Sarah Black's Blog: Book Report, page 4
January 4, 2014
Saturday Morning on the Greenbelt
I take Oscar for a long, slow walk every morning on the Boise River Greenbelt. It’s dark at 0600, and really cold, and there are only a very few of us who are out every morning at that time. Besides me, there is the guy with the huskies. These two beautiful young huskies have green LED lights strapped to their heads, and when they come running down the greenbelt toward you in the dark, green lights bouncing wildly, for a moment you wonder if you’ve time-travelled into the middle of the Iditarod. Their owner is on a skateboard, and they are pulling him. I call him “The Lawyer.”
“The Bag Lady” is the elderly woman who is one of the group who take responsibility for picking up trash. She carries a plastic bag, gloves, a big flashlight, and has a phone in her ear. Whenever another person approaches, she starts talking, as if she is connected to a person at the other end of the phone. I think this is a good safety precaution if you’re 68 and are going to scour the Greenbelt for trash at 0600. She gives me a very brisk hello every morning and checks that Oscar is following regulations regarding the leash.
“The Holy Grail” is a bike commuter with a strobe light on his bike that could blind a person if they looked on it with both eyes wide open. I saw a picture once of the Holy Grail being lifted from the sands, and all the people standing around turned their eyes away, threw their arms up to shield their eyes from the bright light. That’s what I do when The Holy Grail comes around a corner unexpectedly and flashes me with his light as he zooms past.
So these three, and I (I imagine they call me “Scruffy and her dog”) are usually the Lone Rangers on the greenbelt. But since the holiday season has brought resolutions and cool new exercise gear, the morning greenbelt is becoming more crowded with joggers. I fear for them. As they jog past me, gasping for breath, faces flushed alarmingly, I can see they have the butts of people who sit at computers all day. I recognize this from my own mirror.
But they look very cool. Boise has a unique fashion sense. The men joggers are going for the old fashioned track suits, navy blue with a white stripe like Sue Sylvester, but with snow boots and mad bomber hats. The ladies are wearing black spandex, with spots of color like pink trim on their hats and matching shoelaces, and slashes of reflective material across thighs. I shudder to think what would happen to an onlooker if the Holy Grail were to light up these pieces of safety cloth.
But I’m happy to see people out trying to exercise. Even those of us whom only a kind person would call chubby are still out there trying, still not giving up. That’s the thing I love about people, they just do not give up. Even when it’s January and 16 degrees out, and their knees hurt and their backs are stiff, they climb out of bed and into their new Christmas gear and head out to the greenbelt to give it one more try.
“The Bag Lady” is the elderly woman who is one of the group who take responsibility for picking up trash. She carries a plastic bag, gloves, a big flashlight, and has a phone in her ear. Whenever another person approaches, she starts talking, as if she is connected to a person at the other end of the phone. I think this is a good safety precaution if you’re 68 and are going to scour the Greenbelt for trash at 0600. She gives me a very brisk hello every morning and checks that Oscar is following regulations regarding the leash.
“The Holy Grail” is a bike commuter with a strobe light on his bike that could blind a person if they looked on it with both eyes wide open. I saw a picture once of the Holy Grail being lifted from the sands, and all the people standing around turned their eyes away, threw their arms up to shield their eyes from the bright light. That’s what I do when The Holy Grail comes around a corner unexpectedly and flashes me with his light as he zooms past.
So these three, and I (I imagine they call me “Scruffy and her dog”) are usually the Lone Rangers on the greenbelt. But since the holiday season has brought resolutions and cool new exercise gear, the morning greenbelt is becoming more crowded with joggers. I fear for them. As they jog past me, gasping for breath, faces flushed alarmingly, I can see they have the butts of people who sit at computers all day. I recognize this from my own mirror.
But they look very cool. Boise has a unique fashion sense. The men joggers are going for the old fashioned track suits, navy blue with a white stripe like Sue Sylvester, but with snow boots and mad bomber hats. The ladies are wearing black spandex, with spots of color like pink trim on their hats and matching shoelaces, and slashes of reflective material across thighs. I shudder to think what would happen to an onlooker if the Holy Grail were to light up these pieces of safety cloth.
But I’m happy to see people out trying to exercise. Even those of us whom only a kind person would call chubby are still out there trying, still not giving up. That’s the thing I love about people, they just do not give up. Even when it’s January and 16 degrees out, and their knees hurt and their backs are stiff, they climb out of bed and into their new Christmas gear and head out to the greenbelt to give it one more try.
December 31, 2013
Think Small: Planning for a Happy New Year
Think Small: Planning for a Happy New Year
Consider this: collaboration rather than competition.
Consider this: doing good for others is doing good for yourself.
Consider this: maybe earning more money is not as important as spending less money.
Consider this: peace starts with yourself, then your house, then your community, then your world. So if you are at war with yourself, put down your weapons.
Consider this: Save yourself before you save the world. Love yourself before you love the world. How do you do it? By reaching out to the person next to you. Together we’re stronger.
Consider this: kindness is strength. Say thank you, and mean it.
Consider this: a day spent resting, thinking, listening, feeling, smelling, being alive, is a day worth living.
Cultivate the possibilities of quiet.
Consider this: learn something new.
Consider this: write your eulogy. If you’re not happy with what it says, write the eulogy you would like. That is your blueprint.
Consider this: give a quiet gift to the world. Post a love letter on a public wall, or share a piece of art, or knit-bomb a light post, or take a photograph and share it. A tiny stone/ripple etc.
Consider this: change.org, kiva.org, kickstarter.com. There are lots more. Collaborate. Work for good, whatever your small part might be.
