by Anthology
"Are you sure you're okay?"
Doug hesitated.
"Doug?"
"Sorry." Brody was surprised when Doug apologised and actually sounded like he meant it. "It's been a long week."
"I guess you're busy with the new tractor units. How do they look?"
"Good. I'm really pleased. I think Dad will be, too. He and Mom should be heading back in a couple of days," Doug said. "So, what did you want to talk about?" His tone was slightly impatient.
"I just want you to listen for a moment, okay? Can you do that for me?" Brody nervously rubbed his thigh as he waited for Doug to answer.
"Okay," he said flatly.
Brody let out the breath he had been holding. This was a good start. "You know I love you, Jodie and the kids, Mom, and Dad. And I would do anything for you guys if you needed me to. I just… I respect you working for Dad, becoming a husband, and having a family. Those were your choices and I am proud to call you my brother, but now I need you to do the same for me. You don't have to like it, but I want you to accept these are my choices to make." He paused and took a steadying breath. "I'm gay, Doug. And I can't change that. It's who I am." He could feel his mouth going dry. He was nearly there. "It's taken me some time, but I've come to accept it. So, I just want to say, I hope one day you'll be able to accept it, too."
Brody closed his eyes and sat back on the couch. Douglas wasn't saying anything. "I'm going to stay in England for a while longer. I've started writing again and I need to see if I can do it, for real." It felt so good to be able to say those things. "It's something I need to do. I need to… I need to do it for myself." He stopped and opened his eyes. "It's who I am."
The next few moments were filled with silence, and then finally Doug said something. "Is that everything?" His tone was emotionless and Brody didn't know what to expect next.
"Yes."
"Wow, was it something they put in the tea over there?"
Brody raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"You fly three thousand miles to grow a pair in England?" Doug's voice held a slight laugh and Brody was suddenly confused. "Thank you, Brody," Doug said. "For finally being honest with me. For being honest with yourself."
"Doug?"
"I get it, Brody. But it's good you finally know what you want. I'm happy for you."
Brody was surprised. "All this time, I thought you really hated me."
Doug laughed. "No, Brody. I just found your lack of direction frustrating. Look, I have to go. Lukas and Caitlin send their Uncle Brody a big hug. I'll let you know when Mom and Dad are home. I think you should talk to them, too. They love you. We all do. You know that, right?"
Relieved, Brody slid down lower on the couch. All this time. "Thank you," he said.
"We'll speak soon. The kids want to take Pixie to the park." Brody bit back a laugh. He'd always thought it was a silly name for the large German shepherd. "Take care." The call ended.
Brody lowered his cell. Things had gone better than he could have ever hoped. With a sigh, he rolled his head to the side and stared at the kitchen door. He pressed his mouth in a line as he found Jude standing in the doorway. "How long have you been there?"
Jude shrugged and stepped into the room. "Long enough."
Brody watched as Jude came to sit on the couch beside him. He pursed his lips, as he eyed Jude's camera in his hands. "What's that for?"
"Can I show you something?" Jude said as he lifted his legs and curled them under him on the couch.
Curious, Brody nodded. "Sure."
Jude leaned in close and held the camera between them so Brody could see the screen. On it, there was an image of Brody sitting on the couch at the cottage. Gradually, Jude zoomed in, and Brody was surprised to see it was taken only moments ago. "Do you see?"
Brody looked at his picture. It was strange how the image felt so different than all the other shots Jude had showed him. He narrowed his eyes, and examined the photo as Jude continued to zoom in until his face filled the frame.
He looked at himself. Lines creased the corners of his bright eyes and a smile spread across his face. He looked happy and the baggage he had carried around with him for the last five months, and even before then, no longer weighed him down. He looked free. "I think maybe I do." Carefully, he took the camera from Jude, leaned forward, and slid it onto the coffee table. "Thank you," he said and held Jude's hands in his.
"I didn't do anything. I stood in the kitchen and hovered a bit." He laughed. "You did it all by yourself."
