Date: Wed, 30 Nov 2005 13:55:07 -0800
From: Kiso G. <redbigballoon@gmail.com>
Subject: tangled-words-1 (gay/highschool)

Disclaimer: If you are going to get into heaps of trouble if caught
reading gay erotica, why are you at this site? Anyways, this story
contains gay themes and depending on the response I receive and my will
power to continue, it may contain accounts of sexual interaction between
males,  probably some bad language, some violence...maybe a massacre or
two, with a dash of catastrophe, who knows what the future will bring?
Also, this isn't going be a tale of masturbation fodder, as you'll easily
tell from the first chapter, so be forewarned... I'm trying to warm your
hearts, not your loins, really.

Everything about this story is completely fictional. I have no idea why
you would want to steal this story or post it on a wall or in a report or
article, so please don't unless you want to argue with me about fair use
and copyright law through angry emails.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Tangled Words

Chapter One

      "I know you'd rather have the baseball stud hear your sappy new
poem or whatever, but practice is running late tonight, so you'll have to
settle for me," said the girl sitting across from me before crossing her
legs and setting her palms atop her knees to finalize the matter.
Charlotte was pissing me off. First of all, my poem was not sappy. I
hoped. Second, why did she assume I'd pick her as my partner for
'one-on-one critique'? And third, what was she implying with the
"baseball stud" comment?
      
      Sure, I thought Aaron was a great writer; every weekly read took me
on an unobstructed journey into his mind; his essays and stories were so
lucid and crisp. I'd also admit he was a great person; I'd seen him a few
times helping old Mrs. Wilkes load her groceries out of her pink Cadillac
just for the hell of it, and every other Thursday he was helping the
rec-center's little league team work on their swings. Hell, I'd even
admit that Aaron was great looking; with the muscles he'd developed
through years of training and practice, his perfectly square jaw line,
the vibrant green eyes that glimmered with every smile, and that dimple
in his left cheek, he was sure to melt the hearts of the fairer sex. He
was attractive, but that didn't mean I was attracted to him! Stupid
Charlotte, implying all that bullshit, plus, I assumed they were dating,
so I bet she was just teasing.
      
      I didn't want Charlotte as a partner, tonight or ever. She was too
arrogant and condescending whenever she spoke to me. Just because she was
queen of the drama club, did not mean that she reigned over everyone
else. I'd seen her treat Aaron like a personal slave, making him wait on
her hand and foot, and I sure as hell didn't want to become Charlotte
Durand's next victim.
      
      She was intense; 5'11, and always wore heels, leaving her at my
direct level of 6'2 most of the time. Her hazel eyes frightened me; they
were domineering. I felt as if no level of pretense could disguise the
truth from them. Her raven hair was never out of place, falling in
precisely layered waves to the middle of her back. I had to admit,
Charlotte would be considered very beautiful, if she never opened her
mouth.
      
      "I wouldn't have mentioned Aaron if I had known you were going to
enter a spell," she spat with mild disgust and stopped me in
mid-appraisal. I did not want to spend the next hour with this girl!
      
      "Alright, now that everyone's found a partner, feel free to start
critiquing last week's assignment," Ms. Allen announced. Shit, the
meeting had begun and I was stuck with the ice queen. I guess
rationalization takes up a lot of time.
      
      "Are you going to read your poem or not?" Charlotte asked. When she
saw I was still in shock from the realization that I was stuck with her,
Charlotte took the opportunity to skip me and proceed reading her
assignment.
      
      It was long, dark, and towards the middle, very dull. Charlotte
should've been born in the 19th century; she would've been the perfect
gothic novelist. I didn't want to read her account of the poltergeist
that was actually just a manifestation of some crazy lady locked in an
attic again. So, I decided to say something.
      
      "Um, I liked the cat," I offered.
      
      "The cat? What about Proctor....THE POLTERGEIST, or Alice, the
deranged victim? You liked the cat? The cat was only there to create
atmosphere! What about my plot? My characters?!," she argued.
      
      "Well, precisely," I tried to cut in, "Charlotte, that's what's so
um...special about your writing; the tone you create through your
selection of details."
      
      She stopped to consider this for a moment while I tried to think of
excuses to leave the meeting early.
    
      My house could be on fire!?
    
      No, too dramatic, perhaps I had simply forgotten to help my mother
with her gardening, our tomato vines were in dire need of picking.
      
      "Um, Charlotte, I just realized that I need to get home. My mother
needs help picking the fires. I mean--she has to be picked off of the
vine--" I quietly stammered.
      
      Crap.
      
      "I can't hear you if you speak while you're biting your nails. By
the way, that's disgusting," she commented.
      
