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Marcus Lopés

LGTBQIA2S+ Author, Blogger, Runner

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Writing Off the Grid

Shelter

April 27, 2018 by Marcus Leave a Comment

“Unbelievable. Fucking … unbelievable!”

The contralto, from-the-stomach grunt thundered on all sides, but Zach Logan didn’t flinch. The deep moodiness of Adele’s voice, streaming through his earphones, had transported him to another world.

“Ten freakin’ percent probability of precipitation!”

Wedged into the corner of the bus shelter and updating his Facebook status, Zach turned up the volume.

“Can you fucking believe this?”

Zach killed the music and lifted his head. He wanted to but did not — could not — move. All he could do was watch as a guy with a scruffy beard wrung out his longish dark hair, huffing with each movement.

“For Christ’s sake!”

Zach, hypnotized by the hard, pink nipples showing through the man’s shirt, suddenly felt the quiet awakening of an ache he hadn’t felt in months. Then came the piercing scream that made his heart pound in his chest. He levelled his gaze at the stranger’s wild apple-green eyes. “Are you all right?”

The guy, rocking back and forth, stopped and looked up. “Sorry. It’s just…” He sighed. “Jesus, Joseph and Mary … can’t they get it right?”

Zach shrugged. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“They say warm and sunny, we get wet and cool,” he snapped. “They say rain and windy, we get a goddamn heatwave. And today…” His fingers curled into fists. “I left my umbrella at home this morning because they said there was a freakin’ ten percent chance of rain. Look!” He thrust his right fist towards the glass roof of the bus shelter. “It’s a freakin’ hurricane!”

Zach stared into the intent and probing eyes, the excitement beginning to build again. Then he saw the blackness in them and knew something wasn’t right. But what was he supposed to do? Call the police? They didn’t know each other, and Zach wasn’t sure he cared enough to intervene. He’d heard too many stories about people trying to diffuse a volatile situation and ending up dead. Most of those stories came from his over-protective mother, who didn’t want her little boy talking to strangers. He wasn’t a boy anymore, and his mother was long dead. With someone before him in need, or who at least looked like they were in need, shouldn’t he try to help? “I don’t think it’s an exact science.”

“Science?”

“I mean —”

“It’s not science at all. It’s goddamn voodoo!”

Zach burst out laughing but stopped when he saw the guy’s fiery eyes were trained on him. Then his body went rigid. He remembered the conversation he’d overheard between two of his colleagues about the recent spike in escapes from East 9th Campus, the city’s mental health facility. The last escapee — a tall, dark-haired male — had claimed temporary insanity in the killing of his father. And he hadn’t been caught yet, either. Zach swallowed hard. Is that him? Let it not be him.

Maybe the guy acted ‘crazy,’ but he didn’t look the part. With his face twisted in knots, he looked like a lot of people sprinting through the rain and annoyed at how far off the forecast had been. Even Zach had been caught off guard by the abrupt change in weather. Listening to Junction Morning Live before heading to work, the meteorologist had called for clear, sunny skies. A perfect summer day. That all changed just after lunch when the dark clouds blanketed the city. About ten minutes into his walk home, the threatening skies unleashed their wrath. He whipped out his pocket umbrella, which the fierce winds immediately ripped from his hand and carried off down the street.

Zach checked the time. He’d been holed up in the bus shelter for more than twenty minutes and the rain showed no signs of letting up. He raised his head, and he again found himself staring at the man, who looked critically at him — like he was the enemy that needed to be annihilated. He glimpsed the headlights of the car as it swerved onto the street. It was a taxi with its rooftop light illuminated. Zach moved to the bus shelter entrance to flag it down and bolted for the vehicle when it pulled up to the curb. This was his moment to escape the stranger whose worth he’d been quietly questioning. He was about to open the back door when he spun around. “Can I drop you somewhere?”

“Really?” The word rippled with shock and doubt, and was then swallowed up by the rain pelting the asphalt.

Zach, his wet clothes cool against his skin, didn’t wait for an answer and barrelled into the taxi. He felt resistance as he went to pull the door closed and looked up. Those mesmerizing eyes stared down at him. He slid across the seat. The guy scrambled into the vehicle and offered up an address on Seventh Avenue.

As the cab navigated the city streets, Zach stole sidelong glances of the Adonis slouched back in the seat and staring out the window. What’s he thinking about? Is he all right? Do I really care? He licked his lips, a new vision coming to him. They were stripped down to their underwear and holding each other in a clenching embrace. There was that ache again, gnawing at him.

