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Storm Clouds Rising The Boston trip was but a respite from the slow deterioration of our lives in Seattle. The routine—Jake followed by Alec in the morning and Alec followed by Jake in the evening—started up again. What I didn’t notice for the longest time—or maybe didn’t want to notice—was that this compartmentalized life, though okay for me, masked a growing tension between Alec and Jake. Even when we three were in the room, I realized that Jake would find a project to get hi

Before the Storm It was late in the afternoon of the next day. “Dad, we’ve got to talk again,” Alec said at the other end of the telephone. “Sure, come on over.” “Is Jake there?” “No, he’s working late.” I said. As usual, I said to myself. Too usual. “Good. I’ll be over in 10 minutes.” This time I did take that shot of brandy, fussed around the kitchen a few minutes and finally moved to the living room couch.

The Announcement I was slowly waking, opening my eyes, orienting myself, closing them again then finally opening them and staring at the wall. I could feel Jake’s body heat on my back. What the hell was I doing, I asked myself over and over. My finger was tracing small nervous circles on the sheet. Then, I felt something on my back. Jake’s finger was writing something between my shoulder blades. He was doing what I used to do with my children when I put them t

Awakening Jake must have cleaned up the kitchen and the dining area while I was napping, because, when I next opened my eyes, the dining table was clean, the overhead lights were off and some candles were burning softly around the room. Jake was sitting quietly in the easy chair, across the coffee table, a book sitting on his lap, his left leg across his right knee and a reading light shining over his left shoulder. He wasn’t reading; he was gazing at me. “Hi,” he

A New Closeness In contrast to Jake’s and Alec’s relationship, Jake and I were getting along better by the week. I would invite Jake over for weekends, so he wouldn’t have to be alone in the hotel. He apparently even appreciated sleeping on the sofa in our living room. We would go biking as usual, play some basketball outside, take in a movie with or without the kids, or maybe just the two of us would go to a play. On those few rainy nights of summer we would play Scrabble, so

To Shilshole and Back The storm front had passed quickly and lightly as it often does in late May, and the sky had cleared by the next afternoon after a morning sprinkle. I pulled up to the Emery with two bicycles in the back of my van just before 5:30 p.m. Jake was waiting in shorts and a tight red tee shirt, his burgundy rimmed sunglasses pushed up onto his hair above his batik hair band. We drove out to University Village, parked and unloaded the bikes. Jake looked at them

Book 2 - The Return – 14 Years Later It had been a year since I had written the story and sent it to the computer bulletin board. I had had a severe bout of upload remorse after I pushed the ENTER key, but there was nothing I could do about it then without calling more attention to myself. The story, I hoped, was lost in the past. I was coming home from work. Just as I had balanced all my groceries on my knee and inserted the keys into the lock of the door o

Dinner at Eighteen The finest restaurant in town, Dinner at Eighteen, was at the 18th green at the golf course. Jake and I had agreed to pool our depleting resources to take Grannah to a dinner at the fanciest place in town on the night before were to leave at the end of our summer. I had heard that Dinner at Eighteen was difficult to get into, so I made reservations two weeks before we were to go—three persons under the name of Ellis at 7 p.m. Grannah was on Clo

It was nearing the end of our summer project. Our group was slowly and somewhat sadly breaking up. We had developed a closeness over the summer that was hard to see coming to an end. Kathy and Lorraine left first, and Jake, Mary Lynn and I had taken the two women out for a final drink after a farewell dinner before they left. Now it was just Mary Lynn, Jake and me. We went out and had a final southern dinner for her, drank too much beer and staggered towards home. It had bee

The next morning began a period that still lives in my fondest memories. Jake and I and the other volunteers for the summer project gathered in one of the Sunday School rooms in the back of Grannah’s church to start our tutoring project. Grannah had walked there with us in the morning sun to show us where the church was, then had slipped off to talk to the pastor. She made that visit every day, we discovered, usually with a plate of cookies. Apparently, quite a few people brought snacks for

I wrote 1969 – Stirrings in 1982 during a particularly lonely and unhappy time in my life, shortly after my divorce from my wife of 12 years. The story was posted on a bulletin board at that time, and then I lost any track of it. In fact, I even lost my original file in one of my many computer upgrades or less-frequent hard-disk crashes. I wrote the story primarily for my own consumption—to address conflicts in my mind on issues of sexuality and love—but I guess I got the writer

I awoke abruptly. It was the middle of the hottest night that summer in Mississippi. Jake’s hand was resting on the top of my right thigh, the tips of his fingers just an inch from what I groggily realized was a raging erection. I lay on my back, sweaty from the interminable heat of that night, but not alert enough to comprehend what was really happening. I didn’t know how long Jake’s hand had been there, but a more alert part of my body obviously had noticed some time earlier.

