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    Wayne Gray
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

A Silent Song - 4. The Word of Man

I had to find a formatting solution for ASL (American Sign Language). I decided to go with Italics, and the "connector words" omitted are in parentheses. I hope it's not too confusing, and I am willing to take constructive feedback on my solutions.

Huck Yoman, Rayne's father, sat quietly in his car. It was just before seven a.m., and he was a couple of hundred feet away from the campground entrance. Huck watched carefully for any sign of his son.

There was movement, and Huck sat forward. Three boys gathered in a little group near the road. From that distance, it was hard to make out details, but Huck picked out the black hair and the bigger frame of his son. The bandage on Rayne's head was visible too. Huck frowned with emotion. "Hey, boy,” he whispered and swallowed the lump in his throat.

Huck knew he wasn't supposed to be there, but he had to see his son. He had to make sure Rayne was okay. As he watched the boys wait for the school bus, and as they milled about a little, Huck heard the words of Pastor Rogers in his mind. You need to show Rayne you don't accept his way of life. You can't accept this choice, or you're complicit in his sin.

He felt great conflict. Huck was a believer, even after all that had happened. Ironically, the Yomans had met the Andersons at a couples’ retreat organized by the church. Frank was even a deacon. After that retreat, which was supposed to bring married couples together, his wife became more distant than before. It was only six weeks later that he came home to the letter telling him that she and Frank were moving to the Bay Area to be together. He had been quickly surrounded by members of the church and Pastor Rogers, but the other side of the storm was about to hit, and he hadn't even seen it coming.

Rayne had become more and more surly and reluctant to get ready every Sunday morning when it came time to go to church. The Sunday morning after his wife had left, Huck begged Rayne to go with him. He needed to feel that they were still a family and could move on together. That’s when Rayne had finally told him. The shock was enormous. Huck went alone that Sunday, and when the preacher took him aside to console him, Rayne’s confession just came out.

Pastor Roger’s first solution was to send Rayne to one of the “healing” camps that he had heard great things about. Instantly, Huck rejected that idea, knowing that he could not live without his son right now and frightened of what it would do to Rayne. So the good pastor gave Huck his second-best plan to root out the sin: Ignore him until he repented and returned to the fellowship.

Huck strove to steer his son to the one path to salvation, but he could see that Rayne was in agony. They used to be close, even friends; now Huck was told he had to distance himself from his own son. According to Pastor Rogers, he had to show constant disapproval of Rayne's choice, after a few months that had taken a toll on both of them. Huck had read the statistics on gay teen suicide and knew what was at risk. Desperate to gain some kind of relief for himself and for Rayne, he enrolled the boy in The Raven Project.

He realized Pastor Rogers wouldn't approve, but Huck couldn't watch Rayne fall apart. And he didn't know what to do since he couldn't show any sort of acceptance of Rayne's life. So I'll put him with others who can. Huck knew that this flew in the face of the spirit of what the pastor said he ultimately was supposed to do for Rayne. The Raven Project accepted homosexuality—they even advertised that fact—but his son was so close to breaking. Huck could see it, every time he looked at Rayne.

Yesterday, when he had gotten the call from Jeremy, Huck had to force himself to strive for detachment. He had wanted to go running straight to his boy, but the words of Pastor Rogers kept repeating in Huck's mind. This life is fleeting. His eternal soul is at stake. You can only reward Rayne with affection and comfort when he shows true regret and a willingness to change.

The big yellow bus pulled up. The boys filed onto the vehicle, and it slowly pulled back onto the twisty road leading back to Crescent City.

Huck sighed and rubbed the day's worth of bristly growth on his face. He had to go to work, and his need to see Rayne put him behind. He'd probably be late now, but Huck didn't truly have a choice. He had to lay eyes on Rayne.

Now confident that his son was okay, he pulled onto the road, headed toward Crescent City.


As the little red hatchback car drove in the wake of the school bus, Harlan stepped out to get a look at the license plate. Memorizing the combination of numbers and letters, he filed them away for later. Then he stepped back into the foliage along the road.

It was Harlan's weekday morning ritual. He got up and ensured the young artist, Elias, made it onto the bus safely. The moment a kid walked to the bus was often one walked alone, or with other kids. It was a prime moment for a young person to go missing. That was the reason for Harlan's vigil. No one ever knew he was there; Harlan was very good at remaining unseen and unheard when he wished it.

That morning, Harlan had noticed the car. It had driven slowly past the entrance to the campground and then parked further up the road. Harlan hadn't been entirely sure the man in the vehicle was interested in the kids until he left after the bus had picked them up. Now he knew.

