Addison Albright: The Olive Branch

I suspect anyone with family will be deeply familiar with this kind of ‘should we/shouldn’t we’ conversation regarding reunions – I know I am! Hats off to Addison for a lovely, meaningful story written to include a series of prompts. You can find all her books at her website – why not look them up?

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Pic credit: the Clipart Library

“So, what do you think?” Travis asked. “Should we go?”

Anderson blinked the sleep out of his eyes as he pushed up onto an elbow to face Travis. He squinted as if he wasn’t quite sure what Travis was talking about. No surprise there. Just because Travis had woken with the emotional turmoil caused by that inexplicable invitation still front and center in his mind, it didn’t mean Anderson would be obsessing over it, too.

“The reunion,” Travis said. His parents threw a big gathering of the whole clan every few years, but he’d been estranged from his family since the horrific blowout with his father when he’d first come out to them. His mother hadn’t been part of that, and they’d stayed in touch. But even so, it wasn’t the same, and he hadn’t gone back home for the holidays since then, preferring to spend them surrounded by the unreserved love and warm hugs supplied by Anderson’s family.

“Ah. Sorry, my brain isn’t functioning yet.” Anderson pushed himself up to a sitting position and planted a much-needed kiss on Travis’s lips. “If you want my interpretation of what he wrote, I think it’s a sincere olive branch.”

“You don’t think he was under duress?” Travis was referring to the hand-written note on the inside flap of the formal invitation. We would both love it if you and your husband would come home for this. He’d studied the penmanship, and it was definitely his father’s handwriting. And he’d explicitly included Anderson in the invitation. Travis should probably be relieved by the gesture after having abandoned all hope, but first he needed to accept its sincerity.

Anderson laughed. “define ‘duress.’ You mean like a murderer holding a gun to someone’s head forcing them to write a supposed suicide note?”

With a quiet snort, Travis leveled a grin at his husband. “Don’t underestimate my mom. If she insisted…” He trailed off his words and finished with a sigh.

“You think he was coerced, then? The way you’ve described him, I wouldn’t have thought he’d do something like this against his will.”

“Yeah, probably not.”

“Maybe the holidays got to him, and he missed seeing you for a second year in a row. Maybe he’s turning over a new leaf for the upcoming year—this could be his resolution.”

Travis didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to add. It wasn’t as if there’d been any new information beyond the words his father had written. Should he call his mom and express his concerns, or just take this gesture at face value?

Anderson reached for his tablet on the bedside table. “Come on. Let’s look up flights.”

Things that always seemed so muddy to Travis, were clear as a bell to levelheaded Anderson. Obviously the man was running with “take the gesture at face value,” and he was moving on to practical matters.

Fine. Exposing Anderson to potential abhorrent behavior had been one of Travis’s main concerns, but Anderson was intelligent enough to understand that risk and clearly didn’t care. Even so… “Maybe we should get refundable tickets.”

“Stop it.” Anderson tapped away on the screen. “What’s the nearest airport to that village you’re from?”

“Syracuse. Don’t you think you’re jumping the gun a bit? The reunion isn’t until early June.”

Of course, Travis knew the answer to that. Getting cheaper flights by booking early was secondary. Anderson would want to make it harder for Travis to talk himself out of attending by locking them into a flight.

Anderson didn’t reply. No doubt he knew Travis realized that and was happy to have this worry taken out of his hands.

Butterflies still flitted around Travis’s stomach at the thought of seeing his father again, but the future was looking especially bright, and a smile crept over his face. With Anderson at his side encouraging him and offering unconditional support, Travis could handle whatever life threw at him.

Jeff Baker: Make Me Immortal With a Kiss

This is a heart-warming fantasy (if slightly poignant) wish-fulfillment story from Jeff that’s inspired by the Christopher Marlowe play ‘Faust’, with the bonus of a cute dog! Don’t forget to check out Jeff’s other books and stories here…

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Pic credit: Aleksandra Chornobab on Pexels.com

            “Hi, Honey!”

            Hank Jones, looking about forty years old, opened their front door and glared back at the door which obediently shut and locked.