      "And, I guess you're right about the tone thing," she grudgingly
admitted.
      
      I could breathe again.
      
      "So, are you going to read your poem or not?"
      
      "Uh, I don't know. I think it needs a bit of tweaking," I lied.
      
      "Why do you make this so difficult? Do you remember the point of
this group? You write, then we read, I help! Let's hear what you've got
so far," Charlotte demanded.
      
      "Fine," I shrugged. "But, don't be too judgmental."
      
      "Oh, suck it up, " she sighed.
      
      
      "Softly, softly, enters dream,
      Enters through this slit in time,
      Reveals the face in front of mine.
      
      Tarns of emerald leave me chilled,
      Reflect pure hate through clouded haze,
      Upon my face, so loathe to gaze
      
      But my eyes, they freely roam
      Consume the hate 'till none is left,
      Then grow colder, left bereft.
      
      If these pools choose not to warm,
      Have I a choice but to frost?
      Without such eyes, I am lost.
    
      Cruelly, cruelly, dream desists,
      Swiftly leaves the slit of time,
      Obstructs the face in front of mine."
      
      "Well, that was juvenile, "Charlotte quipped.
      
      See what I mean? I let her get a peek into what's been haunting me
every night for the past week and she insults me. I tried to defend
myself.
      
      "I said it needed tweaking, and the dreams aren't juvenile, they're
incredibly powerful," I divulged, immediately regretting making such an
admission to Charlotte.
      
      "Mm hmm, so you wrote a poem about a wet dream?" she asked not
expecting an answer.
      
      "NO! WERE YOU LISTENING AT ALL? These eyes weren't seducing me,
they were judging me, and I had no clue what they were judging." Shit,
why am I telling her?
    
      "I don't know Derrick, sounds pretty intense. You're entranced by
these eyes, for the moment your whole purpose for existing is to stare
into their depths and that scares you, yet excites you. You can't get
enough of 'em. They're treating you like shit, but you don't care, you're
in too deep to stop. It's hot, in a niche porn sort of way," Charlotte
explained.
Damnit, she was listening and perceptive, except for the niche porn
thing; I think I visibly shuddered.
      
      "So Derrick," her hazel eyes glazed with a smug confidence that
scared me, "is there anyone special who these eyes could belong to?"

It sounded like she already knew the answer, but how could she when I
wasn't even aware.
      
      "I don't think the dreams are tied to romantic feelings, however
powerful they may be," I explained.
      
      "Too bad Aaron's at practice, he'd be able to get to the bottom of
this," Charlotte mock wistfully stated. After high school, Aaron wanted
to pursue a career in psychology and was into that dream interpretation
crap.
      
      I blushed at the thought; as much I disliked Charlotte, I realized
I was relieved that I was partnered with her tonight rather than Aaron. I
definitely wouldn't want him analyzing my dream and making comments about
my vulnerability, although he'd be far more considerate than Charlotte.
      
      She rolled her eyes.
      
      Ms. Allen soon announced it was time for our mid-way break and the
group got up to enjoy some refreshments. Charlotte left me to devour the
three pieces of biscotti she took out of her bag while making a phone
call, which gave me time to think.
      
      Did the eyes in my dream belong to anyone real? Every night I only
focused on the eyes, never the other features of the face; I didn't even
know whether the gender was discernable. It didn't matter though; the
dreams weren't attached to romantic feelings, right? It was more about
approval and guilt. I would stare at the eyes hoping for recognition, for
understanding, but would only receive stares filled with resentment in
return. The hatred was so thick, but I couldn't stop staring. I thought
perhaps if I stared into the eyes long enough they'd be forced to
relinquish their ill glaze and shine with trust and happiness, but I'd
always awake in a cold sweat before anything like that could happen. I
was once again comforted that Aaron was missing tonight's meeting; this
poem was just too personal.
    
      Much to my chagrin, Charlotte quickly ran her hands through my
blond hair to denote her entrance into my personal space; she sat in her
chair as she placed her cell phone back into her purse.
     "Aaron said practice ended a little early, he'll be here in five
minutes and he wants to take a look at your poem," she publicized.

I was doomed.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dun dun dun.....

Okay, it's a bit of a slow start...sorry.

Author's Note: This is my first time, EVER, writing and posting something
for the purposes of Nifty, so if you'd like to stroke my bruised and
battered ego, by all means, go for it. But seriously, encouragement would
be really nice. I won't have any incentive to continue if no one reads it
and likes it. Criticism is also very welcome, as long as it's not along
the lines of, "You smell. And so does your writing for that matter." So
send all comments/criticism/suggestions to redbigballoon@gmail.com
Thanks!