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"Long Drive Home" by Will Allison may be a relatively small book of only pages, but it packs a huge punch for the reader. Undoubtedly this novel will leave a.
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Short Stories 26 - BeamNG Drive

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Short Story: Never Drive A Nail In A Tree

Often we need a break from our daily routine. A pause from life to help us appreciate life. A little pat on the back to let us know when we're on track. A word of encouragement to help us through those bleak moments and difficult days.

Sometimes, we just yearn for some friendship and camaraderie, someone to share our heart with. He sang. He played piano and guitar, mostly in drag. He could dance, could mesmerize, charm men and women alike. Sometimes they rushed the stage. They reached for him, caressing his hair as he leaned down, touching his taut calves as he strode past, snatching at the hem of his skirt, yanking, revealing a polished tush adorned with a bejeweled G-string.


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He was wanted. He was desired , a seven-letter word for take me now. Until the masses turned. Until someone — men, always the men, the straight men — turned violent, frightened by their own desires, scared shitless by their wanting, by the fire of his touch, he loved straight men, why, oh why, did he always love those who found him intriguing, sexy, novel, but were forever incapable of requiting?

Why do they never love me?

January 6 – 10, 2020

And the tears fell into my palms, formed a seal between his skin and mine, wet my own cheeks, dampened my chest, his head pressed there, my arm encompassing his shoulders, his head, bobbing with the task, knocking gently against my chin. And when the sorrow subsided, the once relentless grief had run dry, at least for that moment, he looked up and into my face, and I looked down and into his, and we kissed. Was it sex? Paternal concern? A seven-letter word for being close, connected. Had I fallen in love with this boy or was he a man?

All I knew was that my blood turned luminescent at the meeting of our mouths, somersaulted through my veins, igniting everything with golden fire turning magenta, growing blue-violet, rising dark orchid, until I was a child of color and light. It felt as though a lifetime had passed.

The sun was shining now and a ray struck her hair, casting a halo around the back of her head. I fumbled through an introduction, an obscure explanation, and she smiled, shook his hand and let it be, another secret between us. I asked him over a meal. We ordered half the menu. We ate together. It was awkward but everyone seemed to be in agreement, eager to delay whatever was coming next, the following task at hand, talking about divorce, getting back on the road. We were a mismatched lot, but amiable, finding comfort in the bizarre intersection of our lives, in plates of scrambled eggs and fruit salad, little saucers of overly crisp bacon and tattered sugar packets.

His sister lived in New York. Just another infatuation that had soured. My wife asked questions, pulling more of his story out of him, and I heard it a second time, saw it through her eyes, maternal and feminine. She, too, was falling under his spell. I saw the shine at the back of her irises. When had I last seen that heightened glint? And when there was nothing left to say or eat, we sat comfortably in the silence, drinking coffee and watching the falling shadows. We paid our bill and prepared to leave, my wife and I not forgetting the purpose for this derailed meeting, but silently agreeing to let the matter wait.

She had an extra coat in her car. She helped him into it, watched approvingly as he buttoned it to the top, and then she handed him sneakers. She was tall and remarkably they wore nearly the same size. Then he was gone, refusing our offers of a ride, money for a taxi no taxis out here anyway , and we stood in the frozen parking lot and watched him walk away in his new coat and shoes, the purple heels poking out of the satchel.

I then did something I had not done for a very long time. I pulled her into my arms. I put her in that place that he had warmed, had readied for her, and I held her there. A few hundred yards away, along the shoulder of the road, he turned, knowing I would still be watching, and he waved. She pushed away from me, looked into my face.

On the crossword. Thirteen across. I finished it for you. Photo by Nancy Nogood. Artwork by Elizabeth Nelson. Seven letters across. How had I missed this walking across the barren parking lot? Why was my heart beating so fast? She could smell his aftershave, splashed on liberally. He had told her he sang in the shower. No scent of cheese scones with melting tops — she would tear one in half and offer it to him, with butter running down its sides, or syrupy biscuits or cake with colourful strata — could completely cancel the hopefulness of that cologne.