Étienne Zaynein Scrittoré

Jackson and the little Norris boy, Wyzel, were out the back of the yard playing. Back there there is an old oak tree that got split down the middle by a bolt of lightning the summer I turned ten. When Big Daddy went to go chop it down I asked him to let me keep it and let me make a house in it and that's what I did. Jackson's father, my brother Saul, had been seven at the time and Mamma was going to have Simon and Sarah any day soon. Big Daddy just looked at me and said: "Da tree yorns sos long as youse do da wirk yornselfs." And by the time Paul and Peter came along -- Paul a year later; Peter eight months after Paul -- I had my house done. Wyzel was making a racket of a fuss with some rusted-out pots and Jackson was laying in to old wooden swing kicking up dirt and turning a pie tin in his hands playing at driving. He planted his feet in the ground, kicking up yet more dirt, and hopped off the swing and made for the door of the house. Wyzel meets him at the door and they kissed and hugged. They are unselfconcious and this was just apart of the game. The heavy cherry-red ball of the sun set the olive-green and yellow leaves of the oak trees that lined the yard back there ablaze as it took its last foot falls of the days across the sky and my cheeks flooded over with hot fat tears like a river. Were Jackson to see me cry the boy'd ask me: Uncle Sweetie, why you crying? And I'd have to tell him that this is what its feels like being in love and having the one man you ever truely loved be dead and burried under the clay. And were Wyzel to hear Jackson asking he'd ask: Are you crying for Mr. Walker or yourself? And I'd have to say: A little for both. And I won't tell them that I did love Adam until I fell for Billy Hunter and I loved Bill until Adam came to take me home. I \won't say that that was when I truely realized that I was and would always be in love with Adam. But, Jackson never saw and Wyzel never asked and I never told them that saying I love you and meaning it is a physical act. It'll cut into your flesh, your very soul, like a sharp cool scapel if you play with it too long. Wyzel never asked and Jackson never saw the river I cried for myself and my lover that died at my own hands and I just let them go on on playing and thinking that love made you fall off a cliff of passion that you never come down from because you're held up by love. ~~~ I first met Adam Walker at the old County Hospital, back when it had still had the sign that read Conuty Hospital. Big Daddy had been gone on on home to the land of God some ten years by the time and Mamma was in room 708 making a turn from this world twords the next. I was in the cafateria and was spilling hot fast tears over the plane bagel I'd bought just to have something to do other than sitting in that room with Mamma and waitting for her appointment with Death's angel. I was alone and Adam came in and I felt his gaze on me like it was an old friend. He strolled on on over to where I was sitting on a cherrywood bench and sat on down next to me and nestled me in hs ox-strong arms, He pressed a handkerchief in my hands and told me that his wife just passed on on in child birth taking the child with her. He then left. It was days later, two days after Mamma went on on with her appointment with death's angel, that I learned his name was Adam Walker. The handkerchief, with its uniform and curling block letter stitching, said all I needed to know. After I read his name from the bit of cloth, it was a simple matter of finding him in the phonebook. Luck was on my side in this matter as there was only one Adam Walker listed in the book. I went to return that handkerchief and found myself getting lost in Adam and his world and I was safe. I was safe with Adam and I conned myself into believing I was in love with this man, this Adam Walker, because my name felt right comming out of his mouth. I'd lost myself and I would have tried to find myself if it weren't of Billy Hunter. 　 　 My name may have been safe with Adam, but, that don't mean I was safe and being with Adam was like walking on broken glass with eggshells for shoes. You gone get choself cut no matter how carefully you step around what needed to be talked about and no matter how many times you folded yourself in half you still cain't be happy for your too busy trying not to be seen avoiding what chu trying to avoid. You just end up becoming numb in the soul. Sorta like frostbite in the heart. Being with Billy was different. We were equals. It was easy as breathing. It was like waking up from a dream and finding that that man you've been dreaming about is laying right there next to you and your heart kinda skips a beat because you just realized, yet again, that you really do love that man. You just lean on down and puts your head right on his chest and listen real close and quite like to his heartbeat and you still get shocked that it beats to the same rhythum as your own. Adam had been the proprieter of the local dry good store when I first met him. A few years later, he'd expanded and took over the hardware store, when the old owner passed on on. By the time Billy Hunter came into town, I'd been running both stores on my own for five going on six years. That was some ten years ago. There I was twenty-six, in a marriage of sorts to the mayor of Magnolia City, Mississippi - the first all black town in the state -, running two whole stores on my own while keeping a house and planning parties for Adam and the whole time I was dying on the inside. I was so miserably unhappy with the life I'd let myself choose for me to live that I would have left Adam high and dry if I'd had a place to go. That's what I was thinking about on the day Billy strolled into town. It was May 30th. I remember because it was the day of the big toe party and everybody had either already made the 12 mile trek north to Ruleville or was on there way there. Of course, Adam was there. That couldn't be helped. As mayor he had to put in an appearance. I'd decided, almost the moment I heard, that if Adam let me go I wounldn't bother one bit going. It wasn't that I couldn't afford the ten dollar door charge. It was that the whole town was going to this thing and I didn't want to miss the opportunity for some ever rare alone time and, like I told Adam, someone needed to be in town in case someone came through. We'd been getting an every increesing number of people visiting our part of the state. The day was so hot that it felt as though the A/C in the dry goods store, where I was working from that day, was even one and I had it cranked as cold as the thing would go. It didn't do one lick of good aginst the heat. I finally broke down and put a block of ice in an old wash tub in front of an electric fan. It was cooler, but not by much. I was changing the ice for the third time when I felt the ruch of heat that told me someone had just entered the store. "Ah'll bay wid chu in uh second," I said not looking at the person. They didn't say anything as I finnished up my work. "Kay, Wha kin Ah gets ya," I said as I stood up from my work. "Ah didn't no no town was dis dead," can a deep voice in reply. "Tain't usually. Folks gone on ova tah Ruleville fo uh Toe Party," I said as a went to the mini cooler behind the counter took out two bottles of water and passed him one. He took a long swig and poured a generous amount over his head. I got lost in my thoughts as I watched the water drip down his toned shirtless chocolate chest and work its way down to the plaid work shirt tied arounded his waist. "Wha's uh Toe Party," came his gruff reply. "Ya ain't fom round dees parts ist ya," I said in a voice that rose in a pail of laughter. "Naw, suh. Ah'm fom Memfis. So, wha's dis Toe Party bizznass?" "It's dis bag tahdo whairin folks get tagedda an da wemen folks gets behind uh screen, sticks days bare foots unda da screen, an da mens bets on da toe dey wants ta daynce wid." "Sounds lak ya done lak dat kintta thang." "Dat bout rite. Done much care fo such thangs dees days." "Ya ain't dat ol ist cha? Ya aughttah bay outs enjoyin yourn life." "Married folks done gots dat option." "Well, yourn husband's show uh fool tah lave ya hairin hair bay yournsef lak dis." "Howst ya no Ah gots uh husband?" "Tain't no main Ah nose gonna lets