Consider this: write your manifesto—start by saying, My Mission Is…
Consider this: only you know what is stopping you from being and doing everything in the world you want to be, and do. Only you know how to remove that barrier. But you have friends willing to help, if you reach out to them. So reach out.
Consider this: collaboration rather than competition.
Consider this: doing good for others is doing good for yourself.
Consider this: maybe earning more money is not as important as spending less money.
Consider this: peace starts with yourself, then your house, then your community, then your world. So if you are at war with yourself, put down your weapons.
Consider this: Save yourself before you save the world. Love yourself before you love the world. How do you do it? By reaching out to the person next to you. Together we’re stronger.
Consider this: kindness is strength. Say thank you, and mean it.
Consider this: a day spent resting, thinking, listening, feeling, smelling, being alive, is a day worth living.
Cultivate the possibilities of quiet.
Consider this: learn something new.
Consider this: write your eulogy. If you’re not happy with what it says, write the eulogy you would like. That is your blueprint.
Consider this: give a quiet gift to the world. Post a love letter on a public wall, or share a piece of art, or knit-bomb a light post, or take a photograph and share it. A tiny stone/ripple etc.
Consider this: change.org, kiva.org, kickstarter.com. There are lots more. Collaborate. Work for good, whatever your small part might be.
Consider this: write your manifesto—start by saying, My Mission Is…
Consider this: only you know what is stopping you from being and doing everything in the world you want to be, and do. Only you know how to remove that barrier. But you have friends willing to help, if you reach out to them. So reach out.
December 29, 2013
Daedalus and what I've been doing over the holiday
We have had a wonderful holiday at my house, and the days have gone something like this: wake up and take Oscar for a long walk by the river. Think up a new poem or piece of art. Come home, work at the table-writing or painting or doing linocuts. Eat lunch, take nap. Wake up and take Oscar for a walk. repeat.
So this is what I've been working on- a combo image/poem thingie, and the first one is about Daedalus and Icarus of course; every parent secretly fears becoming Daedalus.
Daedalus wakes from a dream of flying
sits up on the side of the bed
and reaches for his cigarettes.
He’s turning into a firebug.
He carries kitchen matches in his pocket.
Sometimes he’ll flick the head of a match
with a thumbnail, bring it
to his nose for a whiff of sulfur.
Or is it phosphorus?
He isn’t sure but it smells like hell, like fire,
Like singed feathers and beeswax.
Another dream of flying
and something’s burning,
honey in a pretty blue sky,
smoking, falling,
cordite and concrete dust,
and his boy running
across a broken landscape
a weapon heavy in his hand
So this is what I've been working on- a combo image/poem thingie, and the first one is about Daedalus and Icarus of course; every parent secretly fears becoming Daedalus.
Daedalus wakes from a dream of flying
sits up on the side of the bed
and reaches for his cigarettes.
He’s turning into a firebug.
He carries kitchen matches in his pocket.
Sometimes he’ll flick the head of a match
with a thumbnail, bring it
to his nose for a whiff of sulfur.
Or is it phosphorus?
He isn’t sure but it smells like hell, like fire,
Like singed feathers and beeswax.
Another dream of flying
and something’s burning,
honey in a pretty blue sky,
smoking, falling,
cordite and concrete dust,
and his boy running
across a broken landscape
a weapon heavy in his hand
December 27, 2013
Murder at the Heartbreak Hotel- now at the Kindle Store
Murder at the Heartbreak Hotel
First time in ebook form! This book was originally published in print as the first in the Partners in Crime series with Josh Lanyon. I’ve decided to publish it through the Kindle store.
Blurb: How much can you expect love to forgive? A bittersweet story of second chances, Murder at the Heartbreak Hotel, set in Gustavus, Alaska, is the story of Peter and Sebastian and Jacob, the love that binds them together, and the violence that tears them apart.
Excerpt:
Peter looked down at the young man in his bed. “I don’t allow myself this pleasure very often,” he admitted. Jacob’s dark hair was tangled and damp against the white linen pillowcase, and Peter pushed it back, smoothed it down just so he could touch Jacob’s face again. “And never before with someone who was my guest.”
“I didn’t come here for this, Peter. I promise you.”
Peter traced the lines of Jacob’s chin, his jaw, ivory skin already dark with whiskers. He had an appealing little dent in his chin, and his mouth was full and smiling. What an unexpected joy, a beautiful young man in his bed.
Peter leaned over him, and Jacob smiled with his eyes wide open. Peter smiled, too, and kissed him. His mouth was sweet and Peter could feel Jacob’s hands reaching for him, tugging him closer, those long, slender fingers sliding into his hair, a tender touch on his scalp. Then he felt Jacob’s hands moving down the long length of his back, Jacob’s chest against his, the coarse black hair tickling his skin, and Peter held on to his hips, pulled him up, still kissing him, reached to the bedside table for a condom.
He knocked over the EMS radio he had turned off earlier, when he opened his bedroom door and invited this stranger inside. It hit the hardwood floor and the battery popped out, but he didn’t stop to pick it up, not with urgent hands tugging him close, and Jacob’s beautiful dark eyes inviting him in, saying, Take me, I’m yours. Tonight I’m yours.
* * * * *
The crystal blue light of an Alaskan spring morning filled the bedroom. Jacob was sitting on the side of the bed, the delicate bones of his vertebrae making an elegant curve down his back. Peter could see the bruises more clearly now. Most of them were old, nearly faded, just a faint blush of pale yellow or lavender. But they were unmistakably bruises, the marks of a fist.
