Remember by Bryl R. Tyne

Had the immortalized voice of John Lennon not been so compelling, I may not have remembered the moment. But how could I not, with thousands of voices blended in unison inside a square . . . that wasn’t really square. Besides, some outside the square were singing too if I recall. As those thousands in harmony forgot me but recanted, “Remember all the people . . . ,” I also recall the precise depth the steel reached–or maybe it was a letter opener . . . or a pick. My vision had blurred; but yeah, I’m thinking now, the song ended on an ice pick. Though I never actually saw my life’s intruder coming, a definite pang raced through me as the tip of whatever blade scraped a rib. And I remember seeing my pursuer mouth words to the song but can’t for the life of me recall his voice . “Living . . . .” I joined him in unison as his upper lip quirked a smidgen higher to one side and he grinned. Funny what one does remember.

* * * *

Okay, maybe a bit morbid, but I write them as they come. Watching the ball drop last night, this inspiration took hold. Whether or not it becomes anything more is anyone’s guess. However, if you missed my New Year’s Eve free read and need something more on the sunny-side, here’s a little brightness, just for you:  http://bryltyne.com/2009/12/free-holiday-read

* * * *

November brought the first bitter cold to the Deer Hunting Country. Fingers stiff, he struggled to untie the brittle leather laces and, in turn, remove each boot. He exhaled into his cupped hands, warming them before massaging one stocking-covered foot then the other. Though his toes were numb, they had feeling.

He tugged up his trouser leg, passing over the folded bills he’d tucked safely within his right sock. Twenty-four dollars—one of the few things in his young life he could rightly call his. He imagined the wad of money being more, and it would have been if he’d raided the secret cubby in his father’s study or the tin his mother thought safe buried with the potatoes in the cellar. In reality, he was the owner of twelve two dollar bills, which was all right with Erie. His whittlings, popular with the neighbor kids, served as his source of income, his lone source of pride, which was important to Erie. One whittled toy by one, he’d saved enough to secure independence.

Wasn’t the first time I’d seen him. Though tonight, as was each night, the sight of him across the crowded room left me breathless. He moved from clique to clique, his smile never wavering, his full lips seemingly fuller with each sip from his champagne.

I mimicked him, sipping my own, admiring his broad knuckled hand spread wide but gently at the small of each lucky lady’s back. Growing weary with each pass, each movement, I wondered what it would be like to be one of those ladies, to feel that touch, to see that pleasantry aimed my way.

He looked to me and he smiled.

You can protest all you want, but it won’t do you any good…

I’ll show her. Charlie flipped then brought the Bowie butt end down. “Won’t do you any good,” he repeated aloud, the slight comment burning his already dry tongue. Three hammers and a couple twists crushed the tablets into fine powder. “I’ll be damned if that bitch thinks she can stop me.”

The pen’s guts emptied out easy enough. Charlie let them fall to the floor as he lowered the  casing, burying it in white powder. Nostril over the open end, one finger over the other nostril, and… Oh yeah.

***

“Found him yet, Lou? Over.”

“Negative, Will. Bunkhouse’s clean, not in the stables either. Over.”

Son of a bitch. Will spurred the gelding, dragging the reins to the left. “Gotta be on the property, keep lookin’. Over.” Flashlight in hand, he urged the three-year-old Chestnut Bay into full gallop. “When I get my hands on him, I’ll wring that shit-eatin’ grin right off his face!”

“Whoa, Siren!” Will leapt from the saddle, threw the reins over the post, and barreled toward the infirmary. Wooden planks bowed under his heavy stride. He nearly took out Lou at the front entrance. “Sorry!” He snagged one of her arms, spinning her around to keep both of them upright.

Jangling keys, Lou relocated the correct one and thrust it into the tumbler. “No sweat. Only place I haven’t checked…Haven’t had anyone break inside these walls in years.”

“Yeah? Well, I hope you’re right,” Will said, following her down the hall. “Cause if you aren’t…” Pushing open the pharmacy’s metal door, he froze.

“What the hell, Barker!” Lou cursed, shoving him out of her way. Her eyes widened, and for a second she stared at the convulsing body then hustled to Charlie, sprawled and writhing on the cold tile. “Don’t just stand there! Help me!”

