dd's Blog

Check back soon for exciting . . . news!

Mea culpa, after losing two hours today, I am just going to make this post and hide in plain sight until I have more time to recreate this web site. For now, the two novels are my main focus. Suffice it to say, my author site was knocked off-line again. And, once again, it lost […]

Here’s the deal, since no one really reads stories on websites anymore, “Flakes” is now posted on Wattpad. You can read it for free there. You can also vote, follow, and comment on stories. Wattpad is free and available on the web and as a very user-friendly app. Check it out, and please join, to […]

“It’s still snowing!” “Flakes” is a guys’ love serial novel with romance, intrigue, snow, chocolate, and a dash of Italy—start with episode one—and scroll down to read the latest episode. This already written novel will be posted in 12 parts. This story is being polished as it is being posted, so please, feel free to […]

Just a pic of me in Portugal. I am think about adding the pictures from my trip here.[image error]

It continues to snow with episode 2–click here for the first episode. Don’t forget, comments & edits are welcome. “Flakes” will be posted and perfected–over time. This is our little web secret, so share with friends, who might have interest. And as always, we start with a teaser quote beneath the title. Look for it in the story, and scroll down to see how you can support “Flakes.”

Flakes, episode 2

So many men, so many eyes, so unnerving.

[image error]

The snow continued to fall, as the tall stranger, who carried Cristoforo slumped over a shoulder, moved quickly through it. Coming to sudden stop, he planted both of his feet before the snowy façade of a building. As the winds created a clearing in the snowfall like a pulled curtain. This revealed a set of roughly hewn steps. These steps, which had either appeared suddenly or were already familiar to the stranger, led to a subterranean space below. Either way, the stranger quickly descended while still carrying the barely conscious young man.

They descended deeper and deeper into the darker space beyond and below. With a slight bend of the knees, like a sudden graceful curtsy, they passed through a small doorway, which the figure kicked open. The door opened on to a small entry way that served as a passage way to a cavernous space beyond.

As they entered, Cristoforo, feeling more groggy than conscious, could not help but notice the rush of warmth against his frigid body. He had been very cold, cold enough to hurt, so the warm air was very welcome. Wherever they were going, it was decidedly warmer in here than it was outside, so Cristoforo felt himself consenting to wherever he was being brought and to whatever it led. Besides, what choice did he have slumped over the stranger’s shoulder?

Having entered without hesitation, the tall figure walked along a brick wall before bending to unburden a tired shoulder from the weight it bore. Cristoforo unfolded over the stool he found his body deposited upon. This movement roused him, but before he could pick up his head to see where he was, he heard voices everywhere. They were engaged in very curious conversations. “Where’d he come from?” “Never seen him before.” “Are they together?” “Cute!”

His eyes popped open when heard—before feeling—the stranger’s hand slap his face. This was immediately followed by a stern command. “Wake up!” The slap prompted several rounds of gasps and giggles from the various watchers and listeners beyond, who must have been craning their necks to see.

Cristoforo’s face flushed with anger and surprise. “You slapped me!”

“You need to wake up so your blood will warm.” The stranger replied.

Despite the sting of embarrassment, Cristoforo was not surprised by what he saw, for he had heard the crowd whispering before seeing the chorus.

The cavernous room spread out before him. It gave way here and there to additional rooms, others hallways, and even more stairwells, which led further down. The exact relationship of the various rooms eluded him, for there was a vibrant tapestry of men before him. Their movements obscured his view of this or that detail or corner. The sea of men was varied, and while there were too many men—and too many kinds—to take in all at once, Cristoforo could tell from first glance there were men of all ages, sizes, and shapes within it. They stood watching, whispering and wondering about him and the young guy that had just slapped him, for he could see that his companion now resembled a man, at least the stranger did here under this light. All the men were talking and carrying on about them. Cristoforo was certain of this, and his face flushed with red heat under the scrutiny of such attention.