his ol lady go tah sum party bay huhsefs." "well, luk at ya wid dat mimfis lunnin uh yourns." "Ain't ment no disrespect, suh." "Stop ya dare wid dat suh stuffs. Mah nayme's Sweetie. Sweetie Walkah." "Well, Missuh Walkah, Ah ain't ment ya no disrespect." "Tain't non been taykin iffin ya stop callin may Missah Walkah. Mah nayme's Sweetie. Missuh Walkah ist muh hisband." "Well, hey still uh fool ta lave ya lak dis. Ah show nuff no Ah wudden't iffin Ah was yo main." "Well, Missah ___, tain't chu jus as silva tonged as day cum." "Billy Huntah, an done ya star widd dat Missuh Huntah bizznass, naw. Ah ain't buh nineteen an Missah Huntah wast mie pah." "Well, Billy, chu uh long ways fom Memfis. Wha chu doin in dis neck uh da woods?" At this point Mrs. Jodie Black came into the store for her weekly shopping. I figured she'd be one of the few that didn't go to the party. At eighty-something years old she didn't go much of anywhere these days and apart from the times she visited the store once a week no one saw much of her. (I would later find out that this was the second to last time anyone would see her alive. Adam was the last one to see her alive and it was she who'd told him where I was going.) "Headed ova ta Clarksdale ta pay uh visit ta uh friend uh mine." "Well, done let llil ol may kaype ya hair none." "Ah could awlays used da companay. Ah'm always good fo uh good tim." And just like that, I closed up shop, after seeing Mrs. Jodie off with her groceries, and went along with Billy. ~~~ I had been in Clarkesdale with Billy for a carefree and happy month. Billy and I had gotten into the habit of partying until the wee hours of the morning, staying out until the clubs put us out at six in the morning and continuing parting at one friend's or another's house, making love until was passed out, waking up and repeating the whole process over again. It was fun for the first week or two. By the time Adam showed up I'd taken to staying over at whomevers house that we'd be parting at cooking and stocking up for when they'd eventully arrive form the clubs. It was late, even for us, when Adam showed up. We were parting at Oletta Mae's house, Oletta Mae was Billy's eldest brother's widow, and the party was dying out by that time. Nearly everyone had either turned in or passed out, and it was just Oletta Mae and her beau de jours, some smoothe talking caramel skinned boy half her age she'd picked up at the hole-in-the-wall bar they paid a visit to that night, and Billy and myself. Oletta Mae and the boy had just retired to her room, and Billy and I were out on the poarch making out heavily and carring on worse than a couple of high schoolers in the backseat of a car in make-out lane when they knew the sheriff would be stopping by in a few minutes. I didn't hear Adam walk up and if he hadn't spoken we wouldn't have known he was even there. "So, dis's whair ya been," Adam said in his bisness voice which was as close as Adam ever came to showing how ticked off he was. My blood ran cold at the sight of him. "Adam" was all that I could manage to say in a hollow and empty sounding voice. "Ah done thank Ah's had da pleasure uh mayten ya," Adam said as he turned his charm on Billy. "Nayme's Billy. Billy Huntah. No need ta ask who ya are." "So, ya da un mah Sweetie done run off wid." "Hey whatn't zacklay yourns iffin hey leff wid sumun lak may." "Dat's why ah's hair," Adam said wistfully as he turned to me and said "Ya cumming home." It wasn't a question. He'd said it like it was a matter of fact; like there was no other option and I had little doubt that in his mind that was exactly what was going to happen. "Sweetie ain't goin' nowhair wid chu, Missah," Billy said in an icy voice that chilled me to the bone. "Tain't much chu can say bout tit, son. C'mon, Sweetie, Tim ta go," Adam said as he grabbed my wrist in his firm, strong grasp and made to pull me away. "Ah sayed he tain't goin' nowhair wid chu," Billy muttered hotly as he reaced in his pocket and pulled out a switchblade and clicked it. "Am Ah suppose ta bay scared," Adam muttered back cooly as he dug in his left brest pocket with his free hand and pulled out the a .357 Magnum. This had gone far enough as far as I was concerned. I knew Billy wouldn't back down, not now, after Adam had chalenged him so. I knew I had to do something to end this before it got too far out of hand. I also knew, form the moment that Adam had showed up that I'd be leaving with him. I knew that the only reason I'd tooken up with Billy was because Adam hadn't been showing me that he loved me or that he cared at all. I knew now, by the simple act of him coming to get me, that he did in fact care. "Adam," I said in a small and shakely voice as I turned a sweet caressing eye his way, "Give may dat thing, an' Billey, ya puts dat nife uhway. Naw, Ah ain't bouts ta have ya two fiten ova may. Naw, Ah'm, Billey, this was funin awl, but, Ah gotta go home naw." "Wha chu tallkin bout. Ya is home," Billy said in a voice just above a hiss. "Boi, he goin home wid may an dat's all ta it," Adam said in his fact stating voice before he grabbed my arm and started to pull me away. It all happen in the blink of an eye. One moment Adam's holding onto my arm, pulling me away. The next, one of his hands is clutching at the whole in his chest and the other's fumbbling with my hands reaching for the gun. It found purrchase and BAM! Billy fell to the ground; dead before his head even met the grass. Adam, my Adam, fell only seconds later. ~~~ The mewling of the cat, a stray thing that I took in one long ago summer's day when its mornful cries pierced the vale of my sleep, drew me from the worlds of my rememory and reminded me of why I'd came out to the back of the yard in the first place. "Jackson, Wyzel," I called to them and they looked up at me throught the glassless window of the tree house expectantly, "Time for supper." They made a mad dash past me into the house headed for the bathroom to wash up. As I looked after them I thought "Ah'd do jus bout ainneethang to protect their love, even ifin Ah had to fight dem deyselves." And in that one moment, that was to only truth that mattered.

Aleyinder Rosemonde was fresh from resigning from college and he was free. Aley was free and was overcome by a queer youthful fancy a rosiness in his peripheral vision that possessed him with a sudden whimsy to run in wide big-hipped dancing steps -- like they used to do when they were kids of ten or eleven at play in the tall sweet grasses and wild poppies and the dilapidated remains of the Johnson Farm the Mayfair Barn where they made love for the first time him and angelic Charlie St. Elliot the Bell Mill where he'd found his mangled body-- instead of walking to toss a bright colored ball a sharp stick anything at all up up up into the air and to catch it in wide opened clumsy hands. He wanted most of all to laugh wide-mouthedly as a Cheshire cat at fat white clouds a warm rocking breeze at nothing nothing at all. He was free and he knew that come the next morning he would awake promptly at half passed six and fix a pot of triple brewed coffee that would be gone before eight. He'd do this out of sheer force of habit. He was free of fetters free to dance gaily in the streets at five o'clock to dance in the rain to dance where he damn well pleased. He was free to party like the twenty-something that he was was free to believe in something not of his own fashioning should he wish it. He was free. The sky was cow heavy and pewter grey cumulonimbus clouds hung low over the barren not-quite-out-of-winter earth like a fastened lid. The mistral wind slapped against the tar and steel rooftops of the university campus like a leadened fist. Stepping out of the building for the last time Aley fought the wind. Like a defective Moses failing to part the red sea he was slammed against the doors of the building. He was free to leave but it was as though the very forces of nature were conspiring to keep him confined to this version of academic purgatory. Reaching for his bag, Aley snaked the length of the wall and upon reaching the end used his bag to split the wind and made his way to his car. ~~~ A lawn mover buzzed like a hive of honey bees aways off in the distance and the computer screen was blank. The screen was blank in spite of