Carefully re-entering the campground, Harlan turned toward his cabin and sat at his laptop. He only had a little time before he had to be at his dad's shop in the city, so he had to work fast.

All right. Let's see who you are, and why you're eyeballing the kids.


Shawn Cassidy's grin was visible from the road as Bailey pulled into the gravel lot. Granite's base of operations was currently just off of the 199, a bit south of where they were working on the CalTrans road-widening project. There was barely enough room for the mobile work trailer, various road equipment, a couple of porta-potties, and parking for ten or so vehicles.

Bailey got out of his truck. Shawn dodged a few of the other guys on the crew as he neared Bailey. The short, blonde man typically worked for Granite as skilled labor, and he had been with the outfit for a couple of years. Now he was assigned as Bailey's assistant—for a very specific reason.

"Good morning." Shawn signed and spoke at the same time. Bailey could tell the man liked to use his ASL skills. Despite the little sleep Bailey had gotten, and the unpleasant surprise of Harlan finding an old performance of Bailey's online, he smiled at Shawn.

"Good morning." Bailey grinned. "Coffee?"

Shawn laughed. "Yes. Coffee in trailer." He made a motion with his head toward the building. "Hurry before coffee gone."

Bailey smiled, and he followed Shawn inside.

The rest of the crew nodded and greeted Bailey as he and Shawn encountered them. When needed, Shawn translated. The young man impressed Bailey. He knew ASL very well, even some of the more nuanced bits. Shawn didn't suffer the "tone deaf" problem of some hearing signers—where they didn't pair the hand movements and motions with expressions and postures. He was easily as expressive as a person speaking verbally.

"I learn for grandmother," Shawn had told him at one point. "Grandmother deaf five years past." Shawn took care of his grandma, and he had learned to sign along with her when her hearing had declined to the point of legal deafness and then beyond.

Regardless of the reason he had learned, Shawn's presence on the crew had been the reason Granite was able to hire Bailey. Though Shawn wasn't a certified ASL translator, they could accommodate his muteness, all thanks to the young man.

Bailey got his coffee. He found it amusing—after he had learned to sign and came to depend heavily on it for his communication, he hated having his hands full. He compared it to another person walking around with a piece of beef jerky between their teeth. So he filled a little thermos with the coffee, took a sip, and slipped it into the large front pocket of his thick docker work pants.

Now armed with caffeine, he smiled at Shawn. "We go look at new road part (section). We test strength (sturdiness)."

Shawn rolled his eyes and grinned sarcastically. "No trust?"

Bailey laughed, though only the sound of his breath as it passed through his mouth was heard. "No. No trust." He smirked and motioned at the both of them. "Our job (to be) untrusting."

"You invited (to) lots (of) parties?" Shawn laughed at his own joke. It was clear that Shawn and the crew dreaded to see the engineer out examining their work. Invariably it meant there would be more work ahead for them should the engineer find issues with the project.

Bailey shook his head with a smile and pointed, his eyes narrowed. Shawn only grinned. Then the two men got on with the business of ensuring the 199 highway didn't slump into the Smith River the first time a loaded logging truck rumbled past.


Harlan stood behind the counter of his father's shop. It was mid-afternoon when his phone buzzed with a message. At the moment, it was only him and his dad, Gary, in the business. The older Flemming was busy stocking some locally made wooden spoons. After a careful glance at his dad, Harlan unlocked the phone.

Huck Yoman, H Street Crescent City. Surf Apartments, Unit 2A. No address change for 8 years.

The message was short, to the point, and it was all Harlan needed. He nodded to himself, satisfied.

"Harlan. Help me with this pot." Harlan looked up from his phone to see Gary standing beside a large ceramic pot the boy, Elias, had made. There were intricate geometric designs on the piece and multiple glazes. The colors on it shifted from black to light tan. It was beautiful but heavy.

Harlan stepped over, and he helped Gary move the pot into the corner of his ceramic display. Most of the products highlighted local artists, and Gary was proud of that fact. As they stepped back to look at it, Harlan glanced at him. "Dad, you mind if I cut out a bit early? I've got an errand to run in town."

Gary nodded. "That's fine, son." He smiled affectionately at Harlan. "You help me plenty—and I appreciate you." He patted Harlan's shoulder. "Go on. I'll see you tomorrow."

Leaving the shop, Harlan drove his used, white Honda Accord over to the address given to him. He looked at the three-story building from the street where he parked. He got out and walked around the building. No red hatchback. It was only three p.m., so Harlan was fairly sure he'd need to wait for whoever drove the car to come home before he got a look at them. Most local people had regular jobs. The fact that this guy had lived there for eight years meant he was likely not sent for Elias. Something else was going on.