His hand was also reddening once again, and it was surely still hurting. He looked toward it, and it was only then that he noticed the stranger was already holding his hurt hand within his own. He stood staring at Cristoforo’s wound with wonder yet concern: “You are still bleeding. Let me get you a bandage. I’ll be right back with one. I’ll be back before you know it.” Then, he disappeared into the crowd as quickly as he had appeared through the snowflakes on the street.

Cristoforo could not tell what made his head swirl more the suddenness of the stranger’s help, the abruptness of his comings and goings, or the sea of faces still staring at him from every nook and cranny he could see—and from a few he could not—or so he felt. So many men, so many eyes, so unnerving.

He could still hear them carrying on and whispering. Their voices rose within yet quickly fell from his ears like a will-o’-the-wisp daring him too venture further forward to listen. One voice rose from the others before landing like an invading spider in his ear. “Want a drink, cutie?”

Filling with fury, Cristoforo could not help but shout an angry response: “No!”

Despite the rage within himself, he managed to contain the rest of his fury to his thoughts: “How dare one of these men speak to me like that? I’m boy, yet he speaks me as if I was a girl! I may not know where I am, but I know who I am. I am not a girl!”

Having to figure out who you were was work enough, but now, Cristoforo found himself trying to figure out where he was—and why there were so many strange men in this place. The tall stranger said his name was something that sounded like Angel, but Cristoforo wondered if he was lying or if he really meant to say devil—or worse, for why would an angel bring him into a place such as this?

His anger led his confusion in a frustrating dance of questions. “Where am I? What kind of place of this? Who are these strangers? I’ve never seen so many men before. Why are they all here?” Question after question raced through his mind, but he soon found his mind seizing on one. “Where is that man’s shirt?”

Moving from within the midst of the crowd of men yet appearing to have nothing to do with the others, there stood the tallest, broadest, and most unclothed man Cristoforo had ever seen before. Was that legal? He was not wearing a shirt, yet even his feet, bulging calves, and thick thighs threatened to burst out of his clothes. Cristoforo’s face reddened, for he was embarrassed for the man—and for himself. “Where was his shirt?”

One question after the next once again raced through his mind, for there was so much to figure out. “Wasn’t that man cold without his shirt?” Cristoforo thought he must be, for his chest stood up with a most indecent attention to the air. The rest of his torso appeared to be wet. How had he gotten his chest wet? He wondered if a water pipe might be actively leaking somewhere above. He looked toward the ceiling, but he found himself blinded by a suddenly illuminated large revolving ball, which hung high over the crowd.

He could not tell through the glare, but the ball looked broken. Its surface looked cracked, like it was about to shatter into shards, but these shards yet held. They appeared to reflect every light, every color, every face, and every movement in the room. He was nearly blinded by the rainbow of this brilliant illumination. So much so, he could no longer see as well. He feared if he moved he might trip, and he worried he might be going bind. This panicked him, but before he could further worry, he was distracted by a distinctly feminine laugh. Somewhere in the crowd, there was a girl here.

Cristoforo could hear her giggling and squealing with glee. She sounded delightful. His ears rejoiced in the sounds of her happiness. She sounded so mirthful, so free, so very much the opposite of how miserably lost and upset he felt. He wanted to see her, so he strained his eyes to find her. Wasn’t that her hand there? The hem of her dress just below there? Wasn’t that the flow of her hair above—no, just behind the shirtless man? Had she been dancing with him? Why was he smiling so? And, why did she seem familiar? Had they met before? Did he know her?

Cristoforo wished to find her, so he might ask if they had met before. He suddenly wished to ask her many questions—to discover all her secrets. Maybe they could be friends. In his position, he needed new friends, so he thought to introduce himself, but just as he looked for her face, she disappeared without a trace. He could no longer even hear her giggle, no matter how hard he tried. Who was that girl? And, why was she was the only one here—in a roomful of men?

