Babe (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #118

  

Courtesy of PickPik

Received some comments from readers on “Secluded Sand.” Apparently it struck a chord with some people. Appreciate the kind comments.

I was tempted to give in to some requests and return to Hawk, but instead decided to do a short piece I called “Babe.” (Titles can’t be copyrighted or else I might be in trouble.) At any rate, I hope you enjoy the two-part story.

Here we go.

*****

BABE

          “Hey, Babe, what’er you doing?”

          You can always count on Hal Weymeister to call me Babe. Not Richard, not Dick, not Dickie, not Rick, not Richie, but Babe. It started in the tenth grade because I was slow developing and still had the rosy cheeks and cherry lips like the girls did back then. And now, three years later, he’s still at it.

          But I’m not a girl, I’m a guy. I might be gay—although he didn’t know it—but I’m not swishy gay. I’m regular gay. Whatever that is. Heck, I played sports and held my own, especially in soccer. Hal and I were on the team here at Sandia U, and I was as good as he was. Maybe even better.

          Nonetheless, I’m always Babe. I got in a tussle with him a couple of years ago, but it didn’t matter. He kept it up, even with a fat lip. Regardless of what I tried, he wouldn’t quit.

          In fact, I guess he trained me pretty well, because when I heard those words, I halted in front of him. He and our goalie, a kid named Gordon Loesser—but universally hailed as Gordie—were sitting in the stands at the empty soccer field. Gordie intrigued me because he’d traveled all the way from some place in Virginia to go to college in New Mexico. Why? I couldn’t even dream up an answer. Even though we were on the same team, I kinda kept my distance because he was so handsome and hunky I was afraid I’d give myself away.

          What struck me when I turned toward them was the look on Gordie’s face as he studied Hal. He shook his head before speaking. What are you Weymeister, gay?”

          Hal looked like he’d been whacked across the head with a two-by-four. “What? No! Why’d you ask me that?”

          Gordie looked at him sideways. “You called him Babe. Called another man Babe. Don’t think a straight guy would do that?”

          Hal did some stuttering and sputtering before he managed to get out a rational answer. “Started calling him that back in our sophomore year because he looked more like a gal than a guy. You know, like a babe.”

          Gordie cocked an eyebrow and gave me the once over. “Looks like a guy to me. Good shoulders.” He flicked a hand at my deck pants. “Hair on his legs. Yeah, he’s a guy.”

          Hal blinked a couple of times like a dude who’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. “He’s done some changing in the last coupla years. Anyway, I gotta go hit the library. Candy and I are supposed to study this afternoon.” He got up and dusted off the seat of his pants. “Catch you guys later.”

          Gordie inclined his head and glanced at Hal’s retreating back. “You think he had a date with Candy, or was he feeling the need to mention a girlfriend because of what I said?”

          I laughed. “Could be either one. But I’m pretty sure he’s straight.”

          “Me too. But that oughta do the job.”

          “What job?” I asked.

          “Make him cut out that ‘Babe’ crap.”

          I met his gray-eyed stare. Man, he was really dishy when you took a good gander at him. “How did you know it bothers me?”

          “Could see it in your face every time he said it. You’re not hard to read, Stinson. Or do you prefer Richard or….”

          “Most people call me Rick.”

          “Rick it is.” He nodded toward the soccer field. “You handle the ball pretty good out there. Good instincts too.”

          “Thanks. You’re the best goalie I’ve ever played with.”

          “Aha, a mutual admiration society. So what have you got on this afternoon, Rick?”

          “Nothing. I got my studying done. Just have to figure out what to do with the rest of the weekend.”

          “I’m gonna drive over to the lake. You wanna go?”

          “The lake’s two hours away. You staying the night?”

          “Naw. I’ll just go over, soak up the atmosphere for a couple of hours and boogey on back.”

          “Well, sure. If you don’t mind.”

          “Welcome the company.”

          As I followed him to his ’98 Ford Explorer, I couldn’t help but notice his shoulders. Wow. Made mine look puny. Trim waist, nice hips. To keep from having a reaction to his graceful swagger, I put on some speed and caught up with him. “Do I need to bring anything? You know, like water or snacks?”

          “I’m not much into snacks. They have fountains at the lake. Just enough money for a burger and fries on the way back.”

          “Okay, I’m good.”

          “Figured you would be.”

           I stumbled over that comment.

