Prologue of the Novel, Echoes of the Flute

 Markwildyr.com, Post #248

 Image: Book Cover

 

The Singaporeans are still with us. So far they’ve checked out the site 3,300 times in the first half of this month alone. Keep it up, guys. \

 

This week, I want to return to my Cut Hand series novels, and selected the prologue to my third novel in the series, Echoes of the Flute. I find it a powerful tool to set up the tone of the novel. In this third novel, John Strobaw, who becomes better known later as Medicine Hair, was the grandson of Cut Hand, last chief of the Yanube tiospaye, although oral family history has him the grandson of Billy Strobaw, Cut Hand’s lover.

 

At any rate, here’s the offering for this time.

 

* * * *

“Be civilized and prosper.”

Yet fortune never smiles. Only wretched pain.

Warriors, forced into trousers and called by alien names.

Drums remind of yesteryear.

Flutes lament what was.

 

Stanza from the poem “Echoes of the Flute” by Mark Wildyr

 

PROLOGUE

Dakota Territory, June 1878

A mob surged across the wooden bridge like a primordial organism in search of food. Torchlight punched flickering holes in the black night as people with the look of farmers and merchants and housewives and mothers churned restlessly in front of a cabin on the north bank of the crick. Moments later, a white-stockinged blue roan pulled a buckboard into their midst.

A hook-nosed man, clad in black, bellowed from the driver’s bench, “Come out, sinners. Atone to these good people and the Lord God Almighty!” Despite a thin frame, his voice was deep and sonorous.

The cabin door opened, flooding the porch with lantern glow. A tall man with thumbs hooked into his braces walked out to face the group. “What’s going on here? Why’re you tromping around in my yard this time of night? You there, get out of that flower bed.”

“You are abominations in the sight of God!” the man in the buckboard thundered. “The judgment of Leviticus 20:13 shall be upon you this night.”

“I have sinned against no one, Preacher. Your words are farts in the wind.”

“Did you hear? Profanity! Yes, you have sinned, brother. Grievously. ‘Mankind shall not lie with mankind as he lieth with womankind,’” the Preacher intoned. “Confess and beg forgiveness lest the Almighty rain fire and brimstone upon us all.”

“Stop acting the fool and get out of here. Go home and leave me in peace.” He turned and started back into the cabin.

“He’s goin’ for a gun!” someone yelled.

As the man turned to protest, a bullet caught him in the chest. He stumbled against the doorjamb. A second slug broke his shoulder and propelled him through the cabin’s threshold. He managed to close the door and drop the bar to barricade it behind him before collapsing onto the floor.

When demands to fire the building rose, the black-frocked preacher flicked his reins and turned the rig around, scattering members of his flock. Torches hurled against the cabin walls had little effect, but brands landing on the roof kindled a hungry fire.

A pinto charged out of the tree line into the pack, the rider yelling and firing his rifle into the air. After a shocked silence, the mob rushed the newcomer. Hands snatched him from the saddle before he could bring his weapon to bear.

By the time the maddened horde hoisted a rope over a cottonwood branch and left the horseman kicking and gasping his life away, the buckboard raced for Yanube City.

 

*.*.*.*.

This mindless mob action, promoted by the bitter preacher in black, ignites events that will test the Strobaw family’s ability to survive and prosper and results in young John Strobaw taking the road that will eventually earn him the names of Night Sky Hair and Medicine Hair. Ultimately, he is awarded the name of American Killer by one Lakota chieftain.

 I hope this will incentivize some of you to read the series of five historical books: Cut Hand, River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, Medicine Hair, and Wastelakapi… Beloved. The sixth (and probably last), Ides, is slowly taking shape.

 I also have three contemporary books: The Victor and the Vanquished, Johnny Two-Guns, and Charlie Blackbear. In addition, there are three anthologies: Wildyr Tales, More Wildyr Tales, and Gabacho and Other Wilder Tales.

 Until next time,

 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.

Cee One Eff One (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #247

 Image Courtesy of Depositphotos:                      

 

Got more hits than usual on last week’s post—the first half of this story—but not many comments. Have you figured things out yet? Well, let’s get to it. Here goes, the finale.

* * * *

Cee One Eff One

I popped a lid off a brew and retreated to my recliner to watch the news or a comedy or just to get some noise in the room. Memories from my youth intruded too much for serious TV watching, so it was probably the noise thing.

Four of us had bummed around. Dave and Hal and Robert and me. And the hanger-on, Bug. A couple of years younger

than we were, he was a skinny kid who didn’t get along with his own peers and tried to attach himself to us. Got picked on a lot if I remembered correctly. Gus was… That’s it! His name was Gus. Gus… Gus… Dammit the last name wouldn’t come.

