[Lexington superintendent threatened over diversity curriculum]

And the well-reasoned, intelligent and sober response to the school board is to recommend violence against them.

I'm starting to wonder who let all the loonies loose.

C

[The Car Wouldn't Start]

Most of us tend to drive down the middle. Especially if we drive an SUV.

C

[Tim]

Where in the world did you come up with that. I had to look it up.

And you accuse ME of too obsucre a vocabulary.

Trabeculae. Not quite sure how I'd work that into a sentence. I don't talk about that sort of thing!

C

[Tim]

And you say you have no imagination, Trab, that you can't invent things out of whole cloth.

Of course you can. You've just ruined that argument for yourself from now on.

So maybe you should write the next chapter of The Tantalizing Tales of the Travails of the Troubled Trubshaw.

C

[Should she tell her ex-boyfriend's parent's he was gay]

Good point. One would hope the parents woud care.

C

[Tim]

Damn you guys are persistent. I thought I set up a perfectly good diversion there. It didn't daunt you a bit.

Give me time to think of something else. How about putting out another chapter of Trab's Tale of Trubshaw? That would be more worthy of your time, don't you think? You guys all seem to have fallen on your swords. Someone come up with something!

C

[Why I get discouraged....]

Indeed!

There's a special hell set aside for gorillas, too.

And if there isn't, I'll design one.

C

[The Card by Camy]

I read that some time ago and loved it. If I can endorse it, give it five stars or whatever, I certainly do.

Wonderful writing, which we've come to expect from Camy.

C

[Why I get discouraged....]

Mister Slaw?

This from a carnivorous rodent whose name is initials?

The effrontery of it!

C. Parker, esq.

[Driver - a new story!]

I just KNEW we could count on you, Wibby!

C

[Tim]

Jeez, don't be a wuss. Lots of authors (probably the majority) approach sites and say "I have this story/poem/serial novel can I post it on your site?" I'd say you're more worried about rejection than putting Dude in some embarrassing situation. Rejection letters are de rigueur for authors. My fiction writing professor brought in a thick three-ring binder with her collection. Just do it. Wibby will give you a recommendation for Josh Evolving and so will I. I think you'll find a lot of others will climb onto that bandwagon. J,E was the first of your stories that I read, and it blew me away. I wrote to you about it, and we've been online friends ever since, even editing each other's stories. So, take it from a friend, tell Dude that you want to have AD host Josh Evolving.

Colin

Well, uh....I'm tongue-tied. A momentary condition. Ah, I feel better now.

Thanks for the psychological analysis, but fear of rejection has never been an issue. Really. Believe it. It hasn't. I think it's being too aggressive, too assertive, to try to have a story put up when it's already out there and can be judged by others. I think in that case, it's better to be asked to have it posted than pester someone to do so.

Mike has been more than supportive of my writng. So supportive it feels rather embarrassing to me. So I'm not about to push a story on him. He takes my stories sight unseen, so I'm not afraid of rejection. I'd simply feel I was taking advantage to ask to have one that's already at Nifty posted at AD unless he said he wanted it there.

But, now that you've got me warmed up, what about seeing a Colinian homepage on AD? Why not? There are several stories, quite good stories in fact, by that eminent but elusive author, yet we don't see them at AD. Why not? It's a site for young authors. It says so in the manifest. "Stories by, for, and/or about gay young people." (I have to put in an aside in here. I have to. WBMS will castrate me if I don't. I just used an Oxonian comma, which I HATE to do, even if I'm just quoting it from another benighted source. Fie on the Oxonian comma!) A page for Colinian stories fits that bill perfectly. So let's have one. I think we should all start a petition or something. It's much more important than trying to drag another of my stories here.

Let's all hear it for getting Colinian ensconced as an AD author. This is my offical vote: aye.

C

[Why I get discouraged....]

The letters I get that are the most difficult for me to handle are the ones that are somewhat critical, and point out what they didnt like, and it's obvious they didn't get the story at all. I don't write stroke stories; mine have at least a little depth to them. Most of the readers that don't get them make it quite apparent they're looking for something that isn't in the story. Then they write to complain because it isn't there. I'm never quite sure how to handle that. I answer every letter I get (and there aren't all that many) and try to be polite. This type confounds me a bit.

C

[Editing]

And the second thing is confusion, as in "why did this character do that?" "Why did this happen?" I think questions like that are important in terms of story and character, so an editor can prod the writer to better-explain something. I always say, "if I didn't understand this, than somebody else may not understand it, either."