           He turned to me and smiled. That’s the moment my mind stopped dilly-dallying and admitted I wanted him. “What I meant was,” he said, “you’re usually pretty cool and collected.”

          “Oh. Uh, thanks.”

          The drive to the lake was nothing to talk about. I mean, it was okay, but we didn’t yak much. Just enough to find out his father was a doctor and his mother worked in some governmental agency in Washington. Oh, and that the place he came from in Virginia was Alexandria.

          He learned my father was a rancher, that I grew up on a spread outside Deming.

          “How do you know Heymeister then?”

          “Went to a consolidated high school. Met him there.”

          “Aw, forget him. We’re out for a nice afternoon.”

          I settled more comfortably in the seat. “That we are.”

          My heart went crazy as I imagined what I’d consider a nice afternoon. Then it slowed as I considered what he likely thought was a nice one. They weren’t compatible. Not at all.

*****

Young soccer players, locker rooms, a lake. What could possibly lie ahead? Check back on the first Thursday in June to find out. June? Good lord, the yearis moving on despite being sheltered at home.

Tell your friends to order a copy of Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns from Dreamspinner Press. I’d like to convince them to publish the rest of the Cut Hand Series, including the unpublished manuscript Wastelakapi… Beloved, It’ll take some help from readers to get Dreamspinner interested.

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

The following are buy links for CUT HAND:

DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWV

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2

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

Until next time.

Mark

New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursday of each month.

THE PRESCIENT(Part 2)

In response to readers’ requests, here is the second part of “The Prescient,” a short story originally published in a Bold Strokes anthology called Erotica/Exotica, Tales of Sex, Magic, and the Supernatural, edited by Richard Labonte. Last post, we were introduced to a pranic vampire named Tancready, who is in pursuit of a young man named Boris Balint on the campus of the University of New Mexico.

NOTE: Because this is a 7,700-word short story, I will be posting every two weeks until it is finished. After that, I will resume my regular blogging on the first of each month.

*****

Courtesy of Public Domain-Pictures

THE PRESCIENT (Part 2)

     Born the seventh son of an Upir, a Russian Vampire Prince to a mother who was also an Eternal, I came squalling into this world with my head hidden by a caul. Thus was my fate sealed; I was given the kinetic challenge of all Vampires, inverted circadian rhythms and odd body cycles that bring temperature peaks and sleep hormones at unusual times, thus dictating that I was a night creature on a biochemical level. Even so, I can function in daylight, although with difficulty. Sunlight is painful, whether or not it reaches my skin. My eyes are ultra photosensitive, which gives me marvelous night vision, yet renders me myopic in normal light. Although shaded eyewear lessens that condition, I am most comfortable during sunlit hours in repose, not in some draconian coffin, but comfortably abed in a well-shrouded room.

     Amassing huge amounts of wealth during an endless series of lives presented no difficult challenge; however, reclaiming it upon each new emergence was trickier. I was careful that adequate assets remained available to me regardless of where they were concealed at the time. Most of my many lifetimes were spent ranging from Russia to Europe, with long periods in the Hungarian Carpathians and Transylvania. The persistent, amorous pursuit of a Romanian strigoivii, a live witch who became a Vampire upon her death, hounded me out of the Old World and into the New. I had been in the Western Hemisphere for the past century and in this unassuming place called New Mexico for a fifth of that time. Why this place? Why not? Except for some of the more remote northern mountains where Penitentes held sway, Vampires, even pranics, were merely the stuff of novels and films.

     Now, as I prepared for the ordeal of a daytime pursuit of the fair Boris, I examined one of my more exotic treasures, an ornate Arabic chess set, observing its intricate carvings with renewed pleasure. Then, moving through a secret dimension denied to ordinary mortals, I arrived instantly on the university campus in a sheltered spot near what is quaintly called the Duck Pond. Recovering my equilibrium, one of the effects of my unorthodox mode of transportation, I scanned the area near the near the path Boris Balint would shortly tread if the past was any true measure of the future.

     Troubled by our near encounter last night, I puzzled over the possible reasons for my disquiet as I placed the inlaid board on a backless concrete bench shaded by an evergreen bower. Carefully arranging pawns and pieces, all fashioned of ivory, ebony, silver, gold, and Persian turquoise, I grew irritable over the unwelcome attention of passing students drawn by the marvelous old set. I discouraged most with subtle tendrils of hostility and put off the boldest with a display of cold curtness. Anticipation always brought out the unpleasant side of my nature...unless, of course, it is narrowly focused on a particular target. At last, a long, manly stride bore the beautiful Boris into view.

