Take A Pike

In the early 2000’s a yellow-paged book came into my possession. “The Last Vampire” by Christopher Pike slipped itself over the backseat of a traveling bus. I retrieved the soft cover novel and started reading about a five-thousand year old vampire, called Sita. In a matter of days the story came to an end. I passed the book back over the seat and waited for the next one to come through. 51WS2P2XR2L

Jackie, my dealer, supplied the novels to several people in class. A small group that used the books as inspiration for their own novels. We traded composition books full of vampires that lived in Egypt during a time before pharaohs, similar to Sita’s background. She lived in India where an evil spirit inhabited her dead friend and started the vampire lineage.

My version mirrored this heritage as the protagonist summons a spirit to revive her dead friend. This started the lineage of vampires to encroach the human world but without the promise of eternal life. A vampire would live the expected lifespan of a human but with superhuman powers, like telekinesis. I gave these stories to friends that gave them back with confused looks.

“If they don’t live forever then how are they still alive?” they asked, flipping to the front page of  my story. I saw that it began in modern day times with the same character that lived a thousand years ago. Somehow this plot-hole never occurred to me. I needed to revise the story.

I changed my vampires to infinite creatures of the night in exchange for their telekinesis. This allowed my protagonist to flourish with also a goal in mind. She needed to keep her life eternal while recovering her superpowers. I found something new and interesting about the story that kept me writing and reading stories.

Christopher Pike continued to inspire me as his characters often dealt with deadly matters. In the “Chain Letter” series, a group of friends submitted themselves to a mysterious contract that forced them to commit embarrassing acts in exchange for the send’s silence. This deal stretched over the length of three novels. I finished the last one in my dad’s car while on the way to high school.51YXS2N1PSL

At this point all my friends found different clicks of people to engage with. I ventured into the art department where I found the terror of commitment. Turning in a disfigured still-life embarrassed me more than an incomplete one. I turned in sketches of men with only half a face or two-legged elephants. Although earning a passing-grade they left me feeling ashamed of my inability to complete things, similar to Pike’s characters.

The unknown meant the unwillingness to find out the mysteries ahead. I needed to charge ahead through the gray between contoured lines and blank paper. I needed to stop fear with perseverance. This allotted my imagination to find a balance between the real and the unreal as projects completed themselves. Because the thing about art is that it only exists as it is made.

I still struggle with the ability to sometimes follow a professor’s instructions to finish a story. Sometimes my projects amount to nothing except fine detail and little character growth. These things matter little and a lot. Art needs time to grow , and I’m willing to make more deals with myself and others, in order to see that happen. After all, writers need readers as much as I want the next vampire installment from Christopher Pike.

 

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Orlando Strong

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Dear Readers,

Something terrible happened in my town. 49 people died while 50 others were injured. I found this out one morning when my friend called. She wanted to know that I was safe. I was safe but not from the effect of the tragedy.

If you’ve read my blog then you know that some of the posts were about Pulse. Holiday happened around this time of the year. It’s hard to imagine that my story took place in the same place that this one did.

I think that’s how a lot of people in this community are affected by this event. We all went to Pulse at some time or another. We all danced there. We all made friends there. We know the layout of the club and that’s what haunts us at night. We imagine the sounds and things that happened that night and wonder if that could have been us. For some of us it might have been, if our mother’s hadn’t asked us to babysit or if we felt too tired to go out after working a twenty-hour shift.

Thinking about this affects us each day. And each day it’s hard to believe that Orlando now has this strange history behind it. I came to Orlando to go to college. My friend came to Orlando because he fell in love. Someone else came to Orlando because they wanted to escape the boredom of living in a small town. We all found ourselves here and now we are finding ourselves again.

Grief is something that happens differently to everyone. Some people are attending the vigils. My friend is handing out food to people at the hospital. I am trying to do everything but there’s only so much you can do in a day. I want to feel this pain so that I can grieve with my community. The hurt must be felt so that we can move on eventually. But right now is not the time to move on. We must remember, cry, and live with each other. Here is Orlando and this is what Orlando Strong means to me.

My Voice

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Essay and Photo by BoyKitsch

I’m trying to find my voice in the bright green trees of Florida. It loves to swing off  one branch and onto another during the day. The woods sigh with delight because no one ever pays attention to them. At least not the neighborhood people.

