Wishing on a Blue Star E-Book

Patric Michael

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 692

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

A Special Project by Dreamspinner Press & ManLoveRomance Press. Edited by Kris Jacen. How much impact can someone have on your life if you've never met them face to face? In this electronic age of E-mails, electronic publishing, and social networks, quite a lot. Through his emails, stories and blog, author Patric Michael has touched numerous hearts, minds and lives from the start of his career and further as he now takes us along on his journey to battle cancer. Along the way, Patric shows us a side of life that not many truly see-- how we are all a part of something larger than just ourselves, and how we are each touched by others for the betterment of all. Now, those that have been touched by Patric and his words have joined together to give something back, to him and to us all through something he values highly – words. In this compilation, gay short stories, poems, and anecdotes combined with excerpts from Patric's blog and a few entertaining, educational group posts reveal, and celebrate, the man who has touched so many hearts and minds. This collection, sometimes erotic, sometimes irreverent, and always poignant, is a gift from all our hearts to celebrate Patric and give strength (and a little levity) to others. The price reflects this; no one is receiving royalties or payment from the sales. Use it to celebrate life, celebrate words, and possibly inspire someone who needs it.

Leseprobe

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

4760 Preston Road

Suite 244-149

Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

Blog entries Copyright © 2010 by Patric Michael

Just Being Copyright © 2010 by Jamie Samms

Patric Hates AIM Copyright © 2010 by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

When Angels Fall Copyright © 2010 by ZA Maxfield

So If You're Sand Copyright © 2010 by C. Zampa

In the Light Copyright © 2010 by Lex Valentine

Technical Terms Copyright © 2010 by Patric Michael

With This Flower Copyright © 2010 by Karenna Colcroft

The Silver Shard Copyright © 2010 by Tame Adams

Is a Prostate Worth Finding? Copyright © 2010 by Patric Michael

The Lost Ones Copyright © 2010 by Victor J. Banis

Mushrooms Copyright © 2010 by Brian Holliday

The Mentor Copyright © 2010 by Jambrea Jo Jones

Linchpin Copyright © 2010 by Mary Calmes

Stupid Human Sex Tricks Copyright © 2010 by Patric Michael

Dragonfly Copyright © 2010 by Jan Irving

A Tale of Three Curmudgeons Copyright © 2010 by Jean Lorrah

Through the Mist Copyright © 2010 by Chrissy Munder

Leaves Copyright © 2010 by Moira McCain

The Better Part Copyright © 2010 by Clare London

Holding Purpose Copyright © 2010 by D.W. Marchwell

A Place to Belong Copyright © 2010 by Taylor Lochland

Dreams of Terrible Brightness Copyright © 2010 by Amy Lane

Edited by Kris Jacen

Cover Art by Catt Ford

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-61581-881-5

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

January, 2011

eBook edition available

eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-882-2  

Table of Contents

Blogs from Patric Michael are interwoven throughout the book to tell in his words (Patric’s editor’s note: typos and all), the journey over the year. Some of the blog entries included pictures or links—for those interested, you can see the original entries at Patric’s blog (http://blogs.patric.com).

Table of Contents

Just Being by Jamie Samms

Patric Hates AIM by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

When Angels Fall by ZA Maxfield

So If You’re Sand, Not Rock by C. Zampa

In the Light by Lex Valentine

Technical Terms by Patric Michael

With this Flower by Karenna Colcroft

The Silver Shard by Tame Adams

Is a Prostate Worth Finding? by Patric Michael

The Lost Ones by Victor J. Banis

Mushrooms by Brian Holliday

The Mentor by Jambrea Jo Jones

Linchpin by Mary Calmes

Stupid Human Sex Tricks by Patric Michael

Dragonfly by Jan Irving

A Tale of Three Curmudgeons by Jean Lorrah

Through the Mist by Chrissy Munder

Leaves by Moira McCain

The Better Part by Clare London

Holding Purpose by D.W. Marchwell

A Place to Belong by Taylor Lochland

Dreams of Terrible Brightness by Amy Lane

Editor’s Note

Kris Jacen

“I’ve got a secret no more.”

These words on a blog just over a year ago brought a pang of sadness to many. It seemed our friend, author Patric Michael, definitely had cancer.  A rare form with a low survivability rate.

As the months passed we’ve shared Patric’s journey, through its ups-and-downs, good periods and bad, and at the end it brought us to this collection. With all of the twists and turns that we’ve taken since that simple announcement, this bend in the road is perhaps the most deeply felt.  We who have connected so many times, and so often through the Internet (yahoo groups, author loops, blogs and shared publishers) came to the realization that he might not be with us forever and wanted to honor him in a way he wanted.  Not just flowers or donations to a favored charity, but in a way that would, as he put it, “Hopefully touch others as deeply as they have touched me.”  You see, if we have learned only one thing from Patric throughout our time together, it is this: what the person dealing with the situation wants is more important than all else, and not necessarily what we might think he wants.

So we asked him what we could do: How did he want us to remember him after he passed?

Patric shared with us an idea to collect inspiration.  Stories, blogs and even poetry that had some connection with him. As Patric has participated on those groups or blogs, other authors have been inspired by their interactions with him to create stories or characters of their own, so he requested that we gather those stories (or others like them) along with his blogs and a few of his “educational” postings, all in one place. His hope was that someone could somehow benefit from it.  Maybe even gather strength or inspiration of their own, whether they were going through the same thing he did, or knew someone who was.

As a result you now have this collection with stories that sparked from things like talks with Patric about photographing mushrooms or his delight from fireflies or just Patric’s heart. All of the stories are written from our hearts and thoughts, to remember Patric using something he valued highly; words and creativity.

Whether you’re with us or watching over us Patric, know you have touched all our lives. May you find your Yellow Star as we wish on our Blue Star.

December 2010

A story, as I promised.....