Two college men who have volunteered to tutor black kids for the 1969 summer in the South grow more and more attracted to one another. But the summer ends before they realize the full extent of their love for one another, and they go separate ways—one to get married and have children, the other to join the military and go to Vietnam.

I just received my DVD of a Swedish movie Patrik 1.5 about a Swedish gay couple who "adopt what they think is a 15-month-old orphan, only to meet their new son, a 15-year-old homophobic delinquent." Beautifully done: well-acted, nicely written, well-plotted. One of the best gay-themed movies that there is. It's available on Netflix.

And many more.

There are so many fine stories on the itgetsbetterproject.com, but a few stand out, and I like to note them. Oral Roberts grandson's video is superb, particularly in his reading of a letter sent to his dead uncle who committed suicide in 1982, probably as a result of his coming out. The parallels between his uncle's and his life led him to write the letter. Highly recommended here.

The use of detail is subjective. Some authors do it well, some poorly. I think it's fruitful for an budding author to look at both. One of my favorite authors for detail is Rock Lane Cooper whose works appear in several places but at Bestofnifty.org under the Mike and Danny series. Contrast Cooper's use of detail with Etienne's, say in the Page Turner, which is a good story despite the weaker use of details. Of course, my observations above are subjective. Others may have different views.

Hi, I recommend Sequoyah's A Special Place over at awesomedude.com.

I suggest you call the principals of the middle and high schools to ask them about your situation. You might as well be direct. Then, you will need to assess whether or not the principals are following the PC response requirement or express a true belief--one way or the other.

One author you can't go wrong with is Sequoyah and his story A Special Place at this link. I recommend, also, Cole Parker's stories that are available at this URL. The High Plains of Wyoming is a fine long, short story, and the novels are uniformly good. Then, there's Brew Maxwell's Foley-Mashburn saga at this link and the first story, Tim. These should keep you going. I will send you by PM the site for one of the best of all -- a writer who wants no publicity.

Kurt Vonnegut

For pricing, I'd check Frys.com and HP.com. In my view, there are lots of solid machines in the $650 U.S. range. Try to get a new Quad 4 chip (i3 or i7), 4 gigs of memory, a separate display adaptor, and Windows 7 (if you're going PC). HP.com is running weekly specials.

CJ, You spin tales well -- at least the two of them that I've read. You even partly redeemed yourself on why tequila had such an effect on Eric. With due respect to artistic license, and since I live 30 miles from the (old) summit of Mt. Saint Helens and received several doses of ash (though not the heavy doses that went east), explosive pyroclastic volcanoes tend not to have lava flows, as I understand them. Lava did emerge in the new crater of Mt. Saint Helens, but it was of the oozy, thick kind. Your descriptions of the lightning emanating from the volcano is right on as is the difficulty of dealing with the ash. So, too, with your description of the buildup -- the mild tremors, the ash plumes. Very enjoyable, this, as well as Let the Music Play, which I was happy to put up on the Best of Nifty (and the Net) site. rec

Freedom of speech is only important if you're gonna offend someone; if you're not gonna offend someone, you don't need free speech.

If you go to Best-of-Nifty.org (for Best of Nifty (and the Net))and pick the highest rated stories, you will find many that should fit your bill. Freethinker's stories usually involve younger people. Cole Parker's stories are very good. Educating Alex is one of my favorites. The Foley-Mashburn Saga by Brew Maxwell is a good series of stories that takes two boys from teenage through college. Michael Arram's stories are good, starting mainly at the college-age level. Given what you have listed as liking, I'd suggest starting with Brew Maxwell's stories.