First day of Christmas – Part 2

Bruce wonders whether he’ll see this Christmas out. 

If you missed the start of this story, you’ll find it here: The first day of Christmas – Part 1

Each successive year contained an element of jeopardy. A number of them, in fact. Would he make it out of the garage? Did he feel OK? Would he survive the ritual dressing-up? Bruce grimaced at that one. The dressing-up wasn’t exactly progressing. How would he last out the festivities? Did another eleven months in the garage await?

So many questions.

Questions with no answers. So far, at least. Bruce was under no illusions. A Christmas tree’s homelife could be ended in the blink or two of a flashing bulb.

The first day of Christmas – Part 1

Christmas is Bruce’s special time of year, a time he shines, but there’s always a shadow…

Part 1 of a Christmas short story. Enjoy.

Bruce tried to ignore the aches and pains that afflicted him from top to bottom. Sunlight, low, warm, and golden, streamed into the lounge and caressed his lower limbs. Unexpected brightness, reflected in the French windows, was dazzling when his head occupied one particular position. Standing upright required more strength than he currently possessed. He felt unbalanced. Unsteady. Even more so because the lounge carpet from previous winters had gone completely, replaced by some slippery faux-wood substitute.

Off to one side, Max sat on the floor, legs tucked up, and stared at a small heap of boxes, muttering under his breath. “So just where the fuck are the fucking tree lights?” He let out a groan and flopped backwards, arms out wide. “Jeez. I fucking hate Christmas!” Max’s shocking electric blue quiff stood out against the pale wood grain. The blue clashed with a red Christmas pudding jumper – bought specially by his mum – and tight purple jeans.

Bruce blinked several times in succession. It always took a while to reacquaint himself with festive bling. He carefully flexed every extremity to make sure the room’s warmth reached as far as it could. Bliss. What colour had Max’s hair been the previous year?

Not Things

You’d think I’d know a thing or maybe two,
For I am not an innocent,
And in some quiet moment I will think
Of many things magnificent,
Like graceful silver pitchers polished bright,
Or Mom’s blue china Dresden plates
Residing in the cabinet beside
The crystal, which it antedates.

Yet when I ponder deeper, I reflect
That these things aren’t my chief delight,
For things like these inevitably pass
And fail to keep me up at night;
Instead, the things the satisfy me best
Are greater though they seem so small – 
A smile, a hug, or laughter in the sun,
and things that are not things at all.

©Copyright, April 2023, Parker Owens 

You can find all of Parker’s work at GayAuthors.org

300,000 kisses – a review

300,000 kisses by Seán Hewitt, illustrations by Luke Edward Hall

My rating: 4 stars (out of 5)

What a gorgeous, gorgeous book. Luke Edward Hall’s colourful sketches are the perfect foil to Seán Hewitt’s selection of Greco-Roman classical texts. On their own, the texts would be fine but there’d be an air of something more scholarly about them. Maybe, something more distant.

Searching

The carpenter knows where the basswood grows
as the jay is aware of the berry,
while the monarch goes where the wild red rose
decks the meadow in finery merry,
and hungry black bears leave their crude affairs
in a quest for delectable sweetness
scented soft in airs to take unawares
chosen noses which know incompleteness.
But anywhere I, searching low and high,
seek that visage my spirit sustaining,
find all hopes awry while these smiles belie
the uncertainty in my heart reigning.
So quietly waiting, my fears adjust,
for your hunting abilities I trust. 

©Copyright, November 2022, Parker Owens;  you can find all of Parker’s work at GayAuthors.org

Trying something new – book reviews

Over the past 18 months, I’ve rediscovered my love of reading and/or listening. Yes, it’s cut down on the available time to write, but on the plus side, I’ve learned so much and thoroughly enjoyed myself at the same time. You might be surprised at the ‘learned’ bit. I’m not. I’m still discovering things about myself – books (including novels) help. They continue to broaden my horizons, particularly opening my eyes to what it means to be queer. As a writer, it’s fascinating to encounter so many different books, so many different authors. In fact, sometimes I wish I could turn off that part of me that analyses content, structure, characters, syntax. There again, some of that’s pretty useful when it comes to crafting a review. 

So, anyway, here’s the first of what will hopefully grow to be a series.

A Nobleman’s guide to seducing a scoundrel by KJ Charles

New Arrivals

A fun project for Gay Authors and their latest anthology on the theme of Anniversary . It’s a longer post than usual because there’s no obvious place to call a halt before the end. Estimated 15 mins read. Enjoy.