The origins of an email and a title

I recently told my children that when I was sixteen I was better suited to raising a child than I am now.  Bless their fuzzy little hearts, they looked at me like I was crazy.  But give them credit for humoring me, they did ask for clarification.

“At sixteen, I was already a father.” I said.  “Or rather damn near, given that I was basically a live-in baby sitter.”

“Oh, right.  You mean Jed and Jeremy,” said my niece, who might just as well be my daughter for all the care and raising I have had of her.

“Yup.  But it was more than that,” I replied.  “I was ‘geared’ toward being a father.  I didn’t exactly have a life of my own yet, like now, where it’s all wrapped up in personal projects, and work and stuff.  I was already accustomed to giving over my needs in favor of the little ones so I didn’t have any transitions to make like new parents traditionally have.”

“But you were sixteen!” Eric protested.  “You were just a kid.”

Was I?  Does age dictate personality, if one leaves aside the hormones and the necessary physiological changes?  I suppose so, to a degree, but it is a central fact of my life that at sixteen I found, felt, and followed virtually all the tenets of my personal philosophies that have held me in good stead all these many years since.

Some were abandoned, most changed according to the times, and a few I held so deeply that only a scant handful knew what oddities I thought about.  One such, which I can safely share now that I am at the end of my path, is the story of my email address.  Like so many other times, I was sixteen when I “remembered.”

I’ll call it a dream in favor of those whose beliefs run counter to mine, but it was, for all intents and purposes, a memory.

Let us suppose, for example, that like in a dream, one can be both participant and observer.  Such was the case with me, though when I looked at myself all I could see was a vaguely star shaped ball of light, blindingly white. 

Just about the time I recognized my shape as nonexistent, I realized there was another shapeless ball of light just above me.  Just as white, and just as untethered by wind, gravity, or space.  We existed in a featureless red place, with a dark red horizon, and “ground” as red as the sky.  The other took off, upward, and I followed as easily as one might chase after a floating “wishie.” “He” laughed, as I did, and the sound was a cascade of blue and gold color shimmering around us both and trailing after as we chased each other across timelessness.  We found that we could dive beneath the ground more easily than a fish through water and come back up, pulling mountains after us in impossibly tall crags and spires. 

Flying over these mountains I saw that each was a face.  Sometimes old, sometimes new, and all as fluid as the sensation of sound sliding across our “skin.” They would fall back into the ground, sometimes leaving afterimages as clouds, and sometimes as new things altogether.

Color had texture and weight, in that world.  Sound was tactile.  Sight was a taste, as eager on an imaginary tongue as candy to a child and we reveled in each other, separated for so long and finally, finally together again.

All these things I knew in instants, with more clarity than if they had been etched behind human eyes, and I understood everything.

Except the sudden jolt when I looked up and saw “him” launch skyward.  Fear gave me it’s shape, hateful and unpleasant, when I tried to follow and could not.  Instead I was pinned to the earth, or so I thought.  In fact, I was falling, through the featureless ground that shattered like red glass and tumbled around me into darkness.  I fell with the shards, screaming a name that had no form, his name, and begging to get back to him so high overhead.  The color of his loss was gold, as mine was blue, and I was the only thing not red and shrieking as the shards fell with me and around me until the world went black.  All of his light and mine extinguished.

Pain came next.  And incredible crushing pain that forced me into a new shape, one I could not name.  Pressure built and the the darkness lifted as the I was crushed smaller and smaller and the world went a frigid blue white.  More pain and another jerking sensation, as though I were being relocated inside myself until the moment the brightness became excruciating and I entered the world screaming and naked, born bereft of my twin.

Medicine was cruder in those days.  My mother later told me the doctors had two heartbeats for a while early on and told her to expect twins, but one set failed for whatever reason and after a while they decided maybe they were wrong.  I have since been told that its not all that uncommon for one of a set of twins to fail and be reabsorbed.  (And imagine my horror when I read Stephen King’s Dark Half, which was based on that exact premise!)

I have ever known I should have been twins, and for me, the question of when a baby gets a “soul” is forever answered for me. :)

The memory is still so vivid, possibly from the telling, possibly from wishful thinking, but it is the basis for the tattoo on my back, and some day, some day, I will once again be reunited with my brother, whom I have loved always and never known.  How keen is a loss like that, one that cannot even be expressed or substantiated, or perhaps only how foolish.

Regardless, I believe what I believe, and have done so for more than thirty years.  That’s a long time to miss someone, and I miss him still.

Patric

Friday, October 23, 2009

I’ve got a secret, no more...

Wow, gosh. A lot has happened since my last post, and since then I’ve received email asking when I would be releasing something new (Thanks folks!)

I’ve also been pretty sparse in the group lists, twitter, and facebook. Not my usual style, I know, but there is a reason I’m going to share only once, then move on. I told myself I wouldn’t tell folks unless they were directly affected by my lack, and that worked for quite a quite a while, until even strangers asking for new works noticed. Figured it was time to explain myself before I got a reputation I didn’t want! Well, I don’t really want this reputation, but it’s unavoidable at this point!

Have I beat around the bush enough? Too much, I think. I need an editor for my own blog post! One last thing though... Most folks will find this news rather sad. We’ll talk more about that later, but if that bothers you, now’s the time to stop reading.

About a year ago, I found a lump. Honestly, I thought it was another hernia. Meh. Only I noticed it didnt act like the last hernia I had. Well... No medical insurance means no way of dealing with it, so ignore it. :)

Trouble is, about four months ago, it got bigger, and I noticed one leg get bigger, same side as the lump. To make a long, messy story short, it took several specialists, two surgical biopsies and two punch biopsies off my foot to get a diagnosis. (By the way you can see a bit of the punch biopsies here.)

