Bruin Fisher

I read the first section, initially winded by the extreme violence of the subject matter. It reminded me of the mega-violent video games popular with pre-teens. You know, the ones where you prowl around looking for 'gooks' to kill colourfully, with the automatic weapon you're holding, and visible on the screen. If you can stomach the violence the story's rather good and very different. It confirms for me that gay writing isn't a genre, but that gay writing can be any genre - including military s&m. Unfortunately the quality of the writing deteriorates in the second section and I didn't persevere as far as part three. It becomes a rather tedious exercise in finding a thin plot that will get you from one sex scene to the next as quickly as possible. And the sex scenes become more improbable as it goes on. Not my cup of tea, as Camy said. Bruin

Thanks for the disclaimer - very necessary! A very powerful poem, Maddy! Kudos Bruin

Glad you're doing it, Trab - I was beginning to sweat! I reckon Ricky's got two Dads - a real one and a step-one. And we all know that step-parents are evil... Bruin

Hey, what gives, Res? There's a whole bunch of us just posted comments saying what a great and powerful story this is, and you reply apologising for it?!? Don't knock youself, mate - we said it's good work because that's what we think. You should be proud of it. If you can produce work like that 'rough, unedited', you've got a great talent. Now... you want your shoes shined, sir? Bruin

So THAT'S what this story is all about!! Brilliant chapter, Trab! Who's doing the next? Bruin

The Tribulations of Trubshaw Chapter XI by Bruin from an original idea by Trab ********* ?Eric. We need to talk. Back in your room?? He stopped in his tracks and just looked at me with a totally blank stare. ?You have to tell me: Is Petey alive?? ?We don't know he's dead, but just now we don't know what has happened to him. So you have to talk to me. Come on, we need to be somewhere private.? I led the way back to his room and closed the door once we were both inside. He seemed dazed and just stood there, so I took him by the elbow and guided him to sit on his bed, the bed that I had occupied so recently, and I sat beside him. ?Now, think carefully, and tell me exactly what you saw at the video store.? Eric bowed his head, dredging his memory. ?I went to the store. I've gone there three times now, hoping there would be no customers and I could talk to Petey. Each time I've waited in the car, but I haven't gone in because there have been too many people around. I'm not supposed to approach him, it's a restriction the judge set.? ?What did you see this time?? ?I pulled up outside and I couldn't see anybody in the store at all. So I thought I might be able to talk to him. I got out of the car and walked towards the store. But as I got near I could see through the glass that Peter was there behind the counter, and so was a man, tall, big built, much older. Grey hair. I didn't recognise him. He was ... he was kissing Petey.? His face twisted and he choked a sob. ?He was holding him by the waist and leaning into the kiss so that Petey was leaning backwards. It was such a shock...? and he faltered again. ?Did Peter see you?? ?No, no I don't think he could have. He was bent over backwards and I think the other guy's head was between us. I don't think he could see the front of the shop.? ?Would you say Peter was active or passive in this kiss?? ?Huh?? ?Did you see him do anything or was he just having things done to him?? Bad turn of phrase there, I hoped Eric wouldn't be hurt by it. Apparently he took my awkward question in his stride. ?The other man was leaning into him and kissing him, his lips and his neck too. Petey was sort of just being kissed. I didn't see him move at all. That was a bit odd, wasn't it?? ?So you didn't see him dead?? ?No.? ?The policeman who arrived here. Did you recognise him?? ?No. I've never seen him before.? ?He couldn't have been the man you saw with Peter?? ?No, the man with Peter was older.? ?Do you know the Sheriff and his team?? ?I know the Sheriff, he used to come to my school. And I think I would recognise both of his deputies.? ?And the man who came wasn't any of them?? ?No. Definitely not.? ?Didn't you find that strange?? ?Strange? No... I guess I didn't think about it. Perhaps he's new?? ?Perhaps. Or perhaps he's not a policeman at all.? *********** While this rather disjointed conversation was taking place, five miles away in the nearest hospital events were unfolding that at the time neither of us knew about: a young girl asked a question at the reception desk, and, getting her answer, sped on down a series of corridors and eventually found a ward and a bed and its occupant. She was tall, willowy, blond, with a narrow face and bright blue eyes, a little red from crying. The unconscious patient on the bed that she approached was likewise long and thin, with ash-blond hair but darker eyebrows, and a long face, still and at peace, asleep. A monitor by the bed recorded a series of statistics and beeped steadily. She picked up his hand, the one without the cannula attached, and stroked it gently, keeping hold of it as she sat on the orange plastic chair by the bed. ?Oh, Peter,? she whispered, ?what have you done?? *********** Eric finished his account. He told me that as soon as he'd seen the older man kissing Peter, he'd turned tail and run, back to the car. And he'd just sat there, crying steadily, eventually trying to eat some of the takeaway meal he'd picked up on the way to the store hoping he and Peter might share it. And that was when I first caught sight of him. We relapsed into silence, each thinking our own thoughts. There were too many oddities, too many puzzles, and my training wasn't serving me well. I knew that I should report in and then leave the case to the regular police. As an involved person I should not take part in any investigation. But I wasn't going to let that stop me. Deep in thought, I didn't notice the sound of heavy footsteps thundering through the house. Eric grabbed my shoulder and shook it. ?Someone's in the house. Coming up the stairs!? I listened, he was right. ?Your father?? He shook his head, fear in his eyes. I stood up, grabbed the table lamp from the bedside table and pulled its lead from the wall. I flattened myself against the wall beside the door, hinge side, and held up the lamp like a cudgel. ?Are you a policeman?? ?Sort of. It'll be all right. You'll see.? At that moment the bedroom door shook. Someone was trying to get in. It wasn't locked, they were having difficulty with the latch. Eric watched transfixed as the handle turned a second time and this time the door opened, revealing the intruder. Eric just stared, mouth hanging open. I couldn't see the guy at first except his hand on the edge of the door, but as he came into the room I got to see his back, and the rifle in his free hand. It was the policeman, the same man mountain as before but this time in jeans and a check shirt, not police uniform. ?Well, what have we here? Where's your faggy friend??