"Maybe, but you're the reason I did it."
Jude shook his head. "You'd have got there on your own eventually."
Brody wasn't so sure. Jude had been the push he'd needed. "So, I decided to start writing again." Something else he should thank Jude for. "It's a short poem, but I'd rather be writing short pieces, or anything, than nothing at all." He had missed writing.
When he was younger, it had been a way to vent and clear his head. After coming out, he just couldn't find the words and instead of feeling better, it just made everything hurt a little bit more. Jude had cleared the way for him, and now, though slowly, the words were flowing again.
"I'm sure it's great."
"It's no sonnet."
Jude grinned. "You're staying here for a while, right? Maybe you could show it to me one day."
One day? As in, in the future? He looked at Jude and gently squeezed his hands. "I'd like that." He leaned forward, pressing his mouth to Jude's in a series of short, pecked kisses, before pulling him into a hug. Warmth radiated inside Brody as Jude hugged him back. "I'd like to see you again." He breathed in deeply. The way his aftershave smelled on Jude was familiar and yet remained uniquely Jude—comforting, strong, and a little bit exciting.
"Me, too." Brody could hear the smile in Jude's voice. "How about Monday night?" Jude suggested as Brody released him from the hug. His eyes were bright and hopeful as he looked at Brody.
"Really?"
"Well, I'd say tomorrow, but Mum's doing a Sunday roast and I think it's a bit too soon to invite you over to meet my parents." He laughed. "Besides, I'm better in small doses."
"I wouldn't say that," Brody said. What would he do by himself?
Jude laughed again. "We'll see. I give it a week." He kissed Brody. "So, grab your coat. We have a birthday party to go to."
"What?"
"Seriously? And you call yourself a fan," Jude teased as he got to his feet.
Brody looked up at Jude. He was confused. Had he missed something?
"It's the weekend before the twenty-third. Of April." Jude looked at Brody with a smirk on his face. "Shakespeare's birthday."
Crap, he'd completely forgotten with everything else going on. Each year, near Shakespeare's birthday, the town held a festival in celebration. He had seen the images online—an eclectic collection of people, costumes, colours, and activities. The event looked absolutely stunning.
"Do you want to come with me? You can be my date." Jude laughed as he collected his jacket from the bottom of the stairs.
Jude had said date. Brody got to his feet and walked up behind Jude, wrapping his arms around his waist and holding him tight. "I'd love to," he said and rested his chin on Jude's shoulder.
He smiled as he held onto Jude and kissed his cheek. He felt blessed and also a little bit in love. Jude leaned back against him and Brody enjoyed the warmth of their embrace. Kissing Jude again, he was reminded of a quote. A heart to love, and in that heart courage to make's love known.
The End
About the Author
Meredith Russell lives in the heart of England. An avid fan of many story genres, she enjoys nothing less than a happy ending. She believes in heroes and romance and strives to reflect this in her writing. Sharing her imagination and passion for stories and characters is a dream Meredith is excited to turn into reality.
Website:
http://www.meredithrussell.co.uk
Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/meredithrus
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Email:
[email protected]
Also by Meredith Russell
Available from Silver Publishing
Dead Things
Sex and Cocktails
Silver Shorts 2012, Week 15
"William's Heart" in Hearts of England
with RJ Scott
The Art of Words
Reviews for THE ART OF WORDS say:
"Anyone who likes vulnerable male characters (as I do) should like this book. Blu is a fascinating character. You just want to give him a reassuring hug, ruffle his hair, and take him to McDonald's (ok…just kidding about Micky D's. He isn't that childlike. He doesn't need McNuggets….just some confidence, served in abundance, please!!) He really doesn't believe in himself. He's a neurotic bundle of nerves in the beginning but by the end of the story the reader will be smiling with him.