The car swerved onto Seventh Avenue and came to an abrupt stop in front of a grey stone building. The man edged forward and, after a brief struggle, yanked his wallet out of his back pocket.

“Don’t worry about it.” Zach smiled, trying to dispel the shock and doubt twisted into the guy’s face.

There was a long silence as they stared searchingly at each other.

“Thanks,” was the grunt-like reply, followed by the bang of the door closing.

Ten minutes later Zach, in the front hall of his Hanson Road home, peeled off his wet clothes as he thought about what had just happened and tried to decode its meaning. He felt nauseous. No, that wasn’t it. He was disappointed in himself. He’d wanted to ask the guy’s name but didn’t have the courage. Why? Knowing his name would have forged a bond, made Zach care about his situation and his worth.

Zach wasn’t ready for that.

*          *          *

The computer screen went black, and Zach reached for his grey satchel as he stood. He pushed in his desk chair and stared blindly at the monitor. It didn’t take long for him to be lost in thought of the dark-haired beauty he’d met eight days ago. That was because the guy was all Zach thought about. In his mind, they’d already become the perfect couple with an enduring and unbreakable bond. They confided in each other their dreams and deepest fears. They laughed a lot. They argued, but never held a grudge. At night, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, smiling at how they’d both been saved to a new life sublime. And for Zach, something even more precious. He came to believe in love again.

The sudden outburst of gruff voices and laughter brought Zach back to the present. He slung the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and left his office.

“Zach…”

Zach spun around and smirked as Daniel McAndrew strutted towards him. Daniel’s bravado and confidence were all a part of his showmanship. And Zach didn’t buy it. He knew Daniel was a self-conscious, eager-to-please underling working hard to climb the corporate ladder. They both were. Only Zach wasn’t trying so hard. “What’s up, Daniel?”

“It’s Friday,” Daniel said askance and stopped a foot away from Zach. “We’re all heading to Frankie’s for drinks. It’s tradition.”

“Can’t tonight,” Zach said, glancing at his watch. “I have plans.”

“Big date, eh?” Daniel cupped his hand to Zach’s shoulder. “Good for you, man. You’ve got to tell me all about it Monday.”

Zach rolled his eyes as Daniel moved off. That was Daniel looking after his own interests, keeping his eye on the competition. They weren’t best friends, although Daniel made it sound like they were. And Zach wasn’t interested in playing Daniel’s game. God, he’s an asshole, he thought and headed for the elevator.

There were no plans to speak of, no ‘big date.’ Nothing concrete, anyway. But every day Zach left the office, he hoped to run into that guy on his walk home. And if he did, he’d finally ask his name. No more living off crestfallen fantasies. No more living in the past.

Five minutes later, Zach was outside and zigzagging across the plaza towards Main Street. He walked briskly down the sidewalk, dodging around the other pedestrians, like he was on a mission. He was on a mission, sort of. His brief encounter with Daniel had slowed him down, and that wasn’t good. He couldn’t be late. He had to be where he was eight days ago at the exact same time. He was tempting fate, trying to change his life.

He turned onto First Street and the infamous bus shelter came into view. Stay calm. Stay calm. Someone was there, but he was too far away to tell if it was a man or a woman. He kept moving, and soon he realized it was a man. Not just any man. It was him, although he’d changed. The guy’s brown hair was shaved short on the sides, and long and wavy on top. The scruffy beard was gone. And when their eyes met, Zach’s throat constricted. He’d never forget those probing eyes.

“Hi,” the man said.

“Hey…” Zach cleared his throat. “Hello.”

“Evan,” he said, holding out his hand.

Zach gripped the hand, its smooth, velvety feel making him almost swoon. “Zach.”

“I don’t think you expected to see me again,” Evan said at the release of the handshake, the hint of a smirk on his face.

Zach didn’t say anything, just shrugged.

“I’m not sure I’d have remained so calm if I was the one who’d come face-to-face with a crazy man.” Evan’s smirk stretched into a generous smile. “I’m sorry … about what happened. Not exactly my best day.”

Zach opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Really, he didn’t know what to say.

“I wouldn’t know what to say, either. You probably thought I was crazy.” Evan reached into his pocket, pulled out a ten-dollar bill and held it out.

“What’s that for?” Zach asked, clasping his hands behind his back.

“That day … the taxi.”

Zach shook his head. “It’s not necessary, really.” He saw the doubt gleam in those eyes, but it quickly ebbed.

“Are you sure?” After a short silence, Evan put the bill away. “Thanks. Not just for the cab fare. Thanks for being nice on a day when it was … a game-changer.”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Zach said.

“It was … to me. I mean…” Evan gave a nervous laugh and dropped his head.