Her bark rattled Will from his trance and he was knees down, at Charlie’s side in a heartbeat. “What first?”

“Straddle him, palm on his forehead, two fingers,” she held up her hand to illustrate, “press them on the middle of his tongue. Keep it as flat as possible. You might try hooking your thumb under his chin if you don’t want them bit off.”

Shocked, palm pressed firmly against Charlie’s forehead, Will watched in horror, as the whites of Charlie’s eyes strained to roll further upward. His lurching lower body nearly uprooted Will’s steadying form…

“Damn you! What the fuck’s wrong with you?” He lifted one foot at a time, hooking a boot toe over each of Charlie’s scrawny thighs.

Lou returned. Readying a syringe, she crouched beside them.“Screaming at him isn’t going to help. Hold him steady.”

Easy for her to say…

How apropos, the nineteenth floor ledge on the verge of his nineteenth birth date, he stepped up and wobbled. Perspiration and tears, trickled evenly along his chiseled face. He caught his balance, the once stunning blue of his eyes dulling grayer with each spent tear. Just do it . . . .

Perched less than a shoulder’s width away, I listened in on his thoughts. Pain and confusion engulfed him, inflamed his need, or so he thought. My shoulders tight, my feathers flared, with a stretch and a snap, loose underlining flew in the air about me, fluttering, drifting on the breeze. Despite knowing his agony, naivety sickened me. Try living the pain of ten thousand lifetimes, I wished to tell him. What I wouldn’t give for an hour in his shoes–healthy, beautiful, physical, intelligent–

“Just. One. Step.” The toe of his right shoe met the edge, as his garbled words reached my ears.

Okay–maybe not so intelligent. Wings tucked neatly, I appeared at his side. “She’s a doozy,” I said, stretching as I settled, ass on the cool stone.

For such a young pup, he had guts. I’d give him that. He didn’t as much as flinch at the sound of my voice nor turn to me as he asked, “What’s it to you?”

What was it to me? More like, what was he to me. He would never know. That, I’d do everything in my power to ensure was never revealed.

Negotiating Texas by Bryl R. Tyne

(excerpt from a WIP)

Wasn’t the wisest business decision I’d ever made. Every other day, stretching my lunch hour into two had become a necessity of late, though. Better to avoid stress causing incidents than risk the fluctuations in blood pressure. Dr. Canton assured me, my health would benefit if I recognized and stepped away from situations that all but got my panties in a twist. Panties . . . may be the leverage needed to wheedle information out of one Texas Owens, owner of the newly established Granny Owens Bagels and More.

“Another refill, Mr. Vizion?”

Mind deep in strategizing, I half smiled—half grimaced at the waitress, Joanie. She must’ve wondered why a deli owner would take lunch halfway across town, but in three weeks, she hadn’t let on she thought I played short a full deck. I didn’t, just had a bit of a temper. Type-A personality, the doctor called it. Despite my moods—my assistant Marty’s assigned word to my typical reactions—Joanie never seemed to mind.  So pleasant and always helpful, too bad she and I didn’t have matching junk; I may have asked her out sometime. “Thanks, Joanie. But I’d better get back.”

Every minute away from my shop, I chanced losing another customer to that fat bastard set up across the street. All belly and with that bearded, cheeky smile, Santa Claus appeared a dreary fellow compared to Tex Owens. Only six weeks since he’d opened his doors and already he’d persuaded ten percent of my most loyal customers to give Granny Owens a try.

I left money to cover the tab on the table and gathered my things, concluding Dr. Canton was wrong. Avoiding button-pushing situations may be best for my heart, but no amount of avoidance would compensate my monetary needs. Whether Owens’ secret in drawing a crowd equated to his business practices, his menu, or his charm, if I wanted to uncover his tactics, I’d have to move in closer not distance myself.

I tucked my portfolio under my arm and slid my wallet into my pocket on my way out the door. Bastard Owens had another think coming if he thought for a second he’d outdo or outsell Julian’s Delicatessen. I’d show him.

* * * * *

One final traffic light and I’d be back to work. I blended into the crowd paused for the neon red hand.  Swinging into Granny Owens, second building to my right, came to mind, but sighting that bastard across the street exiting my place, I shoved to the front of the crowd.

