Under the Bunk:
Kind of like getting down on your knees to... uh... to look for something under the bed, you can't be sure what you'll find here amongst the dust bunnies. A broader range of stories which may contain some sex and possibly strong language. Stories here may be romantic, humorous, full of drama and angst, or of the ever-popular hurt/comfort variety. Let's say it's an assortment of stories that don't quite fit the other categories. R-rated for content and language.
We're excited to announce that we've reserved some room on this page for one of NanM's new stories. Still a long work in progress, it may be a while before it's ready to post, but we know it'll be well worth your wait.
Nan says it's a little different from her other stories, so just to whet your appetite, here's a sneak preview of the opening paragraphs:
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It felt wrong, yet so right.
Johnny skimmed his fingertips over the sleek barrel of the rifle with the same tenderness he would caress the glistening skin of a woman, lying naked in his arms after a long night of lovemaking. To a man who wanted nothing to do with guns, it felt surprisingly natural to draw his hand along the full length of the cold steel shaft of the old Winchester. Like the intimate touch of a long-lost lover, the weapon aroused feelings he thought had been put to rest months ago.
His purpose for being here with the gun was as clouded in his mind as the overcast sky above. But, even as a child, Johnny had followed his impulses wherever they led, and he had found no compelling reason today to make an exception. In truth though, he felt at odds with the disturbing impulse that led him to hold in his hands a tool of violence and destruction, and reverently equate the feeling with an act of sexual foreplay. Under the circumstances, he imagined that was as far out of character as he could ever be. The symbolism of the fine line he was treading was lost on him.
Johnny slowly raised the rifle to his eye, and curled his finger around the familiar trigger. It had been a rite-of-passage gift, handed down from father to son, as it had been for several generations, to mark the day the son became a man in his father's eyes. The years that followed had taught him that owning a hunting rifle made him no more of a man at the age of twelve, than downing a shoplifted bottle of cheap bourbon with his friends at thirteen, or losing his virginity in the back seat of a car at fourteen. He'd long since learned that age alone doesn't make a man. Life does that. And, on this day, his twenty-fourth birthday, no one knew that better than John Gage.
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