This is very true. I'm frequently having the writer clarify things. Writers' heads are full of their story, and in their rush to get it down on their metaphorical paper, they forget that the reader isn't privy to what's in their heads. They have a conversation between two characters and it often jumps over the mundane to the point the writer wants made, but we, the readers, can't follow it. It needs to be made more detailed, broadened out. Sometimes this just seems tedious to the writer, but it's necessary for the reader. That's one of the things I find myself doing most frequetnly, having the scene clarified, fleshed out, made more visual or understandable to the reader.

C

[Driver - a new story!]

Trab, you've suggested I've got a dab of AS in my system. I think you're right. I tend to be too literal at times. After I posted that, I started to wonder if you wrote it with your tongue firmly implanted in your cheek.

C

[Editing]

That's difficult to answer. Everyone does things the way they're most comfortable with them.

If work is filled with typos, incorrect noun-verb correlations, tense problems and the like, these become so distracting it's often difficult to see any nuances in the writing. If I'm asked to edit a work that has an abundance of this type of problem, I'll generally give it back to the author and ask him to clean the stuff up. If he has spell-check, which comes with Word, at least the spelling should be reasonable. If he can't correct the other stuff, I'm probably not going to want to edit it. I hope that doesn't sound elitist. I don't mean it that way. It's simply that I like to get involved in the story, and it's difficult to do that if there are too many problems. A few typos are no concern at all, but finding lots of them and lots of other English problems results in an editor not being able to do the things you're talking about.

I know when I edit for someone, it's very usual for the job to be done in stages. I suggest changes, the writer balks--okay, that was a joke, people--the writer makes what changes he is comfortable with, or ignores the suggestions, and sends it back to me. I look it over again, usually find stuff I didn't find the first time, make more suggestions and send it back again. Usually, on the third or fourth try, and chapter is acceptable to both of us. It doesn't always work that way. It depends mostly on the writer. If he's happy with the first edit, or isn't for that matter, and doesn't return the chapter, my work with it is done. Then I wait to see the story posted to see what advice of mine he actually took.

There are a lot of us here who edit frequently. I'm sure others do it quite differently.

Cole

[Driver - a new story!]

I can't even think of how it must be for those of you unlucky enough to be in a relationship.

Um, Trab. Most people who are in a relationship feel happy about that fact. If they weren't, they'd get out of it.

"Unlucky enough to be in a relationship" is a rather dismal way to look at it. Ask Colin and Des if you want another opinion on this.

C

[Tim]

Wow! I don't know what to say. 'Thanks' doesn't seem enough.

Tim was posted here at Dude's request. It seems it would be awfully forward of me to suggest bringing a story to AD that's been posted elsewhere becasue, if he doesn't want it, it forces him into the embarrassing position of having to politely refuse. I don't want to put anyone in that positon.

Yes, I did start a sequel to Josh, Evolving. That was the one story I wrote where the characters had unfinished business ahead of them. I started it a couple of times, got about five chapters in, but it never felt exactly right to me. I was having time-line problems with a flashback, and I really liked the flashback but couldn't seem to make it work our right, so I simply abandoned it. Perhaps, someday. . . . But perhaps not, too. I think a writer has to know when to say no as well and when to say yes.

Thanks again for the overly kind comments. It always means more when it comes from a good writer.

C

[Edits to gay soldier?s Wikipedia entry traced to Pentagon]

Thanks for posting that, E.J.

Very good article.

C

[Why I get discouraged....]

You're so far from being a pain, Trab, that it's preposterous to hear you present yourself that way. What you really are is precious.

C

[Driver - a new story!]

Both are excellent. I just wish he'd post faster!

C

[Why I get discouraged....]

I don't know if it helps, but there seems to be some correlation between literary quality and appreciation thereof. It's an inverse proportion. As your literary quality rises, your readership diminishes. There are stories on Nifty that have no quality at all, or redeeming characteristics, for that matter, and in the next chapter the author comments he got so much mail he can't possibly acknowledge it all. And the story he is writing is basically stomach-turning garbage that no one of any taste whatsoever would read. If you want that sort of praise, if you want to write that sort of tripe, you certainly are capable of it, and you'd find your audience. There are many devotees of this stuff.

But you write to a higher level, and so lose readers accordingly. Therefore, the choice is simple. What do you want? If it's lots of readers and lots of praise, write to that level. If you want to be able to feel good about what you've written, to be proud of it in fact, if you have, gasp, standards, then you have to be satisfied with a smaller, if more astute and critical, audience.

Your choice, I guess.

[Trab's 'There He Sat' Parts I - XIII]

Aw, shucks.

C

[MP wants contract before sex]

The only thing I see wrong with that posting is that it came one day late.