Lizzie forces open one of the large sash windows as far as her diminutive frame can push it. She’s greeted by a blast of super-heated summer air drenched in petroleum by-products. And the noise. Crowds of people talking, shouting, calling to one another in so many languages. Lizzie focuses for a moment, taking time to untangle some of the threads. She stops when her count of languages reaches twenty. Plus there’re some she doesn’t recognise. Even after a lifetime of travelling the world and meeting people, she doesn’t know everything.

A scowl mars her usually serene expression. She wonders why all those people are outside. Some will be waiting to visit her home, she knows, but really everyone should be indoors with her. Spending their money in this pathetic excuse for a gift shop which, a quick glance around confirms, currently boasts a grand total of two customers. One, a thin scrap of a woman not much younger than Lizzie, gazes at the displays with a dull wistfulness which signals she’ll leave without buying anything. Not even one of the tacky, Chinese-made Union Jack key rings.

Old Friends and Perfection

Old Friends

My dentist says my teeth are all adrift
like schoolboys on a summer afternoon
eternal in its golden, sunlit gift
for them to play the hero or buffoon;
he says that my incisors, one day soon
upon the ocean of my jaw must stray,
perforce to let soup dribble from my spoon
while those same children laugh at my dismay.
Let molars and bicuspids go their way
and make my mouth a sign of age a-creep,
our friendship cares not how the shadows play,
or worries at our changes ere we sleep.
So touch me now and learn of me anew,
no alteration lies twixt me and you.

Perfection

I wonder if it’s possible to be
embodied as perfection in a man
constructed to a well-proportioned plan
once drafted in the Greek academy
and born to illustrate elusive φ
as Leonardo drew in ink on tan
ideal dimensions of immortal span
for Michelangelo’s reality.
But I’m constructed with unnumbered flaws;
no golden ratio will I measure out
(my figure would give Archimedes pause
considering my curvature’s so stout);
I wish I’d garnered David’s loud applause
and not misshapen decades full of doubt.

©copyright, Parker Owens, November 2022.

All of Parker’s work can be found at GayAuthors.org

Stars for the Star – 2

A seasonal story in two parts.

From Part One…

A few minutes later, Adrienne emerged. “Well, that was useless. Eldridge really does sound sick. He must be a great actor, after all.” Her tone was dejected.

“Hey, hey, it’ll work out,” George said, standing.

“That’s right,” I chipped in without looking away from the current note I was writing. “It’s not like he had a big part or anything.”

“But this is impossibly short notice. And it has to be great – we want to generate donations and memberships, not chase people away.” Adrienne seemed on the edge of tears.

“You’ll find someone,” I reassured her, not thinking of what I was saying. “You did it last year, and the part you need to fill is has a little action and a few lines. Isn’t that right, George?”

George didn’t immediately support me, so I put my pen down and swiveled in my chair.  He and Adrienne were exchanging an impenetrable sort of look.

I blinked.

“Yes. Yes, that’s right.” George agreed. He turned to me. “But I don’t think we’ll have to look very far to find someone to take Eldridge Montfort’s part.”

Oh, hell. A slow, irresistible smile was spreading across his face. I was so screwed.

Part Two

Dress rehearsal that night was like something out of my nightmares. I still have this one every so often – I’m on stage in a huge theater; lights so bright, I can’t see the audience, but I know there are thousands out there – and I have no idea what play I’m in, no idea what my lines are, and I haven’t been to a single rehearsal.  I’m frozen on the stage, unable to speak. Ugh.

How in God’s name did I let myself get roped into this?

Stars for the Star – 1

A seasonal story in two parts. 

Part One

“Cold enough for ya, Beau?”

God, I hate that question. And my co-workers just love to ask, especially when it snows hard.

“Yes, George, it’s plenty cold enough, thanks.” Hell, even the studs in my ear were cold. I dug in my pocket for my keys to the building. George and I usually opened up the office in the morning.

“Didn’t get snow like this in Louisiana, did you?”

“We never even knew what street snow lived on,” I responded grimly. God, it was cold.

“So what the hell did you move to Ashtabula, Ohio, for?”

I found the key, and managed to insert it into the lock. “I wanted to see the world.”

The tumblers grudgingly clicked and yielded, and we could get into the warmth. Finally. I could hear the faint sounds of dogs barking. The offices of Animal Angels Adoption Center were now open. The volunteer staff had been here much earlier, checking, cleaning and feeding.

“If this keeps up, you won’t see much except snowbanks,” George asserted, stamping off his boots.

“Y’all know I won’t see anything but fundraising letters for the next month.”

“It’s that most wonderful time of the year.”