Hard and Fast excerpt by Erastes in the anthology Speak Its Name

In this excerpt from the historical novella Hard and Fast by Erastes, Major Geoffrey Chaloner has returned, relatively unscathed, from the Napoleonic War, and England is at peace for the first time in years. Unable to set up his own establishment, he is forced to live with his irascible father who has very clear views on just about everything—including exactly whom Geoffrey will marry and why. The trouble is that Geoffrey isn't particularly keen on the idea, and even less so when he meets Adam Heyward, the enigmatic cousin of the lady his father has picked out for him... As Geoffrey says himself: "I have never been taught what I should do if I fell in love with someone of a sex that was not, as I expected it would be, opposite to my own."

Hard & Fast (novella)
Speak Its Name
Linden Bay Romance (June 2008)
ISBN: 978-1602021242


Excerpt

In which I meet the young lady my father has meant for me and I deflect my father from spoiling his own endeavors.

There are certain things expected of a third son. That one will not put oneself forward, that one will join the army, or the church, or the bar. That one will not, in an attempt to inherit and whatever the provocation, murder one's elder brothers and that one will, if at all possible in the circumstances of being a third son, marry well.

This is particularly important if one's family is wealthy, (but not titled), and one's brothers have married ladies who have increased the financial aspects of the line, but who have disappointed one's father in being, like him, rich but ignobly born. One is taught that one does not talk of the origin of such income. One's ancestors may have their portraits on painted walls and may well have been forced by circumstances to work for their subsistence but that same shameful toil enables their grandsons and further scions to live in comfort without ever having to mention such endeavors.

One is taught, from the nursery and all through one's schooldays, that one should be a gentleman above all things. To be a good shot, to honor one's parents, to do well for the school and to be gallant to the fairer sex. One is schooled to deal kindly with staff, and otherwise with bullies and cads. One is equipped for life.

But I have never been taught what I should do if I fell in love with someone of a sex that was not, as I expected it would be, opposite to my own.

To say that I was shaken to discover this about myself, would be an understatement in the same vein as were I to airily state that the Taj Mahal was an attractive mausoleum or that Switzerland was a trifle undulating.

The sight of a curving cheek, a chestnut curl, a well turned ankle and a trim waist, these are all things that I expected to wake the first stirrings of Eros, and indeed they did; it is just that I did not think they would come from such a wholly unexpected direction.

You might, were I so injudicious to write this account down, raise an eyebrow, your quizzing glass and your voice. You might order me out of the club—blacken my name and drive me out of England and on to the continent—or you might ask me how this came to be. But would I answer you?

I might.

~

It was last spring, the first spring free of war—a soldier's spring—and London, though cold as h—, was still resplendent in red and white. It was, it seemed to me, as I drove through St James's with my father, as if London had draped itself in the colors of Victory, daring the Corsican to come again if he dared, to strike north and east—for London at least was ready for him should he dare. It was a glorious puff. I could not begrudge the city for its arrogance. We were all still living on borrowed glories.

We paused as a brougham pulled up beside us and my father, dressed in a jacket from an older bloodbath, raised his hat to the occupants. I followed suit.

"Colonel Chaloner." The lady within the carriage lowered her parasol and inclined her head in greeting.

"Lady Pelham. Wonderful morning, is it not? You know of my youngest, of course. Did well under Wellesley. Very proud." My father laughed at his own pun. "Geoffrey, may I introduce Lady Pelham and the Honorable Miss Emily Pelham, of whom I have spoken." His voice was fraught with inference. He paused and addressed the third occupant of the brougham. "If I knew your name, sir, I forgot it."

My eyes traveled with the introductions. The mother was a ship of the line, impressively wide in dark lavender. She seemed as if her timbers would creak in the slightest breeze. The young lady, suitably pink about the ears and cheeks, was as pretty as any of a hundred ladies out in the sunshine, all of them armed with large nets to catch whatever suitors had limped home from France. In these less selective times, a suitor who may have been sure to be rejected by many a young lady might now find himself acceptable if he came blessed with the full complement of arms, legs and facial features. I knew of Miss Pelham from my father's recommendations, although due to circumstances, I had not met her before. My father had expressed his views and I was under orders to fall in love where directed.

The dowager bent her head in response to my father and introduced the young man sitting beside her, dressed sombrely in black. "My nephew, Adam Heyward. After my brother of course." She sniffed into a black laced handkerchief. Her brother, I knew, had been gallantly crushed by his horse at Hougoumont.

The young man, given his curtain, rose and bowed, and as he did so I felt something stir within me. It seemed a little like concern—a similar lurch to the insides that I recalled feeling when my eldest brother's child rode his pony too fast. I was appreciative, I reasoned later, that perhaps that Lady Pelham's horses were restless and that by standing, the young man was in danger of being thrown out, for he did not seem at all steady on his feet. But I wondered at my approbation all the same and was only deflected in my reverie as I saw my father fairly bristling beside me. I should have been prepared for this, for as we had circled the park he had been making his usual tally of men not in uniform.

"Not all men had the opportunity..." I had said not ten minutes before, but it was as far as I had managed; my father's tirades on the slackness and abject cowardice (as he saw it) of a man who didn't offer himself up as cannon fodder was well known, particularly to me, as since my regiment had returned to the capital, I was the only son now left at home and the only audience to his lectures.

"Well they should have!" he had declaimed, far too loudly and drawing the ear of all in the vicinity. "Don't see how they have the gall to live in a country they're afraid—afraid, do you hear me?—of fightin' to protect! We've rid France of Boney. Let 'em go and live there!"

Banishing someone to the wilderness of France was, to my father, who rarely set foot further south than Canterbury, the most revolting punishment. To consider anyone happy to live in such a place was beyond his comprehension, and should anyone dare suggest that France did in fact have some qualities that he might enjoy, he would go puce in the face and appear in some danger of apoplexy. I may have served my time under fire, but I was not as brave to be positively foolhardy.

It seemed that Lady Pelham knew his views as well as I, for she looked anxiously from her nephew to my father. I spoke before my father could say anything further, gaining myself a grateful smile from that lady, a blush from Miss Pelham and a cool look from the young man in black. "I knew your brother well, Lady Pelham," I said. "A most gallant officer." In truth, Major Adam Heyward had been a drunkard and a bully, and his heroic charge into the French lines at Hougoumont had been caused by a bullet in his horse's rump. The matter had been hushed, (the bullet rumored to have come from his own brigade), and Major Heyward had posthumously received honors he could never have hoped to attain in life.

Lady Pelham was suitably touched, and in consequence invited us to their town house that evening to dine. My father was delighted, so much so that I was grateful to drop him at his club. His enthusiasm at the meeting, which I was soon to realise was hardly accidental, and his subsequent ebullience at the invitation was overwhelming, and without a word being spoken between myself and Miss Pelham, it appeared that I was already married and buying furniture for town and country.

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L.A. Heat excerpt by Pat Brown

L.A. Heat excerpt by Pat Brown

This is the second excerpt from LA Heat by Pat Brown to be featured on this blog (the first excerpt was posted on February 4th, 2008) The story to date: Accused of several horrendous murders of young gay men, Chris was being investigated by David and his partner, Martinez. The growing attraction between Chris and David has thrown David for a loop. He doesn't want to admit it, but he finds it harder and harder to fight. This scene occurs after David finds proof that Chris is innocent of the murders. This is Chapter 18 and takes place at Chris's home in Silver Lake.

L.A. Heat
Bristlecone Pine Press - 1st Kindle edition (July 2, 2008)

Bonus Excerpt

Chris finally gave up and climbed to his feet; his bare toes curled away from the cold tile in the kitchen. He rinsed his wine glass in the sink and set it on the draining board, then washed his mouth out with tepid water from the tap.

He was halfway up the earth-tone tiled stairs when someone started pounding on his front door.

Chris turned on the atrium light. He peered outside, dancing from foot to foot; the tile cold compared to the promised warmth of his carpeted bedroom.

It was David.

He was leaning against the inner courtyard wall, his tie lying askew on his thick neck. His shirt looked like it had been unbuttoned, then done back up crooked. Dark hair peeked out from between buttons. He raised his hand to pound on the door again and nearly fell down the single stone step into the driveway.

David was drunk.

Opening the door carefully so as not to startle him, Chris waited for David to notice him. David tried to smile when he caught sight of him. It looked ghastly.

“Wasn’t sure you’d be home,” he said. “You’re just like me, always working... workaholic. Kind of a two.”