C

[Trab's 'There He Sat' Parts I - XIII]

There He Sat

By Trab

It was a Friday night, well, evening, really. Dark, wet, and cold, the weather had been anything but a pleasure to all who braved it, including me. The TV programming just totally sucked today, and I had completely exhausted my small library of tapes and DVDs. I bundled myself up, and dragged my sorry ass into the car and left for the movie rental place. As I pulled into the parking lot, I could see that there was only one other person who had braved the damp misery.

Ten feet away, in an older Toyota Corolla, which might or might not really be red, as sodium vapor lights hide colors so effectively, sat a youngish man, whose color couldn?t be disguised. The light, against the black background, highlighted the blond hair that was more like white cotton, topping a blanched face. He was looking down, and slowly picked a longish French fry out of a small packet. Putting it in his mouth, he chewed slowly. When done, he wiped his eyes. And again. Then, ever so hesitantly, he picked out another fry. Again the slow movement of his hand to his mouth, the careful and hesitant nibbling of this morsel, and again, wiping his eyes.

Feeling rather like a creep, I watched him. He was beautiful, he was alone, he was hurting. Yes, I could see that those were tears he was wiping from his eyes. I tried to imagine what could possibly be wrong. What could induce someone to go out on a night like tonight, and eat alone, in the cold and the dark? How had life screwed with him? Why does life suck so? Why? I could stand it no more. I had to do something; anything, to relieve the pain, the anguish, the despair.

I drove away without ever getting out of my car, leaving his pain behind me, for him to suffer in the now empty parking lot; and taking my own pain with me. 335

-----

There He Sat II

By Camy

Arriving home I put the keys on their hook, hung up my coat, and then instead of going to watch TV, I stood on the mat by the front door, not even bothering to turn on the light. Inside I was screaming, my mind in turmoil over the total stranger in the Corolla.

As if in a dream I took my coat off the hook, slid it on, grabbed the keys and ran to the car. I was split. This wasn?t me. I?d never done anything like this before. I was being stupid: melodramatic. And yet I knew. I knew I had too. I was needed. For the first time in an age I felt I could make a difference.

Instinct was in control, whilst the me that I?d been since the end of my one brief relationship, laughed bitterly at the stupidity. ?You don?t think he?ll be grateful, do you?? I told myself to shut up. ?Oh, I would if you?d only be sensible. Chasing twinks at your age, who do you think you are??

?SHUT UP!? I screamed as I made a left turn too fast, the car sliding sideways. Instant heebie-jeebies, as fear helped me correct the mistake. I slowed from sixty, and was about to pull into the car park where I?d seen him, when I saw the Corolla pulling out. I clenched my toes, indecisive, then slowly blinked: put my foot on the accelerator, and followed.

I could see him through the rear window, his blonde hair caught briefly in my headlights, and noted in passing that the Corolla was red. For some reason that seemed important. Knowing the car's colour somehow legitimised my foolishness.

The lights ahead turned amber. I floored the gas, and shot though on red, slowing immediately so he wouldn?t suspect I was following. What on earth was I doing? ?yes, I was about to ask that, too.? my mind played with me. ?Home is where the TV is. Peaceful ? safe.?

?Boring. I?ve been peaceful and safe for far too long.? I said, chuckling as I turned on the radio: Carol King?s Tapestry feeding my angst as I followed the Corolla onto the mountain road. 371

There He Sat III - by Bruin

Off the main highway, the road became narrow and windy as it climbed upwards through the thickly wooded hillside. As I drove I tried to collect my thoughts. My mind was racing, and in there somewhere was a plaintive cry that said: "Stop, turn round and go home. This is none of your business and you may get into trouble if you continue." I was ignoring that voice, not a very loud or persuasive voice anyway. I was trying to gather my thoughts about the guy in the car ahead. So far I was keeping him in sight but he was making good speed and my big sedan was not built for windy lanes.

I needed to establish what I knew or could surmise about him. Very little. I knew he must be in his mid-twenties and I knew, as far as the sodium lights had allowed me to see, that he was drop dead gorgeous (I allowed myself that thought for the first time, now I was committed to this wild escapade). He drove a Toyota Corolla, about five years old, in red. The most reliable car in the world according to some major survey I remembered. But not a sporty car, though you'd never guess it the way he was devouring the road and making me sweat to keep up. He'd been eating fries out of a bag. Like a MacDonald's bag. There's no MacDonald's near the video rental store, I wondered where he'd got them from. So I knew not much about him.

