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Short Stories

The Visit: Part II

February 9, 2018 by Marcus Leave a Comment

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Trevor warned, yanking out the cork from the bottle of Lagavulin. He poured another generous amount into the crystal tumbler, jammed the cork back in and returned the bottle to the counter with a hard clank. “You’re not my favourite person at the moment.” He felt the weight of hands on his shoulders, then started to squirm as the wet tongue traced the curve of his ear.

“You love me,” that gravelly voice said. “Don’t fight it.”

That voice … it was what had hooked him, had his manhood stirring with the simple, “Hello,” that Oliver greeted him with on their first date. Now wasn’t the time to be nostalgic.

Trevor twisted out of Oliver’s grasp and shot off the stool. He looked in Oliver’s direction but not right at him. This was his time to be strong, to stand his ground. He wouldn’t cower to Oliver’s dreamy, sapphire blue eyes. Not this time. “She can’t stay here.”

“I can’t throw her out tonight,” Oliver said, taking a step forward.

Trevor took a matching step backwards. “I can.”

“Trevor…” Oliver rushed Trevor, who didn’t have time to react, and held him close. “She’s my mother … what do you expect me to do?”

Trevor tried to break free, twisting and turning, but Oliver held on.

“Stop fighting and just listen,” Oliver said, almost shouting.

Trevor struggled for another twenty seconds, then stood there absolutely still. When he felt Oliver’s grip relax, he pushed away violently. “I’m your partner. That should count for something.”

Oliver, after making an unsuccessful play for Trevor’s hand, folded his arms. “You’re not making this easy.”

“I’m not making this easy?” Trevor massaged his temple. “You do understand why your mother and I can’t be under the same roof, don’t you?”

“Trevor —”

“No, no,” Trevor said, waving his hand in disagreement. “She doesn’t get a free pass for what happened last week. Maybe you need a reminding…”

Trevor felt his chest tightening as he recounted the events of last Sunday. It was their turn to host the monthly family dinner that had long been a tradition in Oliver’s family. More of a cook than Oliver, Trevor spent the day before preparing for the meal and the mob set invade their home. And just before their first guest arrived Oliver, sporting that goofy smile that always made Trevor swoon, told him everything was perfect.

While Oliver showed off his new R1 motorcycle to his brothers, Trevor was alone in the kitchen cleaning up. He didn’t want any help. He wanted to be on his own, have a little peace. When he was almost done, he went to return the oversized turkey platter to the sideboard in the dining room. He heard the hushed voices and stopped outside the sliding doors, which he’d left slightly ajar. He immediately recognized that nasal voice. Phyllis! He discreetly looked into the room to see his ‘mother-in-law’ who, standing by the patio doors and with her back to him, had Oliver’s younger sister Andrea cornered.

“I’ve always thought Oliver could do better,” Phyllis said. “He seems happy—”

“Oliver is happy,” Andrea said firmly. “God, don’t you see the way he and Trevor look at each other? It’s like they’re the only ones in the room. Theo and I stopped looking at each other that way after two years.”

“I don’t understand…” Phyllis cut herself off, her exasperation gaining dominion. “I raised him better than that. If only the South had won that war things would definitely be different. Especially here in Halifax.”

Trevor pushed one of the sliding doors open so hard that when it bounced in the frame the entire house fell silent.

Phyllis spun around, her face twisting in shock. “Oh, Trevor, I was just telling Andrea —”

“‘If only the South had won that war,’” he said slowly, a way to tamp down the anger flowing through his veins.

Phyllis let out a forced laugh. “Oh, it’s just a manner of speaking.”

“‘A manner of speaking,’” Trevor repeated caustically.

Phyllis, unsure what to do with her hands, clasped them behind her back. “Well, back then … it was just the natural order of things. It made things simpler.”

“Mom, I think we should go,” Andrea said, panicked. She tried to nudge her mother out of the room.

Oliver appeared and, when he saw the disbelief raging in Trevor’s face, slumped against the door. “Mom, what did you do now?”

