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Marcus Lopés

LGTBQIA2S+ Author, Blogger, Runner

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Short Stories

The Things We Never Say

February 10, 2021 by Marcus Leave a Comment

things we never say

“Who are you again?” Ryan asked with an edge as he shook the hand of the olive-skinned man who’d just introduced himself.

“I’m Toby—”

“I caught your name,” Ryan interrupted. “How did you know Mitch?”

Toby let out a nervous laugh. “We were friends.”

“I don’t recall Mitch ever mentioning you.” Ryan studied the attractive blond with boyish looks who couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. Maybe younger. “Were you one of his students?”

“Yes. I took his political theory class as part of my undergrad.” Toby bit his lip. “He probably didn’t mention me because…that would have complicated things.”

Ryan shrugged. “Complicated what?” [Read more…] about The Things We Never Say

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: fiction, gay fiction, gay romance, short stories

Father Daughter … Son

January 24, 2021 by Marcus 2 Comments

“Why am I here?” Ian glanced at his watch. “It’s been a goddamn waste of time.”

Karen swatted her brother’s arm. “Language. You’re in church, not on Third Street turning a trick.”

Ian bristled. “I haven’t turned a trick in nine years. And for the record, we’re in the refectory.” When his sister’s mouth dropped open, he added, “God, you’re gullible.”

“You know…” Karen stepped in front of Ian and blocked him from moving away. “This is an important day, and it would be nice to get through it without any drama. So, behave…and watch your language.”

“Bite me!” Ian turned slightly away and surveyed the room. Why was he here? Why had he stayed? Now was the time to cut and run until he saw the woman wearing an obnoxious, wide brim black hat coming towards them. [Read more…] about Father Daughter … Son

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: amwriting, family drama, father and son, short story

Everything He Thought He Knew – Excerpt

September 20, 2018 by Marcus 2 Comments

Prologue

Ottawa, six years ago

THIS WAS IT. THE moment he’d been preparing for his entire life. The end of introspection and self-flagellation. Yet it felt … surreal. He still didn’t believe it was happening, despite the evidence around him. The boxes stacked around the room. The walls stripped bare, dotted with holes where the IKEA print of New York taxi cabs, and framed photos of Toni Morrison and his other celebrity friends used to hang.

He remembered every moment that had played out here. He remembered the laughter. He remembered collapsing onto the chocolate-brown leather sofa as he read, and reread, the letter confirming his first novel had been accepted for publication. He remembered the sweaty, breathless sex on the sofa, the floor, in the shower. Rarely the bed. A past he’d carry close and into the future.

Yes, this was it. The moment when he felt, finally, like he’d become a man.

The commotion outside broke his reverie. Malachi Bishop bounced off the sofa, crossed the room and pushed open the balcony doors. The thumping music, the shouting and the skunky smell of burnt leaves rushed at him. Proof that it was Friday night and all bets were off. He couldn’t wait to be free from it all.

Jenna, Malachi’s silver-haired neighbour, leaned over her railing. “I’m tired of you druggies acting like you’re the only ones who live here!” she barked. “You need to learn the meaning of respect.”

“Respect this!” a guy with blue hair shouted back from the balcony below and flipped her the bird.

“Oh, no you didn’t…” Jenna stood up straight. “That’s the final straw. Now I’m calling the police.” She turned to go inside but froze when she spotted Malachi. “Do you believe those two?”

Malachi, watching the scene unfold below, stepped back from his balcony’s railing and raised his hands defensively. His message was clear: leave me out of it.

“This is a good, family-oriented neighbourhood,” she lamented. “Or at least it was until those jackals moved in.”

“We’re on our balcony,” the blue-haired guy spat. “We can do as we fucking please.”

“And the language,” she said, indignant.

His fellow ‘jackal’ turned around slowly, blew out a large cloud of smoke and looked up. “Hey, Malachi! You wanna come down for a drink?”

Malachi bristled. They’d never been introduced, so how did the guy know his name? Despite how ‘liberal’ Malachi considered himself to be, he didn’t voluntarily associate with guys who had tattoos covering their arms and multiple piercings. Did he read my book? Is that how he knows me? Not really knowing what to say, Malachi swallowed hard. When he caught the woman’s accusatory look, as if he were in collusion with their free-spirited neighbours, he grimaced. “No. No, thanks. I’ve got some work to do.” He raced back inside, sliding the balcony doors closed with an unintentional bang.

He returned to the sofa and chuckled. He could still hear his disgruntled neighbour repeating her threat to call the police, that was until the music was cranked up even louder. He tried to block it out as he packed up the DVDs piled on the coffee table. Just then the phone rang and he jumped. He raised himself up slightly and reached for the phone wedged between the DVDs and a stack of literary journals. “Hello,” he said, falling back into the sofa.