     As he came within eyesight, his calm aura flickered. At fifty feet, I washed the boy in the aura of friendship and congeniality, seeking to smother the orange of his alarm. Gradually, his emanations subsided, and he slowed as he spotted my irresistible bait—the ancient set. Appearing reluctant, he nevertheless approached across the horribly bright green grass.

     “That’s a gorgeous set. Unusual,” he observed in a voice that came up out of his belly like a mature man’s. His slate gray eyes examined my present persona, a slender, aristocratic man of approximately thirty, possessed of dark good looks.

     “I acquired it years ago at a New York auction,” I lied smoothly. In truth, I took it as booty from a slain Moorish emir when Ferdinand and Isabella’s troops, of which I was one, sacked a castle in Leon. “You may examine it, if you wish,” I added graciously.

     Instantly, he laid the camera he carried on the bench and slid his long legs astride the concrete slab. Rather than touching the board, he examined the positioning of the pieces and looked up at me with a question in his eyes. Regretting my need for the dark glasses that prevented me from directly engaging his beautiful orbs, I satisfied his curiosity.

     “Capablanca versus Corzo, 1901, Havana. End game. Ninth match game.”

     “Capablanca was just a kid, wasn’t he? A prodigy.”

     “Twelve at the time. He won.”

     Only then did Boris carefully cradle an exquisite ebony Knight trimmed in gold and silver in his strong, brown hand. Gypsy blood likely coursed with the Hungarian in those pulsing veins.

     “Beautiful. How old is it?”

     “It is likely Arabic, but possibly Persian, dating from circa 1100.”

     “Geez, almost a thousand years old!” His husky voice was rich with awe.

     “Do you play?”

     “Love it!” he enthused. “But I’m not very good.”

     “Black or white?” I asked by way of invitation. He hesitated only a moment before claiming the white.

     The boy was an instinctive player, and with tutoring could become quite good. I beat him readily the first game, and then critiqued his handling of the pieces. His enthusiasm fired, we undertook another game while I nearly swooned from the effort of refraining from draining his energy. Eventually, onlookers gathered, and I sent my thirsting quests toward them, sopping up their energy while refracted sunlight bled away my own.

     By the end of the third game, I was sweating and weakened, but by the effort of pure will, I held onto the self-possession needed to advance to the second phase of my plan. “You carry a camera, I see.” I pointed to the instrument between his exciting legs. “Canon Z155 thirty-five millimeter. Nice.”

     “I’m sort of a shutterbug,” he said with a depreciating grin that sent blood rushing to my head.

     “I have some equipment that might be of interest. I own some Leicas. A M7 Rangefinder, for example.”

     “Wow! That’s worth a couple of grand.”

     “And a Hasselblad 205. Also some Japanese equipment, but I prefer the German lenses.”

     “Man, I’d give my eyeteeth for a Leica. I found a Minilux Point and Shoot for five hundred the other day, but my budget doesn’t stretch that far.”

     “Perhaps you would like to go shooting some afternoon. I will be happy to allow you the use of some of my cameras.”

     Uncertainty scrolled across his fine features. His aura flared in warning. He ran an agitated hand through his shaggy brown locks. He was fighting a furious battle without knowing or understanding it.

     I quickly extended my arm. “My name is Tancready,” I announced, exuding all the magnetic charm I possessed, which was considerable. His hand closed around mine firmly. Washed in the yellows and golds of my will, he relented.

     “Sure. I’d like that. My name’s Boris. Boris Balint.”

     “Ah, Hungarian,” I noted.

     “Way back, maybe,” he grinned engagingly. “Well, my great-grandfather, I guess. I probably know more about my mother’s people.”

     “Spanish?” I ventured. “No, let me guess. Pyrenees Gypsies.”

     He laughed. “Right. Mountain people all the way.” He began to look uncomfortable, so I reluctantly released his manly grip.

     “Tomorrow is Saturday, and I am free,” I ventured.

     “I guess I could,” he said hesitantly. “No classes. Can I try the Leica?”

     “Of course. I have a Minilux such as you described that I will bring along.”

     “Great!” he allowed his enthusiasm to surface, costing me my control. I drew energy from him before I could stop myself. He wilted visibly, but quickly drew on reserves. After we made arrangements, he walked away with vivid, warning blues among the more pacific hues of his halo. I watched him hungrily.