At any rate, Gus had been kinda an oddball. Not exactly a mama’s boy, but not far from it. Guess maybe that’s why he seemed to attach himself to me rather than my buddies. Come to think of it, he always seemed to get along better with Dave and Hal and Bob than with me. Seemed like he was trying too hard or something.

From the vantage point of today, I looked back to wonder if he’d sensed in me what I didn’t know until later. Not until college. That’s when I found out I was gay. Fought it, denied it like crazy, but finally had to admit it when the school’s hunky quarterback picked me up in a college bar one night and turned me every which way but loose. After that, I knew the truth about myself. The jock came back for refills occasionally, but not as often as I would have liked. That’s when I learned the other side of the coin. Whenever the footballer came around, it was just for one thing, to be serviced, and nothing else. At times, he acted downright hostile. I didn’t realize until later he was angry with himself. In his eyes, I was a weakness he succumbed to. By the time he graduated—a couple of years ahead of me—I was glad to see him go… although I missed him terribly.

Had Bug—or Gus—seen my future clearer than I had? Or was he struggling to face his own. Now, ten years later, I regretted the disdain with which I’d treated the kid. I should have looked on him as someone to mentor, not torment. And torment him, I did. I locked him in restrooms, stole his clothes at the swimming hole and left him to cover himself as best he could while walking home. I was a real bastard to him. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps subconsciously I knew I was going to be bullied, so wanted to get in a little of my own while I could. God! How petty can a man be?

I was so moved by my belated recognition of how I’d treated Bug… no, he’d be Gus from now on… that I sent him a long email apologizing for my behavior. I got no reply.

****

A few days later, my phone beeped a text alert, but before I could answer it, the phone rang. I recognized Gus’ blocked number and forgot all about answering the text. “Hello,” I said, likely a little too breathlessly. “Glad you called.”

“So you’re remembering the old days, huh?”

“Yeah. Notice you didn’t say the ‘good old days.’”

“Not for me they weren’t. In that whole town, there was only one guy I thought could understand me. What I was going through. That was you. But instead of understanding, you were the biggest bully in school.”

“I know that now. Used you to slay my dragons, although I didn’t even know there were dragons at that point. Slow developer, I guess. At any rate, I apologized in my email, and do so again in person. Sorry, Gus.”

“Not Bug?”

“No. You’re Gus from now on.”

“Oh, I have been for years. I left ‘Bug’ behind when I left that little town.”

“So where are you?”

“Here.”

“Here? You mean in Dallas?”

“Yep. Not half a mile away.”

“Great! Visiting or permanent?”

“Permanent.”

“Wonderful. I’d like to see how little Bug morphed into Gus.”

“Oh, you can. Just open your text. I sent you some photos. I’ll call you back after you’ve had a chance to look at them.”

“Wait! I can….”

But he was gone. So I opened the text and drew a sharp breath.

The first photo was a bust of a shirtless, buffed, curly haired young man who was not only downright handsome, but sexy, as well. You know what I’m talking about. Some handsome guys look too perfect to even think about earthy things. This guy not only made you think about them, but lust to accomplish them.

The second photo made me gasp aloud. Full frontal nude of the same guy, only without his head showing. I understood. Didn’t want to be subject to blackmail, but that mole was there, silently testifying this was Bug… Gus. And he wasn’t just buffed. He was tennis court buffed, distance runner buffed. And equipment that would make any man proud.

The third photo took the wind out of my sales. Gus and an equally attractive young man stared at me through the camera lenses, both naked, arms thrown over one another’s shoulders. The look of intimacy was obvious. This was his boyfriend. His date the other night that left him drained.

The phone rang before I’d recovered from the last snap. My answer wasn’t as breathy.

“What do you think?”

“I think a bug morphed into a butterfly,” I said. “You’re one hell of a good-looking guy, Gus.”

“And I could have been yours.”

My breath caught in my throat. “What do you mean?”

“I would have done anything for you, Mars… back in the day. Anything you wanted. Top, bottom, anything in between. I hung in there to the bitter end, putting up with your bullying, your cruelty, hoping you’d look inside and see the real me.”

“Bug… Gus, I—”

“Too late, bro. Doesn’t matter if you’re a semi-famous author some of the world admires. I know who you really are. So go to bed tonight knowing I’m within walking distance, naked and in bed with a hunky, wonderful guy who wouldn’t bully a soul. By the way, I’m changing my phone number, and as far as the email address, it was created just for you. A little lesson you should have learned back when we were younger. If you see one who’s willing, you better fuck him while you can… but in the right way.

*.*.*.*.

