• Skip to main content

Marcus Lopés

LGTBQIA2S+ Author, Blogger, Runner

  • Bio
  • Books
  • Writing Off the Grid
You are here: Home / Writing Off the Grid

Writing Off the Grid

What I Love About Life

May 23, 2018 by Marcus 2 Comments

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about where I’ve been, where I am, and where I’m still hoping to go. That’s because 2018 started out (for me) at such a low point. I was doubting everything — who I thought I was, my talent as a writer, my worth. Maybe it was some sort of midlife crisis … I don’t know. But slowly, day by day, things got better. Now, I can’t stop thinking about what I love about life.

What I love about life is that each morning, by my own thoughts, I can decide if I’m going to be positive or not about the day ahead. And I’m choosing positivity and to see the beauty that is this world.

What I love about life is waking up and, no matter where I find myself in the world — Toronto, London, Dublin, Copenhagen — sitting down to write. I get to always start my day by doing what it is that I love to do.

What I love about life is being able to, no matter how silly or ‘unrealistic’ it may seem to some, chase after my dreams. And I believe, as Eleanor Roosevelt reminded us, that “The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.”

What I love about life is that I am blessed with godsends — friends and loved ones who support and encourage me. I call these people my godsends, spread out across the world, who are friends to me and my writing. Godsends send an e-mail, a text message or call to say how proud they are of me. They reach out to me (without asking) at a time when I need encouragement the most. They are, as Julia Cameron puts it, a ‘believing mirror’ whose support is constant.

What I love about life is that it’s not linear. There are mountains to climb and valleys to wade through. There are times of progression — when I feel like I’m at the top of my game. There are, also, periods of regression — when it takes all my energy to soldier on. But life is a journey, and through all the detours and ‘disruptions,’ I’m doing my best to hold steadfast to my dreams.

What I love about life is that I am free to be me.

What do you love about life? What makes you happy? Let me know in the comments section below.

Filed Under: Writing Life Tagged With: amwriting, be yourself, blog, blogging, do what you love, fulfillment, happiness, life, self-acceptance, writers life, writing life

Broken

May 18, 2018 by Marcus Leave a Comment

“I don’t know why I came,” Ian said, glancing at his watch. “It’s been a goddamn waste of time.”

“Will you mind your language,” Karen said through gritted teeth. “You’re in church, not on Third Street turning a trick.”

Ian’s eyes went wide. “That was uncalled for. I haven’t turned a trick in years. And for the record, we’re in the refectory.”

Karen’s mouth dropped open.

“God, you’re gullible.” Ian rolled his eyes.

“You know…” Karen pursed her lips, but that couldn’t stifle her groan. She locked onto those beautiful but rather deceitful copper blue eyes. “This is an important day and I’d like to get through it without any drama. So, try to behave … and watch your language.”

“Bite me, Karen,” Ian spat. He surveyed the room, not knowing anyone. When he saw the woman wearing an obnoxious wide brim black hat coming towards them, he threw his sister a knowing look.

“Don’t start,” Karen warned. “You know she means well.” Then she stepped forward to accept the hug being offered. “Thanks for being here, Aunt Geraldine.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Geraldine said as the two women pushed apart.

Ian held up his arms in an ‘X’ when his aunt went to embrace him. “I’m good, thanks.”

Karen swatted at her brother. “Ian…”

“What a lovely service,” Geraldine said, lifting her pudgy arms to adjust her hat.

“Why do people say that?” Ian sucked his teeth. “‘What a lovely service.’ Jesus Henry Fucking Christ … it’s not the Fourth of July.”

Karen’s eyes were on fire. “I know you’re upset, but your language is —”

“I’m not upset,” Ian interrupted. “Fuck, I barely knew the man.”

Today mimicked that rainy and humid August day when Ian was six years old. He stood on the covered porch of their three-bedroom bungalow on Marlon Avenue and waved as his father backed the beat-up maroon Oldsmobile out of the driveway. Then that evening, at six thirty, the rest of the family sat down for dinner without his father, who was usually home by six. That night the front door never opened.

He could still see his mother — her eyes red and filled with tears, the Marlboro cigarette pinched between her chapped lips — seated at the kitchen table and calling the local hospitals. He could still hear her sobs as she phoned all their family and friends, and his father’s work colleagues … the ones she could remember. No one knew anything. He sat with his mother at the table, holding her hand, as she kept up that routine for ten days until she realized that Reginald Fairfield wasn’t coming home and didn’t want to be found.