The phone rang, and Trevor rolled his eyes as Oliver sprinted to answer it. God, some days he’s such a momma’s boy. He crossed to the island counter, picked up his scotch and drained it. Oliver was back and before he could say anything, Trevor threw him a warning look. “Who was that?”

“Dad,” Oliver said, tapping his foot. “He said he … had the locks changed.”

“That’s it!” Trevor started for the door. “This isn’t a one-night thing. And I’m not going to be miserable in my own home. She can go to a hotel.”

Oliver grabbed Trevor by the arm. “Trevor —”

“I’ll make it simple…” Trevor jerked his arm away. “It’s either her or me.”

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: amwriting, communication, compromise, contemporary, family, fiction, flashfiction, fridayfiction, lgbt, lgbtq, love, relationships, separation, shortstory, understanding, writing

The Visit

February 2, 2018 by Marcus 2 Comments

Trevor, seated on the living room sofa reading, looked up from his book when the doorbell sounded. His wide camel-brown eyes sidled the clock on the mantelpiece. Twelve minutes past eleven on Saturday morning and he wasn’t expecting anyone. He kept reading until he heard the thunder of feet barreling down the staircase and shifted his focus to the front hall.

“Oh, how marvellous,” the nasal voice said. “You’re home.”

Trevor closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Oh, dear Lord … not today, was his silent supplication. He opened his eyes, folded down the top corner of the page to mark his spot and closed the book. He shook his head when the tall brunette entered the living room, offering that goofy smile that even after four years still made him feel buttery inside. “Oliver —”

“Look who’s here,” Oliver said nervously when the silver-haired woman appeared at his side.

Trevor placed his book down on the coffee table, stood and crossed to the woman. “Always a delight, Phyllis.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Phyllis said dryly, then turned to Oliver. “Could I trouble you for a cup of tea?”

“Sure,” Oliver said and bolted for the kitchen.

“You know how I like it,” she called out after him.

Trevor thrust himself back onto the sofa. “With a dash of cyanide.”

“Ha-ha.” Phyllis lowered herself onto the other matching sofa. “We should try to get along, especially if this thing between you and my son is going to go on for a while.”

“You mean we should pretend to get along.” Trevor reached for his book and flipped it open. “I’m okay with not liking each other. That’d mean we wouldn’t have to speak to each other, right?”

“I don’t understand why you don’t like me,” Phyllis snapped.

The book slipped through Trevor’s fingers and onto his lap. “You don’t understand why I don’t like you?”

“I’ve been nothing but kind —”

“Kind?” Trevor howled. “That from the woman who said to Oliver, when he first brought me home to meet you, ‘Why are you dating a black man?’”

“Well, I … it was a shock.”

“Was it still the shock when you organized a surprise party for Oliver’s thirtieth birthday and didn’t invite me?” He rolled his eyes as Phyllis just sat there, her shifty ice blue eyes roving the room. “We’d been living together for two years.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” Phyllis shot back.

Trevor sucked his teeth. “Of course not.”

“My other sons and daughters-in-law adore me.”

Trevor, trying to tamp down his urge to laugh, dropped his head.

“Just the other day Laura told me that I was her favourite mother-in-law.”

Trevor looked up, an eyebrow raised. “How many mothers-in-law has Laura had?”

“How droll.” Phyllis adjusted the silk scarf around her neck. “How come I’ve never met your parents?”

Trevor bristled. “Would you want to? I mean, they’re black like me.”

“Trevor!” Oliver cried as he came into the room.

“If you’re serious about meeting them,” Trevor said, trying to suppress his smirk, “they’re in the urn on the mantelpiece.”

“Trevor…” Oliver sounded exasperated. He handed the teacup and saucer to his mother. “Just the way you like it.” He moved around to the other sofa, sat down next to Trevor and stared questioningly at his mother. “So?”

“It’s delightful,” Phyllis said after sipping her tea.