Harlan debated. Probably have time—at least an hour before most people start leaving work.

Decided, he walked over to the door. It was one of those buzz-through jobs. Harlan first tried 2A, waited, and when no one answered, began with the top floor-the third level. On his second attempt, button 3B, a crackling voice came over the speaker. "Hello?"

"Yeah, hi. I've got a delivery here for 1B. Can you buzz me through? Nobody's home, and I wanted to leave it inside the door, so nobody takes it."

"Oh, yeah. This isn't the best neighborhood. Good idea." The door buzzed. "Have a good day."

"Yup." Harlan smiled and opened the door. "You too."

Harlan entered the lobby of the building. There were locked mailboxes on the wall, an elevator, and stairs leading up. Harlan took the stairs up a flight. He walked past 2A, and he put an ear on the next door. It was quiet in 2B. The same held true for 2C. The floor was empty.

Going back to 2A, Harlan took out his kit. The door had an older three tumbler lock and it took about twenty seconds for Harlan to open it. He entered and shut the door quietly behind him.

He looked over the apartment. It was well kept—everything was neat and in place. Harlan walked over to the kitchen table. On the corner was a stack of mail. Careful to keep everything the same order, Harlan looked through the little pile.

Bills, mainly. Nothing is overdue. He keeps up on his expenses. His face took on a thoughtful cast, and he walked into the living room. There on the coffee table was a flyer.

If Being Gay Doesn't Define You, Then You Don't Have to Be Gay.

Harlan snorted. "Yeah, and if being straight doesn't define you, you don't have to be straight. Fucking stupid."

Noting the position on the table and the way the flyer was folded, Harlan picked it up. He read through the document. It was filled with the false belief that a person could change their sexuality, and, more, that a person would need to if they were anything but straight.

Harlan felt that old, deep flame of indignance begin to burn in his chest. Years back, he had left home because his father couldn't accept that he was attracted to both men and women. That had nearly destroyed their relationship. Luckily, Gary had come around, but it was Gary and his viewpoint that had changed, not Harlan.

A sticky note was attached to the flyer. Huck, at least take a look at this program. I think Rayne could benefit from this man's help. Your son deserves every shot at redemption. Give it some thought. - Rev Rogers

"Ah. Rayne. You're Rayne's dad." Harlan shook his head at the note. "Fucking preacher."

Ordinarily able to filter the world through a very objective and clinical view, Harlan found himself reacting emotionally. Use of religion as a weapon against different sexualities was one of those things he found reprehensible. To claim a higher power disapproved of gays was an argument which believers found hard to refute. They couldn't ask the higher power, they had only the word of church leaders to guide them. In Harlan's experience, those leaders could be some of the most judgmental people he had ever encountered.

Harlan carefully put the flyer with the attached sticky note back into its spot on the coffee table. There was a business card lying beside the brochure. It was for a local Baptist preacher named David Rogers. Harlan took out his phone to snap a photo of the card. Then he narrowed his eyes as he thought.

So, dad sends his gay kid to gay camp? Even after he gets counseled by his preacher to get him enrolled in conversion therapy. And then, dad comes to secretly see his son after he had his little dip in the river. Harlan had heard about Rayne's near tragic fall in the Smith River, and he knew the teenager was lucky to have survived it.

Lying open on the table beside the flyer for the conversion therapy was also an advertisement for a support group for parents with gay kids. It wasn't local; it was some organization in San Francisco. But there was a little bit of information in it, and it looked like Huck had highlighted parts.

Harlan rubbed his jaw. "Dad seems conflicted." Then his eyes found the preacher's business card again. He stared at the little rectangular piece of cardstock. "And you're not helping."

Harlan had figured out the mystery. He knew who was in the car at the campground entrance, and that there was no threat to his charge, Elias. As it concerned his responsibilities toward the boy, Harlan was absolved. He could drop this, and let whatever happened between Huck, Rayne and the preacher happen.

Leaving the apartment, Harlan locked it up after he had ensured everything was precisely as he'd found it. He got into his car and began the drive back to the campground. The situation turned over and over in his mind. From what he had seen, Huck was deeply divided.

I wonder what Huck would decide if he didn't have that preacher poisoning his mind? His eyes narrowed. Harlan knew that he didn't have to get involved, but few things riled him like a father rejecting his son—particularly for something that couldn't be helped, like sexuality.

Harlan got to the campground and pulled into his cabin's parking spot. Then he tapped his fingers on his steering wheel. He only had so much influence he could exert over his various contacts. And his guy at the DMV had already come through for him twice.