Zach shivered at the raw emotion in Evan’s voice. He had to say something, and wanted it to be meaningful. All he came up with was, “You don’t need to explain, not to me.”

Evan looked up. “It’s just been so frustrating lately. You know how the saying goes, something about paving a new road if you don’t like the one you’re on. I don’t know who said it but —”

“Dolly Parton,” Zach interrupted.

“Really?” Evan rolled his shoulders. “Huh.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to cut in like that.”

A bus roared up to the curb, and the two men stepped back as the doors opened and a woman got off. Seconds later, the bus groaned as it started to roll away.

“And your new road?” Zach asked cautiously.

“Oh, well…” Evan flicked his eyebrows. “I guess it’s still under construction. I’ve been applying for jobs but I haven’t received one callback. I have a job. I’m a server at The Stables, I just … I have a master’s degree in modern thought and literature. I’m twenty-nine, and I feel like I should be doing something more with my life. Is that crazy? I don’t have any friends. Well, I do, but they’ve all moved to Toronto or Vancouver. I can’t seem to fucking escape Junction. And my mother, God love her, keeps pestering me about settling down and starting a family. It’s not like she doesn’t know that I’m gay. I freakin’ came out to her when I was twenty.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Christ, I don’t know why I’m telling you this or why you’d care. We don’t know each other. But that day … the weather, I don’t know … I’d just reached my breaking point.” He blinked magnificently “Maybe you believe in fate. I don’t know what I believe, but running into you…” He sighed. “I was on my way to Welland Bridge.”

Zach saw the glint of shame on Evan’s smooth face and, one more time, was at a loss for words. Welland Bridge made his body go rigid. Welland Bridge, or Jumpers’ Central as the locals called it, attracted people from all over Southern Ontario and Upstate New York. People who struggled to fit in. People who desperately needed help but had no lifeline. People who thought plunging into the rocky, fast-flowing Moldova River was their only choice. Area residents were always on the lookout for jumpers, eager to prevent the long traffic delays caused every time someone decided to leap. It was mid-July, and the Junction Gazette kept a running tally of the successful jumps since the beginning of the year. The count, up from two days ago, stood at eighteen.

“Now I know you’re thinking this guy must be crazy,” Evan said cheekily, “but I’m not. Crazy, that is. If I’d made it to the bridge, I probably wouldn’t have jumped. I don’t like heights. But that day I was just so … fucking miserable.”

“And now?”

Evan shrugged. “And now what?”

“Are you still miserable?”

“I’m taking it day by day,” Evan said soberly, then checked the time. “Look, I didn’t mean to ramble on. I just wanted to thank you for being kind to me. It’s made me believe that, maybe, there are good people in this world after all.” He wiped away the tear that rolled down his face, then turned to walk away.

“Evan…” Zach waited for Evan to face him again before continuing. “You’re right. We don’t know each other, but fate, if you believe in it, brought us together. How about grabbing a drink? If it sounds crazy —”

“Why?”

“Why —”

“Why would you want to have a drink with me?” Evan asked with an edge.

Zach scrunched his eyebrows. “It might be nice to get to know each other.”

“I said too much,” Evan said quickly. “I don’t need your pity.”

“Wow. I was just trying to be nice.”

“No one’s ever nice to guys like me.”

“I’m starting to see why. It’s hard to be nice to a prick.” Zach started off down the street, turning back once and throwing Evan a look of disbelief.

God, I’m such an idiot, Zach thought when he reached the corner and waited to cross the street. He’d let himself be swept up in some silly fantasy, idolizing a guy he’d met on the street. Was that really how he thought he’d meet his future husband? Was he that desperate for love? The light turned green and Zach stepped off the curb. When he reached the other side of the street, he felt a hand in the centre of his back. He cranked his head to the right, saw Evan, and kept walking.

“Zach…” Evan grabbed Zach’s arm and pulled him off to the side. “I’m sorry. I’m a prick. A world-class prick, actually. You caught me off guard and I didn’t know how to react. I’m not used to —”

“Not used to what?” Zach asked, his voice flat.

“I don’t know.” Evan rubbed his eye. “Someone being interested in me.”

“You’re kidding, right? Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

If Zach had a type, Evan hit all the buttons. Tall. Dark-haired. Fit and lean, but not one of those muscle jocks who spent all his time at the gym. A gentle demeanour, for the most part. And most importantly, a tri-cornered smile that had that ache burning inside him.

“I have issues,” Evan said. “You can see that. No one wants to be with a guy who’s —”

“Maybe going through a rough patch?” Zach broke in, placing his hand on Evan’s shoulder. “Some days suck. That’s life. And we get through them, like you said, day by day.”

