Tomkin Watts
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Everything posted by Tomkin Watts
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It was either the year I turned thirteen or perhaps fourteen—I am not sure which—that, when the weather warmed up again in the spring, I started to wander out to my place again. It was my special place: an old forgotten, untended oak tree, about a mile out of town, surrounded by cornfields. Its branches, for months seeming lifeless, now freshly sprouted with the promise of deep cooling shade on those hot summer days that would soon be upon us. Old, fraying, a rope dangled from a huge protru
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- 15
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Looking back to the time when I was around twelve, I see now what I didn’t know about myself then: that I was unusually observant for a boy of that age. For, despite my youth, I had already noted the changes in my mother: that the older she grew, the more religious she became; and I saw my dad looking on as her fervor increased from year to year, concerned but saying nothing about it. Gradual at first, then quickening; every day, every month, and with every year that passed, it seemed to me that
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A story of gay life, partly set in San Francisco during the late 1970’s. But all the gay men who moved there during that time came from someplace else, and in this story, Michael, as an adolescent in his home town, navigates the tugs of two conflicting religious strains within his family, while at the same time coming to terms with his sexuality. As you will see, in his twenties he escapes to San Francisco—but is it freedom that he finds there?
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After that day, often, I would study him in the mirror of the free weight area. Not his form, which was excellent; not the amount of weight he lifted, which is merely a number; and not for any particular attraction to him: it was only his appearance that interested me. Or rather—that ultimately obsessed me. At first, he had been just another unremarkable face I often ran into around the gym. I noticed very little about him except that, like a lot of younger guys in my opinion, he made that
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Perhaps this story is merely a sorry little attempt at magical realism. Or perhaps it only takes place in the mind of its narrator, or in his dream, or perhaps some of it really happens to him—or a combination of all that. But none of that matters; none of those ideas either add to or detract from the story. With a nod to the many modern adaptations, here is another take on the Pygmalion myth. As with all such stories, be careful what you wish for!
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Short, sweet and simple. A satisfying, tightly structured story that doesn't need anything else to tell the tale and engage the reader. And yes, I agree that it is indeed poignant. I understand your struggling over the religious implications of the title, and your concern that some might find it offensive. I am currently struggling with this issue as well, as it is embedded in the thematic underpinnings of a story I am working on.
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Frankly, I can't answer that question, even though I am the author. I too have wondered about both possibilities, but I am just a stumped as you are. Characters have a way of creating their own mystery. And that, to me, is one of the joys of fiction.
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When he saw Cheffy step into the bar, Ben, like the rest of them, had been amazed by Cheffy’s looks—but for a different reason than theirs. It had been a long time since Ben last saw Cheffy. Upon seeing him, he saw how handsome Cheffy was, as he always had been, but now he also noticed that something about Cheffy seemed a bit off. He looked as if he hadn’t been to the gym in a while, and his handsome face looked somewhat haggard and creased with worry lines that had never been there before. In t
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More to come...
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The next morning when he awoke, Ben thought about calling in sick. After the two bottles of French wine he and Ray had split the night before at La Chartreuse, his head hurt and throbbed, and he could barely remember what he had eaten and how it had tasted. But Ben had used his knack for reading upside down, and he remembered the upside-down total of the check when the waiter gave it to Ray: $325.63. Ray must really like me, he thought with satisfaction, guessing that with his salary he could p
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“He’s really handsome,” one man said. “He’s gorgeous,” said another. “He’s Hot,” a third muttered into the white froth of his beer. “Yum,” another guy on the other side of the bar was thinking. “Cute,” two friends said to each other, simultaneously, as if they each knew exactly what type the other liked. Yes, he knew—he’d heard it all before—they were talking about him. Everything they said, and everything they thought but didn’t say in those few seconds, was all about h
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Ben has a problem. Will he resolve it? Will he redeem himself or condemn himself to a lonely old age?
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On my nightstand is a copy of the complete stories of James Purdy, some of which I read and partly inspired me to write this story. And yes, it is sad. Lately, I have been thinking, sadly, about people who have lost control of their lives because of things that seem to entrap them.
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“Hello?” Nothing. Silence. A click. Then, like the edge of the sharpest knife, the infinite plane of dial tone sliced right through her. She placed the receiver back in its cradle and sat in silence, her chin resting on her hand. She lifted the receiver again. Her fingers walked gingerly and slowly across the pushbuttons, step by step, like children testing the firmness of a fresh ice sheet on a frozen pond. Five pushbuttons, then the sixth, and she paused. She hung up. Stop
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A controlling mother's effect on her compliant daughter. This is my only story with no gay content. The story grew from a short sketch in the first section.
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Thank you everyone, for your comments!
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“From the vantage point of an artist,” my friend said as we leaned on the railing of my balcony waiting for our friends, “in the artist’s eye as they say—” I sensed his hesitation, then he continued, more confidently, “—your forearms are beautiful. Look at the beautiful definition of your muscles. See how this muscle joins with your wrist and the way the shadows accent the beautiful curve of muscle when you flex it.” I had the sensation of him tracing the contours of my forearm as he spoke.
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A straight friend, an artist who the narrator has known since college, compliments him on the definition of his muscles. The narrator has always considered the straight friend very attractive, The narrator is concerned his friend is not aware of his own good looks and is not keeping himself fit as they grow older. The narrator has a strategy for helping his friend.