Oliver scratched his forehead. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh…” Phyllis blinked magnificently. “Well, sometimes, that man is impossible.”

“Ha!” Trevor slapped his hand on his thigh and couldn’t stifle his cackling laugh.

Oliver drove his elbow into Trevor’s side. “What did Dad do this time?”

“Do?” Phyllis shook her head violently. “He doesn’t do anything but sit in front of the TV. So I left. Now I need a place to stay.”

Oliver swallowed repeatedly. “You want to stay here?”

“Your other siblings…” Phyllis’s voice cracked. “They said it would be … inconvenient.”

“Ha!” Trevor leaned forward, his sides cramping and tears in his eyes.

“Stop that,” Oliver said through gritted teeth.

Phyllis set the cup and saucer on the coffee table. “It’ll probably be inconvenient for you, too.”

“Mom…” Oliver touched his hand to Trevor’s thigh. “Of course you can stay with us.”

Trevor sat up straight, his eyes wild and locked on Oliver. “Really?”

“She’s my mother,” Oliver said in a whisper. “I just can’t —”

Trevor waved him off. “I need a drink.” He stormed out of the room.

“I’ve never really liked him,” Phyllis said when she was alone with Oliver.

Oliver flicked his eyebrows. “I think the feeling’s mutual.”

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: amwriting, family, fiction, flashfiction, fridayfiction, indieauthors, lgbtq, love, mother-in-law, relationships, shortstory, writing

Where I Belong

January 27, 2018 by Marcus Leave a Comment

Sundays had long been ordinary and routine, almost melancholic. A day of gimmicky rituals he had long tried to escape. Like church because he didn’t necessarily believe. Or the weekly family dinners, where conversations around the table made him doubt his worth and cement his place as an outsider. The runt. Or ransacking his grandmother’s bedroom, while she was still alive, for the bottles of scotch and gin she tried to hide. This Sunday was anything but ordinary or routine. Certainly not melancholic. This Sunday courted new beginnings, where repressed desires would be allowed to unfurl and peel away a season of nerves. This Sunday had the power to transform him and his life.

If he could be daring and bold.

If he could let himself believe in something.

If his mother could let him go.

Scott Davenport, standing on the sidewalk near the back of the silver Land Rover, rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mama, I’m listening.”

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me,” Margaret Davenport said, and started rummaging through her shopping bag-size purse. She pulled out a crumpled tissue and dabbed it at her moist eyes. “Promise me you’ll call. At least once a week. And don’t forget to eat…”

As his mother slipped into her lecturing teacher’s voice, Scott was already daydreaming about the new world that awaited him. Eighteen or soon-to-be, he was in a new city that he would willingly give himself over to, let it claim him, set in motion the transformation from boy to man. All he needed was for his parents to get into their car and drive away. Then he would be on his own at last, and free to do as he pleased. And he had big plans for his freedom. The snapping of fingers brought him out of his dream-state.

“You’re not even listening,” Margaret chided.

“I am —”

“Then what did I say?”

Scott shrugged and dropped his gaze. Probably something about Jesus being a protector from the devil running rampant in the world. She’s always going on about Jesus and His healing power, and the good things He’s done for her. He lifted his head. “God, er, Jesus … that I should let Him —”

“So you weren’t listening,” Margaret interrupted. “I don’t want you drinking. You’re here to get an education.”

“Mama —”

“Don’t Mama me.” She stomped her foot. “And be careful. The devil’s going to tempt you at every turn, but I don’t need any more grandchildren yet.” She gasped, her eyes wide open, and covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, dear…” Her hand fell away from her mouth. “I guess, well … just be careful then.” She reached out and drew him into a crushing embrace. “Oh, my baby.”

Scott loosely returned the hug and pushed back. “I’ll be fine, and I’ll be careful.”

“Find a church.” Margaret blinked magnificently. “There’s got to be a decent Baptist church nearby.”