     In years past, I was a bloody Vampire, although my donors were voluntary and survived my feeding without lasting harm. None, for example succumbed to that ridiculous old wives’ tale that the bite of a Vampire created a Vampire. Preposterous! Were it so, the preponderance of the global population would be Eternal after all this time, undoubtedly overwhelming the world’s resources and dooming us all … Eternal or not.

     It took half a millennium, but I discovered another powerful source of pranic energy and rarely opened human veins thereafter. That source was semen, the distillation of the essence of a man…his cum. Since then, I prefer the company of men, young men, mature men, seniors. But the most powerful and intoxicating elixir is the seed of a youth in his sexual prime. And this I needed from Boris Balint. But there was also a strange, long dormant stirring deep within me that I recognized as a yearning for the taste of his rich, ruby blood. Only a Vampire can directly absorb the life energy of blood. After all, as the Bible correctly states, the blood is the life!

     Harvesting a man’s semen for the maintenance of my life force exposed me to yet another danger. The human’s irrational terror of Vampires is matched only by his homophobic fear of deviants. The pursuit of a man’s seed resulted more than once in the hasty use of my other dimension to escape the wrath of closed minds.

     Returning to my home, I ate voracious amounts of fresh fruits and vegetables, another source of energy, and then retired to my bedchamber. I slept soundly, but awoke after sundown, hungry and restless again.

     I returned to the university and prowled the night until I found young Boris beneath the blinding lights of the campus tennis courts doing battle with the young woman who had accompanied him last night. They played at playing, obviously enjoying one another’s company, which sent me into a sudden fit of unbridled jealousy. My halo flared dangerously. Worse, his aura blazed in unconscious response. He sensed a presence…my presence.

     In the grip of a deep melancholy, I withdrew and chanced upon a blond student retiring from the courts. Embroiling this hapless substitute in reds and yellows, I overpowered the youth quickly and pulled him into a darkened recess. After licking the sweat of recent exercise from his exposed belly, I quickly coaxed the seed from him. Barely in control of my senses because of hunger and lust and jaundiced envy, I entered the towhead and fucked him brutally while watching the distant, manly grace of Boris Balint. When I came, I bent to the whimpering boy again and replaced my spent seed with fresh cum.

*****

Tancready has made his opening gambit. Will it pay off in a way satisfactory to him, or will he learn that young Boris’s aural reaction to him heralds a Prescient? And if so will the student’s affinity for a vampire be as a willing victim or as a hunter?

I’m interested in your reaction to this story. Please feel free to contact me at markwildyr@aol.com.

Thanks for being a reader.

Next blog to be posted at 6:00 a.m. on February 15.

Harris

Let’s try a short-short story this week that has nothing to do with Europe and nobility and serfs to see what excitement we can stir. A tale set right here in beautiful New Mexico.

*****

HARRIS

Dootl'izhiidzill
Courtesy of Wikipedia

   The stately evergreens and flaming deciduous trees ahead and to our right beckoned us onward. The exposed slope of the mountain trail we trod gave a breathtaking view of the deep valley to our left. But all I could do was eye the strong, wiry form of the guy in front of me. The manly grace with which he moved, the flex of long, tight muscles in his legs, the curve of trim buttocks beneath khaki walking shorts demanded my full attention.

     I’d known Harris Keltjourn for three years, but only now had I really looked at him. At least, I examined his lower extremities more closely than ever before as he’d walked and climbed no more than six feet ahead of me for the past two hours. Why had it taken me this long to discover how attractive he was? I knew he was handsome, but so were a lot of other guys on the UNM campus. For me “handsome” isn’t always sexy. And how had I found myself alone with him on an isolated trail on a Saturday afternoon?

     Harris and I took some classes together, but we weren’t close. Then two days ago, he’d plopped down at my table in the Zimmerman Library and let out a whoosh of air. “I’m tired of this shit,” he announced.

     I grinned at him. “Already? It’s only October. Long way to go yet.”

     “Man, I need to be shooting rapids or scaling mountains or something.”

     “There’s water in the Rio Grande this year. Course, I don’t know of many rapids nearby. And there’s Sandia Peak right on the eastern horizon.”

     “You’re right. No rapids. And I’ve been up Sandia enough already.”

     I leaned back in my chair to look at him full on. He returned my stare, and I discerned he was serious. “There’s always Dootl’izhiidzill over by Grants.” I stumbled over the word, unsure of Navajo pronunciation. “That’s not too far away.”