Then, twenty-eight years later, he picked up a message from Karen on his voicemail. “Dad called and wants to meet us,” was all she’d said. After some hedging, Ian agreed to the meet. He and Karen drove to Leaside Memorial Hospital in Melville, a city just fifty miles from Junction where they’d grown up. They were directed to the cancer ward. When Ian walked into Room 114, his body went rigid as his gaze latched onto the copper blue eyes of the frail man seated in the corner chair. A metallic taste swirled in his mouth and he could feel himself trembling.

“Thanks for coming,” Reginald Fairfield said and coughed.

“Do you know what she did?” Ian asked, his voice rising.

Karen touched her hand to Ian’s arm. “Ian —”

Ian jerked his arm away. “Do you know what our mother did when you didn’t come home?”

“Don’t do this,” Karen pleaded.

“She searched and prayed,” Ian said, tears banking in his eyes. “Then she gave up. She … was … broken. And one day, just like you, she went to work and never came back. The only difference was that she got on a bus to Niagara and jumped into the falls. They never found her body.”

“I’m sorry,” Reginald said in a whisper.

“Sorry…” Ian wiped the tears from his eyes. “Are you dying? Is that why you want to see us now?”

Reginald nodded. “I made mistakes and —”

“Just because you’re dying doesn’t mean you get a free pass,” Ian cut in.

“I know I hurt you when I left,” Reginald said soberly. “It was complicated and —”

Ian raised a hand in the air. “Stop. I’m not interested in your excuses. It doesn’t matter why you left. You abandoned us. You don’t know what it’s been like…” He bit down on his lip. “To me, you’ll always be a coward. And, God help me, but I hope you suffer.”

Karen gasped. “Ian!”

“You can’t talk to me like that,” Reginald said, raising his shaking hand in the air and pointing at Ian. “I’m still your father.”

“You’re not my father,” Ian said with control. “He’s been dead to me for twenty-eight years.” He spun around and walked out of the room.

The tightening grip on his arm drew Ian out of the past and back to the present. He shrugged off the questioning looks the two women threw at him. “What? The bastard walked out on us. Don’t expect me to be sad that he’s dead.”

“He was your father,” Geraldine said with emphasis.

“He was never a father to me.” Ian checked the time. “And you know what? I’m done.”

Ian stepped between Karen and his aunt, not looking at either of them, and strutted towards the exit. Why did I even bother? he wondered as he emerged outside, the rain finally beginning to taper off.

He came because he thought it would make a difference, offer some type of closure. But how could it? He knew his heart wasn’t open to forgiveness and wasn’t sure it ever would be.

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: abandoned, amwriting, communication, contemporary, dysfunctional family, family, father and son, fiction, flashfiction, forgiveness, fridayfiction, love, relationships, reunion, separation, shortstory, understanding, writing

Don’t Be the Same Fool Twice

May 11, 2018 by Marcus Leave a Comment

Dean opened the door and staggered backwards. “What … are you … doing here?”

“May I come in?” Kevin asked and, when there was no response, ran his hand over his mouth. “Dean, I —”

“Go away, Kevin.” Dean went to close the door, but there was resistance. His gaze landed on Kevin’s large white hand holding the door open. He raised his head slowly until their eyes locked, his heart pounding. Don’t be the same fool twice.

“Please, Dean…” Kevin’s voice dropped low, like a petty thief who’d finally admitted his guilt. “I just … can we talk?”

Dean, staring into his ex-brother-in-law’s olive-green eyes, opened his mouth to speak but no words came. As much as he wanted to say, “No,” he couldn’t. He needed an ally, he needed to feel connected to someone. “Five minutes,” he got out and stepped aside.

Once Kevin was in the house, they went into the living room, immured in a stony yet necessary silence. Kevin sat down on the far end of the armless grey sectional sofa. Dean, meanwhile, stood by the fireplace and tried to discreetly study the man who’d upended his life. That medium-length sandy surfer hair that made him look like a badass. The thin red kissable lips. The straight, roman nose. The aristocratic eyebrows. The lean, toned body. He was hot! Suddenly, Dean was pushing down that ache quietly awakening within him. This wasn’t good. Not at all.