“We should get on the road,” Terrence Davenport said as he watched the tears roll down his wife’s pumpernickel face. He extended his hand to his youngest son. “If you need anything, just call.” He leaned in and spoke quietly so that his wife couldn’t hear. “And call home. It’ll make my life easier.”

Scott, when he went to let go of his father’s hand, fumbled to hang on to the roll of money being slipped to him. He shoved the bills into his jeans pocket. “Thanks!”

“All right, let’s roll,” Terrence said, opening the car door for Margaret.

“Your father will put money into your account every two weeks,” Margaret said as she settled into the seat.

“Margie!” Terrence unintentionally slammed closed the passenger side door. “Good luck, son.” He made his way around to the driver’s side and got in. “We agreed on once a month!”

Scott laughed. He took a couple of steps backwards as the engine roared and watched as the car rolled down the narrow street, coming to a stop at the intersection. As the vehicle turned right, his mother stuck her arm out the window. He waved, feeling both excited and terrified as his parents disappeared out of sight.

Finally.

Alone.

And free.

 

This is an excerpt from the first chapter of a novel-in-progress.

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: amwriting, coming-of-age, contemporary, excerpt, family, fiction, gayfiction, lgbtq, literary, romance, shortstory

Home

January 19, 2018 by Marcus Leave a Comment

Alex pushes the door open wide and steps into the darkness. He lifts his hand and searches for the wall, shuddering at first contact at its coolness. He gingerly moves his hand up-and-down, side-to-side, until he comes across a light switch. He flips the switch upward and squints at the sudden brightness, blinking magnificently. He turns and closes the door, then kicks off his shoes.

The crisp air sends a shiver down his spine as he makes his way deeper into the house, turning on more lights. He coughs a couple of times as the stench of rotten apples and spoilt milk invade his prominent nostrils. In the kitchen, he opens the window above the sink, his attention quickly shifting to the pile of mildewy pots and plates caked with bits of food. He tries not to breathe.

Alex withdraws to the living room and stands there, his arms folded, embalmed by the disquieting silence that strikes a dissonant discord of a past long forgotten. His round golden brown eyes rove the room and, taking in the scene around him, draws in several deep breaths. The framed eight-by-ten photographs of him and his brother Charles, taken the day of their respective graduations from university, that dominate the mantelpiece like bookends. The frayed royal blue wool upholstered wing chair that sits in the corner next to the brown brick soot-stained fireplace, and where he remembers his mother retreating each night to read her large print Bible. The dark cherry wood coffee table cluttered with unopened mail, receipts, and worn copies of Christian Reader and The Daily News, the local paper. His last trip ‘home’ was two years ago for his father’s funeral. Now his mother is dead. Oddly enough, he doesn’t feel sad. Really, he doesn’t feel much of anything. Shouldn’t that worry him?

He’s not sure what any of it means, to be back in this house. The place where he was born. The place that summons him whenever death calls. The place that cannot claim him. What could it possibly mean when the simple truth is this: he’s been running so long. Running from the man he never became. Running from the man he never wanted to be. Running from the place where he was born.

Alex sits down on the brown leather sofa, exhausted and surprised by the tears banking in his eyes. “It’s a house,” he mumbles at the listless walls, “not home. And I don’t live here anymore.”

Filed Under: Short Stories

Velocity

January 12, 2018 by Marcus Leave a Comment

Wednesday, 7:59 am. I wait inside the Queen and Providence bus shelter for Bus 43 (Belmont Hills – Downtown), which ferries me to work. The rain falls against the dark grey skies. A silver-haired woman paces the sidewalk outside the bus shelter, scrunching her hawkish eyebrows as she complains to Bob and Mary and Ethel that the bus is late. She’s there every morning but never gets on the bus. Did I mention that I’m the only one at the bus stop with her? Yesterday, in deep conversation with Mary about Bob’s recurring sexual dysfunction, her top dentures flew out of her mouth and bounced into the storm drain. She reached into her black shopping bag-size purse and pulled out another set as if this happens to her all the time.