According to the oncologist, I have angioimmunblastic T-cell lymphoma. It took me a week to remember how to even spell it! :) This is a cancer which most often originates in the lymph nodes near the lungs, but mine started in the groin and pretty much stayed there for a year before it started spreading. That’s part of what took so long to figure it out. (One doctor even said I was wierd. Laugh)

Some of the websites I read say that this particular flavor represents less that one percent of all known Non Hodgkins Lymphomas, which makes me pretty dang special, yeah? Despite the rarity, there is a fairly common chemotherapy treatment they call CHOP. This is an old acronym that used to represent the names of the chemicals, but there have been many improvements since then and the letters hardly apply. In my case, the protocol calls for 6 to 8 treatments, spread out three weeks apart. That means 18 to 24 weeks of chemo. Ugh!

We all know that chemo means getting sick, losing your hair, feeling horrible, blah, blah, blah, and yes, that is true, for many people. Each person is different, so each person is affected differently. In my case, for the first treatment at least, I didnt get any of the normal symptoms. I got the unusual ones. Didnt get sick (yay, cuz I hate barfing) but I did get the mouth sores and the erosion of the esophagus (think of swallowing through a twelve inch long sore throat. Ouch!) and I got the blurry vision. All those are transitory though. The one overriding problem is fatigue. Chemotherapy is after all a poison, designed to kill fast growing cells. Cancer cells are fast growing, as are several systems in the human body, so the trick is to kill the cancer without killing me, too. It is a carefully orchestrated race, administered by a man I trust explicitly.

Those who know me personally know I am very slow to trust, and this guy is phenomenal as a doctor, and as a person. He is the very best of both worlds, and I knew that on my first visit with him. I develop more and more respect for him wth each subsequent visit. Thanks John!

Sorry, I digressed... I just had my second treatment yesterday, and we got some pretty good news, though I swear I will jinx it if I say it out loud. Given that the response rate of T-cell lymphoma is traditionally poor, forgive me for not saying anything just yet, but he and I are both happy. :) I will say that by the sixth treatment, we may find the last two aren’t necessary.

So, with all that in mind, we come to what I find the most difficult to deal with.

Other people.

I’ve known since the second visit to a doctor when he orded the first CT scan that I had cancer. Call it a gut feeling, or the result of hours of Googling. Doesn’t matter. the point is I have had ample time to come to grips with my situation and my “most likely” prognosis, as well as alternate scenarios. In short, I am simply not afraid of the outcome. To put it even shorter, and at the risk of being crude, I am not afraid of dying, a year from now or forty years from now.

People who even allow themselves to think of the word cancer automatically think of slow, painful, rapid decline leading to death, as though it were a given. I’ve learned much about other people by how they react or respond when I tell them the news. I understand their actions, but I cant condone them when they are directed at me, because to put it selfishly, I need all my energy to get me well, not make them feel better. A very dear friend of mine described it thus: “It’s like choking on a glass of water. Everyone is demanding you TELL them you are fine, when what you really need to do is cough it out.” True enough! And I finally got my family to understand the concept. Friends, most of whom I am actually closer to, took a bit longer. :)

What I’m going to ask for at this point will sound a bit harsh, and I’ll apologize in advance, but I am somewhat limited in my ability to respond.

I’d like to thank everyone in advance for the well wishes, and the inquiries, and the sympathies, and say they’ve already been sent an answered. Rather than field a bunch of queries for how I am doing, I’ll usurp my old work blog and post updates there. Probably wont be all that many posts, because frankly, all the drama is done. All that’s left is whatever side effect the chemo is dropping on my head on any given day, and seriously, that’s GOT to be boring reading!

The only thing that matters to me right now is the fatigue, originally caused by the cancer and and now caused by the chemo. Makes it bloody hard to work up enough steam to keep up with the group messages, and even long emails. (The only way I could write this lengthy post is because the first day after chemo, I feel like myself again. Alas, it doesn’t last long.) :)

There is one other thing that really bothers me, and it’s the hardest to explain. According to John, cancer doctors largely ignored complaints for a long time because patients couldn’t really articulate what they were feeling, and few reported it. Now they understand the situation and given it a name: Chemo brain. Goofy name, but man is it a pain in the butt. Different people are affected differently, of course, and for me, I lose focus, big time. Can’t think of the word I want, and the biggest hassle of all is that it’s bloody hard to write! It’s like being distracted by every random thing in the room. That’s why I haven’t written much in the last three months. In fact, the Santa Mug was written before the chemo while I was still undiagnosed. Whew! What a task that little story was! It’ll be out in December as part of the Dreamspinner Mistletoe Madness and can be purchased separately (royalties!) or as part of the month long package.

So to recap and wrap up, you’ll see me occasionally in Twitter or on the groups when I have the energy or when I am not trying to write. If I’m not there, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to be, trust me. :)

Think good thoughts I can find a way around the chemo brain thing, because all the stories are still there, but they don’t have a convenient outlet right now, and I’d love nothing more to get them on paper and into your hot little hands. :)

Cheers all!

Love,

Patric

Friday, October 23, 2009

Chemo, second treatment.

I really wish Google allowed it so you could open two different blogs at once. Grr...

I have to post something here so folks coming in from the “big announcement” will find a destination...

So, second treatment. Mildly sick, not tired (Wasnt tired the day after the first treatment either!) Got the damn hiccups though. Partly a result from the last treatment and the erosion, and partly as a side effect of this treatment. As I said, I get unusual side effects. Meh.

Still forgetful, of course. Short term memory seems the most affected. Gah. PITA!

Oh, and here’s a new thing. My taste buds are shot. I have no idea what thats all about. Time for more research!

I havent put chemo brain to the test yet. Havent tried to write. Wanted to get the blog posts up first, because it took like four hours to answer all the messages. Hopefully the post, and these updates will answer enough questions that when I do feel like writing, I’ll actually have time!