the fact that Aley had sat before it hour after hour day out and day in for four whole days. The screen stared back at him blankly and as white as the wall that lay before him. No words came to him from those shifting dark realms of his mind like fireflies on a summer's night waiting to be caught in a jar, in fact, nothing came to him at all except the humming of that damned lawn mower. As he stepped out the door the wind greeted him with a cold slap to the face and the sky was a boiling pot of heavy clouds that spoke of snow. He looked across the street and saw, as he knew it would be, the junior Munro, Ren, operating the device. Aley was almost content just to sit back and watch the boy work. Ren was beautiful in Aley's eyes. He worked with his shirt off, tied around his dainty waist. His porcelain skin dripped with sweat and and hard-as-stone muscles rippled and glistened like a gilded idol of the god of love, whom Aley thought the 17 year-old boy to be. His kiss-me soft cherry red lips were parted slightly, as was his praxis when deep in thought. Aley had little doubt that were he to saunter over, Ren would have a far off and lost look in his pewter eyes. He would be, no doubt, thinking about later that night. "Tonight," Aley thought wistfully and expectantly as he rose and went into the house, "Our real lives will begin." ~~~ At 11:30 Aley finally rose from the bed on and went downstairs to wait on his Ren. At forty-five after he went to check the jeep for the umpteenth time that hour and found everything at the ready. He checked his phone and saw that it was now ten after. Ren was late. As Aley made his way back to the living room he thought about what his life would have been like were it not for the boy, his boy. Ren had been the one bright spot in Aley's life. At twenty after, he thought about leaving Ren, but, he pushed the thought away like it were rotten meat. If he couldn't take Ren with him ... he wasn't going to leave his boy with that ... he had to get Ren away from Fenlay and his roaming hands. ... He would or he'd die trying. He shook off the thoughts like the remnants of a bad dream. Not a second later Ren strolled in the door and all was forgiven. "Sorry, I'm late. I had to wait for the Trilam I mixed with the old man's whiskey to kick-in," Ren muttered as he sank heavily into the plush over-stuffed couch next to Aley with a long heavy sigh. "It's okay. You're here now, and that's all that matters," Aley cooed as he reached out his hand to stroke Ren's cheek. He pulled away from him. "No, don't touch me. I stink of him." "It's ok. He won't hurt you ever again. Not after tonight," Aley billed sweetly and quietly as though he was talking to a wounded animal. He opened his arms and waited. Ren all but threw himself into the welcomed embrace and Aley was content to just hold his boy. He wished that he could just take all of Ren's hurt into himself and spare the boy any ill. Ren pulled back and pressed his soft lips to Aley's like he was drowing and they were his life preserver. After it was over, Aley wrapped his arms around the bare flesh of his boy and they drifted off into the realms sleep wrapped in the safety of each others embrace. When he awoke Aley was in a daze and the car was quickly being swollowed by the rapidly growing snow back. He knew that the jeep was too far burried to be pulled out into the snow let up and that looked like it would be a long time comming. ~~~ Aley woke some twenty minutes later, the dried fruit of their union still clinging to his thigh, streached, and thought about not waking his boy. He didn't have the think too long. Ren moaned lightly as he stirred from the world of his slumber and streached the aches from his bones. "We best be on our way. We should have been gone already," Aley muttered softly as they rose and went about getting ready for their departure. Not ten minutes later they had stolen away from town. A train of heavy black clouds trailed behind them as they sped down the highway twards their new life together. "Where are we headed exactly," Ren finally asked after the long silence, in which they sat -- he watching the landscape of his former home dart by and Aley watching the road intently -- had gotten to him and curiosuty had dug her long teneacious tendrills into his soul. "You remember I told you that my pearents lived in Ashville, right?" "Of course, I remember." "Well, when they passed a few years back they left me a house." "And that's where we're going, is it?" "More or less." "What's that supposed to mean?" "Right now, mon cœur, the less you know the better." "Fine then," Ren muttered under his breath in his best little boy voice, "Don't tell me. Can you tell me a story, instead? Did you hear about that guy?" "What guy," Aley muttered as he took his eyes off the road for a second as he turned to look as Ren. "That guy, The Outcast, that killed all those men. Men like us." "Yeah. What about him?" "They haven't found him yet." "And... That all happened in Mississippi, not here in Georgia." "If you say so. Can I have that story now?" Ren didn't mention that they'd caught the man in Mississippi and had expadited him back here to Georgia for his trail where he'd managed to excape upon arriving in Atlanta. "Ok. That I can do," Aley muttered with a sigh before he began. "Imagin this: there was a boy and there was a girl. She was sopping wet in diamonds and gold and he barely had £1.50 to his name. They meet in a secluded corner of some dull-as-ditchwater fête in which a so-called hyper riche bâtard elitist/ a grande-chate chienne dame thought it would be a hoot and a half to invite him and see how well the lower class could mingle with the upper crust. Yeah, it’s that story. "Once upon a time, as these kind of stories usually begin, the boy is the rich ne'er-do-well and the girls the social climbing charvette. In those tales there's an aged Strega there to turn rags of cotton into gowns of silk and orange Calabasas into coaches of white gold and mother-of-pearl. You know the stories I'm talking about. "Once it was a duo of doves that fetched her the sable gowns and mole skin slippers and dropped them off in an old fig tree her mother had planted before she kicked the bucket. In those stories you can't find a stich of magic anywhere. There is just a girl and her good old fashioned common sense. "There didn't have to be a ball. In truth, there was little need for one. All that was required for what followed was the empty space of seclusion and the somber shadows of moonlight. He languorously ambled away. A fat cat with its maw full of fish. He didn't leave her with that luxury. "She crawled away; dragging body, hand over hand. Once lily-white flesh, now, bruised aubergine purple-black and scrapping the firm indifferent ground. "She held no delusions of a future where she was his mistress and the child cooking in her oven was his heir apparent. She knew that that would never become a reality. She was by no means daft. "What was she to do? She could not go home. Her father would never accept her as she now was, she knew that. As she sat, mulling over her options, she heard the chiming of the abby bells. And she knew then what she would do. "The child came, as the new mother knew it would. The child, she had her mother's fair-as-cream complection, her rivers of raven hair, and the father cole-black eyes. The young mother couldn't stand the sight of the child. She was a constant remimder of that night and how her life had changed. No more was she the daughter of a lowly yet successful merchant having to choose between the butcher, the baker, the carpenter, the candlestick maker. No more could she play the role of the care free child. She was now a mother. She was now a schoolmarm nun. "For six long years the mother fussed over what to do before she decided the fate of that innocent misbegotten child. Gathering the child she took her to the father's home. "What passed over the child's mind, like water cought in opened hands, as she walked in the gate, shy and slow as a pair of revolving snails, I cannot say. Weither her heart was taken over by the cold indifferent hand of fear or if her breath froze in her throat as she held back a sob and tears, that later would flow like a monsoon, it's hard to say. "I wasn't there and I'm not that