No sooner had the walk symbol lit up, I sprinted along the walkway, elbowing my way through oncoming foot traffic.

He was as welcome in my place as the bird flu, and I’d make sure he knew it too. I cleared the street and rounded on to the sidewalk, halting steps before the apron adorned, jolly . . . “Owens—”

“Jules,” he intervened, full bottom lip curved in amusement, one of my to-go cups tilted in mock greeting, as he stepped around me, waddling back to his side of the street.

Yes, waddled, how apropos for a man named after his size.  Bastard in fiery orange burning into my mind like a Vegas marquee, I threw open the glass door to my shop and stormed inside.

“Afternoon, Jul—” Marty stopped, mid-greeting, as I’m sure my look demanded.

I marched past him, cleared the back counter, no words exchanged, and straight into my office. With the slam of the door, I realized Marty may have arrived at his opinion on my moodiness honestly. Right then, I felt like I wanted to tear that smug Owens’ head from his shoulders.

My chair wobbled on its springs, as I slammed into it, tossing my portfolio on my desk. Too young to keel over from a heart attack, I needed to get a grip.

Coin Operated Boy Copyright 2009 Bryl R. Tyne

(unedited excerpt)

His eyes opened to darkness. With a simple command, he adjusted his vision to the lack of light. Cold and empty shells, once full of life, were crammed, shoulder to shoulder, front to back, on every side. Twisted together, some skinless others not, disembodied limbs, wires and diodes hanging, filled the pocketed openings amongst the ruins. Starting with his toes, he wiggled each in turn, meticulously checking the connections from circuits to sensors, until he’d completed the body scan.

His first attempt to free his trapped arms proved futile, the pile of death too heavy. Determination set in his jaw; he forced his arms from his body, exhaling only as the pile gave way. Metal grated metal. The dead moaned. He braced himself atop the headless droid beneath him as layer upon layer of broken robotics tumbled down around him.

Hoisting himself up and out through the opening he’d created, he froze, mid-motion, and watched a lone head tumble a lopsided dance along the sloped mound, until it landed with a thud. With another heave and a solid push, he cleared the mound and alit on the cold, packed dirt. He brushed the residue from his backside, blew the dust from his palms. Where am I?

He scanned the area, the soil, the atmosphere, searching his memory for familiar climes, finding no reference to anyplace with orange dust or two moons. The haze on the horizon told him night would soon fall. Climbing around and over edges of mountainous debris—some piled twice his height, he spotted a square of light in the distance.

Scanning his systems, he focused on the light and stumbled onward. His processes worked fine, however, his memory was void, missing, perhaps of not only the information necessary to tag this wasteland, but of all information.

All that is, except his name….

Chal ran a more thorough analysis. Basic data was intact; but he was not. He walked on, his brain working double-time to understand the hollowness within him, something inside as empty as his memory banks…. But what?

As Chal approached the light, he noticed an aged gentleman in stained coveralls rocking solemnly on the porch of the rundown building.

His eyes wide, the man removed a cigarette from his mouth and stood. “Well. Hello there.”

Chal scanned and interpreted the man’s vitals. Other than increase in heart rate, the man appeared unaffected. “I am Chal.”

“Are you now?” Flicking the cigarette to the porch, he crushed it with his boot and chuckled. “And you’re naked, son.”

Chal combed over his body before meeting a different look, an unknown glint, in the man’s eyes. “Is that a problem?”

Coming October 12th to Noble Romance Publishing!

Never by Bryl R. Tyne

He lingered near the street lamp, at the back of the crowd of many. Onlookers, some curious others watching with their discerning stares, waited for me to make a mistake. Sure, I was capable of messing up, blowing my cover. I’d done it more than a dozen times before. Of course there was a reason I kept moving, roaming town to town, place to endless place. Never would I be accepted…not with my flaws. But I would not screw this up tonight. I couldn’t. He was here. At the back of the crowd, he leaned against the lamp post and lit a cigarette, expecting a perfect show.

How apropos for a Friday Flash, caught with my pants down again. So, I’m posting a ficlet we m/m authors had the joy of throwing together over Labor Day Weekend at Literary Nymphs Chat group. Members offered the prompts, Authors gave them one hell of a selection of under 2000-word short stories. As you’re reading, you’ll notice the prompts are left in blue. That’s so you can appreciate what exactly we Authors had to work with here. What a trip, but great fun.