“It’s more than that.”

“So, tell me about it over a drink,” Zach said, his hand falling away. “And maybe, at the very least, we’ve both made a new friend.”

“I probably shouldn’t drink.”

Zach pointed at the Starbucks sign down the street. “Then let’s grab a coffee.”

They stared intently at each other for a moment, then headed to the Starbucks.

Waiting in line, Zach turned to Evan, who flashed him that heart-stopping smile. God, he felt silly when his manhood went hard as steel and slipped his hands into his pockets to conceal it.

They both ordered lattes and, when the drinks were ready, sat at a table in the corner.

“Tell me about your ‘issues,’” Zach said playfully and winked.

“We could be here a while,” Evan said dryly.

“I’m in no rush.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Evan smiled mischievously. “I was sixteen when I was first diagnosed…”

Sipping his drink, Zach listened as Evan spoke, never interrupting. He sat there, his gaze locked on those penetrating eyes, at one point reaching out and placing his hand on top of Evan’s. Then came the shock. He couldn’t believe how intense — despite the details Evan shared of his life and struggles — the ache had become.

What am I doing? This is crazy? But he was hooked, by a stranger no less who’d stirred something inside of him. He couldn’t help but wonder — and hope — if this was the moment he’d finally step out from the shadows of his past.

Or maybe, in the most unexpected way, he’d found his shelter.

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: amwriting, change, communication, contemporary, desperation, fiction, fridayfiction, friendship, grief, lgbt, lgbtq, love, mental health, relationships, self-acceptance, self-love, short stories, shortstory, strangers, suicide, unconditional love, writing

Never Give Up

April 20, 2018 by Marcus 4 Comments

Every day I write. In the morning. In the afternoon. Sometimes in the evening.

It’s not a choice for me.

It’s a calling. And when I stopped running away from myself, I heeded the call.

You see, when my pen touches the page, that’s when I feel grounded, centred … at one with myself and the world.

Writing is the truest expression of who I am.

The ‘Why’

I don’t write with the aim of becoming a New York Times bestselling author or hoping to win the Man Booker International Prize. Sure, those things could happen, but that’s not what keeps me in the game.

Writing is about witnessing the world around me, taking a snapshot of a moment in time — and trying to make sense of it all. Writing lets me tell a story through a different lens, from the experiences that have shaped my life and helped me to become who I am. Writing frees me from the hate, intolerance and misunderstandings plaguing our world today. Writing is a golden opportunity to showcase the beauty that is this world and the great things we’ve done — and can still do — when we come together in spite of our differences.

That’s why I must write … every day. When I don’t write, I’m irritable, grumpy and feel like I’ve lost my footing. That’s how I often felt on days when I went without coffee (before I gave up caffeine).

Like I said, it’s not a choice for me. If it were, I would have abandoned writing when my novel, Freestyle Love, flopped in 2011. But I kept writing and, not letting self-doubt get the better of me, self-published The Flowers Need Watering in 2017. I could have given up after receiving countless rejections from various literary journals and publishers. Instead, I kept writing, honing my skills and opted to share my stories online through Twitter Fiction Tuesdays (#TwitFicTues) and my Fiction Friday series.

Yes, I kept writing for the love of the work, to see it through to completion, to — in some small way — be of service.

Never Give Up

Despite my passion, despite my commitment, there are still days when I ask myself: What’s the point? Am I on the right path? Is anyone paying attention? So, I take a moment to remind myself of what Steven Pressfield says in, Do the Work!: “Resistance is a repelling force. It’s negative. Its aim is to shove us away, distract us, prevent us from doing our work.”[note]Steven Pressfield, Do the Work!, Do You Zoom, Inc., 2011.[/note]

That’s when I buckle down and focus. Resistance won’t have dominion over me.

When we write, paint, compose — create — for the love of it, I feel like that’s the moment when providence moves. The stars align and our creative world comes into focus. We know exactly where we are, where we want to go, and what we need to do to get there.

When we show up each day for the love of the work, we know we have the necessary courage and faith to do whatever it takes to make our dreams come true.

That’s why we’ll never give up.

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

Never Let Go

April 20, 2018 by Marcus Leave a Comment

“I love it here,” Shane said, swinging his legs that dangled over the edge of the wharf.

Damien smiled. “Me, too.”

Six months after his suicide attempt, Shane was getting his life back on track. He and Damien had sold their homes and together bought a house in Muskoka Lakes. A talented abstract painter often compared to Jackson Pollock and Piet Mondrian, he was painting again and preparing for an exhibit in the fall. He’d never expected to fall in love, to find someone who’d love him just as he was. But Damien appeared and, most of all, stayed. His best friend. His rock. His protector.