child, but, I can say that the child pushed back her grief, locking it behind a door in her heart and all but lost the key, shoved down her shoulders, held her head high, and proceeded to persuse her now new fate. "By this time the father was married to some friend of a friend of his family whom he could not nor would not ever love and she had produced for him a child. A boy. It was this melocolic little boy whom found the girl wandering through one of the gardens balling her eyes out of her head. She'd decided to give herself, however momentarily, over to her grief. The two-years-her-jounior boy took one look at the girl, smiled, and decided there and then to take her in. "His mother looked at the girl without really seeing her. She did see her son smiling, which was a rare event. Upon the spot she made the girl his personal servant. "As time passed, they grew to love each other. She was his friend, his confidant, the only one that could get him to do what he knew he must. He was her ally, her protector, the one whom assumed the blaim for her rare mistakes. He truely did love her, but, he knew that while his mother still drew breath she'd never allow such a scandel in her household. "The girl was the happiest one at the boy's wedding to a girl his mother had picked out for him when she'd got it in her head that the boy should marry and the sooner the better. His was a happy union that produced two merry children, twins. "The girl doted on the children as though they were her own and she was content to live in that frail bubble of happiness for the time being." "How sad," Ren muttered a few moments after Aley's voice ceised to fill the listless silence that inhabited to car. At some point durring the course of Aley's story the snow began to fall. At first it was a light flurry that melted soon as it found a foothold of a surface, be it the hot hard ground or the cool surface of the car. Now, it had evolved; had taken on a life of its own. It had become a true storm reflecting and mutipling Ren's inner torment ten-fold. The driving storm had all but obscured Aley's view of the road. He slowed to a slow methoical crawl, but, it was really no good. The only thing the kept him driving forward into the white out of the storm was the fact the he had to, needed to even, to get Ren away from his father. after a long spell of silence, broken only by the struggling swiching of the windshield wippers, it happened. First, came the blast of the horn from the semi. Next, Aley was swerving to avoid a head on collision. Then, was the deadening swolling of darkness and the forrest around them opened to allow them enterance. ~~~ As soon as Aley realized that he could in fact move his limbs -- testing first his right arm, then left followed closely by his legs -- he turned his attention to Ren. "Ren, my love, wake up. We've had an accident," he cooed softly as he resisted the urge to reach over and shake his boy. Ren sat up slowly, as he got his bearings and assised his damage. He winced in pain as he moved his right shoulder. Expiernice told him that it was not broken but it was dislocated. He had a cut running down his face but it wasn't bleeding anymore so he was too worried. "We've had an accident, haven't we? Well, as least no one got killed. That's a plus," Ren muttered in a voice that trimbled with the shock of it all. "We should get out of the car before we get too burried," Aley muttered in relief that Ren was still with him. "That's not going to be too much of a problem. Looks like this freak storm is letting up." "We should get back up to the main road. Maybe a car will come along," Aley mutterd hoarsely as he reached in the back to search out their coats. Once he'd found what he was looking for he turned around and handed Ren his coat. Once they were suitable dressed, he used the last of the battery power to roll down his window and got out turning to help Ren out as well. The road was some ten or so feet above them and all they could see were the frozen river of snow capped trees and as they made it to the presipace of the road the river changed to a more dense ocean. They stood their a few moments to gather their thoughts and bearrings. A few minutes longer they saw the tell-tale signs of a car approaching aways off in the gathering darkness. The car came slowly as death from it mount on top of the hill, moving not as someone driving in a storm but more as if the occupants were watching and taking note of their every move. Ren, whom was drawn to action, rose his good arm and waved dramatically to attract the driver's or drivers attention. The car continued in its slow crowl forward, disappearing altogether around a dip in to road before emeraging once more at an snails-slow pace as it approached the still waving figure of the boy. The car was a big battered monster of an automobile; the kind of sturdy thing that they don't make anymore and was in bad need of a new paint job, in Aley's openion -- then again, Aley wasn't known for his knowledge of cars. It came to a dead stop just a few yards away from them and for a spell of some minutes, the driver peered back at them with a even and expressionless gaze and didn't bother to speak. He then turned his head slightly and muttered something in the direction of the other two whom were with him. After a spell a of a few seconds the two men he was talking to got out the cab of the car. The first of them was a short and squat toad of a man in pewter-grey dress pants and a lighter grey sweat shirt, both of which looked to Aley to be in need of a good washing. He moved around the left side of the hearse-like car with an air of exaggerated diffculty, as though his movements were calculated to make him seam more harmless. The other man, whom approached Aley and Ren from the right, was broom handle thin was dressed in navy pants, that had at one time been starch-ironed to an unifrom crease, and a navy and sky blue striped button down shirt -- the stripes streached across his chest giving one the impression that the man was bigger in the chest than he actually was. The man had an old camel kangol hat pulled low over his face which hid his eyes from plane view. Nither of the men spoke waiting instead for either Aley or Ren to do so first. "We've had a touch of an accident," Aley finally muttered after the streaching scilence between the pair of men grew to be too much for him to bare. At some point in this scilent exchange the driver got out of the car. Ren noticed that this man was dressed in a set of ill fitting blue sweat pants and shirt and a pair of black shoes with no socks. Ren couldn't shake the impression that he knew this man from somewhere. His face was just too fimiliar to place at the moment. "Evening," he said to Ren and Aley in a labored voice, as thought the very act of speaking was a chore form him, "See ya'll've had a spill." "Should I try the car," The toad man said to the driver. "No use," Aley muttered, "The battery died as we were getting out." "You two sit down over there," The driver said to Ren and Aley as he gestured to an overturned log just behind where they were standing. "Your standing's making me nervious." Ren was about to mutter "Why you telling us that," but he saw that the three men all had revolvers sticking out of their pockets. "Now, you look," Aley began to said suddenly in a voice that was far stornger than he felt, "We're in a bad way. We --" Ren let out a high pitched shriek as it dawned on him how he knew the man. He backed away slowly as he shouted "I know you! You're The Outcast!" "Yes, I am," He said in a clear voice that filled the thirsty silence that had grown around them. "Been better if you'd not said that." The Outcast smiled slightly in the incrouching darkness and it seamed to Aley that the forrest arround them opened her mouth to accept their sacrifice.

