Jonathan E

That is a great point. The psychological toll of war is worth considering, too. My great-grandmother was a nurse during WWII. She signed up for the Army Nurse Corps in December 1941, she wanted to be there... and yet, she could almost never talk about what she saw after being sent to Europe in 1944. It puts an unjust war like Vietnam into perspective, when even a just war like WW2 scars its heroes.

Bottoms: Be kind, mind your behind 😉

Friday Morning – 6:15 AM Consciousness returned to Danny Devlin like a tide rolling in over sand—slow, inevitable, and carrying with it the debris of the night before. He stirred beneath the pink satin canopy, his head throbbing with the residual effects of Mr. Bradley's Bordeaux and Craig's cheap Ripple, his mouth cotton-dry and tasting of something sharp and foreign. He tried to inhale deeply, to clear the fog, but something was wrong. Something pressed against his face, constricting

Los Angeles, California — September 1969 — Thursday Night – 9:00 PM The September night air clung to Danny's skin like wet silk as he stepped from the taxi at the corner of Harper Avenue, the Bordeaux from the Ambassador Room still humming a warm, smoky baritone in his veins. The Victorian loomed ahead, all gingerbread trim and fussy grandeur, a lavender-painted anomaly among the palms. Danny had intended to slip inside unnoticed, to mount the stairs with his darker resolutions intact—but M

In the Los Angeles summer of 1969, two straight men attempt to avoid Vietnam by deceiving the local draft board and pretending to be a gay couple. Their plans go about as smoothly as trying to keep peonies alive in Los Angeles.

Thursday Morning The yelling started before Danny's eyes even opened—a cacophony of profanity and outrage that cut through the morning haze like a knife. "—the FUCK—DANNY—you absolute MOTHERFUCKING—" Danny groaned, pulling the pillow over his head. "Shut up," he mumbled, his voice muffled by feathers and exhaustion. "It's too early." "TOO EARLY? TOO EARLY?" Elliot's voice hit a register that could probably shatter glass. "Untie me RIGHT NOW you fucking PSYCHO—" Danny sig

Los Angeles, California — June 1969 — Tuesday It was Tuesday. The Bradley & Associates law firm occupied the fourteenth floor of a glass tower on Wilshire Boulevard, all chrome and mahogany and the hushed reverence of serious men doing serious work. Danny Devlin had been hired as a paralegal at the beginning of the summer, three weeks after his nineteenth birthday, following an interview where he had worn his father's old black suit—taken in at the waist by his mother's careful hands to