Guess I was wrong. It’s not “Poor Mars.” It’s Mars, the bastard. But you know, the subconscious is a powerful thing. As I writer, I have to wonder how often Bug showed up in his novels in some form or the other. Lots, would be my guess

 Until next week,

 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.

Cee One Eff One (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #246

 Image Courtesy of Depositphotos:                      

 

Does last week’s story of lost opportunities ring any bells. It rang a big one for me. It freaking tolled. Maybe I’ll write a story about it one day. Oh, I believe I did already. Think it was called “Jimmy.”

 

This week, let’s insert an air of mystery in our two Part story. Maybe this one will stoke some memories, as well. Here goes.

* * * *

Cee One Eff One

When the phone rang at one a.m., I automatically glanced at the clock on my computer screen. Friends know I usually work until two in the morning, but few of them phone me after midnight. I was at a crucial point in my latest murder mystery novel—the third in the series—and didn’t really want an interruption, but I succumbed to my curiosity and picked up my cell.

“Hello,” I said, hoping my voice held just enough irritation but not too much. After all, it could be an emergency call. “Mars Thraxton here. Who is this?”

A voice that seemed to come up out of some hunky guy’s testicles robbed me of my irritation. “See if you can guess.”

My pique returned. “Not up to playing guessing games… or robo calls. Tell me who this is, or I’m hanging up.”

“A friend. Someone who really likes your novels. Devoted reader, you might say.”

That voice. It grabbed me where it counted. “You sound interesting but not familiar.”

“You write detective stories. You’ll figure it out.”

“No games, guy. Tell me or I’m ending this.”

“If you think hard enough, you’ll—”

I’d no sooner punched the button to hang up on him than I regretted it. That was quite a voice. Somewhere between a growl and a purr. I hit the redial before I overthought my action, but got a non-responsive number like you sometimes get with spam calls you don’t answer but try to call back.

That should have been that, yet I was snared, but good. I sat before the computer with my mind reviewing everyone I knew. Couldn’t begin to figure out who my mysterious caller had been.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I went to bed that night physically aroused by the recollection of that sexy voice. But I will swear to this day that I kept my hands off myself.

****

The next morning, my agent phoned me, and for a brief moment, I thought he might be my mysterious caller of the previous night. Caddo Damon’s voice was deep and interesting in its own right, but it didn’t have the vibrato quality I’d detected. Could he disguise it? I dunno.

“Caddo,” I said right in the middle of his description of a pitch to one of the big five publishers, “you have a deep voice. How much deeper can you make it?”

“What? What’re you talking about.”

“Humor me. Make your voice deeper.

“For crying out loud, I’m trying to talk business here. But I guess you’re not the wackiest client I’ve got. You experimenting for a scene in your book? Disguising voices? Well, if I was gonna do that, I’d go higher.”

“Just do it, Caddo.”

“Like I say, I’d go higher,” he said in a voice lower in pitch than his normal speaking voice. Interesting, but not the same. I’d never met Caddo, but I’d seen his picture. He was a decent looking guy, and I might could have gotten up some interest, but he was all business and married with a couple of kids… plus, he was way off in New York somewhere. But I digress. He wasn’t my mystery caller.

Determined to complete a difficult scene in my novel before the day was out, I turned my mind to writing. Was making decent progress too, until my computer warned me that I had an incoming email. Sometimes I regretted setting the thing to go “bong” upon the arrival of each new message, but for some reason, I was loath to kill the alert.

My ire prickled when I checked and saw an email from an aol.com with the odd name of Cee1Eff1. Crap. Belonged in the Spam folder most likely, but I opened it anyway and read the following:

If you won’t talk to me over the phone, maybe you’ll read what I have to say. Still no clue? Think back. Way back. We were close then, although perhaps I was closer than you were. Attached are a couple of photos. Nothing you haven’t seen before, but perhaps changed a little.

I opened the first attachment and stared at a torso with chiseled abs, interesting pecs with a light sprinkling of hair between two large, brown aureoles. Rib cage tapered to trim waist with an interesting “innnie.”

The second snap was of a groin covered by bathing trunks. Good thighs with a downright fascinating bulge hiding behind the material. Who was this guy?

I scrambled to open the third attachment and discovered an oblique view of a guy’s exposed behind. Wasn’t exactly a bubble butt, but it was full and round and interesting as all get out.

I grabbed my phone and hit redial, but the call still didn’t complete. I know some phones have settings that can block numbers, but I didn’t know how they worked. Dropping the cell on my desk, I swiveled to my computer.

Okay, you got my attention. But stop playing games. Who are you, and stop being coy. You know how to use a camera, so give me the rest.