“I’m running late,” Taylor Blanchard said.

“Where are you?” Malachi asked.

“Still at the office. I started reading your book after my last class and I haven’t been able to put it down. God, Damien is a freakin’ prick. I don’t understand why Ryan hasn’t left his sorry ass.”

They laughed.

“Hurry,” Malachi said.

“I will. I’m almost done with this chapter. I should be home in about twenty minutes. But is everything all right?”

“Yes. I just can’t wait to see you.” Even after three years of dating, they still acted like new lovers who couldn’t get enough of each other. That first kiss when Taylor arrived home from work set off an atomic explosion of passion that had them naked almost instantly. They talked with an intimacy that, in many ways, scared them because neither of them had felt so connected to anyone else before.

“I’ll hurry,” Taylor said.

That made Malachi laugh. Ever since their first date, Taylor was always running late. It turned out to be a good thing. Malachi learned to practice patience.

“Should I pick something up for dinner?” Taylor asked.

“No. Well, maybe.” Malachi paused. “It depends…”

“Depends on what?” Taylor sounded concerned.

“Your mother called,” Malachi said quickly, as if expelling some evil force.

“What’s the crisis this time?”

“No crisis. She’s invited us over for dinner.”

“Tonight?” Taylor sighed. “I’ll call her. I’ll say we already have plans.”

“That’s what you told her last week,” Malachi said, curbing his urge to laugh.

“You want to have dinner with my mother? Fine. But we’re not telling her we bought a house.”

“You and your mother have too many secrets.”

“You’ve met the woman, right? I didn’t imagine that.” There was a brief silence. “You know what she’s like, and I’m not in the mood for the great inquisition. ‘A house? How can you afford a house? What bank would give you a mortgage? I still don’t know how you afford the car…’ Christ, my ears are already ringing.”

Malachi grinned. “She might surprise you.”

“God, you’re cute.” Taylor chuckled. “And I love you.”

“Now you’re changing the subject,” Malachi said coolly.

“Yes, I am. I’ll be home soon. We can talk about it then.”

“Yes, we will.”

“See you soon, beautiful man.” Taylor hung up.

Malachi tossed the phone back onto the coffee table. It was a week after the publication of his second novel, and they were excited about their recent home purchase. It took them five months to find the perfect house. Some were too small, most were too expensive, and the rest were too far from the city. And then they struck gold — a three-bedroom house on Regent Street in the section of town known as the Glebe. Immediately they saw themselves laughing and sharing Malachi’s famous veal scaloppini and sweet potato gnocchi with their friends in the cosy dining room. It’d be so easy for them to manoeuvre about the airy kitchen as they cooked together. Then every evening wrapped up in each other on the sofa in the spacious living room. They’d each have their own office, and everything else they’d need — banks, coffee shops, grocery stores — were just minutes away on foot. Perfect. It was just perfect.

He smiled as he thought about Taylor and how he’d let himself be swept off his feet. He loved the way Taylor searched him out when he came home, taking him into his arms in a crushing embrace. His protector. His strength. His refuge. Malachi loved the way Taylor looked at him as though he was the only person in the world who mattered. He loved the tenderness of Taylor’s touch, his spirit of generosity, his patience.

When it came to Evelyn Blanchard, Malachi thought Taylor needed to engage some of that patience. He’d lost his own mother even before she died. He let go of her without making any attempt at reconciliation. Taylor, if he were open to it, had the chance to be better than him, to not let silly misunderstandings separate him and his mother. Then again, perhaps Malachi would have been just as annoyed if his mother had dotted over him the way Evelyn did Taylor. What would it be like to be the sole, and beloved, prodigal son? Malachi cringed.

His eyes roamed the books, stacked on the floor next to the coffee table, which he’d yet to pack. Sometimes it felt like a dream, but he knew this was real. He’d been caught up in his studies when Taylor came into his life and turned his world upside-down. Living in Ottawa, Malachi did what everyone else did. He joined the civil service and tried to shape a career he wasn’t sure he wanted. All the while he kept writing, and Taylor championed his work. As he searched for meaning in a world filled with competing priorities, Taylor let him know what was truly important. When he was paralysed by long periods of self-doubt, Taylor reminded him of his worth. He needed that gentle handling now, especially after reading Jason Miller’s harsh review of his novel in the local paper: Bishop’s rushed follow-up to his greatly overrated one-hit wonder, All I Do Not Know is True, is little more than a pretentious, predictable money grab. Clearly, Bishop is more concerned with proving how smart he is than in telling a good story. He longed for Taylor to walk through the door and take him into his arms, hold him safe … and maybe even track down Jason Miller and slash his tires.

