An Army Brat and a White-Vined Park Bench (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #255

Image Courtesy of Amazon:

 

Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah to one and all. Please enjoy the holiday season but be careful, there are a lot of crazies out there.

 During this busy time of year, I’d intended to publish a repost for this week. But Layton and the white-vined park bench he’d stumbled onto in last post prompted so many memories from yore, I couldn’t let it go. Hope you enjoy the second story.

 * * * *

AN ARMY BRAT AND A WHITE-VINED PARK BENCH

My name’s Layton Dunelton, and I’m one confused son of a gun. An army brat, I had traveled blamed near all over the world by the time I reached age eighteen. But I’d never seen anything like what I saw when I arrived at Harthbrow Academy for my senior year in high school. It started off last Monday after school was over for the day. I’m a hiker—and a loner, by the way—and went to this park near my house after I’d seen some graffiti in the boy’s room about a white park bench.

Don’t know if I was looking for that bench or not, but I spotted it in a little secluded glen screened from the rest of the park by some trees. All the message said was, “Meet you at the white vine tonight at eight.” Anyway, my curiosity got the better of me, and I sat at another bench not far away. Dunno why, wasn’t anywhere close to eight o’clock. Heck, it was the middle of the afternoon. And I didn’t even know when the note was put on the wall.

But I figured things out right fast when a guy sat down on the white bench and got picked up by another guy. Looked like college students. They moved back in the trees and started making out. Guess they were too involved in what they were doing to notice me, but I sure got an eyeful when one dropped his britches. They left before things got too heated up, heading for somewhere more private, I guess. But as they left, one of them, a really handsome guy with dark, curly hair noticed me and gave me a grin and a thumbs-up behind his buddy’s back.

What was even stranger was I’d never even thought about fooling around with guys, but what I’d seen about set me on fire. I even went back at eight that night to see if anyone answered the note, but nobody showed, and I felt creepy sitting in the dark watching that empty, white-vined park bench.

I tried not to give the park much thought the rest of the week, but the following Monday afternoon, I went to the head and saw that graffiti again. Somebody’d added the word “Wow!” below it. That’s all it took to start my imagination racing again, so I left school after last class and headed straight for the park.

Once I got there, I wondered what the hell I was doing. There were some kids playing a ball game way down the green, but nobody was at the path running in front of the white bench. Or on the other bench farther back in the trees where I’d watched last Monday.

On impulse, I sat down on the white bench and spread my legs like I’d seen the guy do the other day. But as soon as I saw someone approaching, I closed them like I needed to protect my manhood or something.

After a few uncomfortable minutes, I decided sitting on this hookup bench and spreading my legs to bait a trap wasn’t for me. I stood to leave, but froze when I saw that same dark-headed college kid striding this way on long, athletic legs. Panicked, I didn’t know whether to sit down or run away. And I had to do one or the other because my knees went weak.

When I saw him turn his head to look at two girls walking down the path on the other side of the green, I whipped around the bench and took refuge on the other seat deeper in the trees. Maybe he wouldn’t notice me. Like last time.

I sat still as a marble statue as he approached the white bench. Was he going to sit down? Was he meeting his friend again? Would I see them move deeper in the trees and drop their trousers? Would….

Upon reaching the white bench, he stretched languidly, hiking his short shirt up and giving me a flash of brown midriff. Wow, he was built. Athletic, I mean. Not like a wrestler; more like a runner or a swimmer. Long, hard muscles.

I saw the instant he spotted me. He paused, flashed a smile… and headed my way. My insides shriveled. God! Would he recognize me as the peeping Tom kid? Before I had time to react, he stood in front of me.

“Hello. Wondered if I’d see you again.”

Oh, crap! He recognized me.

“I came back a couple of times last week hoping I’d see you,” he went on.

He wanted to see me?

He indicated the bench. “Mind if I join you?”

“Y-yeah, sure.” Crap, I probably sounded like a ten-year-old.

He sat beside me on the small bench with our thighs touching… scorching my flesh.

He offered a hand. “My name’s Ken.”

“Uh….” I verbally stumbled as I accepted his firm grip. Seemed like there was heat in that touch too. “Layton.”