Hey, Rose, That's not flash fiction, that's poetry! Beautiful piece of writing, it seems the shorter it is the more finely crafted it needs to be - every word must count, be honed and chiselled so that it fits perfectly and supports the structure. There's no space for anything that doesn't pull its weight. This is a bonsai story! Bruin

He's done it again. Myers Another little jewel from a master jeweller. Myers is a fascinating story set in theatreland. While it deals with self-discovery, that is only a sub-plot in a story that is absorbing and fascinating. And it is a happy, life-affirming story, so it gets all five gold stars from me. Camy's writing just gets better and better. Hard to see how he can continue to improve when he's reached a standard this high. Soon we'll need a step-ladder just to kiss his feet.... Go read this story - it's strongly recommended! Bruin

Aaaarrrrggghh! Visceral, painful, heart-rending, but skilfully written and powerful. It hurts that a talented writer has such pain to describe. I hope it isn't a reflection of your own state of mind? Believe me, this story was NOT written by a person of no worth, talentless, perverted. No way. The writer of this is worthy of much admiration and support. I hope, Res, that putting this down on paper has helped to get it out and get rid of it. Writing does that for me and helps me live a calmer, more contented life. Hugs Bruin

I can't write a section today but I could work on one from tomorrow onwards and get it posted as soon as it's finished which might be much sooner than next weekend. If anyone wants to go first, I suggest checking with Trab first, otherwise I'll assume I'm doing chapter XI - eleven. Bruin

This is the best 'round robin' I've come across, I'm really enjoying it. Despite that, I'm not offering to do another section this weekend 'cos I've got the real world to deal with, but if you want a volunteer for after that, Trab, I'm game. Let me know? Bruin

Sorry AJ, but a Yank can't whinge to a Brit about fuel prices - nobody has the right to whinge about fuel prices like a Pom. We now pay ?1.20 per litre. That translates to about $2.40 per litre and there are 3.8 litres to the (US) Gallon so we're paying over $9 per gallon. AARRRGGGGHHHH! Bruin in jest

I'm with you on that one. Lewis was a friend of Tolkien and sent him a draft of 'The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe'. Tolkien urged him not to publish it. Tolkien believed strongly that children's fiction ought not to be allegorical, or carry any message. He strongly denied all suggestions that his stories referred to either of the world wars, for instance. And Lewis's book is a thinly veiled allegory of the Christian redemption by crucifixion story. I read all the Narnia books when I'd only just learned to read. I loved them. Some years later when I discovered what they were really about I felt violated. Bruin