SOMETIMES I MISS YOU; SOMETIMES I DON'T OR I MISS YOU MOST OF ALL WHEN THE SPARROWS QUIET THEIR SONG AND THE AUTUMN LEAVES BEGIN TO FALL 　 Where to begin? The beginning of the beginning of a story is never really the beginning of the story. The ending of the ending of the story is by no means the end of the story. Beginnings, middles, and endings are like ones memory of one's own birth. It will never be quite accurate. How do you know what are your own rambling remerberings and what are the brambled ramblings of others; mere here say or documented facts? Once upon a time there was a man that was scarcely out of the puppy fat youth. Many, many moons ago, there was a man, his lover, born with the misfortune of birth that allowed for the knack for being in exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time, whom happened, for just this once, upon exactly the right place at exactly the right time. There were, once upon a time, ghosts. They met in the most insignifagant of manners. It doesn't matter the circunstances. What does matter is that the wheels of fate deemed them worth enough to test the strength of their love, almost at the moment of its conception, and set in motion the means for their enveitable break-up. That means ended up being the youths own flesh and blood. His twin brother.... 　 　 Terry Owens cracked his knuckles, stretched, and began to settling down for a night of writing. He took a sip of his coffee and found the mug to be empty. The neighborhood cat, a poor silver and black thing, was scratching at the window ledge for his weekly samplings of Terry's leftovers. Someone was knocking on the door. He saved his work, and went to answer the door. "Can I use your microwave? The wiring in my flat is wonky and Bob said he'd get it fixed and in the mean time I need to warm some milk for my son," the women from apartment 1D asked in a flush. "Yeah, sure," Terry said letting her into the flat. "15 seconds should be hot enough. It gets hot pretty fast." When 1D had gone, Terry went about fixing more coffee. While he waited he opened the window and let the cat in along with a brisk shock of late December air. Looking out of the window, Terry couldn't help noticing the cow heavy moon with the stain of red on it. "How does that saying about blood on the moon go again," he said more to himself that to the cat. She answered as cats are acustomed to answer. It was while the cat ate that Terry realized that he had not yet ate. Looking in the cabinet for a spell he decided on a whole wheat penne pepperino. After he had had his full, and realized how long and taxing the meeting with his vanilla publicist had been, he decided on a long hot bath. As he slipped into the oasis of hot water he forgot that blood on the moon spells dire trouble. 　 　 It was three short sharp raps on the door followed by an insatiable silence that brought Terry out from underneath the rocky safe haven a sea salt and chamomile soak in a tepid bath, a wash cloth weighing down firmly on his chest. There was no boubt in his mind as to the healing power of a hot bath and towel pressed firmly to ones chest. His auburn hair rested languidly atop the water as gay lads do in summer days so stickily hot that the crickets scarcely chirp, and the nightingales refuse to even whisper a half-note. With the knock came the tsunami of the days' tasks, writing yet to be penned, and the flood of questions. With a sigh Terry got out of the tub, briskly dried off, wrapped himself in a fresh terry cloth robe, and went to the door. With the aid of the florescent yellow lighting emanating from the far right he could see that the person at the door was an inch or so taller than he, and in his mid to late thirties. He was dressed in a red trench coat, fastened to the top most button that came to a rest above the tops of his Prada boots, which were caked in a fine layer of brown-grey snow. He had red leather gloves choaked in his left hand. A red knit barrette partially masked a mesh of blond hair that fell shy of resting on his shoulders. Terry could had sworn he smelt the faintest trace of May Roses and Irises. If his nose was not mistaken, he smelt notes of Clary Sage, Lavender, Patchouli, Sandalwood, Amber, Honey, Rockrose and some kind of Spice. The man in the hall was wearing Chanel number 19 with an undertone of Antaeus cologne. He didn't need to see his face to know that that man in the hall was his ex- boyfriend and brother-n-law, Lothario Matthews. "What's the T, Matthews," Terry barked light-heartedly from behind the safety of the door. "Look, girl," Lothario said in his effeminate tenor. He said girl the way some people say hun. "Can we talk inside. It's colder than that one Christmas in Paris out here." "Give me one reason to open the door, and I might just let you back in." "You want me to want to change your mind, is that it, Mr. Chapman?" "And Billie said you weren't going to amount to a hill of beans in an ant’s world. I guess mummy dearest was wrong." "I love you Terry." "I spoke too soon." "C'mon Tee. Nothing happened between Lance and I." "So, what you are saying is that what I walked in on was nothing. Although, I never had Lance pegged as a bottom." "Oh, c'mon Terry. It was just sex. It meant nothing, less than nothing." "Oh my god! You fuck my brother, and you call that nothing. Hell, those leprechauns hit you on the head with their shaleile sticks one too many times," Terry blurted bluntly. "Look, Tee. I'm sorry. If I'd have known that you'd be this angry after a year apart I never would have slept with Lance." "You know I'm not angry. I'm not bitter. I'm mad as hell." "C'mon, Tee." "Casse-toi! If you say c'mon one more fucking time I swear to the god above I will come through that door and strangle your ass and then, bring you back so that I can do it all over again." "C'mon," Lothario cooed playfully. "Ok," Terry snarled hotly as he flung open the door, "Get your cool aid man looking ass in her before that old noisy bitch across the hall calls the cops. Take those boots off. If you get mud on my carpets I'll kill you and this time I mean it." "Could I get the grand tour or is that asking too much," Lothario asked as he removed his boots at the front door. Lothario surveyed the flat before him in one swift motion with his detail-trained eyes. What he saw before him he liked. Terry's parlour consisted of a posh cream-coloured leather love seat with wrap-a-round sofa, and matching arm chair placed in a semi-circle about an glass coffee table resting on a grey marble block, facing the 52-inch flat screen television framed by an faux-mahogany entertainment center. White shag carpet ran the length of the room which was lit from the right by the red, pink, violet, and brown pot-pourri of light from the setting sun streaming in from double bay windows. "Wish I'd brought my cannon." "So, um... did my big bro give you the boot or what?" "Like I said, I love you. That's why I called it off with Lance. I want to make us work, Tee." "You're about a year and a marriage too late with those words." "I'm sorry." "I really am getting quite tired of you saying that," Terry said with a sigh. "Lol," Lothario said with a laugh. "What's so blooming funny, mate." "I think that was the first word I said to you was sorry." "Second word, actually. If memory serves me right, the first words you said to me was what, sorry." "It was raining, it was." "Strike two, mon ami. It was as sunny as days come." "If you say so, mon petite lapin." "I do. You know you know how good my memory is. And you lost the right to call me that." "As trained as my eye," Lothario muttered as he ignored the last part of Terry's comment. "Innit though." "Now, are you going to tell me the story or do I have to beg?" "Let us see where to begin? As my memory serves me, there were no storm-grey clouds in the sky on that day I first met you, only joyous pallid ones that pirouetted about to the beating of their own drums whilst men gaze up at them in wondrous splendour pondering their own frail moralities. The succulent perfume of fresh cut grass – their bellies full to bursting with the chilled liquor of dew – wafted to my nose felling me to the brim with bitter-sweet memories of nostalgic days from my youth. I recalled those long ago days when my cousin was six and I five, we would roll down the slope of Murdock Hill. The grass would stain our lily-white tee shirt kelly and neon green. We did not care then, that our mothers would be furious and emptily threaten to ground us if we did it again, which we would at every chance we were afforded. We were kids being kids and as such we cared little for consequence and volumes for momentary rhapsodic euphoria." "What does you smelling grass have to do with us meeting?" "Who’s telling