My novel forgotten, I waited impatiently to see if there was anyone on the other end to reply to my message. A few minutes later, my desktop went “bong” again.

Thought that might pull you out of your book. They’re good, by the way. I wasn’t kidding when I said I was a reader. But I’m not ready to reveal all. I have a date in a few minutes, so will be leaving. In the meantime take a look at those photos. There’s something in there that might kick off a memory or two.

“No, no! You can’t leave me like this!” I muttered aloud. “A clue, you said.”

I copied the three photos and spread them on the desk atop pages of my forgotten mystery novel. Getting out a magnifying glass, I poured over those three images like Sherlock Holmes in his proverbial deerstalker seeking to uncover dastardly secrets. I imagined the task was harder for me because I kept getting distracted by a downright sexy male torso, an intriguing groin hidden by a skimpy swim garment, and a delicious butt that kept putting my libido between me and my primary task.

But finally, I did find something that ticked a memory. An inch or so above the left nipple, a small brown mole triggered something. A mole. Why would that be meaningful?

Because I’d seen it before. Or one like it in approximately the same place. Did that mean this was a former lover?

I shook my head. No. That memory—as ill-formed as it remained—wasn’t salacious. I’d seen that mole in my younger days in Paris, Texas when we kids ran around like a wild pack. One of my buddies had a mole like that.

No, that wasn’t right. I could clearly remember the four kids I regularly palled around with back then. No, this was a hanger on. A younger kid. A pest. Always trying to run with us. He’d gone to the swimming hole with us a couple of times. That’s where I’d seen that mole.

What was his name? Gary, Larry, Harry? None of those seemed right. I stared at that mole perched on that luscious chest like a brown bug and…

Bug! That was it. I’d called the kid Bug because of that mole—when I wasn’t calling him Three-titty-Monte. What was his name? Didn’t matter. I had my way in now. I composed a message to Cee1Eff1.

Okay, I got it now. Long time, no see, Bug. From what I can see, you grew up good. Wouldn’t mind a look at more… if you know what I mean.

I hit send and tried to return to work, but it didn’t go well. All I could think of was that round, brown mole on that well-shaped trunk above that intriguing groin. And that didn’t even mention the fantastic naked behind.

Crap. He’d said he was leaving for a date. So he was out having a good time while I was home stewing. Who was he with? Guy… or gal. Somehow, that was important to me.

*.*.*.*.

Poor Mars. He’s trying to create, and some guy’s jerking him around—and not in a good way. He seems to be a decent detective. He’s picked up the trail from just a single brown mole. Wonder what happens next?

 Until next week,

 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.

What Could Have Been

 Markwildyr.com, Post #245

 Image Courtesy of Freepik:

 

Last week’s post about an AI-created story didn’t generate much in the way of comments. I’m not as panicked about it as my buddy Don Travis. I understand his post this week is an AI story written to his specifications.

 

This week, I went nostalgic. We all play the “what could have been” game on occasion. Let me know how you like this one. (AI had nothing to do with this one.)

* * * *

WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN

I’d known Jason Muldavid forever. Through all the stages of my life: from Johnny Boy to Johnny to John. One of my earliest recollections is the two of us digging in a sandbox with toy shovels at the little park only a block from our houses… which sat side by side on Elderberry Street. In fact, that’s what the neighbors called us, the Elderberry twins, even though Jason was dark-haired and dark-eyed while my hair was sandy, and my eyes an uncertain green… hazel, I think they call it.

I’m not sure that, as toddlers, we knew which was our own home, the red brick or the blonde brick. Just to be clear, the red brick was the Hogan household—mine. But neither of us bothered to knock when visiting the other. We just barged in and expected to be welcomed in those halcyon days when no one locked the front door.

Looking back, I believe we were in love in an innocent way. I fretted when Jason—or Jase as he became to me—wasn’t at my side. I’ve heard his mother complain he was a different kid when he wasn’t with Johnny. I never grew out of that stage. I thought of him the first thing in the morning and the last thing before bed. In my nightly prayers, he was the first person I asked the Lord to take care of.

We were likely eleven or twelve when things began to change. I distinctly recall the first time we played softball on opposite teams. We’d been waiting for someone to drop out of a sandlot game, and when one did, Johnny was called. When the next kid had to go home, I ended up on the other team. At the time, I couldn’t put a name to my internal rage when Jase kibbitzed with his team’s second baseman and razzed me when my turn at bat came. I got a double and managed to kick the second baseman in the ankle as I slid safely on base. After the game, as we walked home, he threw his arm around my shoulders and blathered on like nothing had happened, but it sure did feel like something had gone awry to me. At midnight, my eyes popped open, and I identified my anger for what it really was. Jealousy.