Distracted by this swirl of sights, sounds, and thoughts, Cristoforo had not noticed the man who was staring at him the most, the one who made no apologizes for his staring. The other men would, at least every now and again, look away or blink, but not this one. His stare was hard, constant, and eerily accented by the inner third of his eyebrows, which were silver while the rest of them was black. He had not seen him, but as he noticed him now, a chill flowed out from his soul and ran over his skin. “Where am I? What kind of men are these? What kind of place is this?”

His face took on a look of fearful concern, but the staring man remained unmoved. Cristoforo could not help but notice him now. The attention he received from his eyes was so strong Cristoforo could almost feel it pushing against his body—no, not pushing—pulling. He could almost feel his body being pulled in by the man’s unyielding attention.

Cristoforo tired to look away, but he could not. He strained to notice something, or someone, else, but he could not. He tried to blind himself by looking directly into the broken ball of light above, but the more he tried to look away, the more he noticed this man’s attention. This made the man’s face seem larger and closer with each next passing second until it was all Cristoforo saw—that and his silvery accented hard staring eyes.

Reflexively, Cristoforo’s eyes took on a look of fear as his hands began to shake. Had the eyes moved just a step closer?

 

Check back for the next episode soon! Click here for episode 1.

Leave your email above or use the RSS feed to know when it’s ready for reading.

“Flakes” © MJ Isola

 

Check out MJ’s other stories on his Amazon Author page. Support “Flakes,” please buy a story today!

[image error]

You can help keep “Flakes” going by reading the “Inky Flesh” rainbow, for style, story, & steam. Buy a story today!

Thanks for the robust response to episode 1 of “Flakes.” Readers from South Carolina to South Korea are finding “Flakes” and enjoying it. With the semester ending, I will post episodes more quickly and often. I just want to get the style right, and I look forward to your comments. Read it now before having to pay for it as a published book.

[image error]

As I have said, this will be our little web secret. “Flakes” will only be available through this web site. I will do some publicity at the start, but after that, I will just focus on writing and posting episodes. Meanwhile, thanks for reading, please share the “Flakes” link with friends. Meanwhile, read episode 1 again!

 

Leave your email above or use the RSS feed to know when the next episode is ready for reading.

“Flakes” © MJ Isola

[image error]

Check out MJ’s other stories on his Amazon Author page.

[image error]

Help keep “Flakes” going by reading the “Inky Flesh” rainbow, for style, story, & steam. Buy a story today!

“It’s starting to snow!” And, it starts with episode 1 of “Flakes.” Here, we met a young man, with very floppy hair, who finds himself lost and wandering through a snowstorm–without friends or even a memory! What will happen to young Cristoforo? And, why, despite his loss of memory, is he still afraid? “Flakes” is a bl/yaoi inspired novel.

[image error]

“Flakes” is fully drafted, meaning it is already written. There are at least 15 episodes. As I tweak the story’s style, I will be posting “Flakes” here as a free read episode by episode, and once a new one is posted, the previous episode will link to it.

Readers are very welcome to read and offer helpful edits and comments as the story takes on its final polish and shine. It all begins here, so please be sure to share and post with friends that might have interest, for “It’s starting to snow!” Here is the debut episode:

Flakes, episode 1

“It’s starting to snow!” A floppy-haired, young man noticed with surprise. It was like he was seeing snow for the first time. He looked for somewhere to take shelter, but the city street appeared to be empty and quiet. Its dark storefronts were shuttered up, and there were closed signs in every entryway window. Was it evening already? Pushing the locks of hair hanging over his eyes to the side, he looked around, so he might ask the time, but there was no one else on the street. It was deserted. By this time of night, much less on a stormy one, all the decent, hardworking folk were already home with their families close, their curtains drawn, and their kettles on. Nothing moved anywhere on the street, except for the snow falling steadily and silently through the air and the young man, whose head appeared to hang lower with each next step. The length of his hair swung through the air before him as he walked.