“Good to meet you, Layton.”

“W-why did you want to see me?” Gee, he must think I stuttered.

“Wanted to get your take on what you saw Monday.”

 

*.*.*.*.

Uh-oh, is the college guy fishing around to see what Layton saw a week ago? Should Layton confess he’d gotten an eyeful or play dumb? Would Ken be pissed if he’d seen too much? College boy had been dogged about finding Layton again. What did he want? To make sure the kid kept his mouth shut? Or maybe something else. Let’s see next post.

 JMSBooks has contracted with me for another short story anthology for publication in February of next year. This one is a series of related stories about Curt Huntinghawk and his running buddy Grover Whitedeer. It’s called Huntinghawk, An Anthology. Let you know when I get a firm publication date.

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

X: @markwildyr

Now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it! (Don Travis keeps reminding me I stole it from him, but he didn’t copyright it. His bad.)

 See you later.

 

 Mark

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

The White-Vined Park Bench

 Markwildyr.com, Post #254

Image Courtesy of Pinterest:

 

Well, how did you like meeting Charlie and Red Leg over the last two weeks. Think you might get some interest up if you met those two?

 

Let’s try some flash fiction this week. Read on and meet a shy, high school senior Army brat and see if you can share any of his feelings.

 

* * * *

THE WHITE-VINED PARK BENCH

“Hi, my name’s Layton Dunelton, and I’m an army brat who gets transferred around a lot.”

That brought a rumble of laughter from my new senior class at Harthbrow Academy. I mean to say the class was new to me, not that the class was new. My dad’s an Army major, and you’d think I’d grow accustomed to switching schools, but the truth is I’m shy as hell and have a hard time meeting new people. Sometimes I hate my dad’s profession, although it’s been good to us. You know, great medical benefits and respect and all. But it’s hard on the kids, I can tell you.

Anyway, this was my first day in class at a new school, always the hardest. I could readily spot people I’d like to get to know but didn’t always make the connection. Guess that’s an awfully shallow way of picking friends—by the way they look—but nobody’s ever accused me of being deep.

I made it through the day and started for home, by foot since we lived no more than four blocks from the Academy. Before leaving campus, I stopped off in the boy’s room to drain the pipe for a more comfortable walk. Like lots of places I’d attended, Harthbrow was not immune from graffiti. I casually read and dismissed them, but one caught my eye. Obviously old, the ink was faded, it simply read, “Meet you at the white vine tonight at eight.” I guess it snagged my attention because I wondered if there was a teen joint in town I hadn’t heard about.

I got my chores and homework done early, there wasn’t anything else to do. Boredom drove me away from the boob tube and out looking for something to occupy my time. Not far from the house, I found a nice city park. At first, I thought it was just a small thing, but as I wandered around, I found it went on for blocks. The broad swath of green was fringed by trees as thick as a wild forest and interspaced with heavy, iron benches with backs fashioned like interwoven vines. A perfect place for walking. This’d be my hiking spot. I did a lot of hiking, my form of physical exercise. As I explored, I found little sheltered nooks. A little green space would open unexpectedly through the trees, and as a dedicated loner, I gravitated toward sheltered places.

A little after passing the obligatory His and Her restroom hut, I came upon a really attractive place. This little park was almost totally screened from view by trees. Pulled by a sense of serenity, I entered the little place. No more than twenty-five yards wide in any direction, the glen felt like another world. Spotting one of those remote cast iron benches even deeper in the trees, I walked over and sat down. Surprisingly comfortable, although it probably wouldn’t wear on the butt well. I sighed and decided to claim the place for my own.

A few minutes later, a man walked past the screen of trees, or at least, I thought he was going to. Instead, he claimed a bench I’d not noticed no more than ten yards in front of me. One not so deep in this little glen, but still somewhat isolated from the bigger expanse of green beyond. His back was to me, but he looked a little older than my eighteen years. Like a junior or senior at the college in town.

At any rate, he had a sort of—I don’t know—expectant air about him. There wasn’t much traffic in the park at this time of day, but there was some. As I observed—a loner’s often a great observer of life around him—I noticed something. If a woman or girl walked by, he nodded courteously, but if a man—especially a young man—approached, he spread his legs and watched the guy approach. Like a hunter watching his prey was what came to mind. But what was his bait?