The kids came over to shave my head. Let me be the first to say that shedding worse than the cats sucks, hard, and doesnt buy breakfast afterward! Gods. I know that coughing spate the other night was me sucking stray hair off my damned pillow!

Ok. Head shaved. Looks odd, but no where near as strange as I thought. I’d been ramping up for it anyway, cutting my hair shorter and shorter. This was the last logical step. What I didnt expect was how velvety my scalp feels. So strange. No wonder everyone always wants to rub the dang thing. Heh

Cute guys get it for free. Everyone else pays a quarter. lol.

Ok, thats enough for now.

Thanks for the good thoughts and well wishes!

And remember please... I am good with whats going on, and you should be too. To make a really BAD pun, “Don’t cry for me, Argentina.”

Lol

Saturday, October 24, 2009

I’m touched, though not in the head. :)

Thank you everybody, for your thoughts, wishes, prayers, and comments. To say I am touched by them is a massive understatement. Flabbergasted might be closer. :)

I havent written (yet) today, but I did manage to get some chores done which have been nagging at me. We live on a couple of acres, and tradition holds that it is my job to “button us up” for the coming winter. Last winter we lost chunks of several trees due to ice and storm, and the resulting wood laying around got split with the help of a neighbor and a nifty machine. I want one!

The drawback of course was doing something with it, so some friends came over and stacked it for us. I remember a time when I could move that fast, for that long! :)

What was left was a bunch of twigs and limbs that would cost more energy to cut up than they would produce, so it got put into the burn pile. Or rather, added to an existing burn pile. (I was working last year and missed burning season.) Today, finally, I got caught up. Remember, after twenty five years of doing this, the habit is strong, and it was nagging at me. I blew a wad of energy, and it took all bloody day, but it’s done!

Just a few more minor chores, like making sure the generators run properly and draining the irrigation lines for the garden, and I’ll have nothing but drugs to distract me from writing. Whoo hoo!

Oh, I found out that it’s the Vincristine that’s probably responsible for the loss of taste. This is a new side effect for me. I was fine the last time around. I guess that means Papa has to do the cooking still. I can just imagine HIS face if *I* were the one to season the chili. :)

Lets see, last bit of news. I got a bit more than 500 words written last night. Pure crap when you consider I used to get 5,000 or so in a day, but words is words! I probably would have gotten far more if I hadnt written the blog stuff, but that was sort of important. I’ve lost a huge sense of guilt from not being able to answer emails as fast as usual, and thank you all for accepting the admittedly odd request I made. It truly does help a great deal. :)

Now see? Didnt I warn you that these updates would be boring? Laugh. So just for fun, and for taking the time to slog through this nonsense, here is a random bit from the story I am currently working on. It’s the opening to an adventure-ish thing that I started as a lark. Often times, since I am pure crap at outlining (Shh... Trade secret there!) I woll start with a single sentence. In this case, it was a single word. At the time, I was having rather severe chills, so the word made perfect sense to me. :D

1

Snow. Miles of the stuff stretched out before him like a vast white ocean, broken only by a small dark hump already half buried by the constantly moving drifts. That dark shape was Merrick’s destination, and it would be home until this latest storm blew over. The sheer immensity of the sky overhead, a leaden gray-white in the afternoon light, seemed to bear down on him as he pulled the zipper on the small tent’s forward flap.

“Jeez. How far do did you have to go? Katmandu?” Dale Andressen chided Merrick as he hunched himself inside and zipped the flap shut.

“Just a few yards out,” Merrick replied. “I dug out a small nook to get out of the wind.”

“You should have just peed in the bag. That’s what it’s for, you know.” Dale scowled at his partner, but the expression on his face was as loving as it was severe.

“I know, I know. I just hate dragging the damn thing around. Besides, you can’t write your name in a bag.” Merrick grinned as he pulled off his gloves and outer jacket. The snow already packed up against their small tent was a perfect insulator to catch and retain the heat from their small stove.

Dale frowned. “You freeze that thing off and you won’t have anything to write with.” He pushed one of the laden packs aside to make room. “Come over here and warm me up.”

Merrick quirked an eyebrow and knocked the snow from his boots as he took them off. “Is that all you had in mind?” He left his boots and jacket, and as much of the snow that had been clinging to his pants as he could brush off, in the outer vestibule and crawled further inside. The wind rattled the outer flaps as he zipped the inner flaps closed and scooted across the small space to lean against Dale, careful not to upset the stove. “Sounds like it’s getting worse.”

“It probably is,” Dale said. “And when the sun goes down it’s going to get a helluva lot colder. We may have to share body heat to survive.”

Merrick laughed. “Ha! I knew you had an ulterior motive.” He cupped his hand behind Dale’s head and leaned in for a kiss. As always, the flare of passion that enveloped him, despite the rough stubble on both their faces, warmed and thrilled him in equal measure. Dale hummed as he opened for his partner and as always, the sound went straight to the base of Merrick’s spine, pooling there like molten silver. Merrick tilted his head slightly and dipped his tongue beneath Dale’s, finding and capturing that faint flavor that was the very hallmark of his partner’s identity. Dale obliged by lifting his tongue to caress the roof of Merrick’s mouth, still humming faintly. They separated when their mutual need for air overcame their desire and they laughed breathlessly.

Thanks again for all the comments!

Patric

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Busy night with the kids.

Honestly, how can I possibly grump about not getting anything written when the kids come over because they decided they wanted to carve pumpkins?

And of course, their daughter, Princess Leaks-a-Lot is forever a charmer, and I can never turn down an opportunity to snuggle the baby.

I can always write tomorrow, right? :)

Just Being

Jaime Samms

On the television screen, the six-legged, pink-freckled creature with three eye stalks reared up on its back legs, tromped onto the enemy critter and promptly collapsed. The game Spore was nothing if not an exercise in the absolutely ridiculous. I couldn’t explain why I loved it so much unless it was maybe because I could create anything at all, and no matter how foolish or impractical, it would excel at some part of the quest I needed it to fulfill. If only life could be like that.