I present, my LNC Labor Day 2009 story,

Bastard by Bryl R. Tyne

Some surprise, he knew I abhorred Lemon Krispy Cremes. Yet, he insisted on eating one after another as, knees on either side of my body, he sat atop me on the bed.

Outside, it was dark. Bastard thought it funny to wake me in the middle of the night. “What the fuck time is it?” I scanned to my right for the clock only to be brought back, with a forceful hand, to face him.

Glorying in watching me gag, he bit into each donut and, exposing the snot yellow cream, sucked at it with fervor. Where he got off on torturing the hell out of me, I wondered. Last night, Chinese cuisine at the Midnight Haunt—my least favorite—he knew it too; and this morning, or whatever time of night it was, those wretched lemon-filled…

With his knees, he pinned my arms to the bed and bent, kissing me, before I had chance to protest. I shuddered, trying not to hurl at the nasty flavor coating my tongue and gradually approaching my throat. His bare knuckled grip tightened in my hair. The harder he pulled, the deeper he delved, the sharper the pain in my head.

I despised this treatment, yet he persisted. Little did he realize though, I’d tired of his shenanigans and had gotten my hands on some much needed info. He was the one in for the surprise. He had no tolerance for bitching, especially when one of his boys complained of a bad hair day… Would he ever be shocked, when I was through with him.

With all the spite-filled strength I could muster, I arched from the sheets, kicking him off me and onto the floor. By his speed, or lack thereof, he appeared dazed as he got to his hands and knees. I stood behind him and fisted his hair, only to give it a tug, quick and forceful, and yank him upright, onto his knees. A rose tattoo on his right shoulder beckoned my attention. Why a rose, I’d find out later, but damn, if the sight of it didn’t put a rise in my cock, up and beyond any turn-on I’d ever experienced. I averted my fixation with the tat, had to focus on the plan.

“Who’s in charge now, bitch?”

“You are.”

I yanked his head back further and leaned to his ear. “You. Are. Sir.”

He panted. His body shaking, he corrected his reply on a raspy exhale. “Y-you are, s-sir.”

Without breaking my grip, I got to my knees, fumbled behind me for my bag, and drug it to my side. Didn’t take me long to find what I sought. I dropped the cock harness over his shoulder onto the floor. He instinctively reached for it, but I pulled him back. I could learn to like this, I thought, digging into my bag once again. “Not yet, boy.”

Reaching around, I slipped my magic ring over the head of his jutted cock and slid it to the base. Fuck. From the feel of things, he endured domination just fine. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he enjoyed it. “Put that on first,” I said, applying a steady stroke to the beautiful piece of meat wrapped in my closed palm.

He groaned, but obeyed. I let go of his cock as he put on the harness and snapped it place. “You want whatever I tell you, you want, don’t you?” I asked.

Sweat slicked his skin. He was gorgeous. I didn’t mind waiting for a reply, not this time. That damned rose tattoo held my attention. I licked over it and scooted closer to press my cock along the cleft of his firm ass. With the sting from the bite I inflicted, he answered. “Yes…sir.”

“Good boy.”

I stood and, by his hair, pulled him to his feet. His head snapped to my shoulder, I slid my tongue over his stubbly cheek to the corner of one closed eye. “Shower, now.”

He hesitated briefly at the whispered command but made for the shower, me pressed firmly behind him. Surely, he knew what I had in mind—to watch him squirm as the water tightened the wet leather encasing his cock.

Heat never bothered me. I was used to pain, but if I wanted to do this right, I had to take his needs into consideration. “Adjust it, until you can stand it. Barely.“

He did, and steam filled the stall as I closed the glass door. I directed him into the spray,  delighting in his pained expression as the leather harness drank in the hot water. “You like that, boy?”

“Yes,” he gasped, “Sir.”

Releasing my hold on his hair, I ordered him to take my cock and suck it. He got to his knees, his hair soaked and dripping in his eyes. Water ricocheted off his head, splaying my chest, as he took me deep inside his mouth. I felt a chuckle leave my lips at the sight. “Who’s having a bad hair day now, bitch?”

