It`s time for Tuesday Tales.
Today we have an excerpt from The Easter Redemption, a Laurel Holidays serial that will be debuting on my website in spring.
Please do bear in mind that these snippets are unedited so please be kind if you find any mistakes.
This story may have gay erotic scenes, strong social issues addressed and mature language. If those things offend now is the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales blog. Thanks for stopping by!
“Thank you, sir,” I shouted to be heard over the rotted exhaust system on the rusty red Studebaker pickup.
The old man in the John Deere ballcap yelled something at me then sped off, speeding in this instance being a roaring twenty miles per hour. A black ball of choking exhaust exploded out of the rotted muffler leaving me standing in the middle of a dirt road, my old Yale duffel bag on my shoulder, hacking up a lung. Thankfully there was a soft breeze moving down the road and it lifted the fumes away. I stared at the lone mailbox sitting on the right hand side of the road and had to smile just a little. The black box sat atop half an old telephone pole, which was about as rural as one could get you’d think. But no, someone – and I suspected I knew who that someone was – had painted little farm animals, stars, and smiling suns on the sides of the battered postal box.
I stood there in the spring sun, chilled in my thin jacket, staring at the black mailbox as if it held some ancient secrets. I even went so far as to open it and stare inside. The damn thing was cavernous. The flag a little weak. There were bills inside waiting to be picked up by the mailman. Mailperson. Postal carrier. Ugh. Being PC was tiring. Life was so much easier when I was cranked up on coke and plastered on Jim Beam. I could just be a raging asshole and everyone was willing to accept it because I was ripped. And since I had been high on something since I was in boarding school I’d had lots of practice being a raging asshole. Which meant lots of amends to make. Starting with the most important one.
“You’re stalling,” I said, closed the box, and turned to face the long dirt drive that would lead me to Happy Laurel Farm. Hefting my duffel higher on my shoulder, I took a few steps, pausing just at the foot of the drive to cock my head and listen. There was no traffic noise. The only sounds were the soft rustle of a cool wind moving through trees that were just about to bud and the distant blats and moos of farm animals.
Farm animals. I still could not wrap my head around the fact that my younger brother, Decker, lived on a farm. If ever there were a man who was not cut out for farm life it was my baby brother. He was the picture of urban gay chic. Or had been. I’d not seen or spoken to him for close to two years. Fifteen or so months to be precise. A lot had gone down in that time span.