     His eyes widened. “What in the hell’s that?”

     “Mount Taylor. It known as Turquoise Mountain to the Navajo. One of their holy mountains.”

     "How’d a mountain holy to the Navajo get to be called Mount Taylor.”

     “Haven’t you heard? The white man came out on top and got to write the history books and the maps. First they named it San Mateo. I guess it’s a part of the San Mateo Mountains. Then when Zachary Taylor whipped the Mexicans, we saw fit to change the name to pay him homage.”

     “How you know all this stuff, Frank?”

     I shrugged. “Lived here all my life. Grew up on the stuff.”

     He pursed his lips and nodded. “Let’s do it. Saturday.”

     And that’s how I found myself ogling that intriguing butt. I would have liked to continue doing just that, but my bladder had reached capacity and I pled for a halt. He agreed, so we stood side by side to ease our discomfort. When I’d peed enough to get rid of the urgency, I slid my gaze downward and to the right. I almost dried up at the sight.

     Harris had finished urinating and was shaking away the last drop… the one that’s not supposed to end up in your underwear. But what caught my attention was that the thing he held was growing. Rapidly. Then he turned away and seemed to have some difficulty zipping his shorts. Without a word, he took off up the trail.

     Dry mouthed, I stuffed myself away and hurried after him, my own excitement causing an uncomfortable chafing. Even so, I managed to almost catch up before he cambered atop a big rock and turned to look back the way we’d come. I scrambled up beside him, puffing hard.

     The view was stunning. The dark green forest below was studied with the reds and yellows and oranges of thousands of autumn leaves. We seemed to be looking out over a vast kingdom peopled only by us… ourselves. Alone.

     I glanced down at his crotch. It seemed full… inflamed. He turned and caught me looking. I had to swallow twice to work up enough saliva to speak. “Y-you seem to have a problem. Let me know if you need some help with it.”

     He studied me with eyes as gray as an angry sky before turning to look at the panorama again. “Yeah. I might. Thought for a while you weren’t going to offer.”

*****

Makes me wonder if Frank is calling Harris “Harry” by the time they get back down old Dootl’izhiidzill. By the way, I've seen the mountain spelled Tootl'izhiidzill, also.

Please let me know what you think of the story at markwildyr@aol.com.

Thanks for being a reader.

New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first of each month.

Barry Bungee Jump – Part 3

Today, we reach the finale of Barry Bungee Jump’s story. We left the three campers turning in at the campsite…Jeff and Dari in separate tents. That let’s Barry know there won’t be the threesome he’s been dreaming of. So what does he do now? Let’s find out.

###

BARRY BUNGEE JUMP

     Supper was kinda quiet in spite of all I could to do liven things up. Neither of my traveling companions showed an inclination toward sitting around a cozy campfire and spinning yarns. Jeff disappeared behind canvas first, and after I made sure the campfire was thoroughly doused, I found Dari standing at his tent flap holding it open for me.

     I ducked through and got a little thrill when his hand played with my butt as I passed him. We were both naked in seconds with me lying atop him trying to see his eyes in the darkness. All I could make out was a faint gleam. He pulled me to him and gave me a deep kiss. Fucked my mouth with his tongue was more like it. Then he pushed me down his chest so fast, I hardly got a taste of his flesh before his big cock was throbbing against my lips. Dari had been raised in some other country—Iran, I think—so he was the only guy I knew with a foreskin. Frankly, I sort of liked it and wished I had one to skin back and forth. I pulled that fold of flesh back and took him as far down my throat as I could. He filled me up pleasantly.

     I was prepared to go all the way with a blowjob, but that wasn’t what he wanted. Before long, he rolled over on top of me and spread my legs with his knees. He took me in hand for a moment before raising my legs. He was still wet when he found my sphincter. My puckerhole opened to him, and he slid inside easily. He must have been really charged up because he didn’t build up to it like he usually did. He started out fucking hard. Before long, he was grunting and groaning, and muttering in a foreign language. Something loud. I started to shush him, but then I got it. He was establishing primacy. Putting Jeff on notice my ass was getting fucked.

     Thinking maybe it would charge up Jeff for later, I joined in and gave him some “do it to mes” and a couple of “harders!”

    I don’t think Dari’d ever busted his balls like he did that night. He practically howled when his orgasm finally struck. He was panting and gasping so hard I was afraid he was going to have a heart attack. Of course, that made it good for me, too. When he finally got himself through his ejaculation, he only had to grasp me in his hand to bring me over the edge, as well. It was kinda spectacular, too.

