Tomkin Watts

WHEN JAMIE GOT HOME from the park and went into the kitchen, an obnoxious green light was blinking on that intimidating box Peter had given him. Brand new, set up on the counter beside the drip coffee-maker Peter had also bought for him, it was an answering machine, but Jamie was not sure he remembered how to work it. Other than Peter, he didn’t know of anyone else who had one. A call had come in while he was out; the caller had left a message and now he needed to play it back; unsure about his

FOR SOME TIME, JAMIE lay back, eyes closed, mind adrift, contentedly somnolent in the warmth of the sun on his body. A light breeze rippled the hairs on his legs and teased the few he had on his chest. But soon, a burning sensation on his legs jolted him out of his reverie; he’d gotten enough sun for the day, and now it was time for him to go home. But first, an errand awaited: a detour down to Polk Street, to buy a fresh bag of coffee beans at Freed’s—the strong-tasting dark roast that Peter pr

LET’S SAY YOU WONDERED how you might best enjoy that brilliant, sunny Saturday in October ’75; to almost any San Franciscan, a day like that was a precious transience, not to be wasted. Chances are, after a busy morning of chores and errands that could not be put off, you would decide to spend the afternoon outdoors. It was perhaps the last beautiful, warm day before the onset of winter chill and the dim white light of the rainy season. So exquisite, you would prefer to stay close by, within an

For many of us, our public personae and our intimate lives may be radically different; the gap between what others see and expect of us and the life we really lead may result in misunderstanding of who we are. Over two weekends, two weeks apart, this story follows three ordinary young gay men and their secret lives, their anxieties, their desires and obsessions, and, of course, their yearning for a long-term lover.

OUT AT SEA ON A DAY LIKE THIS, with the horizon only broken by a distant passing ship, you might fancy you can see the curvature of the earth. It was like that here too. Around me in every direction, reaching out to all points of the compass, the land lay flat, stretched out and featureless but for the dead stubble in the cornfields—all that remained from the recent harvest. It was a lonely place: like the emptiness far out at sea, a large place that seemed to have no bounds; the horizon only br

Today, with modern treatment and prevention, we often forget about AIDS and the toll it took upon the gay community. At the end of a long trip, Robert's final stopover is Minneapolis. There, he encounters a friend of a friend who had fallen to AIDS twenty-five years earlier. This is a sad story, and was difficult to write, and I've kept it on the back burner for over a year. Dedicated to a close friend who passed thirty-two years ago on his favorite holiday, Halloween. This story completes a trilogy, following "A Class Reunion" and "Love, In the Ashes of Time."

This chapter is gut-wrenching. Down the unstoppable, bottomless vortex of despair. It defies the laws of physics: going clockwise, then counter clockwise, then clockwise again. Wow!

Well done! But I can only read one chapter at a time, and only before 10 am. Stories like this always make me feel like I am getting sucked into a vortex of despair. Tomorrow, on to chapter two... I love your vivid, tight style--I noticed that in "I'm Gay: A Nifty Story." In this story, the narrative voicing reminds me of Philip Marlowe's in "Farewell, My Lovely."

I disagree with the observation that "this format doesn't work." Unorthodox, perhaps, but if handled effectively and imaginatively, it works as well as a single first person narrative. (I am currently working on a story with a similar approach, but in limited third person.) Technically, it's more complex to pull off successfully, but It gives the reader more insight into multiple characters. So why not?

Congratulations, Jeff! I just read "I'm Gay: A Nifty Story," and loved it. The best story I've read so far on GA.

Loved it so far! I'm wondering what happens to the drawing Skylar made of Ryan way back in chapter 1.

Regarding Paul... yes, a dolt at times, and clueless too. We've all known the type, and sometimes, we've fallen in love with them. I know I have.

Thanks! Stories have a way of writing themselves. I worked up the first few drafts of this story about a year ago, then put it aside. The thematic structure of the early versions was completely different; then, after returning to the drafts that ultimately became, "A Promise, Unbound," which also came out entirely different from the original conception, I returned to this story, and the phoenix theme emerged, completely changing the fabric of the story. During the time this story was "on the back burner," I read James Baldwin's "Just Above My Head" and re-read Mishima's "Forbidden Colors," both of them gay novels that influenced me.

WHEN WE WERE YOUNG, we were all beautiful, the odd thought comes to mind as I glance at my face, like him. But I didn’t think so when I was his age… I turn the tap and run hot water over my razor, then look in the mirror again. Almost sixty now, Robby… but you still don’t look too bad. And still pretty buff for your age, too… taking good care of yourself. Hm… the silver hair works well for me… I’m glad I’m still not going bald. And my beard looks pretty good too… I glance in the mirror to check

During a stopover in London, a youthful encounter triggers Robert’s memories; almost sixty, he muses about youth and middle age, love and time.