The bus arrives a few minutes past eight. I display my pass for inspection and offer a faint smile to the grey-haired bus driver.

The bus driver snarls and closes the door. “Next time hold it up so I can see it.”

I roll my eyes and take my usual seat that faces into the bus to have more legroom.

At the next stop, the young man wearing the blue baseball cap gets on first. When the bus driver scolds him for not holding up his bus pass, he says, “Yo, dude … your wife still not giving it up?” He grabs his crotch. “Maes-tǝr-beit!” He slams himself into the seat before the rear door, next to the man wearing a bowtie, and sucks his teeth. “Loser…”

The smells of wet earth, coffee and stale cigarette smoke (from the guy seated close to me) overtake the bus. The young man wearing a charcoal grey mackintosh studies me with adolescent curiosity. I travel with the same people every day. They get on and off the bus like corpses — stiff and unconscious of the world around them. We don’t say hello, don’t speak. My eyes rove the bus to avoid direct eye contact with anyone, anticipating the War Memorial that signals the approaching bus stop where I get off.

“Good morning, Mr. Bus Driver. How are you this fine wet day?”

I shift my gaze to the front of the bus, blinded by a shiny jacket with floral patterns enveloping a big-boned woman. Her black frizzy hair shoots out in all directions from her round head. The rouge smeared on her face cements in place the smile stretching from ear to ear.

“Next time hold it up so I can see it,” the bus driver says as he closes the front door.

The woman’s round eyes widen but she’s still smiling. “Oh, yes, we are chipper this morning!” She scans the bus for a seat.

The young man in the charcoal grey mackintosh and a middle-aged woman wearing a cadmium yellow raincoat occupy the seats at the front of the bus, reserved for the elderly and pregnant women. They move. A couple of people snicker, both amused and annoyed at how this woman — with her over-enthusiastic and narcissistic Guy Smiley smile — has managed to disrupt the peacefulness of their morning commute.

“Thank you, thank you,” says the woman in the shiny jacket. “So kind, so kind.”

The young man in the charcoal grey mackintosh sits down across from me, smirks and holds his narrow eyes to mine. I glance away when his light-grey eyes penetrate to my core. The middle-aged woman squeezes between the stale cigarette smoke-smelling man and me. The scent of Bengay and cinnamon fill my nostrils, and I tie my face in knots. The young man across from me sniggers. I check my watch. I need off this bus. I’m relieved to see the flag hoisted atop the War Memorial. Freedom from this hell is two stops away.

The bus stops for a red light at the Marshall and Providence intersection. I move to the rear door and, when the bus edges forward, reach for the blue cord above the head of the young man wearing the charcoal grey mackintosh. Before I can pull the cord he presses the red square button on the pole in front of him and nods. The bus stops, and the green light above the door comes on. I step into the torrential rain and, having left my umbrella at home, bolt toward the seven-storey office building across the street.

*          *          *

“Good afternoon,” the bus driver says as I board Bus 43 (Downtown – Belmont Hills) at ten minutes to five. He closes the door and sings off-key into the intercom, “Next stop, Marshall and Providence, next stop.” Today he sings to the theme music from “I Dream of Jeannie.” Yesterday, he sang-spoke a slightly modified version to “Old MacDonald had a Farm.” Everyone chuckles, and then we return to our self-imposed meditative states.

I wedge myself into the two-seater behind the seats reserved for the elderly and pregnant women, and stare out the window at the pewter skies.

The stout man next to me, with a Sherlock Holmes-esque moustache, reeks of Old Spice and alcohol. Is that what makes his bald head oily? He speaks with a thick lisp. “Eth-cuz me.” He pulls the blue cord. He doesn’t have any teeth. My wide-eyed look of horror causes the young man from this morning, in the charcoal grey mackintosh, to cover his mouth to stifle his giggling. I smile. The young man rocks gently back and forth, ready to explode with laughter. Then the young woman seated across the aisle (quite the sight with her spiked dyed black hair and piercings in her lip, nose and eyebrow) snickers. The man sitting next to me staggers off the bus at the next stop. Before the bus driver can close the door the young man in the charcoal grey mackintosh lets out a shrilly laugh, and everyone gawks at him. He colours and lowers his head.