Jacob picked up the pieces of the radio and fit the battery back into the slot. “Is this right? Do you need it turned on?”
Peter shook his head. “The fire station can manage without me for a few more minutes. Anyway, half the people on the island are volunteer firefighters. Jacob, listen.” Peter reached for him, put his hand flat against Jacob’s back, traced his fingers gently down the line of bruises. “I don’t mean to pry…” He stopped, wondered if he was about to make a mistake. “Is there anything I can do? Do you need some help?”
Jacob set the radio down on the table and climbed back across the bed on his hands and knees, leaned over and kissed Peter on the mouth.
Peter studied his face. Jacob’s eyes were clear, relaxed and happy after a night of easy loving. His own face probably looked the same, and Peter didn’t want to put any shadows back on Jacob’s face with careless words.
Jacob touched a finger to Peter’s mouth, as if he wanted to keep him from speaking. “I know you saw the bruises. I’m not trying to hide them. But I don’t want you to worry, Peter. I’m not going back to California. I took a new job with a symphony in Montreal, and I’m going straight there where I leave here. Did I tell you I was a musician?”
“No, you didn’t. Hmmm, let me think.” Peter traced Jacob’s lips, then lifted one of his hands, studied the elegant long fingers.
“I play the cymbals.”
Peter laughed and shook his head. “Now, that’s the first thing you’ve said that I don’t believe. Violinist. No, cello.”
“That would have been a very clever guess if I hadn’t come to your hotel with a duffel bag and a cello, Peter. It’s hard to sneak around with a cello. I’m a composer, as well. That’s what I really love. I dream of…” He looked across the room, and the window painted his face in bright, clear sunlight. “Well. I have lots of dreams. I want to write beautiful music, music that’s powerful, that can wrap around you and touch your soul. I want to make love with beautiful men, men with gentle hands. Like you, Peter. Men who know how to cook and fuck and laugh.” Jacob’s dark eyes looked down into his, smiling, and he leaned over until he could touch his nose against Peter’s in a butterfly kiss. “Men who can fuck, and then cook breakfast.”
Peter laughed and climbed out of bed. “Then I guess I better make you a breakfast you can dream about.”
* * * * *
The kitchen smelled like heaven. Four loaves of bread baking in the oven, freshly ground coffee, bacon on the grill, a big ceramic bowl of fresh blueberries brought in by the gardener, Nelson. Peter had used a quarter pound of butter in the cinnamon bread alone.
The dining room adjoined the kitchen, and there were already a couple of hotel guests at the table. Some groups stayed in their rooms, or in the big, formal living room, where you could keep a lot of space around yourself. The men staying at the hotel now were dining room guys, passing sections of the newspaper to each other across the table and making drowsy morning conversation. Casper, the big retired Marine down for his fourth year, filled everyone’s cup from the coffee pot on the buffet.
He looked up when Peter started bringing in the food and putting serving dishes in the warmers. “That smells good, Peter. Five more minutes I was gonna start twitching with hunger.”
Peter laughed and turned to him. “Uh-oh! The casseroles have five more minutes to cook. But I’ll try to get something delicious out here before anyone starts to twitch. I feel like some music this morning, Casper. What would you like to listen to?”
Casper shrugged. “You can choose.”
Jacob walked into the dining room, blowing across the top of a golden brown pottery mug of coffee. He was just out of the shower, his hair curling on his forehead, dressed in soft old jeans and a white T-shirt.
“What would our musician like to hear?”
Jacob smiled at him from across the room. “Let me take care of the music.”
Peter was back working in the kitchen when he heard the sweet, sorrowful sounds of Jacob’s cello. The music sounded familiar, like a song he’d heard a long time ago, and forgotten. He leaned in the doorway to the dining room, drying his hands on the linen cup towel tucked into the waistband of his cords. Jacob was sitting in the corner, his cello between his knees, bare feet, and he was playing with his head bent over the instrument. His lashes were dark against his cheeks. Peter felt his heart do a slow stumble in his chest, at the beauty of the morning, the beauty of the music, happiness moving like a gentle wind through his hotel.
Travis, who worked the night shift and always stayed for breakfast, came in and pulled up a chair. Jacob looked up, smiled shyly at Peter, and then bent his head over the cello again.
Peter looked at Casper, who was at least his age, maybe a bit older -- forty-five, if Peter had to guess. “That music,” he said, his voice quiet. “I almost recognize it, but I can’t place it.”
Casper put a hand over his chest. “Eric Clapton, man. ‘River of Tears.’”
http://www.amazon.com/Murder-Heartbre...
First time in ebook form! This book was originally published in print as the first in the Partners in Crime series with Josh Lanyon. I’ve decided to publish it through the Kindle store.
Blurb: How much can you expect love to forgive? A bittersweet story of second chances, Murder at the Heartbreak Hotel, set in Gustavus, Alaska, is the story of Peter and Sebastian and Jacob, the love that binds them together, and the violence that tears them apart.
Excerpt:
Peter looked down at the young man in his bed. “I don’t allow myself this pleasure very often,” he admitted. Jacob’s dark hair was tangled and damp against the white linen pillowcase, and Peter pushed it back, smoothed it down just so he could touch Jacob’s face again. “And never before with someone who was my guest.”
“I didn’t come here for this, Peter. I promise you.”
Peter traced the lines of Jacob’s chin, his jaw, ivory skin already dark with whiskers. He had an appealing little dent in his chin, and his mouth was full and smiling. What an unexpected joy, a beautiful young man in his bed.