He was pulling ahead of me and the bends in the road were occasionally obscuring my sight of him. I tried to close the gap, driving my big V8 beyond the limits of the suspension system, so on the corners the car was wallowing badly and the tyres were scrabbling on the leaf-strewn road surface. Once or twice I frightened myself as the rear end swung out and I narrowly avoided going into spin. And I was now so focussed on controlling my car at speed that when the Corolla suddenly turned off the road onto a forest track I nearly missed it. As it was I overshot and had to brake, skidding nearly into a tree, reverse, and point my hood into the narrow track. His vehicle must be a foot narrower than mine, and I began to worry that I would get stuck.

We came out of the forest into an area where the trees had been recently felled and my attention was caught momentarily by the breathtaking view across the valley. Even in the dark and the wet I was impressed. The lights in the windows of homesteads on the opposite hillside looked so inviting. My attention snapped back to the track ahead of me and just in time, only just in time, I slammed on the anchors. I came to a stop about a yard short of the red Corolla, stationary and with the driver's door swinging open. Beside the car stood the blond man, his hair wet and sticking to his forehead, pointing a rifle at me.

"Who are you and why are you following me?" he called, his voice cracked and hoarse. 541

-------------------------

There He Sat IV

by Camy

I didn't answer. I couldn't: frozen to a spot in time and space.

"Get out!" he called, his voice still undeniably stressed, yet somehow attractive too. 'Yep, attractive and with a gun, way to go' I thought as I pulled the door handle, the rusty hinges squeaking loudly as I shouldered it open.

"Slowly, now!" he said, "No ...."

"Sudden moves?" I interrupted him. "Yeah, I've watched cops shows too." 'nice' I thought, astounded by my nerve. 'Now he'll shoot ... and then I?ll die.' "I'm getting out." I said.

One leg followed the other while I tried to fabricate a reasonable explanation for following a total stranger five miles into the mountains. Then, as I stood up, I heard a crunch: felt a tremendous pain at the back of my head, and in slow motion the world, lit only by headlights, faded to black.

'Thanks be it was all a dream,' I thought as I woke up to find a cool flannel mopping my forehead. It was so soothing I kept my eyes shut, and felt myself smile ... then groan in delayed agony, as the pain at the back of my head flowered exquisitely. I opened my eyes just as the flannel was removed.

The blonde man was sitting in front of me, seemingly, if I was any judge of expressions, concerned. 'You're no judge, you're a fool! He's got a gun!' I reminded myself as he soaked the flannel in a bowl before squeezing it out and replacing it gently on my brow.

"You hit your head, John," he said, a flash smile crossing his face. ?Red lips, and a nice smile,? I thought, then groaned again.

"Hit my hea ...." I stopped to look at him. 'Forget the nice smile. He's going to kill you for being a weirdo!' I told myself to shut up, and for once, surprisingly, I did.

"You know my name." I managed. He nodded, the smile flashing across his face again.

"Uh huh, your wallet ...." His eyes were of the palest lilac, and he was, apart from not appearing angry at all, and being right in front of me, beautiful. I gulped, and the concerned look arrived back. It made him look even more beautiful: almost angelic.

He held a glass of water, helped me drink, then re-arranged my pillows. I winced as my fingers traced a large lump on the back of my head, and there was that smile again, though this time it seemed somehow mischievious. He reached forward, cupped my face in his hands and gently kissed me. Then he sat back.

?Before the others come barging in wanting to know why I have a complete stranger in my bed I thought I should welcome you to Shangri-la ?.? I blinked. ?Now,? he continued, smoothing down my blanket, ?why were you following me?? 482

There He Sat pt V

by Bruin Fisher

from an original idea by Trab

Well, I knew he had just asked a question, but it didn't register; I was still floundering. How did I hurt my head? How did I get from the edge of the forest in the rain to this comfy bed? How did the tearful man with the wet hair, the beautiful eyes and the gun turn into the smiling angel of mercy with the same beautiful eyes I was looking at? And why did he think he could kiss me? I didn't have answers and my brain grew confused and fuzzy in the attempt. So he'd sat on the edge of the bed and asked a second time, and then a third, before the words filtered through and I realised what he was saying.

Knowing what he was asking me didn't help much; I didn't have a rational explanation. I mustered my resources and tried to come up with something plausible.

"I went out to hire a video. In the car park I saw you, you looked like you were in trouble, I should have offered help but I chickened out and drove off, without even getting a film. But you had worried me and I went back, just as you were driving off.?

He just watched me. He didn't make a sound, like he was waiting for me to continue. So I did.

"Maybe I should have turned around when I saw you drive off but you seemed so desperate, I was worried about you."

"What made you think I was in trouble?"

"You were crying."

He gave an odd snort like a suppressed giggle. I looked up into his face in time to see it squash into an ear-to-ear grin, crinkly eyes and all.