Shane’s gaze locked onto those deep-set azure blue eyes that made him forget about the past and begin to imagine living a truly happy life. God, why did he stay? He reached for Damien’s hand. “Thank you.”

Damien shook his head. “Stop thanking me.”

“You saved my life,” Shane said with emphasis. “You saved me.”

That was true. Shane knew he wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for Damien. And while he felt better, it felt like he was always being tested. Especially on the nights he couldn’t sleep. Or the days he didn’t feel like talking to anyone, not even Damien. Or when he cried without really knowing why. But every day he took his meds, determined to conquer the dark knight of misery vying for his soul.

That dark knight had almost won. Shane didn’t remember much about the day he’d overdosed, but he could still hear the doctor’s flat voice explaining how his heart had stopped. The paramedic’s vigorous CPR revived him … and broke a few of his ribs. He’d been unconscious, too, for three days. But when he opened his eyes, Damien was there.

“Hasn’t left your side,” the nurse had said with admiration. “Not even to take a shower, despite our encouragement.” She chuckled. “He’s a keeper.”

“I’m … I’m sorry,” Shane said, his voice hoarse and unsteady. “I’m sorry.” Then, when he felt Damien’s strong arms around him, tears streaked down his face. He cried for his long-dead mother, cried for this love he didn’t understand, cried for a life he was constantly trying to escape.

“Don’t be sorry,” Damien said. “You’re here. You’re all right. That’s all that matters.”

Shane felt the pressure on his hand, and Damien’s tanned aristocratic face came back into focus.

“You okay?” Damien asked.

Shane nodded. “I am. I was just, you know, thinking about that day … at the hospital.” He matched Damien’s pressure. “You smelled awful.”

“Thanks a lot!”

They laughed.

Shane gently pulled his hand away, then shifted his body to face Damien, leaving only his left leg hanging off the wharf. “You’re sure about this, right? I’m taking my meds. I’m committed to staying healthy. And, God, I love you, Damien Miller. But —”

“There’s no but, Shane.” Damien slid his body closer and took Shane’s face in his hands. “I’m exactly where I want to be.” He leaned in, pressed his lips to Shane’s and held them there for about ten seconds. “For me, nothing’s changed.”

“It could happen again,” Shane said, his voice dipping low. “And it if does … that could be the time I get it right.”

“If you’re trying to scare me away, it’s not working.”

“You could be living a normal life with someone who’s not —”

“Stop.” Damien swept up both of Shane’s hands in his. “Do you remember our second date?”

Shane felt the heat burn in his cheeks and looked down. He’d been such a prick the night they met at Mikey’s, yet he agreed — like Damien had suggested — to them having dinner together. His treat for how he’d acted. They’d gone to Station Bel-Air, a French bistro on Front Street West. Even though they talked at Mikey’s, conversation didn’t come easy for them. And at dinner, the dominating silence had Shane second-guessing his choices. They didn’t look at each other, their eyes shifting to the door every time it opened. They only spoke when their server came to take their drink order and when she returned to see if they’d made any decisions on food. What the fuck am I doing here? he’d wondered, checking the time at regular five-minute intervals.

“Want to just call it a night?” Shane asked, gulping the last mouthful of his wine.

“Maybe that’s not a bad idea,” Damien said.

“I mean, really, you don’t want to date a crazy person.”

Damien’s eyes went wide. “Well, that explains everything.”

Shane bristled. “Go to hell!”

There was a silence, then they both broke out laughing.

“Are you…” Damien stared at the open menu. “Are you really crazy?”

“They call it bipolar disorder these days,” Shane said, matter-of-fact. He saw the surprise in Damien’s eyes and beyond it something more. Was it … compassion? “Look, now’s the time to get up and walk away. I wouldn’t blame you.”

Damien reached across the table and placed his hand on Shane’s. “I’m told I’m a great listener.”

Shane tried to pull his hand away, but Damien held on. “It’s not something I really talk about.”

“You can with me.”

Shane, his gaze locked on Damien, drew in several deep breaths. Something in those eyes inspired confidence and trust. “I was nine when my father killed my mother…”

The sound of a speedboat zooming across the lake made Shane raise his head. “You should have walked away that night.”

“That was the moment I fell in love with you,” Damien said.

“Out of pity?”

“Respect. That you survived. That, despite everything, you’ve built the life you imagined.”

That was, at least, partly true … when his mind wasn’t broken. Now he had people waiting almost two years for a commissioned work.