     Neither of us said a thing as we lay there in the darkness of the tent trying to regain our breath. Fifteen minutes musta passed before I had strength enough to stir.

     “Where you going?” he asked. Demanded, really.

     “Over to Jeff’s tent.”

     “Didn’t I give you what you wanted?”

     “Sure you did. It was great. Super, actually. But I also gave you what you wanted. Now it’s Jeff’s turn.”

     “How long you been fucking him?”

     “Ever since I’ve known him, I guess.” I stopped to consider. “Not really. I just blew him and we belly fucked until you showed me the other way.”

     “Don’t go. You don’t need him.”

     “Hey, man. It’s only fair.”

     Dari didn’t say another word as I wiggled out of one tent and tip-toed as naked as I’d ever get to the other.

     “What?” Jeff said as I slithered up beside him on his sleeping bag.

     “Time for a little cuddling.” I made my voice as sweet and syrupy as I could.

     “You think I want sloppy seconds?”

     “No, I think you want your Barry.”

     Despite his attitude, he didn’t stop me as I peeled back the covers and explored his broad chest with my tongue. I could feel his throbbing cock pushing against me through the bag. I exposed him as I worked my way past his deep navel. Jeff was hot. Hot under the collar he wasn’t wearing and hot in his vitals.

I took him in my mouth and rode him all the way to his root. And he was big enough so that was uncomfortable. But I knew he’d unbend if I just kept at it. And he did. Soon, he was completely free of his covers, legs splayed, hands on my head as I seriously sucked his big dong.

     “Not this way!” He pulled me off him.

     Before I knew what was happening, he threw me on my belly, got between my legs, and split my buns with his slick cock. The dude fucked me. Really fucked me. It started out as payback, but soon turned into something with feeling to it. Angry recriminations became gentle words of care as he worked to give me his seed. When he was on the edge of his explosion, the friction of the sleeping bag against my rigid tool did me in. My orgasm about blew me away. My internal muscles grabbed and milked Jeff’s cock while we took the sex jump together. It was as good and exciting as a dive off the bridge.

     Another quarter hour passed before he rolled off me and caressed my neck. His strong hand played down my back and over my buns, making me comfortable.

     “I love you, Bungee,” he whispered.

     “Aw…”

     “It’s true. I love you, but I don’t think I can share you.”

     He took his hand away as his words raised goose bumps all up and down me. Was he telling me it was over? There wouldn’t be other trips. Other fuck sessions? I held my tongue and lay there for a long time before the chill air drove me into the bag with him. I didn’t sleep much that night, wondering if I’d made a big mistake. Well, it was done, so I just had to wait to see how it played out.

     I was kind of dopy the next morning, and for the first time, frankly wasn’t much interested in jumping. Still, it was a way to get around the hostility going around the camp. Jeff and Dari didn’t say a word to one another that was wasn’t forced out of them. After breakfast, we headed back to the bridge. And once I was hooked up to the harness and launched into the void, all my cares and troubles faded away. It was a great jump, and I was still yelling for joy when they hauled me back up. For the first time since yesterday, smiles lit both their faces.

     Dari harnessed up next, and I could tell from his delighted shout echoing in the canyon, he was free from the jealousy of last night. I watched him hit zero and start the first rebound.

     “He had a good jump.” I froze as I turned to Jeff.

     The big jack knife in his left hand rested gently against the cord. When Dari hit bottom again, and it went taut, some of the latex strands parted.

     I honestly don’t believe Jeff knew what was happening because his eyes were on me, a halfway playful smile stretched across his lips. But I saw. Dari hit bottom on his next rebound, the cord tightened again, and a few more strands parted beneath the blade.

     “Jeff, the knife’s….” I lost my voice.

     A few more strands parted, and then the cord came apart with a loud ripping sound. Only when Dari’s cries of joy became a screech of terror did Jeff’s eyes leave me. He looked at the severed jump rope and then peered over the side of the bridge. As Dari’s voice faded away on his long journey down into the Rio Grande, Jeff turned to me. I saw confusion clear from his expression and realization take hold. And then I saw the future play out behind those handsome blue eyes.

     I turned and ran for my life.

###

Offhand, I'd say Barry made a whopper of a mistake. Sometimes you think you know a guy, and then.... 

See you next month. Thanks for checking out the site.

Mark

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