This apartment … it was where his adult life began on that humid August day when they’d moved in and built a home together. Sweaty and exhausted from hauling furniture up three flights of stairs, they sat on the sofa eating a Domino’s pizza and sharing a bottle of Black Tower riesling. They were nervous, like on their first date, and uncertain as to what the future would bring.

“I love you very much,” Taylor had said and reached for Malachi’s hand.

The declaration stunned Malachi into silence, but not because he didn’t believe it. It wasn’t the first time Taylor had said that, but this time it was how he said it — with absolute conviction. He meant it. That was the moment Malachi realized he’d never love another man. “I love you, too,” he said, the words coming easily. From that moment came a simple truth: Taylor was his life. All that mattered was making Taylor happy. He didn’t care if that meant always doing the laundry or getting up at four in the morning to write so they could spend as much time as possible together.

Malachi realized that the blaring music had stopped. He sat up straight and glanced at his watch. It was quarter to seven, and Taylor should have been home by now. He picked up the phone and dialled Taylor’s office number at the university. No answer. Then he called Taylor’s cell. Again, no answer. He moved off the sofa and crossed to the window. He looked down into the street and saw a police cruiser pulling up to the curb. He smirked. Jenna finally had the nerve to call them. He watched the officers get out of their vehicle and enter the building. He looked up and down the street. It was empty. Where was Taylor?

He jumped at the knock on the door. Had Taylor forgotten his keys again? He rushed to the door and opened it. “I was beginning to worry…” He froze. Two grim-looking men — the police officers who he’d seen just moments before — gave their names and asked to enter the apartment.

Inside, the shorter man spoke first. “How are you acquainted with…” He paused to look at his black notebook. “Taylor Blanchard?”

“He’s my fiancé,” Malachi said with a slight edge. They’d talked about getting married, but neither of them had proposed.

“There’s no easy way to do this,” the officer continued. “There’s been an accident…”

Malachi heard the words but they instantly fell away. Something about Elgin Street, a car and two pedestrians. Investigators were still on the scene. Taylor had been hit first and succumbed to his injuries on the way to the hospital.

“I don’t understand,” Malachi said, feeling himself trembling. “I just talked to him … not even an hour ago. He was on his way home…” Tears filled his eyes and raced down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the other officer said.

“He lost consciousness almost immediately,” the first officer said. “The pain … he wouldn’t have suffered long.”

“You’re mistaken. I mean…” Malachi could feel his legs about to give out on him, and before he could move to the sofa he collapsed to the floor. When he woke up, one officer was kneeling over him, the other radioing for an ambulance.

“Don’t move. Help’s on the way.”

He couldn’t move as he thought about the plans they’d made for the future. They’d talked about hosting Taylor’s family at Christmas in their new home, and visiting Paris the following summer. Suddenly, the man who was his saving force — a champion of his writing, his confidant, his best friend — had been plucked from his grasp.

How was he supposed to live without the man who’d taught him what love was all about?

Find out on October 10, 2018. Pre-order your copy today!

Filed Under: Self-Publishing, Short Stories Tagged With: books, broken heart, coming soon, excerpt, fiction, grief, indie author, loss, new release, novel, obsession, romance books, second chances, self-publishing, true love

Against His Will: Immersion

June 22, 2018 by Marcus Leave a Comment

Jonas, his gaze fixed on his phone, took a step forward when the line moved. He couldn’t shake the heaviness in his head, as if he’d been up all night drinking. He hadn’t. It was something worse than that. He had the dream again, waking up to soaked bedsheets, and his chest and back covered in sweat. By the time he cooled off and changed the bed, he was wide awake. That was at two thirty. Then he couldn’t get back to sleep. He drifted off at some point, and the next thing he heard was his alarm, The Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir singing, ‘Hallelujah Anyhow.’ He hit ‘Stop’ and closed his eyes. When he looked at his phone again, it was eight minutes to seven. His heart racing, he shot out of the bed and into the bathroom.

“Next!” a croaky voice called out.

Jonas raised his head and returned the smile of the sleepy-eyed redhead. “Morning, Seth. Late night?”

“Can’t really say it ended.” Seth laughed, which turned into a hacking cough. “Medium Americano?”

“Make it a large this morning.”

“Were we at the same party?” Seth winked.

“I don’t think so,” Jonas said, punching his PIN code into the keypad of the card reader. Once the transaction was approved, he yanked out his bank card and slipped it back into his wallet. “Have a good day.”