“Come on.” Damien stood and held out his hand. “Let’s grab something to eat.”

Shane grasped the large hand and rose. “Stay with me?”

Damien pulled him in close. “Always.”

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: amwriting, communication, contemporary, depression, family, fiction, flash fiction, flashfiction, fridayfiction, grief, lgbt, lgbtq, love, memories, mental health, relationships, short stories, shortstory, suicide, unconditional love, writing

Stay with Me

April 13, 2018 by Marcus Leave a Comment

“Goddammit, move!” Damien slammed his fist into the steering wheel. Traffic on the eastbound QEW hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. The worst part was that he could see the exit for Islington Avenue, and that meant he was almost home. He turned on the radio and, searching for news, kept switching channels. No one talked about an accident, just the usual heavy rush hour gridlock. “Fuck!”

He’d been staying with Shane for almost a month, and waking up to those mesmerizing coffee-brown eyes made him smile. But the forty minutes added to his commute — most of that time spent parked on the highway — had him rethinking his decision. Well, not really. He wouldn’t abandon Shane, not when he needed him the most.

“Hey, Siri, call Shane’s mobile.”

“Calling Shane Wright … mobile,” the robotic voice said.

Like his three previous calls, Shane’s voicemail cut in right away. Damien didn’t want to admit it, but something was wrong. He knew as much by the way Shane, over the past few days, wouldn’t look at him. And when he went to touch Shane — kiss him goodbye in the morning, reach for his hand, hug him when he came home — there was always resistance. More than that. Avoidance. The silence made his stomach churn. Shane, lost in his labyrinth, wouldn’t let him in. Damien swallowed hard. When he thought about the past few weeks, and Shane being back on his meds, he wasn’t sure that anything had changed.

Traffic began to move again. Fifteen minutes later, Damien pulled up next to Shane’s black Matrix and scrambled out of the car. He jammed the key into the lock of the grey-brick house on Lake Crescent and opened the door. He roamed from room to room on the lower level, immured in a silence that had a metallic taste swirling in his mouth.

“Shane,” Damien called out, mounting the stairs. “We don’t have a lot of time if you want to get something to eat before the game.” It took a lot of convincing, perhaps even begging, but Damien had finally persuaded Shane to go to a Raptors’ game with him. It wasn’t necessarily the date night he imagined, but he’d have done anything to get Shane out of the house.

Damien, at the end of the hall, pushed on the bedroom door that had been left ajar and entered the room. “Come on, sleepyhead,” he said as he sat down on the bed and gently shook Shane. “You agreed to go, so there’s no backing…” His voice trailed off when he saw the empty pill bottle on the nightstand. His mouth went dry as he placed his fingers on Shane’s neck. He found a pulse … barely. He yanked his phone from his inside jacket pocket and dialled 9-1-1.

“Don’t you die on me,” he said, tears banking in his eyes. “I still need you.”

He heard the sirens growing louder and, when it sounded like they were wailing inside the house, raced downstairs to open the front door. He led the paramedics upstairs and, back in the bedroom, watched as they worked on Shane. Damien couldn’t stop crying because Shane never responded, never opened his eyes, never twitched.

The next thing he knew, Damien was climbing into the back of the ambulance, never taking his eyes off Shane. He found himself smiling and crying as he thought about the day they’d met and the rocky debut to their romance.

It’d happened two years ago at Mikey’s, one of the less popular hangouts on Church Street. Damien, seated at the bar, didn’t seem to blink as he watched the Penguins take on the Lightning in the Eastern Conference Final. At a commercial break, he drained his beer stein and that was when he saw the man at the other end of the bar. Something about him — the smooth caramel skin, the way he nursed his drink, his focus on the book he held in his hand — everything had Damien swooning. He slid off his barstool and walked over to the guy who he’d already decided would be his future husband.

“What’s that you’re reading?” Damien asked, his voice cracking.

“A book,” was the curt reply.

“Right.” Damien held out his hand. “I’m Damien.”

“Good for you.”

Damien started to walk away, then spun around. “Fuck you. I’m just trying to talk to you. You could say, ‘Hey, not interested,’ instead of being a world-class prick.”

“You’re right,” the guy said, putting down his book. “I’ve had a crap day, but that’s no reason to take it out on you. Shane.” He extended his hand and, after a quick handshake, added, “Let me buy you a drink.”

“I think a better apology would be dinner.” Damien winked. And when Shane flashed him a broad, life-affirming smile, that was the moment he knew he was hooked.

The rapid beeping of the heart rate monitor made Damien look up. His gaze latched onto the flat line streaming across the screen.