That was the beginning of my ordeal.

Simply put, over the next few years, Jase matured physically and emotionally. I only managed the physical part of it. Emotionally, I remained tethered to my childhood buddy. That wasn’t fatal, unless I tried to hang on too tightly… which I did a few times. Jase always pushed back, tactfully, at first, but when I refused to adjust to the inevitable changes, he got a little firmer about it.

And I don’t think he was the only one who saw things. Jason, as I said, became Jase, and was always referred to that way, while I was Hogan. I know, it’s a little thing… but it says a lot.

Middle school was rocky but not unbearable, but when high school rolled around, the changes were so profound, my base, my foundation seemed to be crumbling beneath me. And all the trouble came down to one thing… girls. Or that’s the way it was in my mind, at any rate.

When Jase discovered them, I was left at home hurting. It got a little better when he suggested we double date some, so I found a girl I could muster a little interest in and tagged along when I could. We both lost our virginity one night when he parked his Chevy convertible on a country lane. I still recall the absolute shock—despite prior clues—when I realized I’d rather be up in the front seat with him doing what he was doing to his date than being in the back doing what I was doing with mine.

But nothing was as shattering as his wedding night. I was, of course, his best man, and it took every ounce of self-control I could muster to keep from running out on him in tears. But I went numb and held on. Shaking his hand at the conclusion and kissing the new Mrs. Jase on the cheek—instead of biting her—and tossing rice with the rest of the well-wishers got me through that hell. But that night was even worse. It put an end to the fantasy that one day we’d put all this foolishness behind us and discover—really discover—one another.

The agony continued through college. We went to the same college and roomed together for a couple of semesters before he moved into the dorm reserved for jocks—he was a decent halfback for the team. We both remained in our hometown, although we moved from the adjoining red brick and blond bricks to different neighborhoods. Both of us pursued successful careers… me as the owner of the local deli, and Jase as a banker. In time, I became Uncle John to his son and his daughter. Their bachelor uncle because I never married. Eventually, I learned to accept what part I had in Jase’s life and let go of the dream of what could have been.

Contrary to romantic fiction, I never met another “Jase” or Jase’s successor in my dream fantasy. Unfortunately, I’m a guy who mates for life—even if we never got around to mating. But eventually, I put my obsession in the proper place and learned to live with it.

Until last week.

Last Friday, we met for lunch and were joined by a couple of other friends, one of whom was a coach at the local high school. Toward the end of the meal, the coach told us of a situation at the school—without revealing names—of a couple of guys on the basketball squad were found masturbating one another in the locker room after they thought everyone had gone. The coach laughed at the boys utter embarrassment and humiliation, apparently deeming those appropriate punishments. I quietly shriveled inside.

After lunch, we walked up the street together, me to my shop and him to his bank, when he turned serious.

“You know, I didn’t really appreciate it how Coach got a laugh out of catching those two boys. They’re just going through growing pains. Everybody does things like that when he’s growing up.”

Jase stopped and stared at me. “I often wondered why we didn’t do anything like that.”

I must have reacted in some way, because he grasped my arm.

“I don’t know about you, but I thought about it at times. Lots of times.”

I managed to speak through a dry throat. “Why didn’t you do anything?”

He released my arm and shrugged. “Kept waiting for you to do something. But you never showed any interest, not even when we were rooming together. If you’d given me a clue, who knows?” He grinned. “Might have ended up marrying you.”

I failed to laugh the way he expected me to. I just glared at him. “Jason Muldavid, sometimes you can be one stupid son-of-a-bitch.”

In some perverted way, it felt good to walk away imagining the glories that could have been while he stood there with eyes like quarters and his mouth hanging open. Couldn’t help wondering if he even got it now.

Probably not. He’d have to think outside the box for that, and Jase wasn’t very good at thinking outside of boxes.

 *.*.*.*.

I don’t know about you, but this resonates with me. I vividly remember the guy I fantasized about for years. Wonder how he’s doing these days.

 Until next week,

 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.

Artificial Intelligence in Writing - A Sample

Markwildyr.com, Post #244

Image Courtesy of Freepik:

I hope you liked the story of Tai over the last two posts.

This week, I’m teaming up with my buddy Don Travis to take on the issue of Artificial Intelligence in writing. Although he may be a little more smoked about the subject than I am, the presence of AI is of interest. His post on dontravis.com on June 13 featured an AI generated story about a post-apocalyptic world and a video that went viral written in the style of William Faulkner.

My post this week, is the same story written in the style of Ernest Hemmingway, created by the same unidentified AI source. I would appreciate your comments on the story… and its source.