“You’re wasting time,” Dean said, breaking the silence.

Kevin looked up. “I’m sorry that —”

“You’re sorry?” Dean tried but couldn’t tamp down the rage in his voice. “My sister hates me. My parents won’t speak to me. And you’re sorry?” Calm down. Breathe. “I don’t care that you’re curious or bisexual, or going through some midlife crisis. I just don’t understand why you chose me to fuck around with. You had to have known what would happen.”

“Cynthia came home early.”

“You weren’t expecting to get caught?” Dean barked. “Do you think that really makes a difference?”

A silence.

“You know what? This is a mistake. You should go.” Dean started to leave the room.

“I thought you knew…”

Dean stopped at the living room entryway and spun around. “You thought I knew what?”

“How I felt about you,” Kevin said, matter-of-fact.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Kevin, scratching his eyebrow, gave a nervous laugh. “Do you remember the night the three of us me?”

“Not really.” Dean glanced away.

That was a lie. Dean had never stopped thinking about that night, five years ago, when he and Cynthia had met up for drinks. They were at Temple, a wine bar popular with the downtown business crowd. It didn’t take him long to zero in on the tall blond with a mischievous smile seated at the far end of the bar. And every time he looked in the guy’s direction, their eyes met. Fate? Then he nudged Cynthia in her side and, pointing with his beer stein, said, “Look.” Then came the wave, and two minutes later the three of them were talking and laughing like old friends.

“I was sort of trying to come out that night,” Kevin said with defeat. “I was tired of pretending to be someone I wasn’t. By the way, I was waving at you, not your sister. But when I joined you, well, you didn’t seem as interested as Cynthia.”

“I don’t get it.” Dean crossed to the sofa and sat down on the opposite end. “You could have ‘come out’ and told Cynthia you were gay. You didn’t have to marry her.”

“I know. I just…” Kevin’s knee bounced up and down. “A week after we’d met, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. She was so concerned about me being alone, so —”

“Stop!” Dean shifted his body to look at Kevin. “You’re trying to blame everyone but yourself. This is all on you.”

“I know.” Kevin leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “And I’m trying to fix —”

“Fix?” Dean stiffened. “You can’t fix this, Kevin.”

“Maybe not fix,” Kevin growled. “Maybe just, well, you and I —”

“What? You think…” Dean, with an eyebrow raised, burst out laughing. “That’ll never happen. Not now. Not ever. You’re the reason I’m leaving the only place I’ve ever called home.”

“Leaving?” Kevin’s voice spiked with panic. “What do you mean?”

Dean sighed. “I’m transferring to my company’s Vancouver office. I need to put some distance between me and my family. Maybe that’ll help us heal. Maybe one day forgiveness will be on the table. Right now … I can’t be here.”

Kevin slid over to Dean and reached for his hand. “I’m sorry. You were the last person I ever wanted to hurt.”

Dean’s head fell forward. He wanted to pull his hand away, but he couldn’t. The handholding was the connection, however loose and inappropriate, he so desperately craved. He needed to hang on a little longer. When Kevin let go, he was surprised by the tear that streaked down his cheek. “I’m sorry.” He looked up. “I don’t me to blame you. This mess is my fault, too.”

“As crazy as it sounds,” Kevin said, placing his hand on Dean’s thigh. “I’d like us to be friends.”

“You know that’s not possible, either.”

“I guess.” After a long silence, Kevin stood and headed into the foyer.

Dean followed and, at the door when their gazes locked again, he was one more time fighting that ache. They waited, hoping the other would say something — open that pathway to forgiveness — but the silence reigned. Kevin, his lips pinched, forced a smile. Then he opened the door and rushed out of the house.

Dean staggered back to the sofa and collapsed. I’m doing the right thing, he thought of his decision to move across the country. Stockdale was too small and becoming smaller the longer he stayed. The scornful looks thrown at him when he stopped for his morning coffee at Starbucks. The conversations that stopped abruptly as he walked down the corridor to his office. The rapid dive in his number of Facebook friends. It seemed like everyone blamed him singly for destroying his sister’s marriage.

At least he didn’t know anyone in Vancouver where he couldn’t necessarily forget the past, but maybe he could outrun it.

 

“Don’t Be the Same Fool Twice is the conclusion to last week’s story, “Too Close for Comfort.”