The writers actually had me teary eyed at one point. And when a book hits me on an emotional level like that I usually rate high. They deserve it. The writing was crisp, clean, and realistic. The story wasn't bogged down with a lot of conflict, which I appreciate since it was a relatively short read. Blu's problem with self-esteem and his shameful secret was enough to keep the story flowing.
I definitely recommend this book to anyone who likes m/m romance.
And I definitely would read another book by this writing pair."
—5 of 5 stars, Hearts On Fire Reviews
*
"Ms Scott and Ms Russell show the depth of both Blu and Tom's insecurities without emasculating either character. Both Tom and Blu have inner strengths that can at times hinder each other but also help each other, thus allowing each of them to grow. It is this balance that they must find in order to make both the professional and more importantly, the personal relationship work. This reviewer believes that the balance is there and a HEA is most definitely in order. The reader will not be disappointed when reading The Art of Words."
—5 of 5 stars, Dark Diva Reviews
The Cameraman's Tale
Mark is a researcher for a paranormal reality TV show. A cameraman on the show encountered a ghost and needs his help. Mark must break the cycle of injury and death before filming begins, or others will be at risk.
Featuring Mark and Jack from the story: The Psychic's Tale.
The Cameraman's Tale
Chris Quinton
Dedication
As always, thanks to the Usual Suspects.
You make writing even more of a pleasure.
Chapter One
"I want the girl in the road," Dominic Waldron insisted, slapping the relevant file in the centre of the table. "Fuck it, who's running this bloody show anyway?"
Mark pushed up his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He wanted to say Goldstream Media, but since Dominic owned at least half of the production company and was the executive producer for his own show, it wouldn't carry much weight. Besides, Mark preferred to keep a low profile around the man. Next to him, his fellow researcher swore under her breath.
"The headless woman has more impact," Jerry Kent said persuasively. Head of Research—and Mark's immediate boss—he also had a good eye for visuals and what the TV-viewing public liked. At least, the preferences of those who avidly watched The Dominic Waldron Experience. "It'd be perfect for the opening show—mysterious inn, hidden cellar, reconstructions with Royalists and Roundheads, the woman in a tight bodice..."
Across the table, Trevor Johnson, the special effects expert, nodded enthusiastically. "We could have cannons, muskets, and pikes, plus the torture chamber in the cellar. The road girl would only have screams and mists and a crashed car."
"There's more in-depth material on the headless woman," Jerry added quickly. Dominic's scowl darkened and Jerry indicated a thick file pushed to one side. "We've put together that much from online research alone. Once Heather gets going on the libraries and Mark chats with locals, there'll be a lot more to play with. And there's a five-star hotel only six miles away. The road girl is out in the back of beyond."
Mark doodled on his notepad, writing his name, then Jack's, and framing the Mark Renfrew and Jack Faulkner in a circle of vine leaves—until he realised the circle looked more like a heart. He scribbled over it, flushing, and tuned back in on the arguments. Being openly gay was one thing, being a soppy romantic was another thing entirely.
The planning conference for the TV show's new season was not going well. As usual. Every year the same things happened, only the details changed. The sole reason Dominic wanted to build a show around the road girl was it would require the poor bitch to run half-naked in a flimsy nightgown from the trees by the side of the road and into the path of an oncoming car, her clothing torn by branches and hanging off her heaving breasts. And knowing Dominic, he'd demand take after take until cast and crew were ready to drop from exhaustion, while he sat in his director's chair with a hard-on.
It was a mystery to Mark why no one had punched the man. Or sued him.
"Road girl." Dominic folded his arms over his broad chest and glared around the pre-production crew.
The pose was impressive. Mark had to give him that. Dominic, his chiselled jaw set in determination, brilliant blue eyes glittering with the fire of his resolve, and artfully styled leonine mane of white hair carefully tousled for maximum effect, was the ultimate Silver Fox with a more than slight resemblance to one George Clooney. His string of conquests was legendary, and few men could turn on the charm with such success. Unfortunately, the Waldron Dazzle Effect soon wore away, as his five failed marriages and rapidly replaced mistresses testified. Mark knew the man was in his early sixties. Thanks to good genes and judicious use of Botox, he looked nearer forty.