                                                                              * ** *

AI WRITTEN STORY OF A POST-APOCALYPTIC WORLD IN THE STYLE OF ERNEST HEMMINGWAY

 In the barren aftermath of an apocalyptic world, a video emerged—a relic that reverberated across the desolate landscape. No one knew where it came from, nor how it had endured the cataclysm that obliterated everything in its wake. But its impact was undeniable, its resonance piercing through the hearts of the few who remained.

 The video spoke without words, its imagery a stark contrast to the bleak reality surrounding it. It depicted a woman, her delicate figure gliding through the skeletal remains of what was once a vibrant city. She danced with an ethereal grace, a silent tribute to a forgotten time. Her steps, infused with a raw elegance, painted a portrait of a world that had been lost—a world where laughter flowed freely and joy knew no bounds.

 As the video circulated among the survivors, tales of its transformative power spread like wildfire. Men and women, battered by the harshness of their existence, found solace in the woman's fleeting presence on the screen. She became their muse, a flicker of hope amidst the pervasive despair. In her movements, they glimpsed the indomitable spirit of the human race—a stubborn refusal to surrender to the darkness.

 The video became a rallying cry, an emblem of resilience in a landscape plagued by desolation. It brought people together, fostering a sense of unity in the face of insurmountable odds. Communities, once fractured and isolated, banded together under the shared belief that life could rise from the ashes.

 No one knew the origin of the video, and speculation fueled the whispers that echoed in the winds. Some claimed it was a divine intervention, a message from the heavens to guide humanity through its darkest hour. Others saw it as a stroke of artistic brilliance—a testament to the power of visual storytelling. But amidst the uncertainties, one thing remained clear: the video had become a beacon of hope, a testament to the unyielding spirit that lay dormant within every survivor.

 And so, as the remnants of civilization clung to their fragile existence, the video endured—a silent reminder of the beauty that once thrived. It spoke volumes without uttering a single word, evoking a longing for the past while kindling a fire of determination for the future.

 In this world of ruin and despair, the video whispered a simple truth: that even amidst the wreckage, the human spirit would endure. It held the power to ignite a flame, to remind those who watched it that life was still worth fighting for. And as the survivors huddled around the flickering screens, they found solace in the unspoken promise—the promise that one day, against all odds, the dance of life would resume, and the echoes of the past would guide them towards a new beginning.

*.*.*.*.

To me, the story reads more like an excessively long preface to a sci-fi book than a story on its own It’s a narrative of events, not a living of them. Am I worried? Naw.

 On the other hand, as Don points out, AI hasn’t reached its adulthood yet. Maybe, as authors and readers, we should worry as it grows up. I’d appreciate any thoughts on the subject you might have. I also encourage you to read Don’t blog posting of the 13^th.

 Next week, I’ll try to have a short story for you. Until then.

 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. 

Tai – Part Two of Two Parts

 Markwildyr.com, Post #243

Image Courtesy of Clipart Library

 

Last week, we met Mark and his buddy Tai, both straight, teenaged Soccer athletes. Only thing is, Mark spends the summer after high school graduation getting horny while Tai’s back east visiting his mother’s family. Now it’s time for college.

Read on.

 

* * * *

TAI

Nobody else from my town was going to State, so I’d be among strangers.  I squared my shoulders and figured most of the other freshmen would be in the same boat. So when I learned Tai Briggs had landed a soccer scholarship to the college, as well, I perked up a bit. Maybe we could room together.

Didn’t happen that way but he did live in the same dorm. Good seeing him, and from his reaction he felt the same way. He looked great. He’d put on ten pounds and another couple of inches.

We gravitated toward one another and soon became joined at the hip, so to speak. But as we grew our respective circles of friends, we sort of drifted apart. Except on the soccer field. Tai and I carried our weight there, and then some. This was gonna work out just fine.

Before long, Tai hooked up with a gal named Ginny, and I started a rocky relationship with a chick named, curiously enough, Suzy Sue Manford. Suzy Sue, or SS, as I called her, liked me just fine, but she courted the reputation of a rebel. That shoulda been great, right? Rebels defied convention. Convention said teens—even teens on the edge of being twenties—ought not go to bed together. So if she defied convention… well, you see where I’m going with this.

Didn’t work out that way. Although she liked to make out, I hadn’t gotten to third base before she took me home—she was a local—to meet her folks. Her dad, an avid car restorer, and I bonded as soon as he he found I was a mechanic. That didn’t sit well with SS. We continued to go together, but like I said, it was rocky.

Halfway into the semester, I got itchy with that itch that’s hard to scratch without the cooperation of someone else. First thing I know, thoughts of Billy Belwine and what he’d done to me—for me—in the park’s men’s room last summer intruded on my consciousness. Billy’s lips would feel pretty good right now, but Billy was off to school in another state, giving relief to his new classmates, I presumed.