            “Don’t ‘Hi Honey me, dammit!’” Kenny said. “I finally realized what you did! How dare you do something like that without telling me!”

            “Did?” Hank said. “Did what?” He was genuinely confused. He let the bag of groceries float over to the table but he didn’t scan Kenny’s thoughts because he usually didn’t need to and from his agitation, he would find out soon enough.

            “Those extra years,” Kenny said angrily. “You didn’t think I’d realize where they came from.”

            “Oooookay,” Hank said under his breath. He knew Kenny was going to guess this part sooner or later. But he’d hoped for later, maybe a hundred years later.

            “You told me I was sick, that I might not have much time left,” Kenny sputtered. “And then you told me you could, what did you call it? ‘Use the powers of the Lahadnedjj to field-share some of your metabolism to blend some of our physical essence together magically’ so I’d be healthy and we’d both be able to live another eight-hundred years or so together?”

            “Honey, I was going to explain all the rest of that to you,” Hank said. “Just after the blending we were both a little pooped-out for a couple of days. Hey, my powers are only just coming back to regular strength.”

            “So you didn’t tell me the whole thing, did you?” Kenny snapped.

            “We didn’t have a lot of time,” Hank said.

            Kenny Briscoe had accepted that their relationship was like something out of an old sitcom; with the twist of the incognito space alien falling for the Earthman. But he hadn’t expected anything like this.

            “You’ve got what, sixteen-hundred good years left? And you cut them in half and gave half to me? Shortened your life by about a thousand years?” Kenny was trembling and looked like he was ready to cry.

            “That Underlord of the Lahadnedjj title they bestowed on me on Vothnian wasn’t just a degree I earned, it comes with some perks,” Hank said, looking tired. “Magical perks. A lot of them are things I have already, the extended lifespan bit adds up to about two-thousand years which, as a Vothnian, I already had.”

            “Yeah, had,” Kenny said bitterly. “I took that from you.”

            “You didn’t take anything…” Hank started to say. He was damn close to yelling at Kenny and he’d never done that. “Look, that’s why I was able to do that. Share it with you. It’s one of the fringe benefits I mentioned.”

            Hank sighed and walked over and put his hands on Kenny’s shoulders. “I’d been scanning you. You were sicker than the doctors thought you were. I’d been planning this, prepping for this for a couple of days.”

            “So, why didn’t you just, you know, zap! I’m healthy?” Kenny asked.

            “I can’t do stuff just like that. It’s more complicated.” Hank said. “Besides, you had to agree to it. That’s part of the magical part of it. We both had to agree.”

            “And you cut your life off for me,” Kenny said.

            “My life without you wouldn’t be worth living,” Hank said. “If we only got more ten years together I’d consider it perfect even if it all came to an end when the ten years were over. This way we get, you know, a little more.”

            “A lot more,” Kenny said, kissing Hank on the nose.

            “Yeah,” Hank said kissing Kenny in the more conventional place. “I’d lived over three hundred and sixty years without knowing you, I wasn’t going to lose you and go through that again. This way, well, our lives will pretty well wear out at about the same time hundreds of years from now.”

            “That’s a lot of weekends,” Kenny said. Hank smiled. Kenny’s sense of humor was back. A good sign. They kissed again.

            “Hey, did anybody ask about, you know…” Kenny glanced down and ran a finger down Hank’s bare arm. Before he’d effected the change, Hank had looked like a tall, dark-haired pale dude. Now, he was moderately tanned like some of Kenny’s relatives who were biracial.

            “Not really,” Hank said grinning. “If they do I’ll just say I tan kind of funny because I’m Lahadnedjj on my Mom’s side.”

            Kenny stared at him.

            “Well, it’s true!” Hank said with a laugh. “Anyway they’d think it’s some Arabic/Slavic country or something.”

            “Yeah, and how to explain that I lost about a hundred-and-fifty pounds?” Kenny said laughing.

            “You lost weight during the pandemic,” Hank said kissing him again. Kenny looked good in Hank’s sweatpants which fit him now that he weighed about two-hundred.

            Kenny rubbed the unkempt frizz of hair on his head. “Couldn’t make this grow into a big ‘fro, could you?”