"Okay," Jason Armitage said, "here's what I've decided." As producer, he usually endorsed Dominic's choices and this was no exception. "Our six shows for this season will be the road girl, the gibbet at the crossroads, the hand in the wall, the black dog, the haunted bridge, and we'll close on a dramatic high with the headless woman. We'll hold over the phantom bells until next season, along with the shipwreck. I'd like at least one water-themed show then. Jerry, get your team working. I want the first breakdown on the road girl by the end of the month, and the rest four weeks after that. Joanna, start looking to cast our girl, the villain of the piece, and at least two car drivers, maybe passengers. Harry, we'll also need a couple of cars we can crash, and a coach and horses. But keep an eye on the budget. The headless woman is going to be more expensive. Don't forget, folks. Shooting will start on the first of May as usual."
Mark and Heather scurried to escape with the first exodus from the conference room and dived into their cramped office before Jerry could grab them.
"Kev is going to kill me," Heather exclaimed, collapsing into her chair. "I wish I'd never mentioned the bloody ghost to Jerry! It was only a rough premise and I didn't think he'd put it forward in a million years!"
"He knows Dominic," Mark pointed out, "and other than the headless woman, there isn't much in the way of boobs in any of the other stories. At least, not before the scriptwriters get hold of them."
"I know." She heaved a sigh. "Thing is, Kev half-believes she's for real. After all, he virtually grew up in the Neston area, and his Gran was full of the old tales."
"But why would Kevin be angry with you? I mean, if the story's in a book somewhere, then it's in the public domain."
"Well, because he sort of saw something," Heather answered, her expression guilty. "Oh, he was only a kid at the time, but it scared him rigid. He and his parents nearly died, and he had nightmares for ages he said. That's all I know. He doesn't like talking about it."
"Ours is the wrong kind of TV show for him to be working on then," Mark said wryly. "The Dominic Waldron Experience—the Paranormal Brought to Life!" he intoned in a passable imitation of the show's opening voiceover.
Heather giggled. "I think he'd be more worried if any of the fancy gizmos the show uses actually worked."
>
"Some do," Mark reminded her. "The EMF meters, the thermometers. And orbs have been seen on photos and vids."
"Dust motes and photoshopping. No one saw them with the naked eye."
Mark didn't tell her it wasn't all dust and computer skills. He'd seen orbs and far more. He was firmly in the closet as far as his psychic abilities were concerned. "Don't tell me you're not a believer!" he gasped, mock-horrified. "Blasphemy, woman!"
"You bet I'm not. I've only been with the show for a year, but don't try to kid me Domiprick believes a word of it either. He just saw a niche and grabbed it by the throat with both hands. He's about as psychic as a box of rocks!"
Mark smiled and didn't mention how rocks, bricks, and mortar—simple everyday possessions—could hold impressions, echoes of distant memories some could read.
Heather scowled at him and launched into her favourite rant. "If the UK didn't have more ghost stories and legends per square inch than any other country on the planet, he'd've run out of ideas after the first season! And," she continued, her pretty face flushed, "don't forget I've seen all the backroom tricks of the trade. Not to mention what you and I can't find, he gets the scriptwriters to invent."
"Kevin knows the tricks as well. Will he really be annoyed?"
Heather nodded. "He got the mickey taken out of him a lot when he was a kid and still stupid enough to tell people what he'd seen. But I'm sure he'll be okay as long as his name doesn't get dragged into it. When I told Jerry, I said I'd found it in an old library book—which I had, after Kev told me."
"He's off the radar then. Do you want me to take on the groundwork and local newspapers' archives while you concentrate on the libraries?"
"Yes, please!" She snatched up his offer enthusiastically. "That way I can keep a bit of distance, and Kev will appreciate it as well. Thanks, Mark, I owe you one."