“You, too, Mr. Martin.”

Jonas moved towards the far end of the bar-counter to wait for his drink. He checked the time. It was almost eight and he was way behind schedule. Well, not really. It was more that his routine had been upended. Oversleeping, he hadn’t had time to write, and that was worse than if he’d had to go without coffee. He’d be irritable until he got in some writing time, which now probably wouldn’t be until lunchtime. His attention was back on his phone as he scrolled through his work e-mail, deleting messages he wasn’t going to respond to and flagging those he’d tackle once he was at his desk.

The chatter was on the rise, easily breaking Jonas’s focus. Now, whenever he looked up from his phone he cased the area. He heard that adenoidal voice and zeroed in on the woman wearing a vibrant, floral hoodie and who always ordered an extra hot vanilla bean latte. A few feet to his left he saw the tall brunette leaning down to kiss the petite blonde. They were married, just not to each other. He’d heard the man say, “My wife might get suspicious,” as they tried to plan a weekend getaway. Then Jonas focused on Seth, who tried to remain calm as the woman, elegantly dressed in a navy pants suit, complained that her cappuccino was too hot. Yesterday it was too cold. And, like every day, she held up the line as the barista made her a new drink.

“Large Americano for Mr. Martin,” the black-haired guy grunted from behind the counter.

Jonas ducked in quickly to pick up his drink. He didn’t like how the café staff called him Mr. Martin when they referred to the other customers by their first names. It felt like they were making a big deal about him, like he was a ‘celebrity.’ Maybe he was kind of famous, but he didn’t like to draw attention to himself. He went to the condiments table and stirred cream and a brown sugar sachet into his beverage. Then, as he started towards the exit, he froze. “What the…?” He stared curiously at the man seated at the table near the door.

“Good morning, Jonas,” Brent said. “Running a little late this morning?”

Jonas took a step forward. “What are you doing here?”

“Straight to the point.” Brent sipped his coffee. “I like that.”

“You’re right,” Jonas said, giving free reign to the frustration building inside of him. “I’m running late and don’t have time for this.”

Brent stood when Jonas went to leave. “I’d like to continue our conversation from yesterday.”

“I wasn’t interested then and I’m not interested now.” Jonas looked critically at Brent a moment longer before bolting out of the café. He’d made it to the first intersection where, waiting for the light to change, he felt a hand on his shoulder. “This isn’t funny,” he growled when Brent came into view.

“It’s not meant to be,” Brent said, removing his hand.

“It’s kind of creepy, actually.”

“You leave your condo almost every morning at six,” Brent said. “You’re at the café by quarter after and write for about an hour.”

Jonas, his eyes wide open, staggered backwards. “Are you stalking me?”

“You’re in your office by seven forty-five but don’t open the door until eight.” Brent spoke quickly so Jonas couldn’t interrupt. “You take your lunch from twelve thirty to one thirty, no exceptions. Most days, you leave the office at five thirty, and only stay later when it’s necessary. Outside of work, you spend a lot of time alone … writing. How many books have you published? Six, I believe. Thursday nights you have drinks with Jeff Baldwin, your best friend who still longs to be more than that. And at least twice a month you get together with Jeff, Cameron and a few others from university.” He paused. “You miss Ethan. You haven’t let anyone else into your life since his death and —”

“Who the fuck are you?” Jonas asked, his voice cracking.

“Like I’ve said before … someone who wants to talk to you about a job. I’d like you to hear me out.”

Jonas checked the time. “Look, I … I’ve got to go.”

“You’ve already called in sick today,” Brent said. “Check your phone.”

Jonas pulled out his phone and on the screen was a text message from his boss. Take all the time you need. Hope you’re feeling better soon. He levelled his gaze at Brent. “What the fuck is going on?”

“You’re not one to use so many expletives,” Brent said. “It’s one of the things we like about you. You’re always calm under pressure. That’s a great quality.”

“Who’s ‘we?’”

“Come with me. I’ll explain everything.” Brent started to move when the ‘Walk’ indicator appeared.

Jonas didn’t move. His head was spinning and he felt nauseous. What’s happening? What’s going on? It wasn’t until the ‘Don’t Walk’ signal flashed that he stepped into the street. There was a will far greater than his own that had him following Brent. Curiosity? Fear? Jonas didn’t know. But he couldn’t stop himself.

Ten minutes later, he and Brent entered the lobby of the World Exchange Plaza. They rode the elevator of Tower II to the seventh floor. They entered the suite of offices belonging to Atlas World Corp., greeted by a muscular brunette who signed him in as a ‘Visitor.’ When Jonas saw the gun holstered on the guy’s waist, he almost threw up his last mouthful of coffee.