But life is not a Wii game and being afraid of it is a little like not being able to breathe properly. Worrying about who you are and if people will like you tightens the screws and closes bands of fear around you until you forget what it ever felt like to breathe clean air or expand your lungs. I spent a long time squeezing myself into a box and shutting out the fresh air. Years and years, a little bit at a time, putting up the walls and locking the doors and being very careful not to take any chances.

Staring at that foolish pink critter on the screen, watching it hop and dance on command, the sounds of the game disappearing under the wail of my roommate Kennedy’s horrendous violin playing, maybe I just got tired. Maybe I was more afraid of suffocating than I was of poisoning myself with risk.

So I decided. I stopped holding my breath.

I just let it all out in one big sigh, and the best part about it was that, for once, Kennedy, stopped his incessant violin playing.

He played all the time. Badly. Really, really badly. And by all the time, I mean all the time. You have no idea. I thought I was used to it, but when he suddenly stopped for a minute the silence was so loud I didn’t even notice he was staring at me.

“Skippy?” his eyes, big, brown and doe-like behind his glasses bugged a bit more.

“Dude, you seriously have to stop calling me that,” I snarled at him as I came back to myself.

“Sorry.” Though the way he said it told me he wasn’t sorry at all. Probably the grin gave him away. “Are you okay? You look a little…flushed.”

“I-I’m fine. I just…”

He stood there, violin dangling, bow poised out from his body like he intended to use it as a rapier any moment. The sight, coupled with his skinny frame and shock of red hair, registered as hilarious and the final stick in the dam snapped. I rolled onto my back laughing.

He came over as my hilarity slowed and died and poked me with his bow. “That’s fine? I’d hate to see hysterical.”

I lay on my back looking up at his concerned face, wondering when he’d grown out of the geeky floppiness he’d had since college. “Why do you play the violin?”

“Um.” He tilted his head at me. “Hello, random.” He sat on the edge of the couch beside me and alternated fiddling with the hairs on his bow and glancing at me.  “Because. I like it.”

“You suck. You know that.”

I braced for him to get mad, but he just nodded. “I do. In more ways than one.” He never failed to grab an opportunity to remind me how very much he liked cock. This time, I found myself fascinated by his lips as he spoke. “I can play when you’re not here, if you want.”

“No!” I sat up, alarmed by the speed with which my mind fell into his gutter trap. I did imagine him playing, all alone in the house, but his violin never entered my mental picture. Heat flashed up to my hairline and he gave me a lascivious grin.

I pushed myself back to get a better look at him. He was always so calm, so still, and aside from that huge, knowing smile, he still watched me from a pool of steady patience. Of all the people I’d ever known, he was definitely the most geeky, the most ill fit to blend into society. And the most unaware of his awkwardness. I know I’d always felt on the inside the way he looked on the outside, but he never showed the first sign of caring what anyone thought.

I swallowed, unsure where all this deep analysis was coming from. “No. Don’t stop playing on my account. Lord. Six years. I barely hear it anymore.”

“So. What was the sudden gasp and abusing the game equipment all about?” He bent, picked up the Wii remote and handed it to me.

As my fingers brushed over his, all that sudden, illuminating freedom rushed like a retreating wave back inside and I clamped my lips shut.

For a long moment, he watched me, his gaze searching while I held my breath and my tongue. He sighed.

“You know, Skippy, after six years, you might not hear my playing, but I can hear what you’re not saying.”

“Yeah?” The room spun around me a bit, my vision narrowed, and there was Kennedy’s face at the center of it, a bad b-movie special effect.

A light, secretive smile crossed his face and he stood as he spoke. “I didn’t agree to share this house with you just for the cheap rent.” He swished a bit, letting the violin bow swing from thumb and forefinger as he walked away.  That shouldn’t have made me do a double take, but I was so busy watching his ass swish lightly down the hall I almost missed the kiss he blew over his shoulder.

And that was why I held my breath so much of the time. After six years, how did I say ‘I’m not really as straight as I’ve been letting on—exactly’, to the guy I wanted to nail? The guy who’d patiently watched me burn through one girlfriend after another and likely even made tea and cookies for them when I was too busy being a jerk to notice they needed the attention.

“Kennedy?” I’d followed him after a few minutes, and stood outside his bedroom door. He’d left it open a crack and I could hear him putting away his instrument.

“Come on in.”

I pushed the door open with two fingers, watched him setting the case on the shelf above his desk. His room was immaculate. He had a ton of stuff. Every bit of it was neatly stowed on the bookshelves around the room. One thing I always associated with him was this endless array of shelved stuff. Books and hobbies and clothes and things that mattered to him; so much of it and he never lost track of anything.

Turning toward me with a smile and a speculative look, he reminded me why I’d waited so long. Here was the one person in my life I could not risk. Better to hold my breath, keep my dubious peace, than to risk.

“You’re still not ready?”

“Ready for what?”

There went the room again, spinning, and him at the center. I reached out a hand to steady myself, and, oddly, it landed on his chest. Flat, a little bit boney, it didn’t feel like…

He smiled, and I realized I was fondling him, flexing my fingers against the soft flannel of the over shirt he always wore.

“Then again, maybe you are.” He layered his hand over mine, held it there. He was so warm. So close.

“Breathe, Skippy.”

“Can’t.” I managed to lift my gaze from my fingers curled around soft plaid to his lips. Almost to his eyes. It took his fingers under my chin to get that far.

“Let go.”

“I–”

His thumb touched my lips, quieting me. “Breathe.”

“How?”

“Just let it come naturally.”

“I don’t know what’s natural anymore.” It felt good to have his hand on the side of my face, though, and to feel his heart beating under my palm.

“This isn’t hard.”