You get to look at that view? You sure you want to sell up? If I didn't have ties that bind, and if I had the half million or so I expect you're asking, I'd buy like a shot....Green Bruin

Like Cole, I would have a go but a gore-fest would be beyond me I'm afraid! Hope there's someone who'll be able to step up to the mark! Bruin

The old car had been sitting there on the used car lot for weeks now. Every day as I walked to work I saw it. It made me rather sad, nostalgic. I remembered the happy times we had together. It had been my first car and I had loved it, more because it gave me independence and freedom than because it was a great car. Is a beetle a great car? Well, I was fond of it and it was reliable so I didn't have the trouble some friends had getting out to a rendezvous on a Friday night. The seats were plastic and unyielding, and the front seat backs didn't wind flat which I saw as a potential problem, though the potential was never realised, as far as I remember. It was narrow and cramped inside, rear seat passengers had to clamber in past the front seats, and the luggage space was minimal. But those things didn't bother me at all ? I had wheels and that was what mattered. Another day, another day's work, another walk past the car lot. I wondered what adventures the old car had had after I sold it for the Ford I bought next. The Ford that never quite matched up to the Beetle in my estimation, never inspired affection, never became loved, certainly was never named. My Beetle was Billy from the word Go and I remember being unashamed about calling the car by name in company. I wonder, now, how many dates I blew when they found I'd named my car? I could bear it no longer ? I had to sit in Billy once more, just for old times' sake. So I stopped work early and on the way home I called in at the RV that served as an office for the lot. I couldn't just ask to sit in the car, so I pretended I was interested in buying. I wasn't ? I don't need a car, I live close to work in the city centre, it's impossible to park anywhere these days and the roads are usually log-jammed in the rush hour so I get by on foot, bike and public transport. It's quicker and a darn sight cheaper. But I pretended and the guy was all over me. Gave me the keys, walked me over to Billy and talked rubbish about fuel consumption and low mileage. If Billy was a low mileage vehicle I'm living in a parallel universe ? he had over 100,000 on the clock when I owned him ten years ago. But it didn't matter ? I got to sit in the driver's seat again. The upholstery was dilapidated, there was a tear in the seat squab and the inside paintwork was scratched and dull. But it all came back and I felt like a teenager again. On a whim I reached down under the front edge of the seat, and up into the under seat space. My hand automatically went to the right spot, the little space just big enough to hold... and to my amazement I came away with a small packet between my fingers. I turned it over and over and saw the 'use by' date ? not long after I sold the car. I don't know if the salesman saw what I had in my hand but he looked distinctly put out by my grin, which he must have misunderstood, as he was still going on about what a great buy this classic car would be. I suspect he was very surprised when I bought the car. Not, perhaps, as surprised as I was, though. Now what am I going to do with it, and how am I going to live down the fact that I have a car called Billy? - by Bruin Fisher

I'm with Cole - and most everyone else - on this. You have to know the rules thoroughly, and then you can break them occasionally with confidence. I wouldn't be happy using either italics or all caps for more than a couple of consecutive words. I have been known to use italics, and I have been known to use all caps, but looking back into my stories where I've used them, it's generally been when someone's speaking and I want to convey the inflection of the voice. For instance, "What do you think you're doing?" reads differently than "What do you think you're doing?", and means 'what you're doing is stupid, stop it' rather than 'maybe you are under an illusion, and think you're doing something other than what you're actually doing'. My two penn'orth Bruin

Wow! This story is edge-of-your-seat exciting. Camy has picked up the baton and run with it and what a section he has produced! Now, Trab, who's next??? And what happens next? We have to know.... Bruin

That explains a lot!! You didn't find a wardrobe in a room upstairs that contained a portal to another world where it was perpetually winter and animals could talk and...??? Bruin in empathy