“This way,” Brent said as he punched a code into the keypad next to the door behind the reception desk. At the clicking sound, Brent pushed it open.

Jonas could feel himself trembling as he walked towards Brent. He didn’t know what was on the other side of the door or if he really wanted to find out. All he knew was that walking through that door meant one thing.

His life would never be the same.

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: amwriting, espionage, fiction, fictionfriday, flash fiction, life-changing, short story, spy, story, thriller, writing

Against His Will

June 15, 2018 by Marcus Leave a Comment

It began. In a moment. Without warning. Seated at the corner table at 217 Elgin Street, the café where he wrote before work each morning. Amid the grinding of coffee beans, the clinking of cutlery, the conversations colliding in the air … when no one was looking.

The sound of a chair scraping across the floor made Jonas Martin look up from his black hardcover notebook. Before him sat a man with smooth olive skin, close-cropped brown hair speckled with grey and eyes that burned with purpose. The guy didn’t smile, didn’t seem to blink.

“Can I help you?” Jonas said askance.

“Yes, actually.” The man pointed at the door. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Jonas raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry. I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“No, Jonas … you’re who I want to talk to.”

Jonas closed his notebook and held the man’s gaze. No, they’d never met before. He was certain of that. He remembered things. He remembered everything. The feel of his long-dead grandmother’s velvety hand on his arm. The three-inch scar on the guy’s shoulder with whom he’d lost his virginity. The words to every Nina Simone song. The name of every guy he’d slept with — no matter how bad it was or how desperate he was to forget. “Look, I don’t know who you are or what you want, but —”

“My name is Brent,” he cut in and offered a faint smile. “We’ve never met. Not officially, anyway.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Jonas said, curt. “And I don’t really think I want to, either.”

Brent chuckled. “I’m a recruiter. A headhunter. I’d like to talk to you about a job.”

Jonas picked up his charcoal grey satchel off the floor and slid the notebook inside. “I have a job.”

“I know. You’re a Senior Policy Analyst with the International Crime and Terrorism Unit at Foreign Affairs.”

Jonas’s body went rigid. “How do you know that?”

“I know a lot of things,” Brent said, matter-of-fact. “At least hear what I have to offer.”

Jonas checked the time and stood. “I’m not interested.”

Brent rose from his chair, reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a beige business card. “In case you change your mind…”

Jonas stared blankly at Brent and, after a time, slid his hands into his pockets.

Brent set the card on the table. “If you’re at all curious, give me a call.” He turned and walked away.

Jonas watched Brent, dressed in a blue checkered suit, put his phone to his ear as he neared the entrance to the café. What the fuck was that? he wondered. His gaze shifted to the card on the table, which he slid towards him as he sat down again. The text on the card read as follows: Brent Reed. Recruitment Manager. Atlas World Corp. Jonas had never heard of the company. He looked in the direction of the café entrance. Brent was gone. Now Jonas’s mind was in an anxious tumult. He didn’t know what to think of Brent Reed or his ‘offer.’ Was it a joke?

He sat there a few minutes longer, searching through his catalogue of memories, but when it came to Brent Reed he drew a blank. It didn’t make sense. None of it did. He shot out of his chair and his gaze immediately locked on the card on the table. Why couldn’t he just walk away? He pocketed the card and left the café.

As Jonas crossed in front of the National War Memorial, he reached into his pocket and fingered the card. Something didn’t feel right. And for some reason, he was thinking about the evening he’d spent with his grandmother when he was ten while his parents attended a friend’s wedding. Slurping up a bowl of his grandmother’s hamburger soup, he started asking questions. “Why does everyone call Aunt Aisha a ‘Coke Head?’” Then, without missing a beat, “Why did Uncle Carl go to jail?” And “I heard Dad say he loved the way Mom went down on him last night. What did he mean?” He raised his head when his grandmother coughed. “You okay, Grandma?”

“Just eat your soup,” she said with an edge. “And I’m gonna tell y’all something I want you to remember for a good, long time.” She leaned forward. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

A car horn honked as Jonas was about to step off the sidewalk. He felt the air brush against his face as the black Rav4 sped by. Then he looked in both directions before darting across the street.

Maybe Grandma was right. Approaching the trash bin on his right, he pulled out the card and tossed it in.

Jonas was just getting his life back on track and didn’t need any more distractions.

But some people don’t give up.

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: amwriting, espionage, fiction, fictionfriday, flash fiction, life-changing, short story, spy, story, thriller, writing

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