“You mean two of a kind?”

“Said that. You gonna let me in?”

David immediately wandered past him into the living room.

Chris hoped he wasn’t going to throw up or anything.

Chris went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. If ever someone needed coffee it was David. Whatever had possessed the guy to get drunk? More, whatever had possessed him to come here?

“The bathroom’s through there--” Chris came out to find David nowhere in sight. He heard a banging sound upstairs. “Shit.”

He took the stairs two at a time.

David was sitting on the edge of Chris’s bed, his tie off completely, his shirt open to the waist. His chest was covered with a thick mat of black hair that thinned out over the soft mound of his stomach.

He’d laid his gun belt over Chris’s armoire. The belt to his cotton pants were open, revealing boxers underneath.

“What are you doing?” Chris asked.

“Well, aren’t you gonna?”

“Going to what?” Chris watched the other man warily, unsure how he might react. Not sure what he was up to.

“Kiss me. I won’t stop you this time.”

Chris flushed. “No David, I’m not going to kiss you. I’m going to take you home.”

“Don’t wanna go home.”

“You have to,” Chris said, as if he were talking to a five- year-old. “You have to go to bed.”

“Go to bed here.” Awkwardly he patted the pillow beside him. “You can tuck me in.” He tried to leer, but it came out as a grimace.

“David, what are you doing? Simon will kill me -- I’m not supposed to talk to you--”

“Then don’t talk--” David reached for him. “Don’t you wanna take me to bed?”

“Jesus, David. What’s got into you? Aren’t you investigating me for this homicide?” What kind of trouble was David going to be in for this? Hell, what kind of trouble was he going to be in?

“Not anymore. Cleared you. Wrong person...”

Chris’s jaw dropped. “What? Since when?”

“S’afternoon. You were in Salt-Salt-Utah. You were in Utah when Jay was sliced.”

“Utah? That conference?” A wave of dizziness swept through him. “Jesus, I almost didn’t go,” he whispered. “I hate those things.”

“Good thing for you. Perfect alibi. Got the wrong guy . . . Not even your fingerprints . . . Martinez still wants you, though. Had a fight over that. My own partner . . . God, if he knew . . . ”

“Knew what, David?” Chris wanted to laugh aloud and jump up and down. He was off the hook. Then it clicked. “Martinez doesn’t know you’re gay, does he, David?”

David grimaced. “God, I hate that word.” He twisted around to look up at Chris and tried to leer again. “But I like you. Want to fuck? I want to fuck you.”

“Let’s get you home, okay?” Chris tried to wrestle him up, but it was like lifting a two-hundred-pound sack of sand. He couldn’t control the heavier man and David wouldn’t do a thing to help. Every time Chris got near him David groped his crotch. It didn’t help that Chris had a raging boner and David knew it.

Chris rocked back on his heels. “You have to go home, David. You’re going to hate yourself in the morning if you don’t.”

“Wanted you to know. Not a suspect anymore.”

“Thank you, David. I appreciate that, you have no idea... but really, you have to go--”

“Sleep with me, Chris.”

“If you weren’t drunk, I’d be glad to, David.” Chris stroked his head, feeling the crisp hair curl under his fingers. “But you’d hate me in the morning. I’d hate me in the morning.”

“You probably think I’m some boring stick-in-the-mud rule follower.”

What could Chris say? David was a stickler for the rules. He wore his dress shirts buttoned up tight and never let his guard down. Chris wouldn’t necessarily say he was boring, but--

David cracked a yawn. He blinked at Chris. “I think I had too much.”

“Yeah, I think so,” Chris said gently. “You’re going to feel like shit tomorrow.”

“Sleep with me, Chris. I can’t stop thinking about you. Ever since you kissed me. Even when I was supposed to think of you as a suspect . . . ”

“Not tonight -- get some sleep now, okay, big guy?”

Chris thought he was going to argue some more, but his body went limp. Chris wrestled him under the covers, pulling the duvet up to his shoulders. He gave the slumbering man a light kiss on the cheek. Already his soft snores filled the bedroom.

Chris padded back downstairs to his office, where he pulled out the small futon bed he kept for out-of-town guests. He grabbed a blanket and a set of sheets from the linen closet and crawled under the covers around two o’clock in the morning.

He wished he wasn’t so damned noble. David might be a stick in the mud, but he was turning out to be one of the most complex men Chris had ever known. He was also sexy in a way Chris couldn’t begin to explain. He just knew he wanted to go upstairs and crawl in beside him and find out what being fucked by David Laine would be like.

A small sound awoke him. He looked up, blinking, to find David standing in the doorway staring down at him with flat, unreadable eyes. He was dressed again; even from the doorway Chris could smell the reek of alcohol coming off his clothes.

“How did I get here?”

“You don’t remember?” Chris sat up, glad he had decided to wear pajamas last night. Normally he slept naked, but that hadn’t seemed like a good idea with a drunk and overly amorous David in the house.

“If I remembered, would I ask?”

“You came banging on my door last night.”

“What time was that?”

“Around one o’clock.”

“My car’s not in the driveway.”

“I don’t know how you got here.” Chris shrugged. “You never said.”

Suspicion darkened David’s face. “Why didn’t you just send me home? There’s money in my wallet. You could have paid a cab.”

Chris bristled. “I tried to get you out of here. You refused to go. I had no choice but to put you to bed.” Chris untangled himself from the futon and stood. “Look, I’m going to make coffee. We can continue this discussion in the kitchen.”

David grabbed Chris’s arm. “What happened last night, Chris?”

Chris snatched his arm away. “You mean did I take advantage of you? Fuck you, David.”

Before he could respond, Chris shoved by him and stormed into the kitchen, where he banged around refilling the kettle and grinding coffee until his anger subsided.

David appeared in the kitchen doorway. He looked tired.

“I’m sorry, Chris,” he said. “That was uncalled for.”

“What’s this about a fight with Martinez?”

“I told you that? Sorry, that was just stupid.”

“You said I wasn’t a suspect anymore, but Martinez didn’t want to let it go. Is it because I’m gay?”

David winced. He rubbed his head. “Yeah, well Martinez has some problems with that.”

“Martinez is a narrow-minded bigot.” Big news there. David already knew that. He’s the guy who had to live with it. Chris banged around in the cupboard, producing two mugs for his efforts. “Where did you go last night?”

“Some bar up in La Canada. Country and western place. I don’t remember leaving. Next thing, I’m waking up in your bed, practically naked.”

“If you’d had your way, you’d have been completely naked. And I’d have been there with you.”

David blushed scarlet.

“Do me a big favor,” Chris said. “Next time you come over, do it sober. Then I won’t have to say no. I don’t want to say no. I don’t think you do either. Where does that leave us, David?”

“Maybe we need to talk.”

“That sounds like a good start--”

“Is that coffee ready?” David rubbed his forehead again. “I could really use some.”

Chris poured him a mug.

He sighed when he took his first sip. “Now I remember why I don’t do that.”

“Go on benders?”

“Right. Was I really bad?”

“Blotto. Totally and completely blotto. I’ve rarely seen anyone that stinking--”

“Okay, I get the picture.” David set his mug down and looked around the kitchen. “Where’s your phone? I have to call a cab.”

“Let me give you a ride. I still got my rental. It’s the least I can do after compromising you.”

“Compromising--” His eyes narrowed. “According to you, we didn’t do anything.”

“I can fix that soon enough.” Chris moved closer, grasped David’s powerful arms, and drew him down until their mouths touched. “How about this?”

The passion that had burst between them the first time was still there, untamed. David tasted of coffee and mint; he had clearly taken advantage of Chris’s mouthwash before he came downstairs. Chris groaned when David’s hands moved down to his ass and pressed their growing erections together, proving the lust was not one-sided.

Chris murmured against his throat, “You sure you can’t stay? I could make you breakfast. Wash your clothes for you. Take you to bed and ravish you.”

David broke away, laughing shakily. “In that order?”

“Any order you like.”

“This is getting too complicated.”

“David--”

“I can’t, Chris. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

“Is it your partner?”

“It’s everything. It’s who I am.”

“I don’t think I like who you are very much.”

“Sometimes neither do I.”

Chris stared at him for several seconds. David looked away.

“Fine,” Chris sighed. “Come on, let’s go find your wheels. Jesus, I hope you can remember where this place is.”