The sky glowed over the street with a twilight hue that was brighter than the dark silhouettes of the buildings that lined each side of the street. Their dark tops towered over the street, and the dusky glow behind them was not bright enough to illuminate the street. Whether this illumination meant the approach of evening or dawn, the young man was not exactly sure which. He felt fairly certain it was the end of the day, but then again, he could not be sure, for he was uncertain about everything right now, except his own name. He said it aloud to reassure himself that he still existed. He half worried he was more a phantasm of the snow than an actual person: “Cristoforo! My name is Cristoforo!”

Gathering his arms before his chest and hunching further over, his slight body shook violently with a chill as the snow continued falling around him. It quickly began accumulating where several inches already lay like a thick blanket over storefront awnings, the sidewalk, and the paved area for cars in between. This blanket bunched up before his feet as he slid more than stepped forward through the street. “My mind is like this snow. Blank.”

He wondered when he had first realized he had no memory. Did that happen just minutes or was that hours ago? He could not even remember this. Either way, his feet were already cold. So was the rest of him, for he was not even wearing a jacket, and he could not remember why, where it was now, or if he even owned one—ever. “The only thing I remember is my name.”

He worried that he might never know anything more about himself again. He wondered what it would be like to be forced to create a new life. Could someone really start over with no memory of who they were or the things they had done? He thought this would be quite convenient if someone had done bad things in their past, and it would be especially so if someone had discovered something bad about themselves. For this kind of person, his situation might not be so bad then. Either way, this might be a fresh, new start, but a fresh start from what—who was he and where was he before this moment, this street, and this storm?

Perhaps, he thought, he should consider himself lucky. For while he could not remember anything, he remembered being afraid, very afraid, and quite recently. He did not have to remember why, for the echo of fear’s shivers still rippled over his skin. And, he felt this fear in his mind. He still felt it in his very soul. Since he was still afraid, he figured that whatever had frightened him must have been very scary. This made him suddenly glad to be wandering aimlessly through the empty, snowy streets for whatever lay ahead could not be any more frightening than what he had already experienced. So, maybe, this was his chance to begin again, but he still worried about everything—and everyone—he might be leaving behind: “Without a memory, I am just like one of these snowflakes.”

He reached for a snowflake that was floating just before his face, but as he reached for it, the breeze caught it, swirled it over and under his hand, and within moments, it disappeared in the wake of snowflakes falling all around him. “Like that snowflake, I have disappeared in this storm.”

As if to prove its disregard for his predicament, the winds slapped a wall of snow against his body. He raised his hand before his face to protect it from the hard snow pelting his face. This made it very difficult to see the street directly before him, which was already lost beneath the snow. “My past is as blank as this snow-covered street.”

Shielding his eyes, he strained to see the stretch of pavement that lay, at one time, before his feet: “These streets are strange to me, so I will need to see where I am going, if I am to get anywhere at all.” Recoiling before a particularly strong gust, Cristoforo held both his hands before his face. “I am freezing, and the storm is getting worse by the moment.”

As the wind continued to blow, he began having trouble walking against it. His body leaned backward as he fought to move it forward. “I can hardly walk.” Another gust of wind threatened to push him off his feet: “I can barely sand up straight.” The next gust was too much, and with its force, he fell backwards onto the snowy street.

He lay there stunned for several seconds. At first, he enjoyed the sudden silence and the unexpected escape from the storm. He could hear it all around him, and he could see the winds forcefully blowing sheets of snow above him, but from down here, he could only see and hear it. He could not feel it. This unexpected reprieve from the storm’s force made him gleeful, and he stretched out his arms and legs. He fluttered them like wings through the snow, and he laughed until he noticed something warm and wet beneath his right hand.