this story," Terry mutterd hotly as he raised his left eyebrow pointedly. "You are." "Right you are. Now, I'm going to tell this story the way I remember it. now, where was I?" "You were having an aimless flashback brought on by the smell of grass." "Ah, right you are. The smell of fresh cut grass sent me on a trip down memory lane which was interrupted by the rich pot-pourri of grunts, snorts, moans, abrupt shoving ensuing from the horde of high schoolers, and sharp screeching of breaks form the purring achromatic bus jarred me from thinking of idle things done in earlier days, as a child awoken from a night-terror by fear in the mid-night hour. I was a lioness; my senses were of in a state qui vive. I was prone to pounce at the next available opportunity. I waited, ever so restlessly. I spot my chance. I rendered self to the mercies of the mob and I was afforded entrance into the metallic jungle to fend for a place to rest off my weary feet for a few fleeting seconds earthly bliss. I surveyed the buffet before my eyes in one swift motion noting the couple four seats in a dishevelled state of heavy petting-" "-Yeah, That was Kevin and Rosa," Lothario said a matter-of-fact manner. Terry crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes and puckered his lips into an icy sneer. "Sorry, T. Continue." "I saw around me a couple making out, a voguish gaggle of giggling dames in the back to the right in the midst of some fervid discussion of the latest celebrity gossips, the girl to the far left of the flock dawned in her coal-black frock and rude-cut jeans tucked away in her makeshift melodic oasis. That was when it happened. My breath froze half way down; my virgin heart went into palpitations; Time had stopped still as death. Everything faded to black. "Is this seat taken, I said to you -" "- And I said What, sorry, Lothario chimed in- " "- While you removed your ear-phones," Terry said a tinny bit of excitement infused in his voice. And I said Can I sit here? Sure, you said playfully as you moved your things for me. Once I was nestled in you asked me if I wanted some chips-" "You mean French fries, right?" "Does a cow say moo?" "Stupid question. Go on." "Anyways, even then your cologne had been intoxicating to me, granted I've always had a weak spot for Chanel. You had me with your outfit which consisted of: Levi slim trucker jacket, John Varvtos sleeveless hoodie, Theory Elias sweater, G-Star Sailor Lumber original denim jeans, and Chuck Taylor Hi sneakers. I was so feeling your vibe. I was just too shy to say anything, so I went about it the subtle manner by asking what you were listening to." "Take Me or Leave Me from Rent. Whanna listen," Lothario said excited that he actually remembered. "Sure, I had said as I moved ever so closer to you, and took other ear-phone. The heat from your body against mine was heaven for me. In fact, all I asked you for while we were an item was to be held, which hasn't happened yet, I might add." Terry crossed his arm and pouted his lips, like a pleading teen, mockingly. "We can always remedy that, mate." "Beg your pardon." Terry shifted from pouting to accusing in a spilt-second. "I'm perfectly willing to hold you right now, mon cœur qui bat." "How very dare you," Terry said in a spot on impersonation of that Catherine Tate character. "It's not like I'm asking you to let me park my bike up your dirt track." "What a fucking liberty." "What?" Lothario scratched his head perplexedly. "Do you want the grand tour or not?" "Only if you really want to." "Oy, you dirty wanker. Keep that in your knickers, you." "Jokes on you, mate. I haven't any on." "I so did not need to know that, Jay." "So, how about that tour?" "Right, here we go. This is my living room, obviously. Through the first door over there on that right is the kitchen, the second the diningroom." "Ooh. Where's the bedroom?" "Nowhere you'll get at, mate." The silence between them grow from the floorboards of their mutual unease, like morning glories, and forced Terry to break that insatiable quiteness. "How about a drink," Terry muttered with a sigh. "That's thinking in the right direction," Lothario muttered as he when an sat on the sofa with a loud dud. Terry all but ran into the kitchen and returned moments later with two glasses and a bottle of gin. "What will we taost to. We always toast on the first drink," Lothario cooed thoughtfully as he took the almost over flowing glass from Terry. "To Paris," Terry muttered half-heartedly as he poured himself a glass with shakey hands. "To Paris," Lothario parroted coyly. "We fell in love in Paris," he muttered in a voice that on anyone else would have sounded like a prayer. "We fell out of love in Paris," Terry muttered wistfully as he swollowed the contents of his glass in one gulp and refilled his glass. "You can't mean that," Lothario muttered hotly as he sipped his drink. "Oh, it's truely meant. My mind quit loving you in Paris. My soul fell out with love in Paris," Terry muttered in a morose tone. Then, he smilled. Wiether it was from the gin or have Lothario near him, he didn't know or care. From the back of his mind came a voice, that grew softer with every sip of his drink. It told him that this was a bad idea; that Lothario had never said that he was devoriced from Lee. Terry found himself not caring one way of the other. "But, my heart is still, will always be, yours," he muttered after what seemed like years but was only a few seconds of percious scilence. "If that offer still stands, I'll..." Lothario muttered before falling silent and not being able to finish his sentance. "What offer," Terry muttered. He knew what Lothario wass getting at. He just wanted to hear him say it aloud. "If you still want me to ... I'll, I'll take you in my arms," Lothario muttered like a love sick teenager. "Ok,' Terry muttered as he when around the table and grabbed Lothario's hand. 　 Terry woke four hours later reeling from the extacy of sex and the gaity of gin. How long has it been since I last felt the warm touch of a man; the soft, sensual caress of my body pressed to another he thought as he stood in front of the bay windows in his bedroom, their juices still clinging to his legs. Lothario was still asleep in the king sized wrought-iron and chased-copper bed, which gleamed like Cupids' gilded arrow in the incandescent light cast from the street lights that flooded the darkened room. The rain conversed with the windowpane like far too many voices speaking all at once. Memories of Paris danced before his eyes with more fervour the more he fought them. "Do you remember Paris," Lothario said, his voice still heavy with the last ramblings of sleep. He reached over to the davenport next to the bed, and grabbed his coat. Searching in the inside breast pocket he produced a canister of tobacco to with he proceed to make a cigerette with the generous wad he had taken form it. "Paris is nothing more than a dirty city with florescent lights," Terry said bitterly as he walked over to the bed and took the cigerette from Lothario and lit it. "You know that was when I first knew that I was truely in love with you," Lothario muttered as he took the cigerette from Terry. "Love is a messy affair, " Terry said as he exhaled a plume of smoke. "If you're not careful, the so called love of your life can and may fuck you over and leave you to sort out the rags that are your life and stitch together some semblance of a life." "I'm Sorry." "-" Three short urgent raps followed by three more cut off Terry's retort. He wrapped himself in a used silken robe and briskly cleaned himself up. "Get dressed, now," Terry barked at Lothario. He tossed Lothario his shirt, and headed for the door. "What are you doing here Lance," Terry asked as he opened the door. He knew, clear as a sunny day in LA is hot, that he'd just committed adultery. "Have you seen that no good ass husband of mine,Terry," Lance said stumbling over his feet and slurring his words as he proceeded to the sofa with Terry's assistance. "Terry," Lothario said as he made his way into the living room "What's all the racket?" "So, my brother, my own flesh and blood, is fucking my husband behind my back?" "Lee, it's not like that," Lothario said tucking the silk spread around his waist. "I should have known you'd go back to my