“A western bar in La Canada?” He shook his head. “This should be fun.”

http://www.pabrown.ca/

The Rubens Gamble by Pat Brown excerpt from Men of Mystery: Homoerotic Tales of Intrigue and Suspens edited by Sean Meriwether & Greg Wharton

This excerpt is the opening to my story The Rubens Gamble by Pat Brown, published in the anthology Men of Mystery: Homoerotic Tales of Intrigue and Suspense edited by Sean Meriwether & Greg Wharton. The anthology was nominated for the Lambda award. for best anthology.




Men of Mystery: Homoerotic Tales of Intrigue and Suspense edited by Sean Meriwether & Greg Wharton
Publisher: Southern Tier Editions (May 14, 2007)
ISBN: 1560236639

Excerpt

The Rubens Gamble

I was released in the morning, but it was late afternoon by the time I stepped through the iron gates of Crowhaven Minimum Security Prison for what I swear on my mother’s as yet unoccupied grave will be the last time.

There was no one to meet me. I hadn’t expected anyone. Any friends I might have had were long gone.

I clutched my oversized jacket -- I’d lost weight -- around my shoulders and faced the prospect of a two-mile walk into town. The thirty dollars in my pocket wouldn’t stretch to cover motel and cabfare and the fine state of Maine hadn’t see fit to make sure I got there safe.

A late afternoon squall struck. I turned the collar of my jacket up; I might as well have tried to stem Niagara.

The rain muffled the sound of the car. By the time I heard it, the bumper was on my ass and I nearly wound up in the mud-soaked ditch side-stepping it.

I swung around, freezing when I realized it was a custom-made Bentley limousine, and the guy stepping out of it was the best looking piece I’d seen since I last cruised Chelsea looking for dick.

He was around my age, mid to late twenties, clad head to foot in a deadly combination of leather and denim. He had spiky blond hair and his baby blue’s held mine. His mouth was the most fuckable thing about him. I could easily imagine stuffing my seven inches down it and my dick responded predictably.

Now you’re probably thinking, whoa, boy, a guy who just spent the last two years less a day incarcerated was getting it pretty regular. Well, non-consensual sex with a guy called Bubba never did appeal to me. And the hard core butt fuckers get sent up to Attica or the like anyway. Crowhaven was for the tamer, executive types who get caught borrowing company funds and socking it away in the Caymans. Most of them have wives who came for conjugal visits, so to say I hadn’t been getting any for a while is an understatement.

“Dmitri Alexandrovich Zalupkoff?” the hunk said, not tripping over the patronymic name my parents foisted on me.

Just the way he said it sent shivers of desire through me.

“Why don’t you come in out of the cold,” he said.

“What do you want?”

“I have been sent to ask a favor of you. Please.” He indicated the limo’s open door. “Let’s talk inside.”

I was going nowhere fast and the rain had picked up. If he didn’t care what my sodden clothes would do to that fancy upholstery, who was I to turn down a warm ride? Besides, I was curious. What kind of favor?

I slid onto the butter soft leather seat, shaking when rivulets of water shivered down my ribs.

My handsome rescuer adjusted something and a blast of heat washed over me. I sighed and leaned back, closing my eyes. When I reopened them, he was holding out his leather jacket.

“Take those off,” he said. “You will catch your death of pneumonia.”

He spoke with an old world courtliness I haven’t heard since I was last on the Continent. France to be exact. Picking up a commission for an Etruscan bronze I’d liberated from its former owner. Almost all that money went to pay the lawyer who had failed to keep me out of jail. The job that had landed me there hadn’t paid a dime. Hardly surprising, since I hadn’t delivered the goods.

I skimmed out of my clothes. His jacket smelled enticingly of his scent. I wrapped myself in it and inhaled.

“Who are you?”

“A man with a job offer.”

“Job offer,” I repeated. “What do you want?”

“It is not what I want, but what my employer wants.”

“Your employer?”

“Mr. Torstead.”

He waited. I realized he thought I should know the name. Torstead? It had a familiar ring, but...

“Torstead a cop?” Maybe they wanted me to rat out my last employer. “Sorry, like I told you guys the last time we talked, I don’t know nothing--”

His mouth twitched in a smile. “I am not with the police, Mr. Zalupkoff. Neither, I assure you, is my employer. He has a... business proposal he wishes to make.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Kyril.”

No last name. Go figure.

“Kyril? Russian?”

Again the enigmatic smile. “At one time.”

No trace of an accent, just that formal way of speaking that said English wasn’t his first language. I was intrigued.

“Where?”

“Leningrad.”

The fact that he called it that rather than the repatriated St. Petersburg told me Kyril had been over here a while. Probably immigrated with his parents as a boy, which explained the lack of accent.

Kyril picked up a phone and gave some low-voiced instructions to the driver. Minutes later we pulled into a strip mall containing a coin-operated Laundromat and a diner which featured a blue plate special for $3.99.

“Paul will take your clothes in to dry them.” Kyril handed me a soft green throw. “Cover yourself with this. I will get us coffee while we wait. Would you like something to eat?”

I was starving. Kyril took my order for corned beef on rye and a jumbo coffee and climbed out of the limo after I handed my clothes to the stoic driver.

The sandwich was ambrosia. Prison food might meet the daily food requirements but quality it’s not. I scarfed it back, even licking my fingers.

Kyril looked amused. “I did bring napkins.”

My face grew hot. “Sorry. It’s been a while since I had anything this good.”

“I could get you another--”

“No, that’s okay.”

He nodded and sank back beside me.

I took the napkin and cleaned my hands and face. Lying back against the soft leather seat, the heat and the food combined to make me sleepy. I cracked a yawn and didn’t have the strength to apologize.

I must have dozed. When I woke it was to find the car in motion and my clothes neatly folded beside me on the seat. Kyril’s dark eyes watched me.

I was all too aware of my erection under the blanket. So, it seemed was Kyril, judging by the way his gaze kept drifting over it.

“You are rested?”

“Where are we going?” I stole a glance out the window. Through the tinted glass I could make out the leafless forests slip by in the growing darkness. Black limbs dripped in the ongoing rain; it looked cold and desolate. I was glad for the warmth of the car.

“That, I’m afraid, is something you cannot yet know.”

As a bonus, an additional excerpt from LA Heat by Pat Brown will be posted on July 24th. The first excerpt was posted on February 4th, 2008.
http://www.pabrown.ca/

A Cold Night's Sleep excerpt from Rough Cut: Vincent Diamond Collected by Vincent Diamond

A Cold Night’s Sleep is from the collection of stories, Rough Cut: Vincent Diamond Collected, by Vincent Diamond. These stories, “set in the Florida tourists don’t see, from the cheap motels of Tampa to the steamy small towns of central Florida, take us into the kind of lives not usually documented in fiction. These are men who know what it’s like to betray a lover—and to trust one," says author and editor, Neil Plakcy about the collection. In “A Cold Night’s Sleep,” an injured ex-con stumbles into Sandy Richter’s isolated cabin, and Sandy’s emotions and desires spark into a dangerous flame.

Rough Cut: Vincent Diamond Collected
Publisher: Lethe Press (May 1, 2008)
ISBN-10: 159021109X

Excerpt:

He’d taught himself to work left handed after the accident, and his sketches of herons, osprey, and hawks filled one wall of the cabin. He worked in pencil and chalk, and used the fused pinky and ring fingers of his right hand to shade, the sound of his scarred flesh loud against the paper. It was as close to relaxed as Sandy Richter ever got.

When the huge boom shook the little A-frame, it rattled the glasses on the shelves. Sandy grabbed his binoculars and headed for the observation balcony. Even in a blasting Florida thunderstorm, a lightning strike could start a fire, and any fire beyond a controlled burn wasn’t something he wanted to face. In the gray of the mid-afternoon, Sandy saw lashing rain, the oak trees swaying in the wind, clumps of Spanish moss ripped down from their branches. No smoke, no flames.

The lights flickered, and by the time Sandy got downstairs, the power was out completely. He made a quick check of the radio set; its battery would let him call the district office in Ocala if he needed to, but he wasn’t concerned. This early in January, on a Tuesday, no campers were booked into the small state park he rangered, and with the storm, he didn’t expect any drive-ups.

A deep, bass rumble of thunder echoed over the landscape. Then a hard whump of sound, more than thunder. Lightning cracked close by, so close that Marty, the little tuxedo cat he’d adopted a few months back, jumped from his napping spot on the sofa and scuttled under the bed.

“You big wussy. It’s just a thunderstorm!”

Marty offered no defense.

Sandy hauled in two days’ worth of logs and placed them with care in the firebox. Once it was drafting correctly, he set the fire screen in place and hooked it on both sides.