The bus stops at the War Memorial, and that shiny jacket with floral patterns mounts the steps one at a time. Mrs. Guy Smiley says, with the same cheerfulness of the morning, “Good afternoon, Mr. Bus Driver. How are you this fine wet day?”

“This is the day that the Lord has made,” the bus driver sings-speaks. “Let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

She places her hand to her chest and grins. “Oh, indeed … indeed.”

The young man in the charcoal grey mackintosh, at hearing that manly voice and set to erupt in another fit of laughter, moves to the empty seat next to me. He’s bent forward with his head between his knees, trying not to laugh.

Mrs. Guy Smiley turns to the young man. “Thank you, thank you. So kind, so kind.”

The young man waves her off and, after a time, sits upright. I sneak a sidelong glance and decide that he’s about thirty, his dark full mane covering the top of his ears and falling flat on the back of his neck. He has a long hooked nose with prominent nostrils and does not wear a ring on his ring finger. He looks at me, his clean-shaven face red from laughing, and I drop my gaze.

The bus hasn’t moved in some time, parked midway across the MacKenzie Bridge that spans the Stockdale River and that separates the downtown from the suburbs. I get off at the first stop after the bus crosses the bridge. In the morning, the young man in the charcoal grey mackintosh gets on the bus at the stop with the gentleman in the blue baseball cap. Did his uncontrollable fits of laughter cause him to miss his stop? Everyone stares out the windows as sirens blare and emergency response vehicles navigate through the bumper-to-bumper traffic. The rain, which had stopped around lunchtime, falls in hard pounding sheets, preventing us from seeing much of anything. The young man leans across in front of me to peer out the window, his left hand on my right thigh to balance himself. I savour his musky scent of lavender and vanilla.

“Sorry.” The young man leans back in his seat. “Do you think it’s an accident?”

I shrug. “Nah. Probably another jumper.” Four successful, and one not-so-successful, suicide attempts this year make the conclusion plausible.

Mrs. Guy Smiley stiffens. “Oh, really? How exciting! I’ve never seen a jumper before.”

I look at her, my eyebrows scrunched, as if to say, “Are you for real?” The young man next to me approaches delirium. I cut my eyes at him. “You need to get off this bus.”

He howls. “I know!”

Mrs. Guy Smiley shimmers in her seat. “I sure would like some of your happy pills.”

The girl with the spiked dyed black hair loses control, and her nasal, cackling laugh ricochets off the walls. Laughter consumes us all.

The bus rolls forward and we resume our self-imposed meditative states. I pull on the blue cord and the bell sounds. The young man next to me walks towards the front door. I follow. Mrs. Guy Smiley smiles at us. The young man in the charcoal grey mackintosh again waves her off, attempting to hold in his crowing laugh. I nod. The bus stops, and the young man rushes onto the sidewalk and opens his umbrella. I run to the bus shelter and take refuge, hoping the rain will let up soon.

The young man waits to cross the street. He looks at me, almost smiling, and then darts through the oncoming traffic to catch the bus approaching in the opposite direction. I watch as he sits down next to a window at the back of the bus. He looks in my direction and offers a slight wave as the bus pulls away. Could it be an acknowledgement of our interconnectedness? Maybe.

I sprint towards my apartment building when the rain lets up a bit. The young man and the others on the bus — maybe we are connected, part of each other’s fabric, entangled in an intricate net of relationships. What will the young man in the charcoal grey mackintosh do tonight? Does he have someone waiting for him at home? I thought that we lived separate orders or reality — until today — when we found our velocity.

Perhaps tomorrow we’ll say hello.

 

A slightly modified version of this story first appeared in the Fall issue of Other Voices Magazine in 2010.

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: amwriting, fiction, indieauthors, shortstory, writing

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