Peter leaned over him, and Jacob smiled with his eyes wide open. Peter smiled, too, and kissed him. His mouth was sweet and Peter could feel Jacob’s hands reaching for him, tugging him closer, those long, slender fingers sliding into his hair, a tender touch on his scalp. Then he felt Jacob’s hands moving down the long length of his back, Jacob’s chest against his, the coarse black hair tickling his skin, and Peter held on to his hips, pulled him up, still kissing him, reached to the bedside table for a condom.
He knocked over the EMS radio he had turned off earlier, when he opened his bedroom door and invited this stranger inside. It hit the hardwood floor and the battery popped out, but he didn’t stop to pick it up, not with urgent hands tugging him close, and Jacob’s beautiful dark eyes inviting him in, saying, Take me, I’m yours. Tonight I’m yours.
* * * * *
The crystal blue light of an Alaskan spring morning filled the bedroom. Jacob was sitting on the side of the bed, the delicate bones of his vertebrae making an elegant curve down his back. Peter could see the bruises more clearly now. Most of them were old, nearly faded, just a faint blush of pale yellow or lavender. But they were unmistakably bruises, the marks of a fist.
Jacob picked up the pieces of the radio and fit the battery back into the slot. “Is this right? Do you need it turned on?”
Peter shook his head. “The fire station can manage without me for a few more minutes. Anyway, half the people on the island are volunteer firefighters. Jacob, listen.” Peter reached for him, put his hand flat against Jacob’s back, traced his fingers gently down the line of bruises. “I don’t mean to pry…” He stopped, wondered if he was about to make a mistake. “Is there anything I can do? Do you need some help?”
Jacob set the radio down on the table and climbed back across the bed on his hands and knees, leaned over and kissed Peter on the mouth.
Peter studied his face. Jacob’s eyes were clear, relaxed and happy after a night of easy loving. His own face probably looked the same, and Peter didn’t want to put any shadows back on Jacob’s face with careless words.
Jacob touched a finger to Peter’s mouth, as if he wanted to keep him from speaking. “I know you saw the bruises. I’m not trying to hide them. But I don’t want you to worry, Peter. I’m not going back to California. I took a new job with a symphony in Montreal, and I’m going straight there where I leave here. Did I tell you I was a musician?”
“No, you didn’t. Hmmm, let me think.” Peter traced Jacob’s lips, then lifted one of his hands, studied the elegant long fingers.
“I play the cymbals.”
Peter laughed and shook his head. “Now, that’s the first thing you’ve said that I don’t believe. Violinist. No, cello.”
“That would have been a very clever guess if I hadn’t come to your hotel with a duffel bag and a cello, Peter. It’s hard to sneak around with a cello. I’m a composer, as well. That’s what I really love. I dream of…” He looked across the room, and the window painted his face in bright, clear sunlight. “Well. I have lots of dreams. I want to write beautiful music, music that’s powerful, that can wrap around you and touch your soul. I want to make love with beautiful men, men with gentle hands. Like you, Peter. Men who know how to cook and fuck and laugh.” Jacob’s dark eyes looked down into his, smiling, and he leaned over until he could touch his nose against Peter’s in a butterfly kiss. “Men who can fuck, and then cook breakfast.”
Peter laughed and climbed out of bed. “Then I guess I better make you a breakfast you can dream about.”
* * * * *
The kitchen smelled like heaven. Four loaves of bread baking in the oven, freshly ground coffee, bacon on the grill, a big ceramic bowl of fresh blueberries brought in by the gardener, Nelson. Peter had used a quarter pound of butter in the cinnamon bread alone.
The dining room adjoined the kitchen, and there were already a couple of hotel guests at the table. Some groups stayed in their rooms, or in the big, formal living room, where you could keep a lot of space around yourself. The men staying at the hotel now were dining room guys, passing sections of the newspaper to each other across the table and making drowsy morning conversation. Casper, the big retired Marine down for his fourth year, filled everyone’s cup from the coffee pot on the buffet.
He looked up when Peter started bringing in the food and putting serving dishes in the warmers. “That smells good, Peter. Five more minutes I was gonna start twitching with hunger.”
Peter laughed and turned to him. “Uh-oh! The casseroles have five more minutes to cook. But I’ll try to get something delicious out here before anyone starts to twitch. I feel like some music this morning, Casper. What would you like to listen to?”
Casper shrugged. “You can choose.”
Jacob walked into the dining room, blowing across the top of a golden brown pottery mug of coffee. He was just out of the shower, his hair curling on his forehead, dressed in soft old jeans and a white T-shirt.
“What would our musician like to hear?”
Jacob smiled at him from across the room. “Let me take care of the music.”
Peter was back working in the kitchen when he heard the sweet, sorrowful sounds of Jacob’s cello. The music sounded familiar, like a song he’d heard a long time ago, and forgotten. He leaned in the doorway to the dining room, drying his hands on the linen cup towel tucked into the waistband of his cords. Jacob was sitting in the corner, his cello between his knees, bare feet, and he was playing with his head bent over the instrument. His lashes were dark against his cheeks. Peter felt his heart do a slow stumble in his chest, at the beauty of the morning, the beauty of the music, happiness moving like a gentle wind through his hotel.
Travis, who worked the night shift and always stayed for breakfast, came in and pulled up a chair. Jacob looked up, smiled shyly at Peter, and then bent his head over the cello again.
Peter looked at Casper, who was at least his age, maybe a bit older -- forty-five, if Peter had to guess. “That music,” he said, his voice quiet. “I almost recognize it, but I can’t place it.”