Just being careful.

He had the cabin door open to the wide porch. The breeze was cool as the thunderstorm moved away, and the cold front’s rains soaked into the earth. Sandy went back to his sketches, and Marty came out and settled on the desk.

Sandy was just thinking about some hot chocolate when Marty suddenly sat up, whiskers forward, ears high.

Three loud thumps from the porch. A tall man slammed across the deck and skidded to a stop outside Sandy’s front door.

He turned and faced the weather, hands wiping water off his bare skull. Sandy saw a fresh bruise on his left temple as pink-tinted water ran down his neck, blood from a bad cut over his eye. Mud dripped from his clothes.

Sandy rose in silence; his paper drifted to the floor, un-noticed.

His cop instincts pinged at him; even after two years away from the PD, he still assessed everyone like he had to write a field report later on. The stats came easily enough: mixed race or Hispanic, age thirty, six-foot-three, two hundred thirty pounds, heavy build, bald. The other man still faced away from him, and Sandy stood outside of kicking distance when he spoke. “Turn around.”

The man’s broad shoulders went rigid, his muscles tightening in his tank top. Sandy noticed the combat boots on his feet, the fatigues tucked into them. And that build came from hours on a weight bench—hours that only a prisoner had. Sandy smelled the rain and sweat that sluiced down his body.

The other man faced him slowly. They looked at each other, alert.

A brief grimace of a smile from the stranger. He held out one beefy hand. “Mitchell B.Tanner. And you?”

Sandy didn’t shake hands anymore so he just nodded. He saw Tanner glance down at his right hand. “That boom I heard, that was you?” Sandy asked.

“That storm came quick and to tell ya the truth—” he wiped some blood from his face and shrugged, “—I was dozing. I was out for a while after I hit. Listen, I’m sorry but I nailed one of your trees by the entrance sign. If can use your phone to call a wrecker, I’ll be on my way.”

“Sorry, but the phones are out, along with the power. It might be morning before they’re back online.”

”Well… Can I hang here until this rain quits?”

Another quick scan. Despite the hard edge to him, Sandy knew this man was no danger; he was just anxious to be on his way. The predatory body language and cold glint in his eyes would have frightened most other people but Sandy knew the type. After fourteen years on the force, he didn’t frighten easily himself.

“Sure, you stay here until the weather clears.” Sandy stopped, uncertain. What should he do next? Offer hospitality, yes, that was it. “How about some coffee or hot tea?”

Tanner smiled again, this time sincere. One of his upper canine teeth was markedly crooked, as if someone had punched him. “Yes, please, tea would be just great.”

Sandy turned away.

“Hey, wait. What’s your name, man?” Tanner stood with his left hand outstretched. A prison tattoo was inked in blue-black around his wrist, imperfect barbed wire. And that body— someone inside had that much time to spend in a weight room.

Must be on his way out of Raiford. Serious time, then.

Sandy shook his hand carefully. A lot of strength in the other’s grip but no flashy show of it. Tanner’s hand was cold.

“Sandy.”

*****


Sandy had Tanner clean off his face at the kitchen sink, then looked at the cut over Tanner’s left eye.

“This isn’t too bad. Just keep it clean and covered for a couple of days.” Sandy had to work to concentrate on the wound itself, not Tanner’s broad shoulders or bull neck. He dabbed some Neosporin on Tanner’s dark skin and slicked down a bandage left over from kid’s summer camp; it had Darth Maul on it. He grinned. “You go out in public with a Star Wars band-aid on then you’re the bravest man on earth.”

Tanner grinned back. “Thanks, man. At least it stopped bleeding.”

He ate two servings of Sandy’s chicken and yellow rice dinner—reheated carefully over a propane burner out on the porch. Sandy had to smile.

“What’s so funny?” Tanner’s voice was deep, melodious.

“I can’t believe anyone being enthused about my cooking.”

Tanner shook his head and patted his belly. “Oh, man, this tastes great. You don’t know some of the shit I’ve had to eat in the past. Thanks. Really.”

“You’re welcome.” As Sandy said the words, he saw Tanner’s body shudder with cold. He looked more closely and noticed the tremor in the other’s hands and the pallor of his face. “You’re still cold. The water heater probably still has some hottish water. Why don’t you grab a shower, and I’ll find some sweats for you. Sorry ‘bout the bathroom door but I live here alone so I never bothered to fix it.”

Sandy led him through the bedroom area—the cabin was really one space, so it wasn’t a true room—and over to the bathroom. Sandy found him a clean washrag and a towel.

“Thanks, man, I am fuckin’ freezing.” Tanner tugged off his wet clothing with the casual aplomb of a man used to locker rooms and barracks.

The sight of Tanner grasped Sandy by the throat, as if it were a beast. He stepped back into the shadows for a moment, his gaze moving over Tanner’s body, fine as a sculpture in a museum.

The fire sent flickering light into the bathroom and bathed the other man in a golden glow. Sandy could see that Tanner’s caramel colored skin was evenly toned. He had extraordinary musculature, ripples of toned flesh on his belly, a deep chest, thick thighs balanced by the V of his broad shoulders. His penis hung low over his testicles, its flesh darker than the rest of him. He had curly black hair on his chest, legs and belly and it looked coarse. Thick eyebrows framed his heavy-featured face and balanced his full lips.

He is beautiful.

The thought un-nerved Sandy; he pushed it down, out of mind. What a waste of time to even think that way, now. But beneath his shirt, his belly warmed. That he had not even touched himself in over a year didn’t come to his conscious mind, but his body knew.

“These clothes will have to do,” he said as he placed them on the bathroom shelf. He could see Tanner’s outline behind the flimsy white shower curtain, and he made himself leave the room.

*****


He went back to his sketch pad but only listened to the water from the bathroom, trying hard not to think about it running down Tanner’s body or Tanner’s hands and mouth on him. A few minutes later, Sandy rose to close the cabin’s front door against the now-cold night air.

Tanner stepped out of the steamy bathroom, his skin glinting with moisture. Sandy’s too-small T-shirt clung to his chest and the sweatpants band ended just below his calves. He grinned down at himself. “Whaddya think the guys from Queer Eye would say about this?”

“I think they’d cite you for a number of fashion violations.”

The other man’s eyes glowed at him in the dim light of the cabin, sending sparks of silvery tremors into him.

Stop it. You’re imagining things.

Sandy moved to the fireplace and prodded it carefully into bright flame once more. He squatted back on his haunches. He heard Tanner sigh loudly.

“Sorry if this is too forward or offends you, but man, I gotta ask. What happened to your hand?”

Sandy tugged his right shirt sleeve down; even in summer, he wore long sleeves. He bent his head low, fighting for control of his voice before he replied. He didn’t face Tanner. “We were executing a search warrant at a drug house and I threw a flashbang that ignited some painting supplies. The house was old, all wood, and it went up in about twelve minutes.”

“You were a cop?”

“Yeah, ‘til two years ago.”

“You quit?”

“Not exactly. I was certified as partially disabled but they offered me desk duty and I said no.”

“How did you get burned?”

“I told you. The house went up.”

“So…. Why didn’t you just leave the house?”

Sandy swung around to look at Tanner, ready to snap at him; the anger was so easy—still. But the other man’s face wasn’t hostile, merely curious, and his brown eyes were soft.

How strange that it felt safe to tell the truth to this stranger when he hadn’t been able to tell the department psychologist or his parents. Or even Gil.

“There were kids in the house.”

“And you tried to get them out?”

“I was responsible. The fire was my fault.”

Lieutenant Walker swearing at him, pulling at his gear. “Get the fuck out! Get out! Get out!” The thunk of his team’s footfalls as they tore down the stairs. The smoke, rancid and awful, chemical smoke when the paint thinner blew and the cheap plastic paneling began to melt off the walls around him.

The children screaming.

“There were three kids upstairs. I had to get them out.”

Tanner sat down on the floor, his back against the sofa. “What did you do?”

Sandy rubbed his face with both hands, hating the paper-y sound that his scars made on his skin. His throat was dry. “I got the little girls out the bathroom window. They were older, they could take the drop. But the boy was only about three, I couldn’t risk it and I couldn’t fit through the window myself ….”

“And?”

“And I grabbed him and just ran for it. Down the stairs, through the flames. The bottom half of the stairs were already gone but I couldn’t see it in the smoke and I fell. When I hit and rolled, he slipped away from me, and I couldn’t find him. He was screaming, and I couldn’t find him. The fire had me by then, it was on my arm, snapping at me like a rabid dog, and I tried to find him. I tried.”