“No shock advised,” was the audible prompt. “Begin CPR.”

Damien let go of Shane’s hand and felt himself gasping for air as the paramedic began vigorous chest compressions.

“Stay with me,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Please, stay with me.”

As they sped through the city streets, Damien thought about God, salvation and eternal life. Now, he wasn’t sure about any of them.

The Flowers Need Watering: A Novel

When Mateo’s present and past collide, he’s questioning everything he knows about family, friendship, and love. The biggest test is this: is he willing to forgive? Read The Flowers Need Watering today and find out! Available on Amazon.

Filed Under: Short Stories Tagged With: amwriting, communication, contemporary, depression, family, fiction, flash fiction, flashfiction, fridayfiction, grief, lgbt, lgbtq, love, memories, mental health, relationships, short stories, shortstory, suicide, unconditional love, writing

Doing It My Way

April 7, 2018 by Marcus 3 Comments

“When we focus on what matters, we can build the lives we want, with the time we’ve got.”

– Lauren Vanderkam

I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with social media. I love that Twitter, more than Facebook, allows me to connect with readers and other writers. I love that I can ask a question and so many people are willing to share their knowledge and experiences. I love that, as an introvert, I feel like I’m a part of a community.

I’m less enthralled with social media when the trolls come out. The people who nitpick everything you do because everything they do is perfect. As soon as you make a mistake they come gunning for you. And it’s not that we’re not open to feedback, but they just lack the class and savoir-faire to communicate it well.

The Power of Social Media

Despite Facebook’s recent data scandal (and Mark Zuckerberg’s upcoming testify before the U.S. Congress), or Kylie Jenner and Rihanna distancing themselves from Snapchat, people don’t appear to be abandoning these networks in droves. Twitter, Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram, YouTube, Pinterest, Medium — they’ve become, for better or for worse, an integral part of how we communicate with each other.

As a writer, social media is a huge part of my author platform. Working to build my brand, I’m told over and over again that my success will depend on my engagement, or lack thereof, with social media — especially if I want to make a living from writing alone. (I’d love, LOVE, to quit my day job and write full-time.) That’s why I subscribe to so many blogs and mailing lists: The Creative Penn, Tom Morkes, Smart Author Labs, Book Marketing Tools, Books Go Social, and others. I’m interested in staying current with industry news, knowing the trends and honing my skills. And when it comes to success, the recurrent theme I keep hearing is this:

It’s Not Enough to Write a Good Book Anymore

To be a ‘successful’ author, one of the things we’re told we must do is write a blog, posting content regularly. I’ve had a couple of different blogs on and off since 2013, but it wasn’t until early last year that I started enjoying blogging. What changed? I no longer felt pressured to do it. I didn’t feel like it was a writer’s obligation anymore. I could do it, on my own terms, to stay connected to a wider writing community. Any other things writers should do? Plenty! Build your mailing list (valid point, and I’m building mine slowly). Perhaps start a podcast. Post frequently on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, etc. Offer a course or webinar. Send out a newsletter.

Are you exhausted yet? I am!

The introvert in me balked at most of those things. All my life, I’ve never been great at selling anything. So, when it comes to self-promotion there’s even greater resistance. Maybe that means that my road to becoming a successful author — however you define it — is going to take a little longer. As I grow older (and wiser?), I’m becoming okay with that. I get it. People like Joanna Penn (the Creative Penn), Mark Dawson (Self-Publishing Formula) and Chandler Bolt (Self-Publishing School) are living the dream because they’re doing all the ‘right’ things.

I’m an author who’s published two books — one that was traditionally published and a big flop, another that I self-published in February 2017 and that people are still buying. I work full-time, travelling the world (although lately, London, UK, feels like my second home). On my days off, I’m juggling writing, running and my responsibilities at home. You can relate, right? So, every time I read from an ‘expert’ that if I want to succeed as I writer, I should consider launching a podcast or offering a webinar, I’m frustrated. I can’t imagine fitting that in when it already doesn’t feel like there are enough hours in a day to get everything done. But the bigger question I keep asking myself this: When the [insert expletive] am I supposed to write?

Here’s the thing…

Over the past few months, I’ve struggled to get in my creative time. Not because of writer’s block (that’s never been an issue for me) or jet lag, but because I’ve been chasing someone else’s dreams or idea of what the successful author life looks like. There’s something frightfully addictive about social media — Twitter and Facebook (the two I use) — that has me constantly reaching for my phone. Have you noticed how some people get offended if you don’t instantly respond to them retweeting your tweet or liking your Facebook post? And you feel like you’re missing something if you don’t have your social media apps open and aren’t paying attention to them. No more!