They sit beside television sets inside of their apartments. I look up into open windows and find blue faces. A cold sensation spirals up my spine. The image reminds me of the curly-haired-boy who once watched Netflix for four hours in my apartment. He felt happy.

A blue light disappears from one of the windows, so I turn back to the trees. My voice rustles the leaves as it climbs higher. The ascension seems easy but that’s because I’m standing outside of the action. I know that when my voice returns it will tell me all about the trouble it got into.

It will tell me about the thug squirrels that hid inside a tree hole. They threatened to kill it if my voice wouldn’t give them a song. My voice shivered beneath sharp claws before  spitting out a rhyme that lifted up greedy paws and escaping to the branches below.

“Sometimes danger happens but that’s how we learn about the world around us,” I will tell it. It’ll stomp and pout around the trees because I never taught my voice patience. When it stops I’ll say, “But most people would rather live through the danger than watch someone else live through it.” It won’t understand and go back into the trees while I listen to the distant laugh of an informercial somewhere above.

 

 

Ready, Set, Done

Today’s Daily Prompt was about anything I wanted to discuss. I chose a short-story by the looks of it. Please read, comment, and most of all enjoy. Oh, also subscribe!


She found me when no one else was looking. In the paper, three weeks back, the headline read DEATH BY POPULAR DEMAND. There were quizzical looks everywhere from the grocery store to the inside of college libraries. Neither man nor scholar could figure out what the title meant by first glance. So on they read.

The story told of a dead twenty-four year old boy and his ultimate demise. He wasn’t special by the looks of the newspaper photograph but the words on the outside spelled A-r-t-i-s-t. Five years of art school had instilled in him a kind of confidence not found in books. “He loved the world and so himself.” became a popular quote from the printed piece. The boy had said this to practically all the university professors.

It was a tragic story of how he was found on the fifteenth floor of the Heart Studio Apartments. Paint mixed with blood on a canvas that framed suicide. I think that’s when people decided to stop looking for me. Another artist gone too soon by his own doing.

“But I knew that you wouldn’t leave.” she said upon finding me. My consciousness was barely stable and so I thought her an angel. A real angel with fluffy wings when later I’d discover it was hair.

“They took you away because what you had to offer was something much bigger than a mural or scholarship. On your canvas was a theory of worlds. Universes hidden in bristles, disguised as brushes. I think you broke the laws of time. My dear sweet Amin.”

I reject inTouch Magazine

I pass by this magazine cover every day while standing in line for coffee. No one forces me to look at it but still it’s there. An ugly photoshopped picture of a beloved actor. Robin Williams was a wondrous person to me for many reasons but ultimately because he made me feel okay to be gay. The Birdcage was a family movie for my household growing up. In the movie Armand Goldman (Robin Williams) & his partner Albert (Nathan Lane) pretend to be a straight couple living in Miami, Florida when in reality they own a drag club downstairs their apartment. The scheme is put on for the sake of their son who is marrying a politician’s daughter. It’s a fantastic movie and I treasure the joy it brings. 

Fast forwards to present day and Robin Williams has left an array of funny, touching, and even some scary movies to watch over and over again. While he was alive I never researched too much into his ongoing life. He had a twitter account but although I’m twenty-something the desire to tweet is still nonexistent. His life to me was what I saw on screen and I prefer to keep it that way. 

To someone like me, a fan, a magazine cover like this disrupts my mourning with feelings of anger. Believe me when I say that I am not angry at Robin Williams but instead the media. The media that fornicates a treasured actor with vile slander in order to sell more magazines, that is what inTouch says to me. How? Because I’ve seen tittles like this before on late night “news reels” telling me how Princess Diana could have been saved but she chose to die. The grave feeling of watching this is similar to watching America’s Most Wanted, as if the public eye missed something, like we’re now responsible for vengeance. 

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“He could have been SAVED” is a title that promotes ownership to the reader as if we’re responsible for knowing something that went amiss so we can avenge it. Recall Michael Jackson’s case and the death threats that went forwards to his doctor. When I think of this I can’t help but feel inTouch is trying to reminisce the MJ frenzy. I wouldn’t put it past them that they’re trying to start up another. So that leaves me with this conclusion…

I choose not to give into the media frenzy. I am sad. We all have memories of how someone touched our lives with their humor, their heart, their humanity, and that’s all I care about. I choose to pass down the joy and to not give into the media. The media isn’t what creates someone or something memorable. It’s the person. So cheers to Robin Williams. You are in my heart. 