Sandy’s gaze swung back to the flames behind the fire screen.

I couldn’t find him. So help me, I tried.

He bent over and pressed his forehead to the warm bricks.

When he felt Tanner’s hand on his back, he surprised himself. He didn’t jerk away, he just lay there. He couldn’t find the energy to push himself up.

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The Filly excerpt by mark R Probst

Escaping into the fantasy of his books when he’s not working in the general store, Ethan Keller has lived a sheltered life in his mother’s boarding house. One day, an enigmatic cowboy passing through the small Texas town takes an immediate liking to the shy seventeen-year-old. Ethan is intrigued by the attention, and the cowboy eventually charms him into signing on to a 900-mile cattle drive. Ethan soon finds that his feelings for this cowboy run deeper than just friendship. He never knew that this kind of love even existed; and now for the two of them to make a life together in the untamed west, they must face nearly insurmountable odds if they are to survive.

The following excerpt from The Filly by Mark R Probst is from early in the story just after Miss Peet, the schoolmarm and good friend to Ethan, devises a plan to get herself introduced to Ethan’s new friend Travis. Her scheme involves having Ethan invite Travis to supper at his house, where she will drop by unexpectedly.


The Filly
Cheyenne Publishing (October 2007)
ISBN: 9780979777305

Excerpt

The plan went off without a hitch. The next day Ethan stopped by the ranch and invited Travis to supper. Travis was extremely pleased and gratefully accepted, suspecting nothing out of the ordinary, but by Friday evening Ethan was even more nervous about the whole affair. He imagined Miss Peet bursting in the door, lurching into Travis’s lap and dropping broad hints about love and babies. At 6:05 there was a knock on the door. Ethan, dressed in his best Sunday suit and bowtie, answered the door. Travis looked fine as ever, his brown trousers and yellow cotton shirt neatly pressed. Ophelia was in the kitchen putting the final touches on the roast mutton. Mr. Pendegast and Mr. Ponce were playing a game of chess in the drawing room and Mr. Baker and Willie hadn’t come out for supper yet. Ethan made the formal introductions and led Travis into the kitchen to meet his mother.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Keller,” Travis said with a little bow. “The supper smells absolutely heavenly.”

“Why thank you, Travis,” she said, with an approving smile. “Just make yourself at home. Supper will be ready shortly.”

They went back into the drawing room and sat down to wait for supper.

“This is a very nice boarding house,” Travis said. “Are all the rooms occupied?”

“All except one. Mine.”

“Yours?”

“Whenever there’s a vacant room, I get it. Otherwise I get kicked up to the loft.”

Travis gave a little chuckle. Willie came out of his bedroom to see if supper was ready.

“Travis, this is my brother, Willie. Willie, this is Travis Cain.”

“A pleasure to meet you Willie.” Travis extended his hand. Willie shook it and mumbled, “Much obliged.” Willie had washed up for supper but was still wearing his work clothes. Obviously it didn’t occur to him that it was customary to dress for supper when you had a guest.

They had just begun the meal when a knock interrupted them. Ophelia feigned curiosity. “I wonder who that could be?” Willie went to answer the door and retuned being followed by none other that Miss Peet herself. She entered the room lugging a big mantel clock.

“Why hello, Clara! Come right in.” Ophelia stood up and approached her.

“Hello, Ophelia, Mr. Pendegast, Mr. Ponce, Willie, Mr. Baker, Ethan.” There was a clatter of discarded forks and scraping of chairs as the men all stood and returned the greeting.

“And I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of being introduced to this handsome stranger,” she continued.

“Oh dear me, I’m so sorry!” Ophelia said. “Clara, this is Travis Cain, and Travis let me introduce you to Miss Clara Peet, our schoolmarm.”

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“Why the pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Cain.”

“Please call me Travis, ma’am. Nobody calls me Mr. Cain.”

“I will, Travis, and you may call me Clara. Oh dear, I’ve come at the most inopportune time. You’re all just sitting down to supper. I had brought this mantel clock for Mr. Pendegast to fix. It seems to have quit working and he is so handy with mechanical things.” Ethan knew for a fact that clock had not been working for at least a year.

“I’ll take a look at it right after supper, Miss Peet.” Mr. Pendegast’s face glowed a healthy, damp shade of red from the compliment.

“Please, Clara, join us for supper,” Ophelia said. “There’s plenty to go around.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t impose! I’ll just be on my way.”

“Clara I insist, you must join us.”

“Well, if you insist.”

Ophelia got her a plate out of the cupboard and Ethan took her coat and pulled up a chair for her.

“Oh, Ophelia, this supper looks simply scrumptious! You are such a fine cook! My, oh my, what a layout this is. Are you enjoying your supper Travis?”

“Yes ma’am. It’s quite delicious.”

“So I take it you are a new boarder here?”

“Oh no. I’m just a guest.”

“Of whom are you a guest?” she asked coyly.

“I’m a friend of Ethan’s.”

“Really!” she said. “Ethan was one of my finest pupils. As you know I’m the schoolteacher here in town, and Ethan and I have remained close even though he’s completed school. I’m surprised he never mentioned you.”

Ethan barely kept his jaw from dropping. After the initial shock, he thought better of her. At least the deception protected him.

“And what is it you do for a living, Travis?”

Ethan reddened. Was she ever going to let him have a bite? The poor guy’s fork had been hovering for the last three questions.

“I’m a cowhand,” he answered. “Or as we are commonly called around here, a vaquero. I generally go from ranch to ranch wherever help is needed. I’ve been on quite a few cattle drives in my life. Currently I’m working as a ranch hand at the Haywood Ranch. We are leaving in about three weeks to move the Haywood herd north to Cheyenne in the Wyoming territory.” Seizing the opportunity, Travis took a big bite of food.

“Fascinating!” Miss Peet said, “but isn’t it dangerous out there in the unsettled territories? I mean with all the savage Indians and all?”

Travis tried to chew his food quickly. Ophelia shifted in her chair a bit. Once he finally managed to swallow, he answered. “Well actually the trail is pretty well established now. There’s very little Indian resistance. This particular route we are using is the Goodnight-Loving trail. They call it that because that was the names of the fellas who started it. Back then, maybe ten or eleven years ago, it was very dangerous. It was nine hundred miles of wild country. The Comanches lived there and they attacked the cowboys for invading their territory. In fact Mr. Loving was killed by Indians on their second cattle drive.”

“Oh, my,” Miss Peet said with great concern. “That’s just terrible. You are so very brave to make that trip.”

“Well, as I said it’s much safer now. I very much enjoy traveling the country. I love the outdoors and nature.”

“As do I!” Miss Peet said enthusiastically. “I’m a great lover of the outdoors.”
That was certainly stretching the truth to the breaking point. Miss Peet hated the trips even to San Antonio.

Travis brightened. “There’s nothing more peaceful than roaming this beautiful country and sleeping underneath the stars.”

“But certainly, you intend to settle down somewhere, eventually? Perhaps get married and raise a family?”

“Someday I’d like to build a ranch, and raise horses.”

Ophelia spoke up. “Clara, why don’t you let Travis finish his supper? It’s going to get cold.”

Willie jumped up and brushed the crumbs off his lap.

“I’m heading out,” he said to Ophelia. “I got stuff to do. I probably won’t be back tonight, so don’t wait up for me. And don’t worry.”

Ophelia looked like she was about to protest, but held herself back in front of the guests. “Don’t you at least want your dessert?”

“I’m in a hurry. I’ll just take it with me.”

She went to the kitchen and brought him back a piece of pie wrapped in a napkin.

“I’ll just take a look at that clock now,” Mr. Pendegast said as he got up from the table.

“Oh yes, I would so appreciate it if you could fix it. I don’t know what could have happened to it.” Miss Peet turned her attention back to Travis. “A horse ranch. That does sound quite charming. Where might you decide to build this ranch?”

“Oh, I don’t know really. I’ve always thought Colorado was a beautiful place, or maybe New Mexico. I’ve been all over this country, and it’s really hard to decide where I’d like to end up.”

“Well wherever it is, I’m sure the lucky lady you choose will be so happy to cook and clean for you.”

Ethan had just about all he could take. “Ma, if I could be excused, I’d like to go out and see Cleo.”

“Sure, honey. Go right ahead.”