"That would be the onions in my kebab. I love onions but these were powerful, enough to blow the top of your head off ? and make your eyes water." He was laughing now, and struggling to talk through it. "That's all it was. But thank you for your concern!"

I couldn't help but see the funny side of it, and soon we were laughing together. I reached out for his hand and grasped it in mine, a sort of friendship gesture.

When I had some control back, I asked: "How did I get here? Where are we?"

"You hit your head on the end of your roof bars as you stood up out of your car. Knocked yourself out cold, and I couldn't bring you round. So I put you in my car and brought you home. I left your car on the side of the lane, but I locked it and it'll be okay there till you're ready to get it. It's only a quarter mile back along the lane from here."

"And here is?"

"My home. My parents' home, actually, my Dad's the forest warden, and I still live here and my sister does. They'll be here soon and I'm going to have to explain you to them."

"I don't know your name."

"Eric. Eric Hofstraat. If you promise to keep quiet about it I'll admit my real name is Alveric, after the dwarf in the Wagner operas, but I prefer Eric, it doesn't need so much explaining!"

"Hi, Eric. I'm John Trubshaw. You checked my wallet so you know that."

"Yes, sorry, I hope you don't mind, I was trying to find who to phone about you when I couldn't bring you round. There's a picture of you hugging another guy. Your brother?"

"No, my boyfriend. That was four years ago, we split up not long after the picture was taken, but I keep the photo."

I'm always like that. If being gay comes up I come right out and say, but I always have to watch faces after I've spoken to see if I'm going to have trouble. I watched Eric, and there was no reaction. I kind of guessed there wouldn't be ? I still hadn't asked him about kissing me ? and the way he kissed had told me enough about him.

There was a commotion coming from below ? downstairs, I guessed.

"That'll be the folks home. You ready for this?" asked Eric.

I nodded, without any idea what to be ready for.

The door of the bedroom opened, and a short, buxom woman with a pretty, round face and elfin features walked straight in, with a puzzled frown, and a very large policeman right behind her.

"Eric, darling, there's a policeman here to see you. You're not in any trouble, are you?" - and at that moment she spotted me on the bed and took a step backwards, putting her hand to her mouth and wailing "Oh, oh... oh!" 794

There He Sat

Extrapolation of a work by Trab

Chapter VI, by Cole Parker

My head was swimming as events kept unfolding. I?d begun the evening on a lonely quest to find a video to watch, and now I was who knew where, but supposedly in a mountain cabin with an attractive but enigmatic man, an emotional young woman who I knew nothing at all about, and a gargantuan policeman who was wearing an intimidating scowl and look of no nonsense on his face. Top that off with a throbbing headache and the swimming feeling was easily explained.

The woman was still looking at me and sort of gurgling, her hand covering her mouth and her eyes wide, and it suddenly occurred to me why. When she had appeared, old habits had taken over, and I?d struggled to stand up. My head had rebelled as I?d tried to rise, but I had made it up far enough so I was now sitting on the side of the bed, both my hands holding my head firmly, as it felt like it was going to explode at any moment and my hands might help to contain the mess.

It was then, watching the woman ogle me, that I realized I was entirely naked. Eric must have undressed me before helping me into bed. With my head in the state it was in, I hadn?t realized it. The woman?s wide eyes, focused as they were on my middle half, my somewhat thickened by Eric?s kiss of moments ago middle half, seemed to be memorizing me. Should we meet again some day, she might not know my face, but other parts she?d certainly be able to recognize.

I lowered my hands and attempted to pull the covers over me, but I was sitting on them and that didn?t work at all. I grabbed a pillow and set it in my lap, blushing furiously. Just what I needed, more blood in my head. The pounding was now worse than ever.

?What?s this, then?? asked the policeman, drawing himself taller and assuming an expression of disgust. ?What?s going on here? And are you Eric Hofstraat??

?Yes, that?s me,? the man who?d told me that was his name answered.

?Then you?ll have to come with me. You?re wanted for questioning.?

?Questioning about what?? Eric looked completely befuddled. I was still somewhat out of my wits, nothing was making a great deal of sense to me, and my attention was split between what was going on between the policeman and Eric, and the woman who?s eyes were now fastened on my pillow, but that Eric seemed to be lost was apparent.

The policeman reached onto his belt and took off a pair of handcuffs. ?There was an incident at a video store tonight. We?ve had a string of murders at video stores lately, always on a Friday night. Now, we have another dead body, and a surveillance tape shows your car leaving the scene. Now, are you going to come peacefully, or are we going to have a bit of fun here??

[Trab's 'There He Sat' Parts I - XIII]

That might indeed solve that dilemma, but is that fair to anyone else?

C