“The Brief Life of BoyKitsch”

There’s something tough about writing a piece at home vs writing a piece not at home. Maybe it’s the condition of being alone. When there’s people around I find my thoughts navigating about the cafe, the park, people’s heads, and into the clouds where there’s a plethora of ideas. At home there’s just the roof. 


 

 

This week I’m reading “The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” by Junot Diaz for a school discussion. Half way into the book and I find myself feeling for the character. I’m feeling pain, love, motivation, for the protagonist because I want him to live outside his state of mind. Depression is a condition that he has allowed himself to be put in. Then again there are so many variables in the story that allow to believe otherwise. 

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When I think of the “conditions” that have put myself here today there are feelings similar to that of which I feel for Oscar. It’s pains me to realize that maybe I give myself too much alone-time. Compared to my friends I would consider myself a hermit. Something I love about the story around me though is that I interact with imagination everyday. 

His hand crept up and down the bookshelf in search of the right inspiration. Cover after cover he heard the echoes of warriors, villains, and romantic beasts. However, after much consideration he allowed his attention to be directed to another story, the one on his computer waiting to be written. 

Writing is something I love to do. The motivation I have for writing though comes from all other outlets. For Oscar his inspiration comes from Sci-FI, games, amongst other nerdy things. Some of mine come from fashion, pop music, philosophy, and stories of pioneers. So while Oscar and I may be a little different or a little the same, reading the story has pushed me to take my life and read about it some more. So with that said I’ll be finishing my New York Story sometime next week. 

 

S.O.S. New York Part 2

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I think you’re going to need those.” the bouncer said, looking at the ground. Three golden condoms laid in plain sight until I grabbed them to stuff into my pocket. They had come out conveniently with my I.D. that proved I was old enough to go into the club, Ritz.

“Thanks.” I said and went in. I touched my cheeks that felt warm from the waves of embarrassment. Getting laid was actually the furthest thing from my mind. I wouldn’t be able to reach the stoop of someone’s apartment before I’d begin to have regrets.

I pushed the rubbers all the way down until I felt their corners nibbling at my leg. Everywhere I looked were sexy-looking-men. Round and lean bodies that glowed in the darkness of the club. I needed to get closer.

Walking down a narrow hallway, the beat of music tumbled, chests balanced against one another, and I wound up in the middle of the dance floor. Men spun around me and spilling their beers, I wanted to be as carefree. I swayed side to side but the rhythm of music swam right past me. How do I do this? I must have mouthed the words because I noticed a pair of twinkling eyes staring at me. They belonged to a guy that was dancing with a bunch of people. Friends. He nodded for me to come over.71Qwx0Q4eaL._AA1000_

We had no introductions. Our feet passed around the beat of the music and when it was my turn I did it without any hesitation. Sometimes it’s not such a bad thing to lack confidence because then you meet new people. I felt the sweat running down my forehead.

By the time the guy and his friends exited the floor my shirt was soaked. The addiction had me wondering how I had ever been afraid to dance. With every new song my torso spun like there was a hook in it, pulling it, until releasing my hands into the air.

“You’re a good dancer.” somebody said. Their words were close to my ear. I had seen him come at me from across the room but only now realized we were dancing together.

“Thank you.” I said, feeling my hands along his back. Smooth muscle swayed beneath the cotton shirt. My hand moved up behind his neck when all of a sudden he took it and spun me around. Feeling the pulse behind my body I noticed there was something different in the way he moved. The itch in my pocket from the condoms threw me off balance but he caught us by placing his arms around my waist. His hold felt firm but not aggressive. I was comfortable to keep dancing.

“Do you wanna go outside?” He said.

Closet Case Part 2- Lover’s Wall

Welcome back reader! This is the second installment of my Closet Case series. I meant for this to be a posted a day earlier. After this there will be one more installment to the Closet Case series. Enjoy!

I lifted my leg as far up on the ledge as I could without losing balance. The trashcans beside me smelled dangerously like cat pee. One slip of my foot and I’d be the new kitty litter. This was the first time I ever snuck into someone else’s house, not to mention a boyfriend’s! However, it was kind of “romantic” that two lovers had to meet in secret by a window. I just hoped I didn’t ruin the experience by falling.

“Sit on the ledge. I’ll help you down.” He said. So I sat down with both legs dangling on opposite sides of the wall. He came to the window and held me by the waist. I chucked my other leg over but  with too much force. The two of us stumbled into the bedroom, over dirty laundry, beer cans, and books before tumbling onto the mattress. It smelled just like the trash outside. I shot up and brushed my body off as if a thousand ants were crawling over it.