“I’ll go with you,” Travis said, jumping up. Miss Peet looked a little bit startled, like she had just been slapped in the face. But Travis took no notice of her and he and Ethan escaped outside.

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The Second Indian War by Sarah Black

The Second Indian War by Sarah Black is available in the anthology Hostage by Josh Lanyon, Sarah Black, and Laura Baumbach.



Hostage
MLR Press (April 26, 2008)
ISBN: 193453126X


Sam opened the topo map and spread it out across the counter at the Anasazi Inn in Tsegi Canyon. The waitress refilled his coffee cup. She was a young Navajo girl, maybe high school aged, and she had brought him an empty cup and filled it up without saying a word.

Most of the tables were filled with Navajo families, sometimes three or four generations squeezed in together, the old ladies in traditional velvet blouses and cotton tiered skirts, turquoise squashblossoms at neck and wrist. The counter seemed to be the place for the men to sit. There were two truck drivers and an old man reading the Navajo Times in the other seats, and Sam noticed that they all were eating stew and frybread. He looked at the white board. The special of the day was mutton stew with frybread on the side, and for desert you could chose your pie.

The truck drivers looked like they had eaten in every diner between Phoenix and Salt Lake, but the old man couldn’t have weighed eighty pounds. They were all three tucking into their stew with enthusiasm, though, so the next time the girl came around the counter and stood silently in front of him, her order pad open, he told her he wanted the special with apple pie for dessert.

“You want that heated up with vanilla on top, right?”

Sam agreed that warm apple pie with vanilla on top would hit the spot. She glanced down at the topo map, but didn’t say anything, and when the kid working as the short order cook slid his bowl of stew onto the serving counter, Sam folded the map back up and tucked the napkin into his collar.

He was hoping to find someone who lived around here and could tell him the best way back into Skeleton Mesa. He had a weekend off, a Jeep full of tent, sleeping bag, and camping gear, and a brand new, very old, large format camera, rescued from eBay and now in his eager paws. It was a Wista wood-body field camera, and he had spent the last few weeks reading up on the old landscape cameras and collecting film for a weekend on the Colorado Plateau.

Tsegi Canyon was the first place he had ever stayed on the Navajo Reservation. That was years ago, and he’d fallen in love with its red rocks and secret water, the hidden caves and quiet orchards and tiny hogans puffing smoke from their smoke stacks. From the Anasazi Inn you could walk straight back into the nineteenth century, and in thirty minutes there would be no telephone poles, no roads, no electricity. Those were the landscapes he was going to try and capture with the camera. He would enjoy the comforts (and bathrooms) of the campground at Navajo National Monument, and during the day he would use the topo map to get lost in Navajo country.

The kid who was the short order cook leaned across the serving counter and studied him for a moment, probably to see if the white guy was really eating mutton stew. Sam loved mutton stew, and this batch was world class. “Good stew.”

The kid glared at him, turned back into the kitchen. Sam grinned at his stiff back. He was maybe eighteen, with long black hair tied up in a traditional bun and the sullen air of the perpetually misunderstood and put-upon. The life of a teenager was hell.

The young waitress waited till he had mopped up every last bit of stew with his frybread, then she brought his pie and ice cream. He had eaten like a good boy, so he thought he might be in her good graces. He brought the topo map out again. “You live around here?”

“Yes.”

“You know the best hiking routes from the national monument down into Skeleton Mesa?”

She stared down at the map for a long moment. “What are you going to be doing there?”

Fair question. Skeleton Mesa was known as a prime location for collecting illegal pot shards. “Taking pictures.”

“You’re a photographer?”

“Yes. Well, really I’m a reporter, but the camera is my hobby.”

She turned, and Sam saw that the kid was leaning over again, listening. “TJ, can you help him? He’s got a map.”

The kid came around the counter. His apron showed how hard he’d worked this day, cooking stew. He looked at the topo map. “You’re camping at Navajo National Monument?”

“Yeah. I wanted to walk out to the mesa, find a nice flat spot I could use to take pictures of Tsegi Canyon all day. You know, like in the morning and the late afternoon, the way the light…”

“Yeah, I know. Okay, you know where that pull out is? The scenic overlook?”

Sam nodded. “About half-mile from the visitor’s center, right?”

The kid nodded. “There’s a little path that goes down into the mesa from there. Be careful, though. It’s not marked, and it’s easy to get lost down in the mesa. You should take a compass, or just use the sun. Sometimes you can see the American flag at the visitor’s center, and that’ll show you the direction to walk back.”

“Thanks.” Sam stuck out his hand, and the kid shook it gingerly, like he hadn’t done it before. “I’m Sam Adams.”

“TJ Benally.” The kid took his hand back and escaped to the kitchen, and Sam ate his pie and ice cream, every delicious bite, and had to restrain himself from licking the plate clean.

**

He was up before dawn, ready to leave the dubious comforts of the sleeping bag for a day of hiking and picture taking. He stashed some granola bars and fruit roll ups into his backpack for later. The camera was heavy and fragile, so he spent some time packing it, then slid it onto his back and lashed the tripod to the side. He filled his canteen and secured the nylon flap of the tent and headed off.

There is a peculiar light in canyon country at sun up and sun down, a weird red-gold light that seems as if it sets the landscape on fire. He wanted to catch Tsegi Canyon at both times today, the morning light and the evening, and that meant he needed to find his spot, maybe a flat rock or outcropping of sandstone big enough to stand on, and have the camera set up and ready to go when the sun lifted its face and smiled at the rocks.

He found the scenic overlook and located the trail. In the gray light of early dawn the path was as insubstantial as a whisper. It wasn’t marked, so it must not be one of the trails allowed by the park rangers. It looked more like a goat path, and a couple of times he lost the trail altogether in the soft light, but he could tell the path was taking him where he needed to go. After about thirty minutes of walking, he came around the twisted trunk of a juniper tree and Tsegi Canyon was spread out in front of him like a wild, secret Eden. His heart contracted at the beauty, and something like yearning caught in his throat.

There was no one to see this with him. It was tragic and beautiful, this land, and he pressed a fist against his heart. Tsegi Canyon made him feel alone. But he was okay alone. It had been awhile for him, but he was happy, so what was this all about? There was no one he knew that he would want with him right now, seeing this land. Maybe he was just thinking of the possible one. The next one. The last one he would love.

Saturated with beauty. It was a strange phrase, and it caught in his mind. This land, it was saturated in beauty, and in blood, too. How had it stayed so untouched, so innocent? The Indian Wars had raged across the Navajo homelands, across Skeleton Mesa and Tsegi Canyon, only one memory ago to the elders, who still told stories of how the warriors had almost defeated the cavalry, how some of the warriors never surrendered, how they hid out in this wild land until the war was over.

No time to day dream. He needed to get the camera set up and ready to go, then he could feel the sun come creeping across the canyon, warming the sandstone he was sitting on.

Sam slid the backpack off his shoulders, set the tripod up and started unpacking the camera. The bellows was in perfect condition, and he ducked under the dropcloth and moved it, focusing the camera on the near distance. Through the lens he saw three horses, ridden by Navajo warriors, no doubt. He pulled his head out and looked again. They were a good ways away, but somebody was out for a morning ride. He wondered if he could take their picture, or if, ethically, you had to ask permission first. He supposed that anything within the landscape was part of the landscape, and thus a landscape photographer could make an argument that he was photographing the rocks behind them. But this was Navajo country, and Navajo people had the right to take their horses and go riding around on their land without being irritated by old white guys and their cameras.

Hmmm. What to do? Sam decided to just wait and see what would happen, let the horses and riders get a little closer, get ready for the golden morning sun.

**

“You are going to get committed! Or arrested! You belong in the nut house at Fort Defiance, TJ, and I for one am not going with you. I have plans for my life.”

TJ turned and looked behind him at his sister. She hadn’t shut up for fifteen minutes and he was starting to wish he’d come on this quest alone. He knew he needed some help, at least three of them to appear in any way credible, but he wasn’t going to be able to take much more of this. “Lovie, if you have a better idea, let’s hear it. Because I believe last night you said that you agreed that the government wasn’t doing anything again, was just leaving people to die, and that it was our generation’s responsibility to act. That sounds good, but you’ve got to be willing to take a chance. To risk something. Talk is for the white people who dug that uranium in the first place, left the tailings all over our land, and now are refusing to clean it up. We’re Navajo. We act. We don’t talk.”

‘You sound like you’re running for tribal council!”

