On 10/02/13 17:31, Chris Jones wrote:
> But this from crazyfish quote seems a worth it cut and paste;
> gayauthors.org.
http://www.gayauthors.org/story/crazyfish/toooldforoldtricks/1
Gently and precisely, he got his cellphone from his pocket. After a
glance at its artic blue screen, he tossed the phone aside and wriggled
the letter from his back pocket. It felt warm and damp. There was the
graceful name again, ‘Chris Winston’.
Emmanuel always had truculently asserted his right to identify as
bisexual. Anton dismissed his view as droll; after all seven years of
monogamy should decide it one way or another. Yes, but they had had
seven years now of what exactly?
His pusillanimous thoughts so appalled him that he flung the letter into
the grocery bags on the passenger seat and stuck the keys into the ignition.
“Ow!” Gently again, he cradled his right hand to himself, but burls of
discomfort grew wilder in his forearms and his hand flamed. He could see
the ash black roots curled over his digits, stretched and spiraled over
his biceps, and clawed its pin tendrils up his neck. In that great
revelation of pain, he lifted his eyes to the eastern horizon. His mind,
in an instant, expanded, warped, sheared—a great tree darkening half the
sky, its leaves of magnesium-blue flame, its fruits hanging like massive
lanterns during a Chinese New Year. Today was Easter; more importantly,
it was spring, and therefore the season of its pollen celestial tide.
The pollen streamed from the east, covered all over rooftops and
electric pole, passed through windows, open hands, open mouths—diamond
dust, metaphysical dust enthralled his eyes and prickled his skin. But
his hands, the inky roots were bulging and pulsating underneath his taut
skin, and neural darts harpooning and bursting the myriad corpuscles in
his brain. His vision swooped close in from the sides. Lost in a
shattering darkness behind his skull, he slumped onto the steering
wheel. Then he remembered.
Francis was not Francis. Wilson was not Wilson. The bangle was not made
of titanium. It was simple iron, as old as himself; it was an emblem, a
seal gifted to him from his parents.
Light and its variegated hues bled down his vision. And his arms felt
like postulating appendages. The air was thick and dry in his nostrils.
He moaned, “Why now? Why now after thirty seven years?”
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