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“Settle down dude! My parents will hear you.” He said quietly. I looked up to see him closing the door and locking it with a bolt. The bolt was there because the knob was missing! After stuffing it with a sock my boyfriend came over to give me a kiss. One peck on the lips before I put up my hands in protest. There was underwear piled around the room like maybe he organized them according to their cartoon character, but after collecting them he decided to do something else. Like drinking. Bottles and cans were the common knick-knack on bookshelves, nightstands, and windowsills.

“What’s the matter?” He said. A goofy smile was spread across his lips. It was the normal expression he had but now I wondered if maybe it was because of the alcohol.

“Oh. Umm….nothing.” I said. I clenched my gut and sat down on the bed. He came down with me. I wanted to kiss him but there my thoughts were stopping me. Was he drunk every time we met? Could he not express affection without being intoxicated? He touched the inside of my leg with his fingers. I watched them try to nuzzle their way in like a bee crawling into a flower. If he was tipsy then I didn’t know what this meant.

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“There’s this movie I want you to watch.” He said. “It’s an old Sci-Fi set in the dystopian future where the robots rule over the humans.” He got up and walked over to an old VCR. Inside there was a tape all ready to play. I looked around the room a second time. Underneath the dust in a corner of the room was an entire layer of cassette tapes. Some of them I recognized from copies in my living room while others I had never heard of. I suddenly remembered why I liked this guy so much. While the rest of the world had moved onto using downloads and DVDS this guy was vintage.

He came and sat down next to me but this time I had no apprehension about opening myself up to him. I snug my head under his arm and watched the movie, at least for the next five minutes. I needed him to be closer. I tired pulling him on top of me but before I could he shut off all the lights. Afterwards he mounted me, slid his legs back so that we were chest against chest, mouth against mouth. There was indeed alcohol on his breath. I still let him kiss me though. I didn’t care what it took for him to get past some of his fears because somehow he took me away from mine. I was the boy that snuck out of his parents house at night, to an abandoned pool, to a lover’s window.

 

 

 

The Chemical Whip

To my fellow readers, I want to apologize for not posting anything this past week. The truth is that I took the time instead to do some self-reflecting. I really want to grow this blog into something more because I believe it has the potential. I see it as an form of self-expression for both my past and future. So I’ve been collecting some new material that I think will broaden the experiences for both you and me. Until I feel it is the time to unveil such material I will still write my adventures in romance, as well as continuing my Stepping Out series. To tie you over until then here is the rest of my Cop story…


 

The weeks passed with Peter and I following the same routine. It would be me sleeping over and in the morning going home. Communication between us was still strictly physical. He was the man I imagined wanting but somehow the fantasy seemed boring. I wanted chemistry that had words, ideas, and sexuality. These things are very important to me in a relationship. The word “relationship” though was still the the furthest thing from Peter’s mind.

“I’m just looking for someone with no drama.” Peter told me one day when discussing his ex-boyfriend (again). I understood what he meant. The gay community isn’t exactly a drama-free zone as it’s partly known for having Divas & Drag Queens. Apparently his ex-boyfriend was one of the two. Knowing this I felt like I had a chance, because I am anything but drama.

Later that same day I found myself in Peter’s bed again. We were in our underwear kissing. Rolling our bodies from one side of the bed to the other. Beneath my fingers the muscle of his back rippled and inside I felt sexy. Sexy because this was a man that wanted to be held. Our chemistry was in kisses. They weren’t sporadic but instead like an electric whip. The charge would begin from the back of his head and then pulse into the back of mine.

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My head was pounding so I rolled us over to where I was on top. He asked me if I wanted to have sex. I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t enough of myself to give that I knew would be returned. That was when I knew there was a question rising out of me.

“I do, but I want to know something first. I know it’s bad timing and I’m really sorry. I need to know though. Do you like me?” I asked. I felt his belly sigh and knew what was coming.

“Well yes I like you but…” He said. That was all I needed to know that there was nothing more to give.

“It’s okay. I know it’s bad timing. It’s just… whenever I come over this is all we seem to do.” I said. He agreed and apologized if things seemed that way. We were just two people caught in the moment. Like a needle my question popped the bubble. I climbed off him so he could hold me. We fell asleep and in the morning I said goodbye.