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: affair, amwriting, brother-in-law, choices, consequences, family, flash fiction, forgiveness, love, pursuit of happiness, short story, writing

5 Rules to Live By

May 8, 2018 by Marcus 5 Comments

As a kid, I hated rules. That’s because rules weren’t fun. They were meant to mould my behaviour and, perhaps unknowingly, stifle my creativity.

Rule: I had to eat everything on my plate before I left the table (that was hard, especially on the nights my father served burnt, chewy liver for dinner).

Rule: I couldn’t stay out late on a school night.

Rule: As long as I lived in my parents’ house, I’d do as they say.

Rules sucked. Big time.

Breaking the Rules

It probably comes as no surprise that, growing up, I was a rule breaker. Tell me I couldn’t do something, and I’d set out to prove that I could. Tell me I had to do something one way, I’d do it a different way and achieve the same result. ‘Rebelling’ was second-nature to me. In a way, it led me down the path to becoming who I am today.

Breaking the rules taught me a valuable lesson: that I had what it takes to be who I am, and not who others wish me to be. It came with a ‘price’ in that the people who wanted me to remain the same — friends and family alike — eventually slipped out of my life. To be honest, for a time that bothered me. But only until I understood that being my truest self is the greatest gift I could give to myself and the world. Marianne Williamson says it best:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” [note] Marianne Williamson, A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of “A Course in Miracles,” 1992[/note]

 

Not being small meant doing the thing that I love the most: writing. As I gave myself over to it, there was a mega shift in how I looked at rules. I saw their potential, how they could help me create the life I wanted.

From Rule Breaker to Rule Setter

When I first knew I wanted to be a writer, my goal (naïve as it was then) was to sign on with a well-known publishing company like HarperCollins or Penguin, or a literary agency. Self-publishing and being an indie author like we know them today didn’t exist. The one thing an emerging writer like myself wanted to avoid was being swindled by a vanity press.

Since then, the publishing industry has been completely turned on its head. Now, it’s easy and affordable for writers to publish their own works through Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) and other platforms. The competition is fierce, which makes it hard to get your book to stand out in a crowded marketplace.

But when you do what you love, you don’t throw in the towel when the rejection letters start piling up. You don’t give up, either, when your first book flops (as mine did). You try, try, and try again because this is the thing that you must do. It’s the reason you’re here on earth. It’s your calling. And you must heed the call.

I write for the love of writing, to tell a story, to [I hope] offer a unique view of the world. And even though most days the idea of ambition and being successful makes me squeamish — almost like I don’t feel I deserve it — my aim is to write full-time. It’s why I show up every day to write. My dream won’t come true without me putting in the time and doing the necessary work.

Working to build a writing career around a day job, familial responsibilities and life in general, it’s pretty easy for me to get distracted. To stave off distraction — procrastination, resistance, self-doubt, etc. — I needed rules to get me through each day. When I became a self-published author, and responsible for marketing and promoting my book, rules became even more important. I had to find balance, especially when dealing with social media, which permeates all aspects of our lives.

Yes, I needed rules to stay focused and increase my productivity as I worked to achieve my goals. For me, it all comes down to this:

5 Rules to Live By

    1. Get up early: I’ve always been a morning person, but for over a year now I’ve been getting up around 4:30 am to jumpstart the day. That quiet time of day is when I do some of my most focused work without distraction. And by the time noon rolls around, I’ve checked off quite a few items on my to-do list.
    2. Do the most important thing first: Most days I succeed in tackling the most important task on my to-do list first. Usually, this is the project that requires the most focus and effort. Doing it first thing in the morning when I’m at my best makes the work feel ‘effortless.’
    3. Eliminate distractions: For the longest time, I tried to eliminate distractions on my own. You know, power down the phone and hide it somewhere out of sight. Close the internet navigator. Turn off the TV. Yet I often found myself saying, “Oh, I’ll just quickly check my e-mail.” Two hours later, I’ve not only checked my e-mail, but I’ve also squandered away time on Twitter, Facebook and CNN.

      About three years ago, I discovered StayFocusd, a Google Chrome extension that blocks the internet. And earlier this year I started using Freedom, which blocks the use of all apps on my iPhone. Together, StayFocusd and Freedom have decreased the time I waste online (procrastination) and significantly increased my productivity. I’m writing more. I’m finishing more projects. I feel like I’m actually moving forward.
    4. Manage social media engagement: I think I’ll always have a love-hate relationship with social media. I love it because of how I can connect with writers and readers from all over the world. I feel like I’m a part of a vibrant, supportive and encouraging community. I hate social media because it can suck you in and, before you know it, half the day is gone. (That’s another reason why I use StayFocusd and Freedom.)