“Uh–speak for yourself.”

He gave that brilliant comment the eye-roll it deserved.

“You’re not behaving like this is a surprise to you,” I said, wondering if I’d been hiding only from myself after all.

He stepped back a bit. “I’ve known you for six years.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t–”

“Know?” he tilted his head. “Really?”

“Well.” I tried to get annoyed, to be angry at him for being so matter-of-fact. “I don’t…know.” I could feel the clamps tightening again. The old habit of backing away, of telling myself no, surfaced and shuffled me backwards toward the door. Being afraid was what I knew.

“What do you think will happen if you let go?” he asked, like he was simply curious and not at all like he was trying to force the issue.

I opened my mouth.

He touched my lips with his fingers to stop me answering. “If you say ‘I don’ know,’ I’ll have to kiss you to shut you up.”

I closed my mouth again and for the first time, his eyes narrowed, his pale cheeks went a little paler. His bottom lip quivered up between his teeth and he let it go again.

“I’m scared,” I whispered, wondering if I was echoing his own feelings right then.

“Of a kiss?” his fingers on my face were gentle. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how you did that, making it look like you’re opening up, but still avoiding the inevitable.”

“Which is?”

He lowered his lashes and stepped out of reach.

“Wait. Wha-what are you doing?”

“I’m being responsible, Skippy.”

“Why?”

He sighed through a smile and sat on his bed. “Because this is important, and you might want to talk it through before you jump into sex.” He looked up at me and I saw exactly what he wasn’t saying. He didn’t want to get hurt.

“Well. No. I mean. Wait, sex?”

“Not that I’m easy or anything, Skippy, but six years.”

“Stop calling me Skippy.” I plopped onto the bed next to him. The air this close was thinner, easier to process.

“Kiss me.”

I did. A quick peck on the lips. He caught me by the back of the head and kept me there, his lips moving smoothly under mine, his tongue probing, and just like that, the light came on.

“It can’t be this easy,” I managed after a few minutes.

“Can’t it?”

I shifted a bit and before I knew it, he was straddling me, sitting there looking down into my eyes and tracing my face with the pads of his thumbs. “I’ve known who I’ve loved for six years. I stopped trying to pretend there was something else going on a long time ago.”

Love. I was not there yet. I was barely past the getting hard part and the sex. But there he was, looking into my eyes and just being. How was it so easy for him to just be? To just accept that any moment I might stand up and dump his ass on the floor. There was no going back to roommates now I knew what his tongue in my mouth felt like, but love…

“I’ve never been in love,” I told him.

“And I’ve never fallen for a straight guy, but things happen. You can’t predict life.”

“It sure as shit would be easier.”

He shrugged a shoulder and made a non-committal noise. “Would it? All this time, you’ve been predicting what I would say when you told me you wanted to nail me. So was convincing yourself it wasn’t worth the risk better than just saying what you want and letting the rest take care of itself?”

“I could be walking around with a violin bow up my ass right now. It doesn’t count to say it’s easier this way because this time it worked out.”

“It counts.” He moved so suddenly I was completely off guard and pinned against the mattress, the breath knocked out of me. “It all counts. Life is too short not to count every second.” As he talked, he kissed, first my lips, then down along my jaw and he kept going, undoing buttons along the way. “Most of the time, you don’t get to chose. You get swept along, not even realizing you don’t have your feet on the ground until they snag you and you’re tumbling, ass over teakettle.” His lips trailed across my chest, his tongue slithering over my nipple. “When life hands you a choice, make it.”

I couldn’t stifle the moan when his tongue laved lower, along the bottom edge of my ribs and down my side.  I was so engrossed in the sensations of warm tongue and cool air on the slick trail it left behind, I didn’t notice he’d opened my jeans until his lips nibbled at my hip bone and the chill of exposure sent a ripple of uncertainty through me.

“K-Ken–” I blinked and touched his hair, not sure if I wanted to guide him or pull him away. “Kennedy.”

“Breathe,” he whispered against delicate skin, “or don’t breathe.”

His fingers curled under the waistband of my jeans, ready on either side of me to pull them down.

I lifted my hips.

He didn’t give head like he played the violin. Or if he did, I didn’t notice. I was too busy immersing myself in the feeling of rightness, of relief, to pay a lot of attention to the details. It wasn’t that the physical sensation of Kennedy’s mouth on my cock felt all that different from a girl’s. It was the knowledge it was him, that he wanted it, wanted me, as much as I wanted him that pushed me up, higher and higher every time I let myself think about it. His deep, satisfied moan when I said his name dropped me into freefall I never wanted to end.

He was still licking tenderly at my softening cock when I did, in fact, manage to finally breathe. His silky hair flowed under my fingers and his eyes glowed warmly from where he watched me.

“You still don’t feel like talking, do you?” he asked.

I shook my head. Then after a minute, when he had moved to lie beside me, I turned my head to watch him. “Love?” I asked. “Really?”

He just nodded. He didn’t seem nervous or worried. He didn’t give me any indication that he expected anything from me, wanted me to say it back, or to reciprocate the fantastic blow job.

“I don’t understand,” I confessed after a while, just assuming he’d know what I was talking about.

He stroked my face, and the calluses on his fingers caught on the stubble on my cheek. His arm was tucked snugly under his head and his glasses magnified his gorgeous eyes. “Me either. I just know how I feel. I know what I want.”

“Me?”

He rolled his eyes. “Crazy. I know. I can’t explain it, either.”

“Thanks.” But I couldn’t just accept it. “What if I never realized?”

“Wouldn’t change how I feel. This is just who I am. I can love you. You don’t have to love me back. You’ve never asked me to be someone I’m not, and that’s all that matters, really.” He pushed up onto his elbow so his head rested on his hand.

“I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone like you. Aren’t you ever afraid of anything?”