Casper put a hand over his chest. “Eric Clapton, man. ‘River of Tears.’”
http://www.amazon.com/Murder-Heartbre...
December 24, 2013
Christmas Crisis number 4
My son just informed me, at 2:07 pm on Christmas Eve, that he hopes Santa is bringing him a quiver of arrows and a compound bow.
December 22, 2013
THE THREE MIRACLES OF SANTOS SOCORRO- Now available at the Kindle store until January 12!!
THE THREE MIRACLES OF SANTOS SOCORRO
Holiday Story available in the Kindle store from now through January 12!!
Blurb: Abraham's lover, Santos Socorro, is as mysterious and sweet as Aztec chocolate. But danger lurks for men who live their lives wearing masks. This heart-stopping and funny story steams with holiday love and danger and lots and lots of chocolate.
http://www.amazon.com/Three-Miracles-...
Excerpt: Abraham was a basket case all day, with a nagging headache behind his eyes that seemed to get worse after he’d studied his own reflection in the mirror. Was it too much to ask to be modestly handsome? Just once? He was forty. His face looked forty. His skin was changing in some strange way that was hard to quantify, but was unmistakably a sign of age. His moustache had a shred of gray here and there. On Santos Socorro, the bit of gray in the moustache made him look sexy, mysterious, and experienced. On Abraham, the gray just made him look old. No, not old. But definitely older.
He had nice eyes, hazel, and the rest of his face was okay. Moderate. Pleasant. A person would buy chocolate from this man. A person would play B-ball with this man. You might even sit on the steps of San Juan Capistrano on a Saturday night and drink a brew with this man. But…Abraham sighed and pulled out a razor. Settle down, he ordered himself. He knows what you look like. He knows who you are. He isn’t expecting a boy-model. But what was he expecting? What the hell was going on?
Abraham went into the kitchen, dragged David out the back door. “Tell me exactly what you said and what he said. I don’t want any surprises.”
“Okay, Abraham.” David was near groveling. “It was just, he looked so down. Like he was disappointed, but used to it. I felt bad for him, so I said, ‘I know what you need. You need a date.’ And he looks over at the guys, and I admit, things had gotten a little wild. Some of the guys were doing a circle jerk and Cedric, he was channeling Charlton Heston, man! He had a little whip and…”
“Skip it.”
“Okay. So he said, ‘No thanks. I’d rather just go watch a ballgame with your brother.’ And I said I thought you two could use a little something to strengthen the…”
“I am very close to firing your ass.”
“Right. Got it. So he stood up, shushing me with his hands, you know, that way he does, picked up his mask and said, ‘Tell him to meet me on the steps of San Juan Capistrano at seven for the tamales.’ And that was it, I swear.”
“He probably just wants to see if we can plan one of those stupid interventions, like when your relatives are out of control! He was just trying to get away from you without punching you in the mouth.”
David was sidling toward the door. “Abraham, I hand you a chance to go for the gold on a silver platter!”
“Go for the gold on a silver platter? Why don’t I hand you your ass on a silver platter?”
After David was gone, Abraham leaned against the back wall of his store and thought about picking up a cigarette. It had been almost exactly twenty years since the last time he had smoked.
* * * * *
Abraham showered and put on his softest old Levis and his blue socks, the ones advertised as The Softest Socks in the World. And a pale blue chambray shirt, untucked. He carried a little six-pack cooler with a couple of cold Shiner Bock longnecks. Santos was already sitting on the stone steps of the old mission, smoking a cigar.
The mission was a crumbling beauty with a trifecta of mission bells. Abraham thought it wasn’t used as a Catholic church anymore, that it had been turned over to the National Park Service, but there were several late model cars and a couple of battered old pickups in the parking lot. The Tamale Mafia was already at work, making sure no one with even a speck of Latino blood went without Christmas tamales. He sat down next to Santos, opened up the cooler, and handed him a beer.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He twisted his own top off, tossed it back into the cooler. The night air was cool and dark, rich with the noises of bats and birds. And Abraham could hear the sounds of people, kitchen noises, if he wasn’t mistaken. “Is she already here?”
“Yeah. I think she’s got the whole committee working. I told her we’d deliver the tamales on Christmas Eve, so the old folks could have them for supper if they want to eat before they go to Midnight Mass. How’s your knee?”
“It’s okay.”
Santos gestured with the cigar. “You want one?”
Abraham shook his head. “I was tempted to smoke earlier today. About when my brother told me about his mask-making club. I didn’t know anything about…this when we played ball this morning.”
“Abraham…” Sweet-smelling smoke drifted against his cheek like a kiss. “I’m looking for something, I guess. But whatever I’m looking for, I want you to be holding my hand when I find it. This isn’t about us, baby.”
Abraham felt his cheeks flush. He didn’t know what to say, and was pretty sure his tongue wouldn’t know how to form the words if he did know what to say. Something like, Then why wasn’t I holding your hand at the mask-making club? They were sitting together in the cool dark, with a couple of beers and possibility between them. Possibility or trouble. This could go either way. How to proceed? Santos seemed to be going with the truth. An unusual, risky approach.
Abraham turned to look at him. Santos Socorro had eyes of the most melting dark brown, liquid soft and utterly sexy. His moustache drooped over his upper lip, and his dark hair fell across his forehead. Abraham reached out for his face and let his fingers trace the lines of his eyebrows, his nose, his cheek. And when his fingers stroked soft lips, Santos opened his mouth and pulled Abraham’s fingers against his tongue.
Teeth, tongue, the silky skin inside the lip. Who knew there were so many nerve endings in the tips of his fingers? Abraham had been on simmer all day, and Santos had just turned up the heat.