The Tantalizing Tales of the Travails of the Troubled Trubshaw Book One: There He Sat Extrapolations of a work by Trab Chapter VIII, by Bruin It didn't take me long to realise why he ran for it. My brain gradually returned to form as I finished dressing. I'd made a mistake. If I hadn't been so muddle-headed I'd never have tripped up so stupidly. I'd challenged poor Eric on why he knew the video store clerk's name was Peter, after he'd said 'Poor Peter's dead'. And now, after fast winding the exchange back in my mind, I realised no-one had said it was the clerk who died and not a customer. Eric would realise that straight away and ran in fear, assuming that my slip-up meant I was the murderer. What should I do now? What would Eric be doing? Getting the police back? Probably. So I had to get away before they returned. I finished tying the laces of the sneakers Eric had passed me ? about my size, but definitely not my sneakers ? and opened the door. The corridor was empty and I slipped out and closed the door, incongruously aware that the door had opened smoothly and without trouble for me, though both Eric and the cop had struggled with it. I made my way down the corridor, the sneakers quiet on the carpeted floor. I heard the sound of a motorcycle starting up and roaring off, and was surprised to see from the window above the stairwell a classic Harley Davidson being ridden, I was sure, by the woman I'd taken for Eric's mother. I tiptoed down the stairs. If you tread on the side of the stair instead of the middle part, it is less likely to creak, and I got down to ground level without any noise. As I headed for the outer door ahead of me, Eric appeared from a side door and jumped as he saw me. He disappeared again and I ran for it, but not quickly enough ? he re-appeared holding his rifle, pointed it straight at my heart and said: ?stand very still!? The fight went out of me and my shoulders slumped. Who was this guy? What did he want from me? Why was he acting so erratically ? and how did he know the dead man was called Peter? Just minutes previously, he had kissed me tenderly. Now he marched up to me and swung the butt of his rifle against my jaw. I went flying against the wall, pain washing through me, and slid down to the floor. He followed up with a kick in the ribs and his heel slammed down on my hand, grinding my knuckles into the carpet. ?Get up!? he barked, and I struggled to my feet and stood doubled over with the pain. With his rifle he gestured me forward towards a door under the stairwell. ?Open it and go in!? It was pitch dark but I felt my way into the gloom and nearly lost my footing when the ground wasn't there ahead of me. I realised I was at the top of another stairwell, and began carefully to climb down. Eric followed me in and felt for a light switch, lighting a dim naked bulb below us, which gave me adequate light to negotiate the stairs safely. At the foot we were in a bare cellar and Eric motioned me against the far wall. He just stood, looking daggers at me in the light of the bulb above his head. ?What do you want with me? What have I done?? ?Ha! You ask that? You scum. You killed Peter, didn't you? Did you kill all those others the cop was talking about too? Why would you do that? Why....? and he faltered, his shoulders shaking as he began to cry, his face contorting in anguish. When he began speaking again his voice was different, agonised, reminiscent of a wolf baying at the moon. ?Peter was the boy I was caught with. I loved him, you killed him...? - Bruin

Brilliant grasp of the Brit psyche! The motto of the UK Met Office should be 'Perpetually taken by surprise' - or maybe that should be the motto of local councils and the highways agency. It takes only the lightest snowfall for people to claim they're snowed in and can't get to work. A lot of your satire shows remarkable perspicacity about the Brits and our foibles. You telepathically plugged in to some UK hunk by any chance??? Bruin

Wow, Trab, that's a barnstormer. You really upped the ante with this one! A fantastic, exciting chapter. What was all that about not being able to write imaginitive fiction? With due respect to the others, skilled writers all, you put the rest of us in the shade! And yes I'll certainly have a go at following on, I just hope I don't ruin it. Thanks for the invite. Bruin

The Car Wouldn't Start Another great story from Camy, concise and polished. A departure from Camy's usual fare, this story has a world-weary protagonist whose life is a bit of a mess. Can't imagine where Camy got the inspiration from... I found it deeply affecting and powerful. Maybe because it's so much in tune with my own messy life??? I strongly recommend you read this if you haven't already. It's great and well worth the reading. Bruin

When I read about Mr. Slaw I confess I didn't think of Cole at all. I assumed he was referring to either Murphy or his brother Sod, who between them are responsible for the immutable law of physics: "If anything can go wrong, it will." Thus, when you drop your toast on the floor it will ALWAYS fall marmalade (orange preserve?) side down. Also, and remembering how hard it is to get a golf ball to drop into a hole or a pool ball to drop into a pocket, if you drop a coin on the pavement (sidewalk), and it rolls into the gutter, it will ALWAYS find a drain and fall irretrievably into it. Bruin

Don't dodge the issue, Cole! I agree Colin's a great author - but we're not talking about his stories we're talking about yours! I personally would like to see ALL your stories together at AD. I don't want to have to trawl the web to find your stuff - I want it all gathered neatly together and preferably HERE! So why not ask the great Dude about it??! Bruin