After about ten minutes, a guy who looked like he was another student walked up and stopped in front of the bench. I could hear voices but not words. Didn’t need them. The second guy sat down beside the first and took a long look either way before moving his hand. Although their backs were to me, I would have sworn he was groping the other one.

They got up and moved deeper into the trees. If they hadn’t been so intent on one another, they would have seen me, but I remained as still as a stone. When they were well screened from the public portion of the park—but easily within my sight—one of them, a curly, dark-headed guy, leaned against the bole of a tree while the other pressed against him. I could swear they were kissing. They were! Moans reached me. Then the blond-headed one dropped his britches, baring his butt to me. It looked like the other one’s trousers drooped, as well. More moans and groans as they massaged one another.

Damn, if this wasn’t beginning to get to me.

They halted their activity and started discussing something. I couldn’t hear plainly but enough to realize they were compatible—whatever that meant. Then I heard, plain as day. “My roommate’s gone for the night.” They restored their clothing and started back to the public area. One looked startled when he spotted me, but grinned and flashed a thumbs-up behind his partner’s back.

Damned, if that didn’t send something crawling around inside me.

When they were gone, I got up and walked to that bench. Sitting—and spreading my legs, I have to admit—I kinda experimented with the feeling. Then I noticed something I hadn’t before. The park benches were all painted different colors. This one was white. A white-vined park bench. Could that be what the note on the toilet wall meant? Yeah. This was a pick-up spot. A meeting place for those people. Those people?

Damn, I had a raging boner. Did that mean anything? Naw. Well, maybe.

Anyway, I was sure as hell gonna come back tonight and see what developed. Hell, maybe I’d sit down and spread my legs now that I knew what the bait was.

 *.*.*.*.

My, my, what do you suppose he’s figured out the bait was? Will it work? Will it be okay with him if it does, or will it be a case of the dog catching the car? Figure it out for yourself. Or… I might write a second story, we’ll see.

 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! (Don Travis keeps reminding me I stole it from him, but he didn’t copyright it. His bad.)

See you later.

 

Mark

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

Patterns of Moonglow and Shadow (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

Markwildyr.com, Post #154

 Photo courtesy of Stock Adobe.com:

 

This week, let’s get back to storytelling. The following is part one of a yarn I wrote just for this post. Hope you like it.

 

* * * * *

 

PATTERNS OF MOONGLOW AND SHADOW

Movement between patches of moonglow and shadow caught my attention as I waited at a traffic light on East Central in Albuquerque. In dark of shadow, a vague, shapeless stirring; in weak moonglow—feebly augmented by fading neons—motion took momentary shape. White sneakers, slim jeans, lanky figure, hair darker than the shadowed recess of closed shops lining the avenue. Good physique, long, coltish stride… but what did he look like? Probably not much. What were the odds you’d spot someone with it all: good build, masculine grace, and fair features? Slim to none.

The light changed before he reached the relatively well-lit intersection, and I moved on toward my downtown office for a late-night planning meeting. After that, maybe a stop at a Fourth Street bar before heading back to my empty apartment.

Without consciously thinking about what I was doing, I circled the block to catch another glimpse of this walking enigma who had so unexpectedly snagged my attention. My timing was off a bit, so I circled yet again and caught him as he trotted across a side street. The sudden appearance of my headlamps caused him to glance my way. Good Lord! I’d hit the perfecto. Build, grace, and good features.

Of course, momentary glimpses can be tricky. Minks can turn out to be weasels on closer inspection. I noted the time on my dashboard clock. Nine-fifteen. Maybe this was a familiar trip for the young man. If so, I might catch sight of him tomorrow.

****

Our downtown meeting had been called for this unusual hour because our boss kept a social engagement before calling on the team to finalize plans for a development on the west side of the city. My mind strayed, and that was dangerous for a junior member of an architectural firm. Nonetheless, my thoughts refused to let go of that long-legged stride, dark hair, and comely features back in the Northeast Heights. Would I see him again? Central wasn’t my usual route from home to office, so Lady Fate must have had a hand in what happened.