The third boy spoke up. He was younger than the other two, maybe fourteen, and his black hair was just starting to grow out, the ends brushing his shoulders. “I’d vote for TJ for tribal council.”

“Thanks, Buddy. Look, you two. We have one goal here. You just got to push one rock over, you know what I’m saying? If the rock is on top of the hill, gravity will do the rest.”

They rode on in silence, and the guy on the flat slab of sandstone with the camera just sat there, not moving, like he was waiting for them. TJ rode a bit ahead of the others, let his horse climb the rocks until he was next to the man. He really, really wanted his voice not to shake, and he thought he better stay on the horse, because for sure his knees were shaking. The guy was sort of good-looking for an old white guy. He had gray eyes that looked really calm, like the sea or something, and he had a beard with a few silver hairs. TJ had always wondered what a beard felt like, how soft it was.

He cleared his throat, then realized that he didn’t know how to begin. The guy stood up now, and TJ could tell that he recognized Lovie and him from the diner.

“You’re TJ, right?”

“Yeah. I need to tell you something.”

“Okay.” The guy took hold of the bridle, patted the horse’s neck in a real friendly way, looked up at him with this open face.

“You are now being held hostage by the People’s Uranium Reparation Committee. We have just declared war on the United States government, and you are our first prisoner of war.”

**

Sam knew he shouldn’t laugh, because teenagers took themselves so seriously, but the kid’s words and somber face surprised a laugh out of him before he could choke it off. The young warrior slid off his horse, stalked across the sandstone, his face looking like a thundercloud. “You think this is a joke? Don’t you understand what’s at stake here?”

“Obviously I don’t, because you haven’t told me anything. Listen, can I take pictures while we talk? The light…”

Buddy had climbed down from his horse, was looking at the camera. “Man, that’s an old piece of crap camera. Why don’t you have one of those new digital cameras? You can plug them into your computer and digitally manipulate the photos.”

Sam shrugged. “These cameras see better. They’re old, but nothing has ever taken a better photograph of this landscape. You want to look through the lens?”

“Sure.”

TJ turned to the girl, threw his hands up. She climbed down and took the horses’ reins, lead them a little ways off to the shelter of a juniper tree. Buddy was looking under the drop cloth. “Cool! TJ, you’ve got to see this!”

“Maybe later, Buddy. I need to concentrate so I can commit my first felony properly.”

Sam stuck his head out of the drop cloth. “Just be careful about using guns. How old are you, anyway?”

TJ put his hands on his hips and frowned. “I’m eighteen.”

“See, that’s that I’m saying. You’re not a minor anymore. You screw up, you’re going to prison, kid.”

“It would be worth it, if we could get something done. Anything. If anything would change. If even one family…” He stopped, and Sam studied his face. So serious, so full of sorrow for eighteen.

“So what’s going on? Can you tell me, or do you want to tie me up or something first?”

TJ gave him a look to show he didn’t appreciate this humor, and Sam was reminded again that teenagers did not take their crises lightly. He sat down and crossed his legs. “Okay, I’m ready to listen.”

TJ sat opposite him, crossed his legs in the way they used to call Indian style, before it became politically incorrect, and Sam had to restrain his urge to call for a Peace Pipe. “You know about the uranium mining?”

“It was back in the forties and fifties, right? I read something about the Navajo government was bringing a lawsuit to make the mines clean up the radioactive waste. That’s all I know.”

“Our land is poisoned.” Sam looked into his eyes, and suddenly he didn’t feel like laughing anymore. The kid was deadly serious. “They left radioactive waste, waste water, tailings, all over the reservation. The people didn’t know what the uranium was. The sheep drank the water in the poisoned lakes. People built their hogans out of rocks from the mines. The children play in the pits. And now, families are dying. Entire families with cancer. The government managed to stall paying reparations until most of the original miners were dead. The tribal council has voted, no more uranium mining. That’s good, but how will we pay to clean up this poison from our land? We don’t have the money, and we can’t make anyone care that our people are dying, and that our beautiful land is…killing us.”

The girl sat down with them. “Our grandmother has thyroid cancer. She believes Leetso, the yellow monster, has been let loose to walk the land, and he is the cause of the cancers. The old ones, they are traditional. They’re doing ceremonies. They don’t understand radioactive waste.”

Sam nodded. “So how is taking me hostage and declaring war on the US Government from the middle of Skeleton Mesa going to change anything? Most change takes place from the inside, kids. You understand?”

TJ looked at him and nodded.

Sam thought back. “In the diner, you asked what I was going to do in Skeleton Mesa. I told you I was a reporter. That’s when you hatched this plan?”

TJ nodded again. “I’ve got a laptop in the horse’s saddlebag. We’re going to try and link to the cell phone tower next to Black Mesa to pick up wireless internet and you are going to transmit a story to your newspaper saying you have been taken hostage and why. I believe having a reporter held hostage, and you will be able to journal about the experience, maybe get on a decent blog with hourly reports from captivity, and there will be a groundswell of support for you that will lead to the people putting pressure on the government to do what they should have done all along!”

Sam looked at him. He was a good-looking kid, with one of those high-cheekboned, dark-skinned faces that looked like it belonged in a sepia photograph from 1880.


“Why do you wear your hair long, kid? I don’t see many teenagers going traditional like that.”

“Mom is a park ranger over at Chaco Canyon. I get summer work doing that living history stuff. The tourists like to see Indians with long hair.”

“Chaco Canyon? They were Ancestral Puebloans, not Navajo.”

“You think anybody thinks about that, when I’m climbing around the kivas? Okay, are you ready to start?”

Sam shook his head. “Sorry, kid. No can do. I don’t think you’ve thought through this plan very carefully, and I am not going to do something that will guarantee you spend the rest of your young manhood in prison.”

TJ’s face looked as dark as an afternoon thunderstorm. He stood slowly, towered over Sam. “What did you say?”

Sam grinned up at him. “I said no. And you already told me you have a grandmother, so I know you’ve heard the word before. What does the TJ stand for?”

TJ stalked away, went to the edge of the sandstone slab and looked across at Tsegi Canyon. He looked like he should be in the movies, dusty jeans, boots, black hair down his back. Buddy slid across the rock and sat next to Sam. “It’s Thomas Jefferson.”

Sam smiled, and TJ turned around and glowered at him. “Thomas Jefferson Benally? I’d say we’re a couple of revolutionaries, all right.”

TJ’s face lit up for a moment, and he had to bite down on his bottom lip.

“Kid, when you figure out what’s wrong with your plan, I’ll be right over here, taking pictures.”


Things were going well, TJ thought, and he set about gathering rocks and downed wood for a campfire. Lovie had brought stew and the fixings for frybread. Frybread cooked over a juniper wood fire was a food that would soften the hardest news reporter.

Sam was taking pictures, sliding the big sheets of film carefully into the back of the camera, and Buddy was acting as his assistant. When he had the fire pit dug and ringed with rocks, and had started the campfire, he went to the saddlebags and pulled out a thermos. He poured a cup of coffee, handed it to Sam, and poured another for himself.

“You have any binoculars? I’ll show you something cool.”

“Yeah, I do.” Sam dug into his backpack, pulled out a pair of binoculars and handed them to TJ. Then he pulled out a fruit rollup and gave it to Buddy. “Lick your fingers clean before you touch the camera after you eat that thing, big guy.”

TJ focused the binoculars, then handed them to Sam. “Okay, look over to the right about a mile. You’ll see the river, then just beyond the river you’ll see a little canyon, shaped like a hand. See it?”

“Yep.”

“Look where the thumb is. Now, focus high up on the wall. The sun’s on it now, so you should be able to see it.”

“Would you look at that. What is it?”

“Petroglyphs.”

Sam stared through the binoculars. “TJ, I’ve seen lots of petroglyphs. This is something different. It’s like a novel in petroglyphs.”

“It’s from the time of the first Indian Wars—the wars between the Navajo and the cavalry. It’s part of the story from Canyon de Chelly, when Kit Carson had the soldiers cut down the peach orchards, when they were rounding people up to send them to Bosque Redondo. The rest of the story is that some of the women saved a few peaches, and they nursed the seeds into trees, and they kept the trees hidden. And over time those trees made peaches, and they grew more trees from the seeds. I ate those peaches when I was a kid, peaches saved from our orchards in Canyon de Chelly, from before the Long Walk. Anyway, that’s the story on the wall, how they saved the peaches.”

“Wow. That is awesome. Thanks for showing me, TJ.”