goddamned sainted brother." "Lee you're drunk. Why don't you lay down and go to sleep, and we can discuss this like adults in the morning." Lothario sat in the arm chair with a grunt. "I should put you six feet under, you whore." Lance grabbed the empty bottle of Tanquera gin and was fixing to chuck it at Lothario. Terry grabbed the bottle from him. "C'mon Lance," Terry said as he lifted him up from the sofa, and lead him to the bedroom. As they passed Lothario Lance took a swing at him. Terry intercepted the punch and placed Lance in the bed. "What a mess this all is," Terry thought to himself as he gathered Lothario's clothes and returned to him in the living room. "I don't care where the hell you go, but, you need to get dressed and get the hell out of here," Terry said as he handed Lothario his things. "But, Tee-" "Non! You know how Lee is when he's drunk. Just leave I'll deal with this," Terry muttered in a hot clipped voice. Lothario was slow in his dressing as if taking his time would give him more time with Terry who was miles away at that point. "You fucking bastard," Lance said as he charged into the room. Terry stepped in to intervene and was pushed out of the way hitting his head on the wall. As he hit the ground a trail of crimson crawled down the wall. Lothario fell over backwards in an attempt to getaway from Lance, knocking over the bottle, shattering it. As he pulled the bottle out of his back Lance came lunging at him reaching for his throat. 　 　 Terry awoke to a quite house. Lothario was gone. Lance was encircled by carmine. Then, came a banging on the door followed by it being shattered. Terry blackedout. When he came to the paramedic hovered over him attentively, flashing a bright white smile, a hand lingering on his shoulder a second longer than necessary. Then, the detective's assault of questions. "What a mess I got himself into. What a messy affair love is. My only family dead on my parlour floor at the hand of our former lover. What a fucking mess," he thought as the coroner and the cops left him to his own macabre thoughts and a silence like a black hole. It didn't last. Mrs. Phillips from across the hall came in with the prying questions. She was real life Miss Marple, but in spite of the questions and accusations he was glad for the company. All the while, in the back of his mind, there was the steady thought of the bloody moon. In the end, there was only the paramedic and Terry left. "Can I help you," Terry said to the paramedic as he searched his pockets in vain for a cigarette. "Do you have any cigarettes?" The paramedic flashed a white toothed grin, and ocean blue eyes gleemed as he searched his left breast pocket, and produced a pack of Yves Saint Laurent 100s tapped two out and put them to his lips. He lit them and handed one to Terry, whom Terry took it and inhaled deeply. "Thanks," Terry muttered in a trite vioce. "You wouldn't think it to forward of me if I asked you out," the paramedic asked Terry in a shy voice that was all smiles. "If the love of my life hadn't just killed my brother, his husband, and ran off to god knows where I would say that: no, I do not think that would be to forward." "Some other time, perhaps?" "Don't you have some other poor damsel that's in distress to go save," Terry muttered coyly. He couldn't stop himself from flurtting with the cutie in front of him. "I should be, but, the only life I wish to save is yours." "You can only save all that wish to be saved." "And, pray tell, what do you wish?" "I don't wish. What good is it? Wishes always go sour after awhile." "You can't mean that. How can you of all people give up on wishes and love. That's what all ten of your books are about. Innit?" "What do you know of love,and wishes, and life?" "Not much, I'm only 23, after all." "Age is no excuse of inexperince. I am only a few years older than you myself." "If this Lothario Matthews is the love of your life, why then, was he married to your brother?" "First loves are hard. Thay are even harder when, for both people involved, it is their first honest to god romance." "I can only imagin." "You know, sometimes we fight like hell to hold on to what we have, that we have to fight like hell to let go." "My mother always told me to let him be free if he's meant to be with you." "Like I said it was our first romance. I was a child that was scarcely out of the puppy fat of youth. He was a man that was more of a child. He was four years my senoir, at twenty." "So, you were sixteen when you first fell in love." "And did I ever fall. Do you believe in ghosts, mr. -" "Favrina. Luca Favrina." "Well, do you Luca?" Terry reconized the name. How could he not reconize the name of the famous gay count form the dying line of Italian royality. He decied not to make a big issue out of it. He wanted to know how he came across such a common job as he had. "Yes, I believe that there are spirts out there that try to reach us." "I don't. real ghost are something else entirely." "Ok, what are real ghost?" "They are people, places, events. Some are thoughs, so long repressed that in order to be heard they must take form and pester us until they are heard. "All true writing is born out of ghosts. After all, writing is merely a matter of being haunted by material." "I didnt know that, but, it make sence." "Do you write?" "No, I paint, that is if I ever get the time. Sometimes I can close I eyes, and when I open them I find that I have painted the very thing that I was thinking about in such detail I swear that I was there again." "That is because you are an artist who paints." "What about yourself. What kind of artist are you?" "I am a artist that no longer wishes to practice my craft." "What do you wish to do?" "To live, and to love, and to pen it well in simple sentances." "How very Plathian of you. So, where do you want to live?" "Anywhere but here." "Well, I am going home to Milano. You're welcome to along. If you want?" "Well, Count, quando parte il volo?" "How seen can you pack?" "Let me grab I toothbrush and I'll be ready to go." "I want to say we have not met by accidnet." "You haven't met me yet," coyly purred as a ginuine smile streached across his face. 　 　 "Penny for your thoughts," Sara's voice chimed as if from some far distant place. "Che sarà, sarà ," Terry muttered absentmindedly as he looked out the window without really seing the greek countyside darting passed. "What will be, will be. What a grim thought," Sara said wistfully. "Almost as grim as your name, Sara." "So, you can joke. Glad my husband's death hasn't affected you in the least." "Ha, ha, ha," he laughed dryly. "You're just a real charming chap, aren't you, Terry?" "Anything you say Contessa Favrina." "I haven't been called that since-" "Since Luca died. I never got over how accepting you were of my relationship with your husband. Has it been that long already?" "Four years next week." "How time flies," Terry muttered wistfully. "Tell me about." "When is that holiday," Terry asked quizzacally as he attempted to change the subject. "You mean the one were lovers jump off a cliff?" "Yeah, That one." "Tomorrow." "What's the deal? I don't get it." "Sometimes you have to do crazy things for love." "But, why jump off a cliff. Isn't that dangerous?" "Spoken like someone who has never been in love." "Oh, I've known love, Sara. I feel in love and hard." "And They burned you so bad you've become a jaded, cynical, ice queen." "You don't know the half of it. Love is a dangerous enough affair without jumping off cliffs to prove it." "Let me guess, you gave him your heart. You devoted yourself to him, forsaking who you were to please him. Is that about right?" "And then, he fucks me over for my brother and ends up killing my brother and leaving my worse than dead." "You think you're the only one with scars from love? I going to take a step out of character and be a zoccola for a second and tell you this for your own good: I know you had those warm and fuzzy thoughts about you and Lothairo. You thought that there was something special between you two, and there might well have been at some point in the past. Here's the thing: He's a niceish chap, I imagin he has a cute bum and his face wouldn't be half bad either. You two were all Antony and Cleopatra, Romeo and Juliette; the "It" couple of the century. I get that. But, don't you remember your history? Those are tragidies. And when all is said and done, all he'll have to offer you is a tragicilly limp, almost non-existiant piece of Pennette and you can do far better. So, do us all a gigantic favor. Kick him to the curb. Remove in standing invite from your heart. And stop being in love with him already." "What the hell do you know. You're a fucking Contessa who can have you fill of chaps with a bat of a damn lash. You've never been wanting for love in all your -" She slapped him. "-Stop the car," Terry said to the driver. "Terry, come back here. You don't know where you are." "Good bye, Sara." Terry stormed off as the Rolls Royce pulled off in the opposite direction. 　 　 "Terry," a fimillure male voice said from the doorway of the cantina he had just stormed past. Terry smelt May Roses and Sandalwood. He turned around and slapped Lothario square in the face. "Ow," Lothario said holding his cheek in mock hurt. "What do you have to say for yourself, Lothario Matthews," Terry seethed breathlessly. "Sorry." "Tu encule! You liar. You've never been sorry about a goddamned thing in your pitiful, pathetic, retched little excuse for an existence." "OK, you're right, as always." "Tu connard! I hate your stinking guts. I hate you with all of my heart. You charlatan. Tu bâtard fils d'une puté de merde dans un bordel de chie et saloperie!" Terry slapped Lothario. He went to slap him again, but Lothario caught his hand and kissed it. He pulled his hand free. Taking a backward step, Terry regains his resolve. "Aller brûle en enfer! Tu connard!," Terry said tears on the verge of spilling. He slapped him a second time. "Feel better?" "Don’t you take that tone with me mister. You are so lucky looks can’t kill otherwise you’d be eight feet under." "You mean six feet." "No, I mean eight. When you die I’m going to knock you down two more feet." "There, there." "You mark my words, Mr. Matthews. I’m going to get you back. It might not be today. It may not be tomorrow, but one of these days, you’re going to turn around and I’ll be there and I’m going to get you good like you got me. God as my witness, I will, even if I got to crawl out from my grave to do it," Terry said with less venom then he intended. I just couldn't help it. His heart was softening and there wasn't a thing he could do to stop it. "I love you too." "Casse-toi," Terry muttered half-heartedly. "Terry I have always loved to. I always have, and always will. I just wanted you to know that." "I could kill you. I have every right to put you through all the hell I've been through because of you." "Let’s face it Tee. A love like ours doesn't happen often. We should cut our losses and accept what fate had given us." "I should hate you with all of my soul. I know that I should. But, there is truth to what you said. A love such as the one we share is a one in a million affair. Even when I was with Favrina, my heart was yours and yours alone." "Then, meet me at the cliff." "But-" "Be there and I'll know we'll be together no matter what. Just be there. That's all the jumping you have to do. If you're there we can figure out how to make this twisted thing we have between us work." Lothario walked off back into the cantina leaving Terry speechless. "Terry, will you get in the car," Sara said as the car pulled up next to him. "Yeah, sure," Terry said distantly. His mind on the next night and what it could bring. 　 　 The crisp summer's wind tosseled Terry's mop of auburn curl as he waited by the makeshift bar for the festival to begin. Suddenly someone came from behind him and covered his eyes with their hands. "Guess who," the fimilure voice said. Terry didn't need the wind to send to his nose the scent of May Rose to know the it was Lothario. "I'm here," Terry said with a sigh. "What now?" "How about a drink," Lothario said as he let his hands fall to his side. "Sure," Terry muttered as he turned to the bar. He ordered two french 75's, and was about to pay for them when Lothario intercepted and payed leaving a larger tip then was called for. "To falling in love for the second time," He muttered as he clinked his glass with Terry's. "To Greece and love," Terry muttered as he took a sip of his drink. "The festival's starting," Terry muttered absentmindedly as he stared into the unfantanable depths of Lothario ocean blue eyes. "Hold this for me," Lothario muttered not wanting to pull his sight away from Terry but realizing that he had to in order to do what he needed. "Why," Terry muttered seconds before realzing what Lothario had in mind. "No. You don't have to do that." "But, I want to." "You don't have to jump off a cliff to prove to me that you love me." "Yes I do. It's the only way you will know that I truely love you. That I'm willing to risk dying just to be near you. And you know it's the truth even if you won't admitt it to yourself." "Well," Terry muttered as he mulled over what Lothario had said before deciding thatg he was right. "The sooner you get this over with the sooner I can have in back in my arms. Go jump. I'll meet you at the shore." A smile danced acrossed Lothario's face as he ran twords the cliff in open-armed bliss. Terry shook his head happily as he went to stand at the shore with to other waiting lovers. 　 　 The sun glistened of a dripping wet Lothario making his long gilded locks gleam like a halo. Terry was over come with blinding hot passion as he pounced on Lothario and pressed his lips to his as though he were dying and they were the breath of life. There happy moment was interrupted when Lothario was suddenly and violently ripped from Terry grasp. "So, this is why you left me," The stranger shot at Lothario. "I thought I mande it clear when I called it off." Terry cleared his throat before he spoke. "I don't mean to be rude, but, who are you exactly," Terry said in a level voice taking care to keep his voice netural and not be hauty. "The name's Joey Toussaint-Steele. The boyfriend," Joey said hotly. "Ex-boyfriend," Lothario corrected lightly. "Joey, I meant it when I said it was over." "Y- you, just can't do that to people. Play with their feelings like that," Joey muttered weakly. Terry wanted to say someting,but, he thought it best to remain quiet and let this play out the way to was supposed to. "Look," Lothario muttered in a voice dripping with more emotion than he usually let show. "I mean it when I said I loved you. At the time, I did love you." "Until he came along," Joey all but spat as he gestured at Terry vehemittly with an arm that shook with voilent rage. "It was always him," Lothario muttered weakly. "Terry always had my heart. He was my first true love." 'And what the Hell was I," Joey spat hotly no longer caring if he kept his temper in check. "Was I just some lay until he came along." "No, it wasn't like that, Jo," Lothario muttered, using the nickname he used when they made love. Joey could no longer contain his anger and spun on Terry before eirher him or Lothario could stop him. Terry flinched at the suddeness of the attack and fell backwards. Lothario knew that Joey was in a bad mood -- his usually porceline skin was red as a boiled lobster he visably shook as he stood there breathing heavily as thought he'd ran a mile. Lothario stepped in between the two. His body spoke to Terry; told him to run and run fast. Terry obeyed only looking back once to see Lothario taking a punch to the face with enought force that Terry felt the blow from his place a half mile away. He wanted to turn back and try to defuse the situation. But, he knew Lothario and Lothario knew this Joey boy. Lothario could handle this, Terry though to himself worry clinging to his bones like static. "He will be fine," Terry said aloud to himself as he felt his heart break and he began to openly sob. Heavy wet tears rooled down his cheeks and he made no attempt to wipe them away. He wept and didn't know why. 　 　 A leaf, browned and yellowed in spots, brushed up against Terry's face as he stood outside one evening when the sparrows began to quiet their songs. The urn had arrived that day. He looked at it without regerstering what it was. He still could not, would not, believe that it was over; that this was the end of it all. He held in his hands all that remained of Lothario; his beloved Lothario.