Through the whirling dervish of snow, nothing could be seen, but then in the wake of a strong gust, the air above him momentarily stilled. Within this small window, the snow fell more slowly while the details of the street became suddenly visible through the storm. The street remained empty: a nearby street lamp glowed, several cars slept beneath mounds of snow, as did several trashcans and newsstand, and there in the center of the street lay the outlines of a perfectly formed snow angel. Apparently, this angel had hurt its right wing, for there along the outer edge of its wingspan was a warm, wet trail where the pure white snow had been dyed blood red.

Sensing there was something wrong, Cristoforo pulled his hand before his face. His face contorted with a sickened expression as he looked at it. It was wet with blood: “Oh, I hate the sight of . . . ” And, before a single drop of blood could fall on his face, he passed out.

After the sounds of his protest and the muffled thud of his arm falling back upon the snow faded, the street once again became silent and still. Within moments, as it had everywhere and with everything else, the snow began collecting on the unconscious body, which was now truly at-risk of disappearing in the storm, possibly to be collected by the cold, hard, steel blades of the city’s massive and unforgiving street plows, which had just been started on the edge of the city. Tall broad-shouldered men with rough voices and rougher hands were gathering there now to begin liberating the city from the snowfall, which once again swirled over and under itself obliterating the entire street behind a wall of pure white.

A slender hand emerged from the swirling wall of snow. Its thin, long fingers reached first for the pockets of the unconscious body, but as the young man sniffed or snorted slightly in his deep snooze, the hand moved and began reaching for his neck!

The long fingers grabbed the unconscious boy’s shirt collar. This prompted him to wake up. His eyes and mouth popped open with shock, surprise, and fear. “Leave me alone! I’m hurt. I don’t know you! I don’t remember anything!”

The hand pulled Cristoforo to his feet, where he found himself face to face with what he would have thought was a snowy mirage, if not for the physical reality and reminder of the fist holding tightly onto his collar. Within moments, this hand moved to his shoulder and another hand appeared to already be holding his other shoulder. They stood face to face. Cristoforo stood looking fearsomely toward the taller figure standing directly before him, whom, for a moment, he mistook for a girl. This figure was tall yet narrow with angular features, almond shaped eyes, long eyelashes, and even longer hair that may have flowed out behind him with each next gust of wind. There was so much to look at and take in Cristoforo could not tell if this was her—or rather—his hair or just more swirls of snow, for everything around this figure seemed to be moving and flowing. So, too, was Cristoforo’s head, for having stood too quickly, he was now quite dizzy. He no sooner realized this before his knees began buckling, and he was soon falling backwards once again.

The tall figure looked curiously then concernedly at Cristoforo. “My name is Angelo. I will help you. I will not hurt you.” He then grabbed Cristoforo’s bleeding hand to look at it. Cristoforo winced in pain as his hand was raised. A drop of blood fell from the fingers and stained the snow beneath as Angelo held it up. “You’re bleeding.”

Looking at his own hand, Cristoforo’s already buckling knees gave way, and he began collapsing into the outline of the snow angel he had made. Grabbing him harder by the shoulders, Angelo held him up as Cristoforo fainted.

Angelo caught Cristoforo in his long, outstretched arms with the hint of a smile upon his face: “You can barely stand on your own. Let’s get you out of this storm.” He had no sooner said this before he picked Cristoforo up and laid him over his shoulder. Settling the weight on his shoulder, he then turned and disappeared, carrying Cristoforo directly into the storm.

Check back for the next episode soon! Leave your email addy above or use the RSS feed to know when it’s ready for reading.

“Flakes” © MJ Isola

[image error]

Check out MJ’s other stories on his Amazon Author page. 

[image error]

Read the “Inky Flesh” rainbow, for style, story, & steam.

 

Check back here to start reading “Flakes” ©, a BL/yaoi inspired romance novel. It will be posted episode by episode, and once a new one is posted, the previous episode will link to it. Readers will be welcome to read and offer helpful edits and comments as the story takes on its final polish and shine. It all begins with this book cover–check back for episode one soon. And, please be sure to share and post with friends that might have interest.

[image error]