“Santos, listen. I want to be the man you turn to when you get some wild hair and want to…whatever.” He gestured, sloshing beer on the toe of his shoe. “I don’t know how to tell you that I won’t ever turn away from you.”
“I think you just told me, Abraham. You know something? Whenever I have a random, strange, and erotic thought at an unexpected time, it’s always about you. About me and you.”
The words dropped into his belly one by one, fat, hot raindrops sizzling against his skin.
The wonder of the body, of arousal, of sexual feeling. The fire of it, the heat, the fullness, like bittersweet chocolate. Like…mole. Mole was the only food that Abraham had ever eaten that came close. And he’d never tasted mole that was as rich and spicy as the feeling that was filling his belly as Santos Socorro sucked his finger between his teeth and nipped down on the tip. “Santos. Why don’t you tell me about the mask?”
Santos took Abraham’s hand and put it on his thigh. “You want to see it?”
Santos reached for his gym bag and unzipped the top. The mask looked African, tribal, with a dark, harsh animal face, rough stripes in bright orange and red on black paper, dull yellow spots. The mouth and eyeholes were big, but not quite big enough.
“What’s wrong?” Santos was looking at him, a funny little smile twisting his mouth.
“It’s kind of scary. It looks like you can’t kiss anyone if you’re wearing it, you know, when…”
Santos considered him, then leaned forward, pulled Abraham toward him by a fist in his shirt. “You, you mean. How can I kiss you?”
Abraham felt like a fool for the two seconds before Santos pulled him close enough to reach for his mouth. Their moustaches were rough against each other. Abraham felt love like a flood of warm water in his belly.
“I know you’re wondering if I’ve gone nuts, and I’m gonna sound like a nut. I mean, I’m not going around cruising for studs or anything with your brother, Abraham, and popping the mask on to do the nasty.” He hesitated. “It’s funny, it’s dark in the mask, when I’m wearing it. Dark and safe and I can say anything. I can say the truth, without worrying about…”
Abraham waited, but Santos didn’t say anymore. “Okay, I don’t get it.”
Santos was shaking his head. “My face,” he gestured toward himself. “This face belongs to the cop, or the grandson, or the brother or the ballplayer. People look at me, they see what they want to see. My grandmother, she looks at me and sees all the things she wants me to be.”
“She looks at you and she sees the faces of her great-grandchildren. She looks at me, and she sees the reason she doesn’t have any great-grandchildren. I brought hot chocolate to try and lure the ladies over to our side.”
“Our side? You mean your side. I’m not having a feud with my grandmother. This is between you and her.”
Abraham ignored this.
“People depend on my face. That’s the real mask, I think. But you don’t do that, Abraham. The mask, when I’m wearing it, I feel free. Free like…I don’t know how to say it. Like I can still be anything. Like my life isn’t set in stone. I’m myself, and myself is fluid, and open to change.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m feeling weird. Grandma said the Holy Ghost has touched me. She sees a mark or something.”
“The Holy Ghost has touched you? What a load of crap. Your grandmother is a real piece of work.”
“Are you trying to get us cursed? Abraham, this used to be a convent. There’re probably the ghosts of a hundred nuns listening in right this minute.”
“Oh, please.”
“Besides, I’m a cop. I think I’ll take all the Holy Ghost I can get. Listen, I want to fool around. Let’s slide into some dark little nook next to a statue of the BVM before we help make tamales. Ten minutes, that’s all. I was an altar boy here. I know all the secret places.”
“Are you going to wear the mask? Inside San Juan Capistrano while you’re fooling around with your Jewish lover?”
Santos grinned, and his dark eyes were lit with laughter. “Yeah, baby.”
“Fine. You’re the one who’s gonna have to go to confession. Poor Father Jessup.”
Holiday Story available in the Kindle store from now through January 12!!
Blurb: Abraham's lover, Santos Socorro, is as mysterious and sweet as Aztec chocolate. But danger lurks for men who live their lives wearing masks. This heart-stopping and funny story steams with holiday love and danger and lots and lots of chocolate.
http://www.amazon.com/Three-Miracles-...
Excerpt: Abraham was a basket case all day, with a nagging headache behind his eyes that seemed to get worse after he’d studied his own reflection in the mirror. Was it too much to ask to be modestly handsome? Just once? He was forty. His face looked forty. His skin was changing in some strange way that was hard to quantify, but was unmistakably a sign of age. His moustache had a shred of gray here and there. On Santos Socorro, the bit of gray in the moustache made him look sexy, mysterious, and experienced. On Abraham, the gray just made him look old. No, not old. But definitely older.
He had nice eyes, hazel, and the rest of his face was okay. Moderate. Pleasant. A person would buy chocolate from this man. A person would play B-ball with this man. You might even sit on the steps of San Juan Capistrano on a Saturday night and drink a brew with this man. But…Abraham sighed and pulled out a razor. Settle down, he ordered himself. He knows what you look like. He knows who you are. He isn’t expecting a boy-model. But what was he expecting? What the hell was going on?
Abraham went into the kitchen, dragged David out the back door. “Tell me exactly what you said and what he said. I don’t want any surprises.”
“Okay, Abraham.” David was near groveling. “It was just, he looked so down. Like he was disappointed, but used to it. I felt bad for him, so I said, ‘I know what you need. You need a date.’ And he looks over at the guys, and I admit, things had gotten a little wild. Some of the guys were doing a circle jerk and Cedric, he was channeling Charlton Heston, man! He had a little whip and…”
“Skip it.”