Strangely, the thought of Billy made things worse. Just about every public men’s room I’ve ever been in had little notes scribbled on the stall walls, and I started paying attention to them. This school had it’s own Billy, but I didn’t know how to identify him. His notes were provocative but didn’t provide contact information.

I’d seen what somebody called “glory holes” in lots of public rest room, but dear old State’s stalls were made out of steel. Not only that, but the janitorial staff had perfected a method for effectively eliminating notes that were left, even those scratched into the metal. They buffed those out.

But one day, as my need rose almost to the desperation level, I saw a fresh note from someone who labeled himself as DZ saying he’d located an out of the way spot at Burnt Wood. What the hell was Burnt Wood? Too embarrassed to ask anyone, I went on the hunt in the library. Local maps showed a park by that name clear across town.

Probably a men’s room at the park. Bingo. But with no car, it would be a chore to get there. I’d put all my savings into my college fund to make it easier for the folks. I had a jalopy at home, but it wasn’t up to the cross-state travel to my present location.

The inane thought struck me that Tai had a car, but I couldn’t quite see me asking for a ride to a park to get my rocks off in some public bathroom. Although, I got a bit of a tingle in my groin by just thinking about it.

Well, think about it I did. About getting to Burnt Wood, that is. I located the city bus route that would take me close, and decided I’d give it a try Saturday. No classes and no soccer game, so that would be an ideal time. I came close to taking care of my own need Friday night, even with my roommate sleeping just across the room, but managed to keep my hands off myself.

Saturday morning was warm and sunny and inviting. Mid-morning, I boarded a city bus convinced that everyone on board, including the driver, knew where I was heading and what my mission was. Irrational, I know.

I transferred where I was supposed to, got off the second bus, and found I still had a quarter of a mile to hike. Well, what’s a quarter of a mile to a soccer player? When I arrived at the park, the first thing I saw was a bus stop. If I’d taken the proper route, a damned bus would have dropped me right at the park. Oh well….

The park was big… with lots of trees. A nice park, actually. Full of wholesome families having autumn picnics… and at least one sex-starved student looking for a tryst. Once again, as I trod the graveled walks in search of a secluded men’s room, I felt everyone’s eyes on me. Knowing eyes. Sneering eyes. Condemning eyes. Eyes that knew a guy looking for a blowjob when they saw him.

Finally, I found that secluded men’s room off in the trees where it was easy to miss. My back puckered as I approached the brown-painted shack. The door let out an ungodly shriek when I pulled it open. My heart about stopped, but I soldiered on.

One urinal. One stall. Side by side. With a big glory hole between them. This was the place, all right. Hookup messages were everywhere, but the place was deserted. I took a seat in the stall to read sometimes erotic and sometimes disgusting notes from one guy or another to the gay universe. That hauled me up short. Gay universe? Did that include me?

Naw. These were messages from gay guys to the male universe, and that’s part of what I was. Male universe. A needy member of the male universe. Must be because my member reacted something fierce. My male member.

I froze as the outside door squeaked open. Footsteps, and then someone was at the urinal. I peeked. Nice, from what I could see, which was confined to the groin area. What did I do now? Stick my thing through the glory hole and hope for the best? What if the guy was offended and whacked me where it hurt. Can you break a dick? Dunno, but I wasn’t about to take a chance.

Then the dude unzipped his trousers and flopped out his dong. A nice dong. He lifted his shirt a bit. Flat belly, black bush. Probably had a six-pack if he exposed more of himself.

Geez, the guy wasn’t taking a leak. He was playing with himself. What should I do now?

He didn’t leave it up to me. He turned and shoved himself through the glory hole. I gulped. I knew what he expected, but that wasn’t what I was here for. Even so, I took him in hand and massaged him. He thrust himself against the wall, and I knew he was urging me to take him in my mouth. No way. That wasn’t me. I wasn’t here to take care of some dude, I was here to be taken care of.

He withdrew, and started to bend over to look through the hole. I leaned back and gave him a good view of my own need. He hesitated a moment and then disappeared. Was he leaving?

No! He was at the door to the stall. He tugged on it. I’d locked it, of course, so I was safe. He rapped softly. For some reason, I’ll never really know why, I reached up and freed the lock.

A long moment passed before he pulled the door open and gave me the shock of my life. I might have been taken by surprise, but he wasn’t.

“Mark. I thought I recognized your senior class ring.”

Tai Briggs, looking sexier than anyone I’d ever seen, grinned, a crooked, lop-sided, lascivious smile and walked straight into me. I gulped, and took him the way he wanted.