He nodded. He didn’t tell me what he was afraid of, but somehow I didn’t think it mattered. One thing he wasn’t scared of was being, and that was an amazing thing.

“How do you do it? How do you wake up every day with the possibility the thing you want most might be the thing you can never have and not just want to hold it all in? Stop? Not even try? How the hell did you get me to stop holding my breath?”

“I didn’t make you do anything.”

His next kiss took my breath away, but for the first time, I knew I was alive. I knew I was me, and I could do it because he played the violin badly, and loved without worrying what it cost him. It took him six years to teach me how to live, and if he could do that, anything, anything was possible.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

We knew it wouldn’t last. :)

Third day after the second session. Started out pretty good, and that should have been a warning. lol

When I went to bed last night, I was disappointed to see how much water I retained from my bouncing around yesterday (Water retention is sort of an immediate indicator of how well or poorly the occluded lymph nodes are functioning.) But much of that can be blamed on simple gravity. and indeed about half was gone by morning. Still good news, at least.

Crashed and burned late morning, didnt surface until 2pm or so, but that got me enough steam to play in Ethan’s Gay Day chat (Last sunday of the month) and that was fun. Ethan Day has some of the most energetic, involved fans and authors participating in his Yahoo group, I swear! Playing with those folks would wear anyone out!

Steroids are doing the “eat everything in sight” thing again, but as before, the stomach may say “No more!” even though the brain says I am still very hungry. Learning to listen to the right signals this time, at least.

That will pretty much be squashed in a day or so. I can already feel my throat, mouth and esophagus being “chewed on” by the chemo. Once that pain starts, I wont be eating much of anything, thank you very much.

I’m guessing the reaction is so early because things werent exactly healed from the last onslaught. This time, however, I know how to deal with the shit so with luck (and a lot of eggs, blech) I can get a faster response and maybe get caught up.

Something new tonight. Pain in places I dont expect. I’m really getting to dislike all this new shit, and though Google is my friend (except for its insistence at serving up the most pablum covered “easy to understand language” pages for what I want to find) I’m rather tired of researching, already.

That means more digging because I’m stubborn and I want to know for myself before I go haring off to call the doctor, or worse yet, going to the emergency ward. (And before I get comments like “See the doc!” I am compelled to point out that I’ve been fairly accurate at diagnosing my own problems, and presenting him with my findings for corroboration or correction. I even staged myself based on the findings of the latest CAT scan, though I wasnt as precise as John was because frankly, I got tired of looking up all the weird words. Grin)

Stage three, by the way, which means I ain’t completely hopeless, except for being stubborn, maybe. :)

Notice how rambly this post is? That’s exactly why the writing goes so slowly. If I let rip, (assuming I even could) my poor guys would be humping even before they met each other.)

Consequently I got a whopping 73 words worth keeping, though I did have a bit of time to clean up some of the mess I left behind yesterday, so count a few more, I guess.

And we wont go into how cranky that few words made me. Laugh.

Tomorrow is gonna be fascinating. What new worlds of wonder shall we explore, hmm?

Thanks to the new followers. Sort of cool to know you’re keeping tabs. :)

Cheers!

Patric

Monday, October 26, 2009

Rage

Okay, I have to admit, we have a pretty comprehensive cancer treatment center around here.

When I first showed up for a consultation, (and by that time we already knew the problem, just not the variety) I was virtually inundated with all sorts of helpful people, each armed with mountains of literature.

Very little of it applied to me. I’m just not the sort to need support groups, constant hand holding, and folks telling me they understand because they’ve been there. (Okay, correction: a LITTLE hand holding, once in a while, maybe.) :)

Reading through all that paperwork, I was struck by what I considered a kind of cruelty, fostered not by the support people who look after the sickie, but by the sickie himself.

Big freaking deal. He’s got a disease. Where does that give him the right to snarl and lash out at the people who are trying to help him? All the literature aimed at the supporters counsels patience and understanding and all that tripe, and I dont agree with any of it.

What’s so hard about warning my friends and others that I’m crabby, cranky, whatever, and telling them I’ll be offline for a while? I did that today because I could feel the frustration and anger at having to constantly navigate my way through strange waters building up faster than I could blow it off. Was anyone’s feelings hurt? I hope not. Would they have been if I answered the messages? More than likely. Why on earth should I subject anyone to that mess? Especially folks who are simply looking to lend a hand?

That’s probably not a politically correct way to think, but too bad. As far as I am concerned, the only time you are exempt about caring for other people is when you stop breathing, and the last time I checked, I still was.

So for you whiny, “feel sorry for me” weebles wobbling around behind your illness, grow a pair, mind your manners, and have the decency to let your helpers know you arent communicative that day. Jeesh.

And why was I uncommunicative today? Rage. Flat assed tired of all this nonsense. It’s like being a hurdles jumper, and occasionally tagging the gates. You can go pretty good for a while, maybe grazing the dang things, but sooner or later as the race progresses, you’re gonna get tired and crash into one. And when you do, ouch. Then you get up, (rest up in my case) and go again until you hit the next one. I’m pretty lucky in that my crashes are fairly rare. :)

I took advantage of the situation though to get on the phone with the Apple folks and grump about all the dropped calls my phone gets. Papa will chauffeur my sorry butt out to the Apple store to get it swapped out tomorrow. The Apple techs didnt even argue with me. Wise beyond their years. (Though I have to say, the one named Phillip in Kentucky was bloody awesome!)

Which means, because of all the backups I had to do to get ready for the swap, I didnt even bother trying to write. Maybe tomorrow. :)

I’ve come to the conclusion that the “new” pain (and oh how I hate to even use that word!) is nothing more than the Neulasta ache that I didnt get last time. It’s well documented, though not everyone gets it. Weird that it’s more in the ribs and back than the hips as I expected so I cold be wrong, but it fits the descriptions.