I'll do it myself this time. He looked on his phone for 'Rev David Rogers.' Both the location of the man's church and a white page entry popped up. Harlan selected the white page entry and then snorted at the ease of the search.

Got you. Harlan smiled. He now knew where the man lived.

He got out of his car, going straight inside his cabin and sitting at his desk. "Okay. One more thing to do before dinner."

Opening the little laptop on his desk, Harlan unlocked the encrypted machine and sighed. "Time to pay the piper."


All things considered, Bailey'd had a good day. He and Shawn had inspected the work done so far, and Bailey got to show the younger man some of the things engineers looked for during their testing.

Shawn even sat with Bailey over his lunch. Bailey's meal was simple—a cold-cut sandwich and an apple. But it turned into something fun, thanks to Shawn. The man had a great sense of humor, and Bailey breathed his near soundless laugh more than once during their meal. Shawn seemed to genuinely enjoy Bailey's company, and the two talked throughout their meal.

Wearing a little smile as he pulled into his parking space, it disappeared as soon as he stopped. The man, Harlan, walked purposefully down the paved loop toward him.

Bailey got out and cast a wary glance at Harlan. The brown-haired fellow stopped in front of him, his green eyes looking at Bailey with an unusual intensity.

God, what now? Bailey gave him the barest of smiles.

Harlan then moved his right arm. I'm sorry. Harlan signed against his chest. But, with the serious expression on Harlan's face, it "sounded" like a little kid being forced to apologize for something. Like he didn't mean it.

Bailey suppressed his initial irritation. He's trying. Before he could stop himself, he signed back, (It's) Okay. Though Harlan didn't understand the sign, Bailey's face and the nod of his head got his point across.

Harlan swallowed and nodded back. The man stood awkwardly for a moment and cleared his throat. "Uh, so you hear okay?"

Bailey nodded. He held up a finger and took out his phone.

Harlan waited while Bailey typed out a message. Then he flipped the phone around so Harlan could see it. How'd you find out about my singing?

Harlan rubbed the back of his head and looked a little uncomfortable. "Ah, I looked for your name online. There aren't a lot of 'Baileys' out there." He shrugged. "I was, ah, just curious."

Just curious. Huh, Bailey thought, and he eyed Harlan. He knew there were still videos of his performances out there in the world. Though Bailey found it very painful to view them himself, he realized that there wasn't really a way to purge them from the internet.

Harlan smiled at Bailey. "Ah, anyway, I wanted to say I'm sorry. And, that I didn't mean to offend you." Harlan then nodded and looked away.

He's sort of cute. Bailey studied Harlan's face. He's really nervous too. He could tell Harlan wasn't comfortable with apologies, and that made his attempt even more meaningful.

Smiling, Bailey put a hand on Harlan's shoulder. When Harlan looked at him, Bailey nodded reassuringly. Then Bailey pointed at himself, then at his cabin.

Harlan got the message. "Ah, okay. Yeah, I've got to get stuff ready for dinner anyway." He stepped back. "Sorry to keep you."

He turned and walked away, back to his own cabin. Bailey watched him go. The man got to his door, then he looked over his shoulder at Bailey.

With a nervous smile, Harlan disappeared into the building.

Bailey stood and gazed at the cabin. Well, maybe I'll sit at the fire again tonight.


Harlan closed the door behind him, leaning back against it. He took a breath and tried to calm his heart as it hammered in his chest.

"Jesus, man." Harlan grimaced at how jittery and weird he felt. He raised his hand up to eye-level. He watched as it vibrated in space, then laughed and balled his fist. "Wow. Get ahold of yourself."

Shaking his head, Harlan went to his cooler. He removed his planned dinner for the night—some beef, vegetables, mushrooms, and chunks of pineapple, all marinating in a savory, citrus-based sauce. He put the suspiciously large amount of food out on top of the cooler to warm a bit, then sat at his computer.

"Okay." He pulled up the webpage he had saved and scrolled down the various videos showing how to sign commonly used phrases. "How do I ask if he wants food?"

Harlan spent the next half-hour watching and repeating the short chain of signs which meant "Do you want to eat with me?" Finally satisfied with his grasp of the phrase, he picked up his bag of food, took a moment to gather himself, then exited the cabin.


Bailey was in the mood for something different tonight. He had two large portabella mushrooms, and had removed their stems. Those, he'd chopped, then mixed the pieces with a little pesto and some crumbled blue cheese. Then he stuffed the caps with the mixture.