“We can’t eat those peaches now, Sam. They’ve been watered from a river that is contaminated with radioactive waste. From a uranium mine.” TJ took a sip of coffee. He pointed of to his left. “See that little hogan down there with the green roof? It’s about a mile. Can you see it?”

Sam looked again. “Yeah, there it is.”

“That’s where my grandparents live. My grandfather, he only has one leg. He was a Marine in Vietnam. It used to freak me out when I was a kid, because he would take the leg off and it would be sitting there, looking at me. I used to have nightmares the leg started chasing me. I never told him that, though.”

“My father was a Marine in Vietnam, too. He didn’t make it home.”

“Your mom raised you?”

“Yeah, she did.”

“I don’t have a father, either. My mom’s real strong, though. I don’t believe what they say, about sons of single mothers having so many problems.”

Sam smiled at him. “I don’t believe it either. So, how’s the plan coming along?”
TJ had to work to keep the surprise off his face. He wondered why he just assumed white guys were going to skirt around the hard patches in life. He was surprised Sam had been raised by his mom, just like him. And why was he surprised? Did he really buy that crap that the only hard lives were lived by people with brown skin? “The problem with the plan as I see it is that the FBI is in charge of serious crimes on the reservation, serious crimes such as taking people hostage and declaring war on the United States. And the FBI will be able to trace our link with the Black Mesa cell tower in less time than it takes to heat up a pot of stew.”

“That would be my guess, too, kid. Hey, do I smell stew? I’m getting hungry.”

TJ filled up Sam’s cup with more coffee. “You’re still my hostage, though. I just need to come up with another plan.”

“Well, you just let me know.”

Lovie poured water from a bottle over a piece of flat sandstone, then set it down in the coals to heat up. “Don’t worry,” she told Sam. “I’m using bottled water.” She mixed the flour and water in a Zip-Lock bag, and when the dough was ready, she pinched off pieces the size of a baseball, kneaded them out into a flat disc, and set them on the hot rock to cook.

TJ took a piece of juniper branch, used the sharp edge to lift the hot dough and flip it over. “Chill, baby sister. I got everything under control.”

Her bark of derisive laughter was a masterpiece.

**

He should be taken hostage every day, Sam thought, leaning back in the shade of a juniper, the sun warming his legs, his head propped up on his backpack. They had fed him, kept him company while he took pictures, told him stories. He had to admit he was enjoying seeing Tsegi Canyon through TJ’s eyes. He was a smart kid, with a subtle mind, and way too many feelings trying to crowd into a big heart. Sam tried to remember what it was like to be eighteen, but he wasn’t sure he was remembering the way it had really been. Had he altered that story over the years to make himself more comfortable? He’d fallen in love for the first time when he was eighteen, made a total ass of himself. That much he could remember for sure. He had been passionate, but about himself, not about the world. He sighed and closed his eyes. A nap was allowed the prisoner.

He woke up to the smell of meat grilling. Lovie was cooking something else, strips of mutton over the fire. “You’re a traditional girl! You’ve been cooking all day, slaving over the hot coals.”

She looked gloomy. “I was going to go to the mall in Flagstaff and see that new movie with Leo DiCaprio. But, no, I was dragged along on this…this…” She shook her head. Apparently there were no words to describe. “TJ’s not insane, in case you were wondering. Here.” She handed him a couple of pieces of meat in a paper towel. “Here’s some for the felon, too.”

He laughed. “I didn’t think he was insane. Actually, I know exactly what he’s doing. Where did he go?”

She lifted her chin, and Sam could see him a little ways down the rock face, sitting with the sun shining on his face. He walked down the trail, sat down next to him and handed him his meat. The boy turned to look at him, studied his face. “It’s funny, I’ve never touched a beard before. I always wondered if it would be soft or sort of bristly.”

Sam reached for his hand, settled his palm over his chin. TJ stroked his beard gently, like he was petting a skittish kitten. “It’s soft. Wow.”

They studied the landscape spread out in front of them for a few more minutes, ate the best grilled mutton Sam had ever tasted. The light was changing, the gold deepening in the afternoon light. The river looked greener, the rocks and canyons redder, rust streaked with gold.

“Sam, you better go get the camera ready. You saved some film, right? For when the light changed?”

He scrambled to his feet. “Yes, I did. You want to take some pictures?”

TJ looked up at him, surprised. “Me? No, Sam. This is my home, always and forever.” He spread his hand out, gesturing to the landscape. “This picture is me. I don’t need to photograph it. I can feel it in here.” He pressed his hand against his heart.

Sam leaned down for one more moment, spoke quietly to the boy. “You took a real chance. Why did you decide to risk it? I could have been anybody.”

TJ shook his head. “I watched you eat.”

Sam looked surprised. “What do you mean?”

“You should see the way most white people look at mutton stew, Sam. You almost licked your bowl.”

“Yeah, I almost did.”

“Made me think you must have a little Navajo blood.”

Sam was behind the drop cloth on the camera when it started. The light deepened, and the rocks seemed to glow from within, gold inside the red. It seemed like the beating heart of the land showed itself, just for one short moment. It was alive, full of beauty and desperate longing. Sam felt it settle in his own heart, the warm color, the peace, the history, the longing. He looked over at TJ. The boy was standing at the edge of the rock, looking out over the land. Sam started packing the camera in the backpack, took the tripod down and lashed it to the side. When he was done, he walked over and touched TJ on the arm. “I need to get going before it gets dark.”

TJ looked up at him. “I’ll walk with you.”

They were nearly back to the scenic overlook when TJ cleared his throat. “You don’t seem very old. I mean…how old are you?”

Sam turned around, then eased the backpack off his shoulders. “I’m thirty-six, TJ.”

“That’s not very old.”

“Yeah, it is, kid. It’s too old.”

TJ smiled at him. “It’s funny. Sometimes you start a ball rolling down the hill, and there’s no telling what…there’s just no telling.”

TJ reached a hand out, touched a button with one finger, and Sam took his hand, folded it into a fist, pressed it over his heart. “You captured me.” Then he leaned in, kissed the boy on the mouth, tasted him long enough he would remember. He was warm and golden as the sun, innocent, and when Sam lifted his head, he picked up his backpack and moved off down the trail alone.

**

Back home, and Sam turned the computer on. He closed his eyes before he started, felt again the peaceful beating heart of the land, tasted TJ’s mouth, remembered the peaches rescued from Canyon de Chelly, from before the Long Walk.

A month later, and he was ready to roll. The Phoenix Sun had picked up the story, a five part series on the Navajo’s poisoned, beloved homeland. He didn’t know if it would matter at all to the mines, to the government drones who had let it happen. Maybe a few Navajo people would read the story, get their water checked for radiation. TJ would read it.

**


It was almost a year to the day when Sam opened up an envelope and pulled out a picture of a young Marine, black hair buzz-cut, wearing dusty BDUs, carrying an M-16. Printed on the back in tiny block letters was Thomas Jefferson Benally, Fallujah. Nothing else, no letter, no message. Sam looked at the envelope. TJ had given him a return address.

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The Poems of Dorien Grey by Roger Margason

From Dorien Grey's chapbook of poems. He hopes with this chapbook of poetry to share with you, the reader, not only his own experiences and views, but to touch chords of memory and empathy within yourself. And just as Dorien is part of his originator, Dorien hopes that you might come away from these poems feeling as though you are a part of him. This particular poem is dedicated to his partner, Ray, who died of alcoholism-induced AIDS in 1994.



The Poems of Dorien Grey
GLB Publishers (2002)
ebook



Playmates
(for Ray)

My heart is a toybox,
too eagerly shared.
It holds a random collection
of toy-soldier-brave hopes
and once fire-engine-bright dreams
with the paint chipped off,
and the fragile shells of unfulfilled wishes
which, when held to the ear,
echo the sea-sounds of my soul..

I've offered my toys to many.
"They're ugly!" I've been told--
though to me, because they are mine,
they are precious.
I could never understand
why others did not find them so.
And frightened and alone,
I'd go on to the next.

And then you stumbled into my life,
little-boy kind,
with your own little box of toys
even more battered than my own.
Shy, we spread our toys on the ground;
and each saw in the other's joys
wondrous bits and pieces and sparkly things
that we could use to build a wall
against the world.

But because we are sometimes frightened,
and because we do not always see
the same things in the same way,
we each may be tempted
to pick up our toys and move on--
even knowing that what we have together
will probably never happen
in all the rest of our lives.

So let us sit together,
and play.
Not just for a while,
but until it is time
for us to go.

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