            At their feet there was a whimper for attention.

            “Awww! Bopper!” Kenny said, rubbing the mottled grey and black dog’s ears. “You want some attention too, huh?”

            “He always wants attention!” Hank laughed. “Let’s get him a doggie biscuit and sit the three of us down on the couch, turn on the TV and veg out.”

            “Yeah, we could use that,” Kenny said. “Hey, how long is eight hundred years anyway? Twenty-eighth, no Twenty-ninth Century?”

            “Imagine all those wrong years we’re going to write on checks in all those Januarys,” Hank said.

            They laughed again and Bopper barked happily.

Fiona Glass: Wrong Number

A slightly less fluffy story from me this time round. I first wrote this story a good few years ago now in response to a challenge, and a tiny “5 x 5” version (25 words, in 5 sentences, each containing 5 words) appeared in 5 x 5 Fiction: Issue Two – Secrets, Scuffles and Surprises, a flash fiction e-zine edited by Angel Zapata, which sadly no longer seems to be available. The challenge of telling a whole story in so few words was incredibly tricky, but I quite enjoyed the torture! This version is of course longer, and more obviously m/m than I had space to suggest in the 25-word story. It’s one of my darker pieces but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Note: this appeared in my newsletter recently so apologies if you’ve read it twice!

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Pic credit: Jonas Leupe on Pixabay.com

Da doo da doo doo doo doo

Di da diddy dah…

            I’m in the middle of cooking. Chicken cacciatore; an old favourite. Simple, tasty, and something to take my mind off the silence in the house. Wiping my hands on Stevie’s apron I grab my phone from the counter top. It’s not a number I recognise. Was I expecting a call? Not really; Stevie’s away on a working weekend and my parents don’t hold with mobile phones. I flick the green ‛reply’ button and hold the handset to my ear. ‟Hello?”

            Silence washes back at me. No voice, no greeting, no nothing. ‟Hell-o-oh?”

            More silence. It’s clearly a crank call, or someone who’s dialled the wrong number and won’t admit to it. The onions are in danger of incinerating; I need to get back to the pan. I’m about to flick ‟end call” when I hear a sound: the tinny sound of a voice. Not talking to me, just there in the background, overlaying the silence. It’s as though there’s a conversation going on somewhere that I’m not part of.

            ‟Hell-o-oh!”

            Still nothing, apart from the faint squawk-squawk from that very distant voice. Or is it just one? Surely another, deeper voice has joined the first. Definitely a conversation, then. Curiosity starts to itch at the bottom of my nose. ‟Who is this?” I yell, thinking that if I shout loud enough whoever it is might hear me. It doesn’t work. The voices drone on. I can’t catch the words, but one of them sounds familiar, somehow. Too familiar. I feel like I know it as well as my own.

            ‟Stevie? Is that you?” He’s got a new mobile phone, I remember, and is still learning the controls. It’s possible he’s sat on it, or hit the speed dial by mistake. His contract’s great on texts and data but crap on minutes; if the call goes on without him realising, his bill will be astronomical. I shout again. ‟Steeeevie!”

            Still no one speaks to me, but now a different sound intrudes. A steady, rhythmic creaking, that sounds just as though– ‟Stevie! If this is you then get your arse to the phone right now!”

            If I expected him to obey my every command I’m already disappointed. It sounds like he has other things on his mind, anyway. The creaking continues, speeds up, slows down, and is overlain by moans and the sound of slapping flesh.

            ‟Whoever this is, if you’re doing what I think you’re doing…” But I can’t be sure if he’s doing, well, that, or who this is. It could be some stranger who’s dialled my number by mistake. More likely it’s that crank call. I’ve had them before, occasionally—heavy breathing, the sound of someone jerking off. Schoolboy giggling. A hastily disconnected call.