Now, with that understanding, (and understanding anything is always more of a comfort to me than some nice lady (or guy!) holding my hand) I can move on, get up off the track, and run a few more hurdles.

Yep! I’ll crash into one again sooner or later, guaranteed. We’re in for the long haul, baby!

But when I do, I’ll warn folks that I’m going off line so as not to hurt THEM, do whatever I need to pick back up, and be profoundly grateful that the folks around me understand the situation.

Yeah, that’s you guys!

Thanks!!

Patric

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Riding the Roller Coaster

Wow. I’m a bit behind.

Probably because there is nothing new to report, really. In preparation for my third chemo session, the doc confirmed my suspicion of doing all eight treatments, instead of the original six. Not getting as good a response as we were hoping for, I suppose. Which isnt all that surprising either. That’s why I adore my doctor, my hired cancer killer. He doesnt mind that I insist on keeping my eyes wide open and he *never* talks to me like I am four years old.

In keeping with the roller coaster theme, I had some ups too. Writing a little bit after a long absence might be just a fluke, but I’m hanging on to it!

But I have to tell you about the best up that was couched in the worst down.

I’ve been pretty good at keeping a good outlook, but if I was the machine some think I am, I wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. Instead, I’m pretty much human and shit gets to me sometimes. A few weeks ago, I flat got tired of having nothing to say that wasnt negative in some way.

One of my overriding concerns has been that I’d turn into someone who only existed for or because of their health issues. You know, the ones who can go on for days about all the things wrong with them? I get that, really, but I dont want to BE that, so in an effort to get a grip, I decided I was not going to use the words “I, me, or my” in any of my correspondence for the next twelve hours.

Fuzzy though the logic might have been, that was a pretty effective stop to saying things like “Neulasta is making my bones ache.” or “I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.” or anything else that sounded like whining when folks asked after my progress.

Of course it never occurred to me to warn anyone, so for twelve hours, I had a number of people wondering why I was being such a dick. (I think)

However, one exceptionally clever soul tumbled to the trick, and not only did she take it in stride, she joined in! Taylor Lochland touched me so deeply by simply hanging out and going for the ride on my bizarre roller coaster that I am still astonished even now.

For the rest of the day we conversed as we often do, each of us avoiding those words, and for twelve hours or so, I wasnt sick anymore. Might only have been because the concentration needed to maintain a meaningful conversation without using those words is that much of a distraction, but I think it was more the simple fact that she wasnt trying to comfort or commiserate or anything. Just hang out and go with the flow, and that was enough to forget for a while.

Believe me when I tell you that unless you’ve been here/there, you cannot fully grasp how invaluable that surcease truly is. Fingers crossed you never know. :)

So in what was a total downer, I found a jewel of an upper, and the roller coaster kept right on rolling.

As we wind our way through life and living, it’s pretty much a given that to really appreciate the highs you have to at least be aware of the lows. Sounds corny, but danged if it isnt true. Heres hoping your highs are just a bit higher each time you crest that hill. And here’s hoping you got a friend like Taylor sitting beside you.

Taylor, thank you so much for hanging out, and hanging on, and for riding the roller coaster with me. Muaah!

Patric

Patric Michael Hates AIM

Jacqueline Lichtenberg

Yes, Patric hates using the chat-program AOL distributed free that started a social-networking revolution.  But he has a good reason. 

You see Patric is a visual person.  His whole personality is organized around organizing.  He is all about the artistic element called “Composition”—and the essence of that element is elegance. 

An artistic “composition” must have nothing extra, nothing non-functional.  Everything in a composition has to do something important to communicate its message. 

AIM software just does not pass the test of elegance.  It takes too much memory, it’s full of stuff you don’t need or want, and it gets in the way of image-handlers. 

But its user interface is handy and available, so we designated AIM the official method of communicating with simegen.com staff. 

Patric is a professional in the Image World—from film to web to book covers.  He sometimes uses several computers to process images while doing other tasks.  There’s no room for clunky AIM in his life.  He knows how things work inside, and loves elegant design even when you can’t see it.

I first met Patric when he submitted a writing sample to me for a writing course I was running online on WorldCrafter’s Guild on simegen.com.  The sample was words.  Text.  But it was nothing but images, vivid images that just sizzled with the need to be made into a film. 

Okay, that sample was lacking in a bit here and a tich there, but it just screamed WRITER IN THE MAKING! 

This man was full to the brim with stories, and the only medium he had not yet mastered was text.  We exchanged a few notes, and first thing you know he was explaining how to organize our brand new writing school, WorldCrafter’s Guild. 

So even though he was a student for this first course we offered, he ended up webmastering the course’s technical underpinnings.  Then we got to talking on AIM and he pointed out the short-comings of our web-design.  Next thing you know, he’s the simegen.com Art Director. 

The image and design layout for major pages of a domain really is an integral part of the mechanism visitors don’t see—the server and the web-server.  We lacked in elegance. 

Before you could shake an electron, Patric was our sysadmin and has been ever since, building and rebuilding the simegen.com domain and minding a long list of domains we host on our server.  To this very day, he’s still hatching plans to redesign and update the “look” of simegen.com, to migrate the domain to a newer hardware setup, to upgrade our “elegance” from the inside out. 

He watched our somewhat successful efforts to bring writing students through to professional level, and participated in our courses, in private tutoring, in the stringent training we give in book reviewing as part of sinking the writing lessons into the subconscious.  He followed my posts on aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com where I present long, elaborate lessons in Science Fiction Romance cross-genre writing.

Then one day he casually mentioned (Patric is usually casual) he’d sold a story.  And I’m “Well, so what else is new?” —I tell you I knew it from that first sample. 

Patric came with “composition” pre-installed, and that is the one, single, most critical thing that we drill into our writing students.  Watching us teach it, (while no doubt chortling that we couldn’t do it in the visual media of web-pages) he learned how to apply composition to text-story telling.