The evening ended as predicted. A couple of “hail fellow well met” drinks and then home to a lonely apartment. Actually, my pad wasn’t bad. Two bedrooms in a pricey part of town too far from the office to be really convenient. I’d signed the lease because that’s where my girlfriend Cassandra wanted to live. Cassandra. The name should have forewarned me. Like that old Trojan Priestess of Apollo who told truths that were never believed, my Cassandra had warned me our relationship wouldn’t last. And she was right. Six months into a one-year lease, she moved back to Pennsylvania, leaving me with an inconvenient apartment contract only halfway spent. I closed the door behind me and gave the empty apartment my usual greeting of late. “Shit!”

****

The next evening, I cruised the upper end of East Central from Wyoming down to Carlisle and back without results. Oh, I saw pickups—both male and female—but that wasn’t what I was looking for. That particular enigmatic figure from last night totally claimed my attention. I gave up around nine and returned home.

Unusually antsy at the office the next day, I worked late in order to get some tasks done I’d neglected earlier. Sometime after nightfall, I headed up the long expanse of Central Avenue past the Highlands subdivision, beyond the University of New Mexico main campus to the International Section, and deep into the Northeast Heights. No sign of what I was looking for.

Pissed at myself for getting hung up on something as trivial as a guy with a long athletic stride, I turned north toward home, but found myself circling the block and heading west on Central again. It was almost as if my Miata had a mind of its own. I cursed softly but continued on down the street. Shop lights began winking off, creating those weird patterns of moonglow and shadow along the sidewalks.

At Carlisle, I said screw it and headed home, or at least that’s what I told myself. And since Central was sort of a way home, I pointed the car’s nose east. Lo and behold, in a few minutes, I spotted a long-legged figure turn south on Morningside, and I did something I never do… pulled up beside the guy just as he started to cross the street to a small park. His eyes widened in surprise when he almost walked into the side of my vehicle.

Like I said, there’s always something to mar perfection, and now it was obvious. The guy—kid, really—was dirty. Filthy. He likely lived on the streets, possibly sleeping in the park lying just to the right of my car.

I blurted the first thing I thought of. “You hungry?”

“Y-yeah.”

The next words were hard to get out, but for some reason I was committed. “Get in. I’ll buy you something.”

He squinted doubtfully. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said, grabbing a newspaper I had intended to read tonight and spreading it over the front passenger’s seat.”

He used that long, graceful stride to go around the car and climb in. He didn’t seem bothered at the newspaper crinkling beneath his weight.

I goosed the motor and whipped around the corner to make my way back to Central. “Robert,” I said, examining him out of the corner of my eye.

“Huh? Oh, Jimmy.”

“What do you like to eat?”

“I like I-Hop, but they won’t let me in.”

“No, probably not.” I was beginning to regret my rash action. The newspaper might save my seat, but the odor was going to be harder to expunge.

“What would you think if I offered you a shower.”

“I’d think it was great, but it won’t do any good.”

“Why?”

“I’ve got no clothes to change into. Have to put these back on.”

“You don’t have any more clothes?”

“Did. But I went up the street to do some dumpster diving this morning, and when I got back, sombody’d filched my goods. Took everything.”

I glanced at the dash clock. “Walmart’s still open, how about I buy you a shirt and a pair of pants.”

“Same thing. Won’t let me in.”

“Maybe not, but they’ll let me in.”

Two minutes later, I turned south on San Mateo and whipped into a Walmart parking lot. I took out a pen and pad and wrote down his shirt and pant sizes.

“Be back in a few. Hang tight,” I said, rolling down the windows even though the night air was cool. One of the things I liked about Albuquerque. No matter how hot the days, the nights were cool.

Thirty minutes later, I exited the store and only then did I consider the possibility he’d hot wire the ignition and take off in my car. But there it was with him leaned back in the reclining seat. He flinched when I opened the driver’s side door and tossed a canvas bag into his lap. “Here you go three shirts, three pants, three shorts—hope you like jockeys—three pairs of socks, and a shaving kit. Oh, and a windbreaker for cool nights.”

“Wow! That’s more’n I lost this morning. Thanks, man.”