He groaned as I kicked his knees apart to slide a foot up the length of his harnessed balls and cock. He started to shake. “Take it deeper.” I ordered.

He obeyed, taking me into his throat then backing off.

“Again!” I grabbed him behind the ears and thrust. “And this time, make it count.”

As if he enjoyed his task, he took me with purpose, engulfing my cock and… Fuck! He was humming. Jesus, the man could rival a hummingbird. I guided him to the tip and back, balls swimming. Hands unsteady, I lost my grip on his head and braced the tile. Holding me fast to the cool wall with his forearm, he never let up sucking my cock. Not even as my entire body tensed and I arched from the wall, breaking his hold. Again, I fisted his wet hair and drove in and out. With ass clenched, I thrust deep, giving him all I had, my balls spewing more and more of my load, with each jerk of my hips.

He looked up at me through matted hair as I withdrew from between his lips. I laughed at those pleading eyes blinking back the shower’s spray. “Take care of yourself.”

An exasperated huff escaped his lips as he continued to stare.

“Now!”

He struggled to the release the snaps on the wet leather, finally breaking eye contact to aid his quest. His cock securely in his grasp, he worked up a hurried stroke as he loosened the ring. “Fuck…” His moan echoed over the sound of the water as he came, his spunk flying hard and high, splaying my legs, from shins to thighs.

* * * *

I was back in bed and warm between the sheets, long before he emerged from the bathroom. As I felt the mattress sink under his weight, I turned my back to him. Would’ve commented on those fucking Lemon Krispy Cremes, but I knew he loved them. Stupid bastard. In vain, I tried to stifle the laughter threatening to break free. “Teach you to mess with the do.”

“Shut up.” He shoved me into the wall then backed off.

I bucked against his chilly body, teasing, secretly hoping he’d resume his antics. Sleep evaded me with my cock, stone-hard and once again, ready for action.

“Asshole.” He mumbled.

I laughed aloud as I hit the wall hard from the force of his full-body bump. At once, our Schnauzer, scratched and barked at the bedroom door. Both of us froze our movements. As the bark progressed to a whine, I covered my head with a pillow.

“Fine.”

Before I knew it, the covers were thrown to the side and he was out of bed, pulling on a pair sweats, grumbling under his breath.

“Don’t wake the dog, unless you plan to walk it,” I said, knowing full well, I’d pay for pissing him off, when he returned. But that’s exactly what I wanted. I rolled over to wait for him, patiently. No matter how mad I drove him, he’d be back.

Again, I chuckled as he stomped from the room. “You know, that spot on top of chicken shit…?” The closing of the bedroom door ended his snarky comment.

Bastard.

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read the other LNC Labor Day 2009 Ficlets, you can join Literary Nymphs Chat group here:  http://groups.yahoo.com/group/LiteraryNymphsChat/

Forgot to flash last Friday, scatterbrain that I am. This here’s from my Western WIP  for an anthology from Noble Romance.

*note: anyone with a better grasp on the Spanish language, help…please.

Working Title: Lleva una Pistola

Weren’t but a handful a minutes later, them two come traipsing inside. From the sound of it, they was all over each other.

“No. Carmen. Shh…No.”

Mitch’s slur told me, the two a them had paid a visit to the bunkhouse, to Bennie, in particular. Mitch knew as well as I did who hid the hooch. I’d be talking to Bennie come morning.

“Yoo-hoo…Senor Samms!”

The obnoxiously melodic voice carried from my door frame. I chucked my pillow.

“Ay! Senor Samms está de mal humor. Muy malo!”

Guess my pillow found its mark. Though I didn’t much understand her foreign tongue, I knew enough to know Lady Carmen weren’t too pleased with the gesture. Her voice disappeared into the next room, Mitch’s room, along with her footsteps.

More thankful to have Mitch home than anything, I let tiredness overtake me. I yawned, closed my eyes…

“Teehee.”

For Pete’s sake, did she have to giggle that loud? I shifted my head under the spare pillow. Last thing I wanted to hear were a howling female.

“Ha-ha…Ay, Mitchy.”

I opened my eyes, let my last pillow fly.

“Si! Ay, papí!”

Now, I don’t care for the taste, but the thought of Mitch enjoying putting his tongue to making her babble, had me harder than a stone statue in under a minute.