Challenging Myself to Do and Be Better

Since the beginning of the year, I’ve been trying to live with intention. And I really like how Oprah Winfrey phrases it: “The number one principle that rules my life is intention. Thought by thought, choice by choice, we are cocreating our lives based on the energy of our intention.”[note]Oprah Winfrey, The Wisdom of Sundays, Flatiron Books, 2017, p. 44[/note] That has meant a number of different things for me. I stopped drinking (80 days strong and counting). I’m running more, improving my pace and putting in longer distances; and exercising regularly with the Nike Training app. I love food and prefer to prepare as much as possible from scratch. Over the past few months, I’ve really been paying attention to what I eat and now I scrutinize every label. Do you know how many grams of sugar there are in a 341 ml can of Minute Maid cranberry juice? 43 grams! I gave up caffeine in October 2016, but sometimes I treat myself to a regular latte — usually when I’m touring around London and have been up all night. Yes, this is me trying to live with intention.

But the most recent and dramatic change has been my introduction to the Freedom app.

A couple of years ago I discovered StayFocusd — a Google Chrome extension that limits the amount of time spent on time-wasting websites. When I was trying to finish a rewrite or complete a first draft, I’d limit how much time I could spend on sites like Twitter, Facebook or CNN before they’d be blocked. And StayFocusd has a nuclear option that blocks the entire internet on my laptop for as long as I like.

For my iPhone, I use Freedom (after five free sessions, you must buy a subscription). For the period set, all the apps on my phone are unusable. I can’t check e-mail, do banking, post on Facebook or Twitter. Nada. (Now, I’m learning to plan my day strategically so that if I need to go to Loblaws, my PC Optimum app will be functional.) But together, StayFocusd and Freedom are a powerful duo that allows me to sustain my focus and increase my productivity. More than that, I feel like I’m no longer spending time on things that distract me from my true passion.

After receiving my manuscript from my editor back in February, it felt like the corrections were taking forever. Until I found Freedom. Now, I’m sailing through them. Before Freedom, it felt like I was rushing to get out my weekly Twitter Fiction and Fiction Friday series, and scrambling to write a blog post. Not anymore. Freedom and StayFocusd are helping me to reclaim my life and my time so that I can live the life I’ve imagined.

Live the Life You Want with the Time You’ve Got

All this to say … we all have our own idea of success. Now, I’m learning not to do the things that aren’t true to who I am. I use Twitter. I love scheduling some tweets in advance, and I truly appreciate the support and encouragement I receive from that community. But I’ve decided, going forward, to scale back my presence to two days a week. Perhaps that seems a bit extreme, but I know how addictive Twitter is for me. So, Wednesday and Friday will be the days when I’ll respond to mentions, retweets and likes. Steven Pressfield, in his book Turning Pro, writes: “The amateur tweets. The pro works.”[note]Steven Pressfield, Turning Pro, Black Irish Entertainment LLC, 2012[/note] That hit me like a ton of bricks and really got me thinking about how I spend my time. And I’m no longer checking Direct Messages. I already have two e-mail accounts — one personal, one for my writing — that I struggle to manage daily. I know Direct Messages are convenient, but they feel highly impersonal and are annoying.

Admittedly, Facebook is trickier. Or there’s an illusion of it being trickier to manage. I’m talking about the Facebook Page app (I don’t use the regular Facebook app) because when I open it, this is what I’m immediately drawn to:

85% response rate. Respond faster to turn on the badge

Reach people nearby for $___

Number of likes

Facebook is constantly in your face to up your engagement. And whenever I see that I’ve lost a like or my reach is down, I wonder if it’s because I’m not engaging enough or that I’m not posting the right content. Then I end up asking myself: What more can I do? And that’s the moment I feel like Facebook has won. But, still, I’m trying to pull back because, at the end of the day, I don’t feel like I’m being true to who I am.

Some of you may remember the TV show Laverne & Shirley, starring Penny Marshall and Cindy Williams. There’s a great line from the opening theme song: “We’re gonna make our dreams come true / Doin’ it our way.”

Yes, I’ve got a dream and, with the time I’ve got, I’m doing it my way.

What’s your idea of success? Do you have a strategy for your use of social media? Are you where you want to be on your creative/life journey? Let me know in the comments section below.

Filed Under: Writing Life Tagged With: amwriting, doubt, Facebook, failure, focus, healthy living, oprah winfrey, productivity, sobriety, social media, success, Twitter, writer's block, writers, writerslife, writing, writinglife

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