“Okay. So he said, ‘No thanks. I’d rather just go watch a ballgame with your brother.’ And I said I thought you two could use a little something to strengthen the…”
“I am very close to firing your ass.”
“Right. Got it. So he stood up, shushing me with his hands, you know, that way he does, picked up his mask and said, ‘Tell him to meet me on the steps of San Juan Capistrano at seven for the tamales.’ And that was it, I swear.”
“He probably just wants to see if we can plan one of those stupid interventions, like when your relatives are out of control! He was just trying to get away from you without punching you in the mouth.”
David was sidling toward the door. “Abraham, I hand you a chance to go for the gold on a silver platter!”
“Go for the gold on a silver platter? Why don’t I hand you your ass on a silver platter?”
After David was gone, Abraham leaned against the back wall of his store and thought about picking up a cigarette. It had been almost exactly twenty years since the last time he had smoked.
* * * * *
Abraham showered and put on his softest old Levis and his blue socks, the ones advertised as The Softest Socks in the World. And a pale blue chambray shirt, untucked. He carried a little six-pack cooler with a couple of cold Shiner Bock longnecks. Santos was already sitting on the stone steps of the old mission, smoking a cigar.
The mission was a crumbling beauty with a trifecta of mission bells. Abraham thought it wasn’t used as a Catholic church anymore, that it had been turned over to the National Park Service, but there were several late model cars and a couple of battered old pickups in the parking lot. The Tamale Mafia was already at work, making sure no one with even a speck of Latino blood went without Christmas tamales. He sat down next to Santos, opened up the cooler, and handed him a beer.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He twisted his own top off, tossed it back into the cooler. The night air was cool and dark, rich with the noises of bats and birds. And Abraham could hear the sounds of people, kitchen noises, if he wasn’t mistaken. “Is she already here?”
“Yeah. I think she’s got the whole committee working. I told her we’d deliver the tamales on Christmas Eve, so the old folks could have them for supper if they want to eat before they go to Midnight Mass. How’s your knee?”
“It’s okay.”
Santos gestured with the cigar. “You want one?”
Abraham shook his head. “I was tempted to smoke earlier today. About when my brother told me about his mask-making club. I didn’t know anything about…this when we played ball this morning.”
“Abraham…” Sweet-smelling smoke drifted against his cheek like a kiss. “I’m looking for something, I guess. But whatever I’m looking for, I want you to be holding my hand when I find it. This isn’t about us, baby.”
Abraham felt his cheeks flush. He didn’t know what to say, and was pretty sure his tongue wouldn’t know how to form the words if he did know what to say. Something like, Then why wasn’t I holding your hand at the mask-making club? They were sitting together in the cool dark, with a couple of beers and possibility between them. Possibility or trouble. This could go either way. How to proceed? Santos seemed to be going with the truth. An unusual, risky approach.
Abraham turned to look at him. Santos Socorro had eyes of the most melting dark brown, liquid soft and utterly sexy. His moustache drooped over his upper lip, and his dark hair fell across his forehead. Abraham reached out for his face and let his fingers trace the lines of his eyebrows, his nose, his cheek. And when his fingers stroked soft lips, Santos opened his mouth and pulled Abraham’s fingers against his tongue.
Teeth, tongue, the silky skin inside the lip. Who knew there were so many nerve endings in the tips of his fingers? Abraham had been on simmer all day, and Santos had just turned up the heat.
“Santos, listen. I want to be the man you turn to when you get some wild hair and want to…whatever.” He gestured, sloshing beer on the toe of his shoe. “I don’t know how to tell you that I won’t ever turn away from you.”
“I think you just told me, Abraham. You know something? Whenever I have a random, strange, and erotic thought at an unexpected time, it’s always about you. About me and you.”
The words dropped into his belly one by one, fat, hot raindrops sizzling against his skin.
The wonder of the body, of arousal, of sexual feeling. The fire of it, the heat, the fullness, like bittersweet chocolate. Like…mole. Mole was the only food that Abraham had ever eaten that came close. And he’d never tasted mole that was as rich and spicy as the feeling that was filling his belly as Santos Socorro sucked his finger between his teeth and nipped down on the tip. “Santos. Why don’t you tell me about the mask?”
Santos took Abraham’s hand and put it on his thigh. “You want to see it?”
Santos reached for his gym bag and unzipped the top. The mask looked African, tribal, with a dark, harsh animal face, rough stripes in bright orange and red on black paper, dull yellow spots. The mouth and eyeholes were big, but not quite big enough.
“What’s wrong?” Santos was looking at him, a funny little smile twisting his mouth.
“It’s kind of scary. It looks like you can’t kiss anyone if you’re wearing it, you know, when…”
Santos considered him, then leaned forward, pulled Abraham toward him by a fist in his shirt. “You, you mean. How can I kiss you?”
Abraham felt like a fool for the two seconds before Santos pulled him close enough to reach for his mouth. Their moustaches were rough against each other. Abraham felt love like a flood of warm water in his belly.
“I know you’re wondering if I’ve gone nuts, and I’m gonna sound like a nut. I mean, I’m not going around cruising for studs or anything with your brother, Abraham, and popping the mask on to do the nasty.” He hesitated. “It’s funny, it’s dark in the mask, when I’m wearing it. Dark and safe and I can say anything. I can say the truth, without worrying about…”
Abraham waited, but Santos didn’t say anymore. “Okay, I don’t get it.”
Santos was shaking his head. “My face,” he gestured toward himself. “This face belongs to the cop, or the grandson, or the brother or the ballplayer. People look at me, they see what they want to see. My grandmother, she looks at me and sees all the things she wants me to be.”
