Wilde Oats is an online literary magazine. It celebrates gay and bisexual fiction. It embraces the joys and agonies of life for gay and bisexual men, from hard gritty realism to wild flights of romantic fantasy.

Wilde Oats has gone through some big changes in recent months: we have moved to a new server and changed our appearance. The journal is published three times a year - in April, August and December. Between issues, you can find out what's happening, read snippets of new stories, see new artwork, and keep up to date by visiting us here.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

Finding The Other Spirit

Finding The Other Spirit is a fascinating tale by Christopher Wagoner.  It fits right in with the theme of issue nine of Wilde Oats, frontiers, but it's a frontier of a different kind.

I glance over to the woman with the steno pad. Her short-cropped, graying hair makes her look rugged. Her face looks like it's seen its fair share of wind and rain. She's wearing green checkered flannel over a light sweater. Maybe she's an outdoor writer, used to how quickly Montana nights can steal your warmth if you aren't prepared. She's no longer scribbling on her pad. Instead she seems to have taken an unusual interest in the man under the cowboy hat.
My eyes skirt over to what seems to have piqued her interest. The man slouches back, his salt and pepper goatee tucked down tight against his adam's apple. The brim of his weathered hat dips to just below his eyebrows, hiding half his face. There's a stub of a Marlboro dangling between a pair of cracked lips. He's wearing one of those duster coats which hangs down the legs of his bar stool.
I can see the calluses of his hands from across the bar. His left thumb flicks the lid off his brass Zippo, igniting it in one smooth, practiced motion. He snaps it shut, killing the flame, only to repeat the motion a few seconds later. Each time the wick flares, the shadow masking his face recedes for a second, just enough to give a tantalizing glimpse. His features are a peculiar mix of Native and European blood.
It's hard to tell from his face alone how old he is. Past the goatee and hint of stubble, his cheeks look creased but not wrinkled. It's the look of constant windburn. He can't be much older than me. Middle thirties at most. I can tell by the glint in his eyes. Focused. Ravenous. Their amber irises flicker within the shadow mask like the flame of the Zippo they pretend to concentrate on.

Source : Wikipedia Commons

No comments:

Post a Comment