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Does murder follow Tom and Stanley around, or do they follow the murders?
After a hospital stay, Stanley is invited by Father Brighton to convalesce at St. Marywood, an isolated monastery on the ocean cliffs of Big Sur. Upon arrival, Stanley finds Father Brighton dead. The order’s doctor writes it up as a death by natural causes, but those seem to be quite prevalent at the monastery. The recent demise of a young brother who fell from the cliffs is described as an accident, but Stanley’s nose is twitching. Plus the order’s finances have taken a sudden, mysterious turn for the better. Is something rotten at St. Marywood?
Stanley and Tom can’t resist digging around even if it means testing their tumultuous relationship against a gaggle of handsome, young, virginal, and—they are told—gay men.
What had happened to her own daughter? Where had this child come from, the mother wondered. Who was she? Why did she sit for hours staring at her baby brother, contemplating...who knew what?
It was enough to drive you mad...especially, if you had a history of madness. But the doctors had assured her that was all behind her, a thing of the past...
A short story.
Two great flash pieces from Victor J. Banis in one volume!
A Lovely Leave: If love is ever-enduring, can it matter much if the face changes? The heart sees differently from the eyes.
Over the Rainbow: Youthful adventures and emerald cities and friends wearing tin - it's all great fun, but sometimes what is over the rainbow is just...real life. And maybe that's where the adventure really begins. (Flash Fiction)
No ties. No button-down shirts. Jeans and t-shirts. Sweat and dirt. These are combinations that can bring a man to his knees, or can it?
This story is part of the HARD Working Men Anthology. (18p)
Is love a constant? Familiar, ever there, ever recognizable? Or is it like the pictures in the clouds, ever changing. A flower one moment, and the next, morphing into something else, a face perhaps, or maybe just a fluff of clouds? Drifting away, so subtly, so slowly, that you can't even say exactly when it stopped being what it was. A short story.