*.*.*.*.

It’s always nice when something works out better than you ever expected, isn’t it. I wish Mark and Tai four long years of happy college life together. After that? Who knows.

 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.

Tai – Part One of Two Parts

 Markwildyr.com, Post #242

 Image Courtesy of Clipart Library

 

Thanks to Don Morgan for his guest posts. Hope you enjoyed them. Readership was up sharply last week—mostly due to large Singapore readership. My buddy, Don Travis told me his blog had multi-thousand hits from Singapore. Don’t know what that’s all about.

 

At any rate, here’s my latest effort. Read on.

 

* * * *

                                                                     TAI

For some reason, our town wasn’t much for sports. Except for soccer. Our Hochitown Side-Kickers were about the biggest thing around—except maybe for hunting and fishing—and as a fair—well, a little better than that—soccer player, I was sitting pretty. Decent appearing—handsome some of the girls said—and looking good in soccer shorts. Able to get decent scores in my classes, things were pretty good. Mark Heidlemann had things pretty much his way. Mark Heidlemann, that’s me.

My senior year, Lt. Col. Briscoe Briggs retired from the Air Force and returned to his boyhood home, bringing his Chinese wife and teenage son Tai with him. And wouldn’t you know it? Tai was a soccer player. And a damned good one too.

I’ll admit I saw him through the green veil of jealousy at first, but Tai was such a downright good guy that I lost that pretty quickly. Besides, with the addition of his skill, the Side-Kickers stopped being pretty good and shot to the top of the league. After we stopped being wary of one another, we quickly became an effective one-two unit. My goal kicks were harder, but his were more accurate.

Our little town was—to be charitable—somewhat insular. Col. Briggs was accepted, his wife Mai and son, Tai, not so much. And I’ll take credit for helping break through those prejudices. When I accepted Tai on the field, the rest of the team did, as well. And when I invited Tai to bum around with me, the rest of the school fell in line. Parents sometimes take cues from their kids, and it wasn’t long before Mrs. Briggs participated in the town’s civic and social affairs alongside everyone else.

It rankled a little when he was selected team captain, but what the hell. I still had my share of acclimation. So while I let it go, I began to take more notice of Tai… you know, Tai, the individual.

He had his father’s physique—5’10’, 165 pounds—and his mother’s complexion. His dad’s cheekbones; his mother’s eyes. When I really looked at him, he was damned handsome. Handsome, plus—if you know what I mean. His looks combined with a sensual, feline grace made him downright sexy. And if I realized that, what must the girls think? Apparently, they agreed, because they hung all over the guy.

Maybe that was why I backed off a little. We were still friends, but not buddies. He moved in his circle, and I made my way through mine. Didn’t seem to affect us on the field, so we won state in our class that year.

After graduation, Col Briggs took his family back east for a long visit with his wife’s family in Maryland. Seemed that he hadn’t met her in China, or anywhere in the orient, They’d met at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C where they both worked.

So I worked my Tai-free summer as a grease monkey at the local Chevrolet dealer by day and pursued Misty Penrose by night. I got good marks for my mechanical skills, but not so much as a Lothario. Misty—as a prize—continued to elude me, although we both enjoyed the unstated duel.

Don’t get me wrong. I’d managed to snag a couple of girls, starting in my freshman year. So I wasn’t a virgin, but for some reason Misty seemed a special prize. Her slipping the hook—as my brother would say—sometimes left me aching. And Billy Belwine found me in that condition one day after Misty left me at City Park, and somehow, we ended up in the men’s toilet with him kneeling before me, providing me some relief. I couldn’t believe the eruption I had.

I was still recovering when Billy stood, swiped his mouth, and grinned. “Awesome, man. Anytime you need to get it off, just let me know.” Then he barreled out of the toilet leaving me with my trousers around my ankles.

After restoring myself to decency—at least in the appearance department—I wandered around the woody area of the park mulling things over. Was I queer? I rolled my shoulders. Course, I wasn’t. That was just relief. And lots better relief than doing it to yourself. How did I feel about it? Okay, I guess. No guilt or shame or mortification. Well, maybe a little concern that Billy’d shoot off his mouth, and some of the kids would find out their soccer star got a blowjob. Naw. I hadn’t heard anything about Billy, so he didn’t go around blabbing. Maybe I’d look him up the next time I got really needy.

That left me with just one question. Why had I closed my eyes and thought about Tai Briggs while Billy did what he did so well?

*.*.*.*.

Well, well, well. Jealousy turned to friendship, turned to resentment, turned to…. Who knows. Let’s see what develops next week.

 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.