Let’s take you home for that shower, and then we’ll see about something to eat. I’ve got some spareribs and turkey in the freezer. Pre-packaged, but not bad.”

“Sounds good to me.”

* * * *

Okay, so our protagonist has caught his fish, so what is he going to do with it. Frankly, I don’t believe Robert has the slightest idea. He’s acting on instinct. What do you think? We’ll have our answer on Thursday the 20th.

 

I am still asking for reviews of Wastelakapi, on Amazon.

 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!

 

Mark

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

A Short Story - The Hired Hand (Part 1 of 2)

I would have sworn that November had 31 days. Sorry for being a day late in posting a new story for this week. Attached is the first half of a short story that I hope you'll enjoy. And please forgive me for the lapse. I don't like to post things late.

*****

HIRED HAND

         

Spring was a busy time on the farm, so I was looking at dawn to midnight days. I’d counted on hired help to do the land preparation while I took care of selecting my bean seed as well as tend the animals. I put out the word I was looking for reliable help but, since half the countryside was looking for the same thing, I didn’t hold out much hope. Until a slender, sandy-haired kid walked out to the field and flagged me down.

I climbed down off the tractor and mopped a film of dust from my face with a bandana. I was working two gangs of chisels behind a row of twenty-two disks, and the sun was climbing fast. I can’t disk when the dirt gets too hot, so my mood wasn’t the best, and it showed.

“What can I do for you, young fella?  Spit it out!  I’ve got a lot of chiseling left to do.”

The kid’s Adam’s apple bobbed a couple of times before any sound came out. When it did, it made me take a closer look. It was a man’s deep baritone.

“I heard in town you were looking for help.”

“Me and everybody else in the township, What’s your name?”

“Lonnie. Lonnie Hydrack.”

There are a few times in a man’s life when he lucks out. Lonnie Hydrack asking for a job was one of those times. The youngster was an unpolished gem well-grounded in the basics from working on his uncle’s farm. His true genius lay in working with animals. Even the meanest sows, trailing strings of piglets, followed him around the farrowing house like friendly puppy dogs. The boy knew how to strip and repair a gearbox better than most professional mechanics, but operating the equipment was something else. On his first try, he left so many rabbit tracks, I made him disk the field again. Missed spots, like weeds in a field, are signs of a poorly run farm.

But once shown something, Lonnie fixed it in his mind and rarely had to be told again. He never complained about the hours, the dirt, mucking out a barn, or even the crock pot sausage and sauerkraut that was our staple for lunch in the field. He just plugged his ears with the headphone from a Walkman radio, set it at a C&W station, and went to work. In short, he was simpatico, as they say in these parts.

Things changed the day he worked up a sweat and peeled off his sodden work shirt. He was a deceptive youth. He’d seemed thin and kind of small when I’d first looked down on him from the tractor seat, but stripped to the waist, he revealed a solid physique with powerful shoulders and arms, narrow hips and lean belly. The kid had an open, honest face saved from being pretty by a small Z-shaped scar on his cheek below the left eye. His smooth skin rippled with muscles that weren’t evident in his clothing.

Here stood the potential for disaster. Even destruction and ruin. This handsome, innocent-looking, eager-to-please young man was as much a danger to me as I was to him. My heart and my head counselled caution. But the overriding concern was that I needed help during the busy spring season. Plenty of time to let him go when the crop was in the ground and the calves had dropped, I told myself. All it required was steely self-discipline on my part for all to be well.

Many times over the next two months I was to silently curse that handsome youth for being such a pleasant, hard-working soul. He woke up slowly and tended to be non-communicative early in the morning, but other than that, he was a paragon. We worked hard all day, him at his chores and me at mine, once I grew to trust him. At night we cleaned up, ate, watched the news and weather on my satellite TV system, and turned in for a well-earned night’s sleep. That was the plan, anyway. But I tossed a turned half an hour every night thinking about him in the next room.

*****

Let's take a break and finish this up next time. Does old Zip continue to suffer in silence, send the young man away, or do the two manage to get together? We’ll see.

Thanks for taking the time to visit the site and read my material. Appreciate it, and always glad to hear from you guys.

Thanks,

Mark

New Posts on the first of each month!