      Apps like Freedom can only do so much. At some point, I had to practice self-control and self-discipline. And that meant learning to be purposeful in my use of social media. With Facebook, for example, I aim to post three or four times a week. Some may say that’s not enough, but it works for me and I don’t feel pressured to produce content that no one’s going to pay attention to.

      Twitter is my pandora’s box. I had to find a way to not let it overwhelm. So, about six weeks ago I made two important decisions that would impact my use of Twitter. 1. I’d only check in (reply to or like tweets) on Wednesdays and Fridays (days were chosen arbitrarily); and 2. I’d no longer check Direct Messages (DMs). These two decisions have helped me to reclaim my day, allowing me to focus on what really matters.
    5. Take care of yourself: As a child, I didn’t have an iPhone or xBox, and I wasn’t racing around the city playing Pokémon Go. (We had Atari and the Commodore 64 … do you remember those?) So, on sunny days I was always outside playing. In my late teens and my twenties, especially as a university student, I was a nerd and loved to be inside reading and writing.

      In 2008, I stepped on a scale (for the first time in over five years because I had the Blanche Devereaux mindset that my weight of 175 pounds never changed) to see the needle move past the 200-pound mark. I was devastated. It was the middle of February, -25°C, and in the cold of the night I decided to start running. Not knowing how to dress for a winter run, I ended up sick as a dog for two weeks.

      But that day changed my life. Not only did those unwanted pounds fall away in the weeks that followed, but running became a habit, one that’s held strong for ten years now. Best of all, running got me out of the house and living a more active life.

      And more recently, I’ve stopped drinking, reduced my sugar and salt intake, and in addition to running I’m also working out regularly (thanks to the Nike Training App). I have more energy, feel a lot better about myself and am enjoying all that life has to offer. I love running because it helps to clear my head, zone out … become one with myself. It’s also the time when I have my ‘Conversations with Oprah.’ In the zone, I can hear Ms. Winfrey asking those big life questions to one of her guests on Super Soul Sunday. Only I’m the guest, and when I hear myself give the answer there’s clarity — about how to move a story forward, or how to deal with a situation that I’ve been struggling with. I always come back from a run enlightened and energized, ready to take my game to the next level.

      We mustn’t neglect ourselves. We are our most valuable resource. When we take care of our body, mind and spirit, we are ready for whatever comes our way. And we know that there is nothing we can’t do.

Be Who You Are

These are my rules. They work for me as I strive to create the life I imagine — to let loose the truest, ultimate expression of who I am. I can’t afford to break them. Breaking the rules creates havoc and puts everything I’ve worked hard to achieve at risk.

As I continue to evolve, the rules may change or need to be tweaked.

But for now … I’ll keep playing by the rules.

Do you have any rules you live by? How do you stay focused? What is the one thing that is holding you back? What is the one thing you can change to allow yourself to move forward? Let me know in the comments section below.

Filed Under: Writing Life Tagged With: amwriting, be yourself, belonging, blog, blogging, change, determination, doubt, failure, fulfillment, habits, happiness, procrastination, productivity, routine, rules, self-acceptance, self-love, success, writing, writinglife

Too Close for Comfort

May 4, 2018 by Marcus 2 Comments

“I’d like another,” Dean said, pointing at his empty glass. “A double.”

“You sure about that?” the burly man asked.

“Jordan, just pour the goddamn drink,” Dean growled.

Jordan retrieved the bottle of Lagavulin from the shelf behind him and poured a generous amount into the glass. “I didn’t deserve that.”

Dean picked up the tumbler and drained its contents, then fixed his gaze on Jordan’s questioning leaf-green eyes “Another.”

“No way, man. Not on my watch.” Jordan pointed at the exit. “Go home and sober up.”

“Home,” Dean mumbled, pulling out his wallet, “where the hell is that?” He slammed two twenty-dollar bills on the bar, slid off his stool and headed for the exit.