He'd also recently tried Larrupin mustard sauce. The Swedish-style, sweetened dill mustard was terrific. It set off everything from salad to meat. He carried a plate with his prepared mushrooms and the jar of mustard sauce out to the camp kitchen.

Harlan was already at the grill. Busy with his tasks, he carefully turned four kabobs. The aroma given off by the cooking meat, vegetables, and pineapple made Bailey's mouth water.

Orson sat and talked with a tall, broad blonde man at the picnic table. There was also a waifish boy there with green eyes and blonde hair. When Bailey approached, Orson stood. He moved so smoothly with his prosthetic, Bailey had forgotten he only had one leg.

"Hey, Bailey." He motioned at the hunk of a man beside him. "This is my boyfriend, Joseph."

Standing, Joseph smiled at Bailey. "Hi, good to meet you."

Bailey nodded. It was evident that Joseph didn't expect any words from him. Bailey was thankful he didn't have to try and explain his lack of speech.

"And, this is Elias." Orson laid a hand on Elias' shoulder. The way Orson had one arm around Joseph's waist and one on Elias made Bailey think of a little family.

He smiled at them all, then recalled something. Wait. Elias. He held up a finger and picked the mug he liked to use in the mornings. Holding it up, he pointed at the beautiful, dark green ceramic. Then he motioned at Elias.

Elias grinned. "Yeah, I make them. I did that one." He cocked his head. "Do you like it?"

Bailey made a face as if it would be impossible not to and nodded.

"Keep it," Elias offered. Then he bit his lip. "Rayne told me what you did for him." Elias' eyes were bright, and they glittered in the light from the newly-built fire in the pit. He nodded at the mug. "Consider that a little reward for jumping in the river after my friend."

Orson squeezed Elias and looked down at the boy. He was apparently proud of the young man.

Bailey nodded his thanks. Orson and his two men sat back down, and they continued to talk among one another. Then Bailey looked over at Harlan to find him staring. He could see wheels turning behind Harlan's eyes. Harlan shook himself and took his skewers off of the grill.

Harlan started to clean the metal surface, but Bailey shook his head. The bit of residue on the grill wouldn't hurt his mushrooms. He held out his hand for the tongs in Harlan's other hand.

Harlan hesitated for a long moment. He stared at Bailey, then finally set his jaw and handed over the tongs. Gathering all four of his kabobs and putting them on a plate, he started to walk off.

"Jeez, Harlan. Are you hungry?" Elias called after him. "That's a lot of food!"

Harlan didn't answer. He put his head down and continued on. Bailey watched as he entered his cabin, shutting behind him.

Bailey couldn't be entirely sure, but in the firelight, he thought he had seen something on Harlan's face.

Fear? Bailey put his mushrooms on the grill, and he turned the heat down so they would heat through without burning. Was Harlan afraid just now?


"Fucking coward. You fucking coward." Harlan fumed. He berated himself behind the door of his cabin. "That's what you need to learn to sign." He shook his head. "'Hi, my name is Harlan, and I'm a fucking coward.'"

Running his hands through his short hair, he groaned at himself. Harlan had done many things in his life which required a steady and steely nerve. Yet, when it came down to asking a mute man to sit and eat with him, he couldn't do it.

"All right. Next time." Harlan nodded to himself. "Yeah, next time you get the chance, you ask him."

Harlan looked over at the four kabobs that slowly cooled on the coffee table. They looked delicious, dripping rich, meaty liquid onto the plate beneath. But it was more than he could possibly eat alone.

Harlan sat down at his coffee table. "Guess I'll have leftovers." With a sigh, Harlan began to eat his dinner.

Before all the hate mail starts - yes, I'm aware religions differ on homosexuality. But take your average Baptist church, and you will be hard-pressed to find an accepting environment for us. I want there to be no mistake - what is happening to Rayne happens. Really. Now, if you have an organized religion that accepts you, then good. Never let any organization tell you that who you are is inherently wrong for loving another consenting adult. I don't care who or what they say is underwriting them.
I always love hearing from you. Let me know what you think of the chapter!
Copyright © 2020 Wayne Gray; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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On 5/7/2020 at 9:02 PM, Wayne Gray said:

I'm loving this vulnerable Harlan. Cupid has his arrow drawn back and ready to let fly. Harlan has no clue what's about to hit him!

(Yes, I know I’m not really quoting you.)

Maybe you can borrow a few characters from @Timothy M. and @aditus for a Cupid crossover…

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It’s good to see that Gary is doing well enough now to not only return to working in his store, but also move heavy ceramics around!

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23 minutes ago, KayDeeMac said:

…when my husband and I moved from California to Florida!!

I’m so sorry for you misfortune!

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