            The spatula I’ve been using is dripping tomato juice on the floor. I need to stop speculating and get a grip. I’m not some fucking telephone voyeur, or whatever the audio version of that is. But even as my finger hovers over the screen, things heat up. So much so that if this were a video phone the screen would have steamed over by now. The creaking is continuous and the moans are turning to cries. I hear the other, deeper voice again. ‟Oh yeah. Just like that.” Okay, so now I’m sure they’re doing what I thought they were. But as to who, and why…

            I need to find out. I need to attract their attention and warn them that their whole romantic interlude is being beamed out to a stranger’s telephone. Or possibly not a stranger, but I need to warn them anyway. I know I wouldn’t want this to happen, if Stevie and I were making love. I draw a breath in deep and shout, ‟Oi! Mate!” like it’s the last fucking trump. At the exact same moment as the unknown man yells ‟Yeah, Stevie,” down my ear.

            I freeze, blood rushing to my cheeks, with the phone still held awkwardly by my face. So this was the working weekend. A little part of me thinks I should have known; should have spotted the hundred tiny signs of him pulling away from me. Another part knows there were no such signs. He left on Friday morning with a wave and a kiss, just as he always does. So, is this his way of telling me it’s all over, or just an accident? Either way, the call has cost him dear. And I don’t mean the pounds and pence of his monthly bill.

            ‟Oh, Stevie,” I say again, but quietly now. The house is silent. The chicken’s ruined. The onions have indeed incinerated. That’s why this time it’s my eyes I wipe on Stevie’s apron. Of course it is. I kill the call.

Jeff Baker: The Moon and I

This is a really sweet little story which, in Jeff’s own words, is “simply a Gay version of something that happens in one of Marilyn Ross’s romance novels based on the old “Dark Shadows” soap opera that appeared during the run of the series in the 60s and early 70s. (“Marilyn Ross” was a pen name of Dan Ross, a prolific Canadian author.)” I hadn’t come across the author, or the novels, or the soap opera, so this was new to me. Hopefully it will be to all of you as well, and you’ll enjoy it as much as I did.

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Pic credit: Harry Purnama on Pixabay.com

Daniel stood so close to Gabe in the bedroom of the ancient house he could feel his breathing.

            “You really want to do this?” Gabe asked.

            “Yeah,” Daniel said, still not sure of himself. “You can’t go outside. Too many people out tonight with the Festival and all, and you’re running low on, well, food…”

            “Look, it’s a nice offer, but…” Gabe said.

            “It’s not like you can call up somewhere and order a six-pack of plasma or something,” Daniel said.

            “No, that wouldn’t work.” Gabe said with a half smile. “You’re sure?”

            “You keep asking,” Daniel said. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

            Still, Daniel took a deep breath and let it out.

            “All right,” Gabe said. He somehow seemed to draw closer, even though they were already standing so close their shoes almost touched.

            “Um, look” Daniel said. “This isn’t going to drain me, is it?”

            “No. No, I just need a little bit to get by tonight.” Gabe said. “Gorging is for monsters in movies.”

            “And, It’s not going to make me, well, a…a..you know? I mean…” Daniel started to say.

            “I don’t even think I can do that,” Gabe said with a genuine smile.

            “And, you won’t like, be able to control me afterwards, will you?” Daniel asked, thinking to himself that wouldn’t be too bad of an option.

            Gabe actually laughed. “None of this works that way,” he said.

            “Okay, well…” Daniel breathed, getting more relaxed. “When does this start?”

            “It already has,” Gabe said.

            Daniel thought about looking over and making sure he’d locked the bedroom door but he couldn’t take his eyes of Gabe’s face or his eyes. His eyes which seemed to fill Daniel’s vision. Daniel felt a little like he had when he’d been given a shot at the dentist. Numb and woozy. He didn’t remember when he lost sight of Gabe’s face and eyes, but he felt a nuzzling on his shoulder and a sting on his neck like a mosquito and he let out a little breath.

            He remembered later Gabe walking him over to his bed and having him take off his shoes and crawl under the covers while Gabe spoke in a soft voice. But it was only years later, sometimes when  Daniel would be drifting off to sleep that he would hear the words that he never remembered in the morning:

            “Sleep…lay your head down on the soft pillow…let the fear and worry flow out of you…dream of love and peace…remember the bright stars, the quiet Moon…and remember the dawn…always remember the dawn…and remember me…”

            Daniel didn’t remember those words, but he felt them.

            And he always remembered Gabe.