Outside, the late-afternoon sun beamed into his eyes, making him squint. Pain throbbed at his temples and a metallic taste lingered in his mouth. Staggering down the sidewalk, he couldn’t remember the last time he was sober. Drunk, he didn’t have to think about the awful thing he’d done. Drunk, he could be a ‘good’ man. Drunk was safe.

Dammit, his life was a mess. And everyone knew it. He lived the same nightmare every day, and that had the ‘regulars’ on his route home throwing comments at him that he couldn’t ignore.

It started with the young man with a pink mohawk smoking a joint outside Lovers, the local sex shop. “Hey, loser!”

“There he is again,” the middle-aged man called to his wife, who was working the cash of their Quik Mart. He pointed with his cigar. “Drunk and pathetic.”

“I prayed for you last night, you know,” said the woman standing on the corner and holding up a sign that read, ‘Jesus Saves!’

What the hell do they know? he thought, each time flipping them the bird as he zigzagged along. They don’t know what it’s like … what I’ve done.

Fifteen minutes after leaving Miller’s Pub, Dean arrived at his Sunnyvale Avenue home and jammed the key in the lock. He entered the quiet space and, almost on cue, his throat constricted. Hold on! He sprinted towards the bathroom at the end of the hall, but just like the day before — and the day before that — he didn’t make it. He found himself involuntarily spraying the tile floor and the front of the toilet with a chunky, sour-smelling mixture of scotch and fries.

He wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve as he shifted onto his bum and sat with his back against the wall. He did not — could not — move. He stared blankly at the sickness sprawled across the floor until his vision began to blur and his whole life flashed before him. Maybe not his whole life. Just the moment that changed everything.

“Thanks for coming,” Kevin had said, offering that coy smile that everyone loved.

“I don’t really know what I can do,” Dean said, following his brother-in-law through the kitchen and down into the basement. “I’m not much of a handyman.”

“I just need you to help me lift the drywall and hold it up while I nail it in place,” Kevin said.

Dean didn’t argue, but something about his brother-in-law nagged at him. Kevin owned a construction company and had built most of the homes in the neighbourhood. Why hadn’t he called one of his constructor buddies to help? But this was family, and as much as Dean wanted to, he couldn’t refuse the call for help. Family was supposed to be everything.

Two hours later, drywall was up on two walls of the new rec room. Sweat drenched their T-shirts and Kevin peeled his off. Dean couldn’t help but admire Kevin’s glistening toned, smooth chest and felt the heat burn in his cheeks at the unexpected excitement bulging in his pants. That had him playing out in his mind the fantasy where they were stripped naked and Kevin eagerly submitted to his will. That wasn’t good. And it was wrong for so many reasons.

The next thing Dean felt was Kevin’s hand squeezing his crotch and the hot breath in his ear. I’m dreaming, right? Then Kevin’s mouth covered his, and with their lips locked he couldn’t catch a breath. His fantasy had come alive.

“Kevin, stop,” Dean finally got out, but Kevin yanking down his zipper immediately silenced his protest.

“Don’t fight it,” Kevin whispered, falling to his knees.

Dean groaned, closed his eyes and ran his fingers through Kevin’s sandy curls. God, every time his back arched he wanted to pull away, but he couldn’t. Kevin’s rough, builder’s hands were glued to his butt, forcing him to enjoy the pleasure.

Until the scream and his eyes opened wide. That was the moment he knew that nothing would ever be the same.

The stench of the vomit filled Dean’s nostrils and made him sit up straight. How could I have been so stupid? He slowly lifted himself up off the bathroom floor and, once he felt steady on his feet, cleaned up the mess. Afterwards, he took off his soiled clothes and jumped in the shower. As the warm water bounced off his caramel skin, he knew he had to do something. He couldn’t change the past, couldn’t change what had happened, couldn’t change the lives his actions had torn apart.

But he couldn’t go on like this … drunk and living in a daze.

The only question was this: did he have to courage to do what was right?

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: affair, amwriting, betrayal, brother-in-law, brothers and sisters, consequences, contemporary, family, flashfiction, infidelity, relationships, seduction, short stories, short story, writing

  • « Go to Previous Page
  • Page 1
  • Interim pages omitted …
  • Page 66
  • Page 67
  • Page 68
  • Page 69
  • Page 70
  • Interim pages omitted …
  • Page 80
  • Go to Next Page »

Copyright © 2025 · Parallax Pro on Genesis Framework · WordPress · Log in