“She looks at you and she sees the faces of her great-grandchildren. She looks at me, and she sees the reason she doesn’t have any great-grandchildren. I brought hot chocolate to try and lure the ladies over to our side.”
“Our side? You mean your side. I’m not having a feud with my grandmother. This is between you and her.”
Abraham ignored this.
“People depend on my face. That’s the real mask, I think. But you don’t do that, Abraham. The mask, when I’m wearing it, I feel free. Free like…I don’t know how to say it. Like I can still be anything. Like my life isn’t set in stone. I’m myself, and myself is fluid, and open to change.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m feeling weird. Grandma said the Holy Ghost has touched me. She sees a mark or something.”
“The Holy Ghost has touched you? What a load of crap. Your grandmother is a real piece of work.”
“Are you trying to get us cursed? Abraham, this used to be a convent. There’re probably the ghosts of a hundred nuns listening in right this minute.”
“Oh, please.”
“Besides, I’m a cop. I think I’ll take all the Holy Ghost I can get. Listen, I want to fool around. Let’s slide into some dark little nook next to a statue of the BVM before we help make tamales. Ten minutes, that’s all. I was an altar boy here. I know all the secret places.”
“Are you going to wear the mask? Inside San Juan Capistrano while you’re fooling around with your Jewish lover?”
Santos grinned, and his dark eyes were lit with laughter. “Yeah, baby.”
“Fine. You’re the one who’s gonna have to go to confession. Poor Father Jessup.”
December 20, 2013
Baby Jesus in a Walnut Shell
Back in 1990, we went to war. I was deployed to the Persian Gulf on the hospital ship, USNS Comfort, assigned to the burn ICU. Here's the ship--
The officers had staterooms of eight, four sets of bunk beds, and a locker and two drawers each. It was really not bad once we decorated. I bought a length of red silk in Bahrain and made myself a curtain- I was an upper bunk, and after that enjoyed my tiny space, except when my books slid down and fell on the head of my bunkmate below.
By Christmas time, we were at each other's throats through waiting and boredom and shopping withdrawal. My only patients were a squadron of young Marines who had tried to brew some Christmas cheer and ended up with wood alcohol, which blinded two of them and killed a third. One of the young Marines, a girl who was 19, told me her dream was to be a horse trainer, but she was going to work her way up from being a groom. I told her I thought she could still do this even though she had lost her vision. She was crying when she was telling me this, holding my hand, and I can still feel the heat of her tears on my skin.
But other than our work, we had little to do. I was learning Chinese from a book in the library. Most of the other thousand people on the boat were engaged in similar, useless pursuits. But a couple of weeks before Christmas, one of my roommates, Sylvia, told me we needed a nativity.
We started collecting supplies from the wards--cotton balls, paper and markers, and soon made a 3-d nativity out of paper stuffed with cotton wadding, and put it inside a shoebox and mounted it on the wall of our shared room. I saved the baby Jesus, and have carried him around with me since 1990, still sitting on his little cotton ball, in the walnut shell we saved for him.
This is my most precious ornament, the one I look forward to unpacking every year. And every year, I think of a bunch of homesick, lonely young Marines, and hope one of them is grooming a horse in some warm stables, with sweet smelling straw under her feet.
The officers had staterooms of eight, four sets of bunk beds, and a locker and two drawers each. It was really not bad once we decorated. I bought a length of red silk in Bahrain and made myself a curtain- I was an upper bunk, and after that enjoyed my tiny space, except when my books slid down and fell on the head of my bunkmate below.
By Christmas time, we were at each other's throats through waiting and boredom and shopping withdrawal. My only patients were a squadron of young Marines who had tried to brew some Christmas cheer and ended up with wood alcohol, which blinded two of them and killed a third. One of the young Marines, a girl who was 19, told me her dream was to be a horse trainer, but she was going to work her way up from being a groom. I told her I thought she could still do this even though she had lost her vision. She was crying when she was telling me this, holding my hand, and I can still feel the heat of her tears on my skin.
But other than our work, we had little to do. I was learning Chinese from a book in the library. Most of the other thousand people on the boat were engaged in similar, useless pursuits. But a couple of weeks before Christmas, one of my roommates, Sylvia, told me we needed a nativity.
We started collecting supplies from the wards--cotton balls, paper and markers, and soon made a 3-d nativity out of paper stuffed with cotton wadding, and put it inside a shoebox and mounted it on the wall of our shared room. I saved the baby Jesus, and have carried him around with me since 1990, still sitting on his little cotton ball, in the walnut shell we saved for him.
This is my most precious ornament, the one I look forward to unpacking every year. And every year, I think of a bunch of homesick, lonely young Marines, and hope one of them is grooming a horse in some warm stables, with sweet smelling straw under her feet.
December 16, 2013
The Milk-Giver
Call her by her name
Yer Tanri Cybele
Nerthus Astarte
Theotokus The Milk-Giver
Strong-Limbed Chiding-Love
The Great Mare
Fruit-Tree Silver-Wheel
She that Dwells
Changing Woman Mother of God
Terra Mater--When she comes
tools of iron are put away, and
no one may leave for war
Yer Tanri Cybele
Nerthus Astarte
Theotokus The Milk-Giver
Strong-Limbed Chiding-Love
The Great Mare
Fruit-Tree Silver-Wheel
She that Dwells
Changing Woman Mother of God
Terra Mater--When she comes
tools of iron are put away, and
no one may leave for war
December 13, 2013
December 10, 2013
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