my wife.”

“What’s that got to do with it?  I’m not suggesting we fall in love.  But I want you, and just thought you ought to know.  If you’re going to tense up,” he added, easing the cart down the fairway as the last putter strolled off the green, “then do it for the right reason.”

Rick had been two holes down on our side bet, but after thatannouncement, I literally felt his eyes on my butt whenever I addressed the ball.  I never slice, but did an excellent imitation on four of the last six holes.  After we settled up on eighteen, I grabbed a quick beer in the clubhouse, it would have been unseemly to refuse, but begged off the customary gin rummy game in the card room and raced home.

Valdy and I usually made love; that night we fucked…with powerful images of Rick spilling masculinity all over the golf course spurring me on.  And that set the norm…an invisible hunk joined us in bed, except he no longer directed his impressive erection toward my wife…he offered it to me!

 

* * * *

What has Joe gotten himself into? Or is that the right question. What is Rick drawing him into? That seems more like the more proper query. Let’s see next time.

 

More Wildyr Tales, a second anthology of some of my stories, is due out in September, published by JMS Books. Thanks for their help.

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Gabacho in Dallas, Part Two of Two Parts

Markwildyr.com, Post #219

 Image Courtesy of dreamstime.com:

 Last time, we found Gabacho working at the Galloping Mustang south of the SMU campus in Dallas. His girlfriend’s been called home by her mother’s illness, so he has an apartment to himself with the rent paid until the end of the month. That’s when he figures he’ll take to the road again on Slick, his flea-bitten gray gelding.

 

A cute young man who seems to be waiting for someone in the bar for hours provokes his curiosity, and he strikes up a conversation. When the kid’s “date” shows up, he’s snarky and threatening. So Gabacho puts his hand in. Let’s see what happens.

 

* * * *

“Don’t bite off more than you can chew.” Brod’s words were surly, but I saw his gaze sweep my biceps and my bare chest and knew there wasn’t any muscle behind them. He licked his dry lips and turned back to Folsom. “That the way you want it?”

The kid nodded wordlessly.

“Okay, that’s it. Don’t come sniffing around anymore. You blew it.”

I thought for a minute Folsom was going to go running after his former friend, but he just ducked his head and fought tears. I drew him a ginger ale and slid it in front of him. “Here’s one on the house.”

“T-thanks.” He grabbed the glass and gulped it like a man dying of thirst.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Will be, at any rate. Is it all right if I just sit here for a while?”

“Sure.” I paused as if I had a thought. “In fact, you can do me a favor.”

He looked up, his eyes all blurry… tears not alcohol. “What’s that?”

“I get off in about an hour, and I don’t have a car. You can give me a ride home. It’s not far.”

He brightened. “Yeah, sure.”

“ButI need to run an errand first,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“I need to go check on Slick.”

“Who’s Slick?”

“This flea-bitten gelding I’ve got. He’s boarded at a stable a couple of miles down the road. “Think you can take me to see him?”

The kid actually smiled. “Sure. I don’t have any Saturday classes, so it doesn’t matter when I get back to campus tonight… or tomorrow.”

Oh shit, what had I gotten myself into?

****

Folsom led me to a red and white Corvette parked at the back of the lot. Not my favorite ride. Always felt like my butt was about to drag the ground, but it was classy looking. We slid in, roared out of the parking lot, and I got us pointed in the right direction. The stable, a classy joint for “gentlemen” riders was well above my price range, but my boss had negotiated a deal I could live with, so Slick was living in style.

“Where you from,” I asked as we maneuvered the streets.

“Cowtown… Fort Worth.”

“No, I mean originally.”

He nodded. “Fort Worth. Born and raised there.”

“You live at home or on campus?”

“Campus. My dad wanted me to get the ‘full flavor’ of the college experience. If it was up to me, I’d live at home in my own room.”

“Not exactly a mingler, huh?”

He flashed a grin. “You could say that.”

We came to the turnoff, and shortly thereafter, the stable loomed up through the night. The place had a nightwatchman, but I came after hours whenever I had the opportunity, so he just gave me a wave before disappearing around the corner.

The night hadn’t lost the day’s heat, so the air felt good on my chest and bare arms. We walked up to the fence, and I gave a short whistle. Slick poked his head out of an open door and snickered.

“Wow,” Folsom said. “He’s a beauty.”

“Come here, boy,” I called.

The gelding cast a ghostly image moving through the darkness. He put his head over the fence and nipped at my vest collar with his lips. I rubbed his nose and hugged his neck. After a moment, I stepped back.

“Slick, this is Folsom. He’s a good guy, so you can give him a kiss.”

The horse moved forward, lifting his head. Folsom fooled me. He didn’t shrink away, he just stood there and laughed as Slick nuzzled his cheek. I took some sugar cubes from my pocket and held out my hand. The horse transferred his affections to my hand.

“I didn’t know they let the horses run free at night,” Folsom said, standing close by my side.

“Most of them don’t. But this joint is a little out of my price range. My boss got me a deal, but Slick doesn’t have real stall, just a place in the corner of the stable. But he gets to run around in the corral at night. He likes that. When we travel, he likes to graze free while I sack out in my bedroll.”

Aware that Folsom was close, I did what was natural. I reached out and put my arm over his shoulders. He settled in against me. A moment later, his head rested against my cheek.

“I like it that you have a horse and care for him like you do.”

“Slick’s, my man,” I said, turning to give his forehead a kiss. He was a couple of inches shorter than I was and felt good against my side.

A moment later, I felt his hand slide beneath my vest and explore my chest. “I’ve wanted to do that all evening,” he whispered.

“Probably woulda caused a little stir.”

He turned and put his lips where his hand had been. “Ya think? But I wouldn’t have cared.” His next words were muffled because his lips teased my nipple. “You live alone?”

“Yup,” I said.

“Then let’s go.

****

My apartment was a snug one bedroom but probably not the swanky joint Folsom was accustomed to… at least judging from his set of wheels and the gold watch on his left arm or the diamond on his pinkie. But he didn’t come off like a rich kid. Right at the moment, he was a horny kid. So I let him take charge.

He eased me out of my vest and went wild over my torso, spending a good quarter of an hour feeling and tasting every inch before showing any inclination of moving on. When we finally got to the bedroom, I barely had my britches of before he was on his knees feasting on what he wanted.

He barely allowed me any resting time before he demanded I feed it to him in another way. Before the sun came up, Folsom lay sleeping peacefully in the crook of my arm while I lay there wondering how the hell I was gonna last the rest of the weekend and pull my shift too. His last words were that he didn’t have to be back in Fort Worth before Monday morning.

 

* * * *

For a guy who’s sworn off boys and rededicated himself to women, Gabacho sure seems to get a lot of boys.

 

Wildyr Tales, an anthology of some of my stories, is now out in print form. Hope you’ll check it out.

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.