I have decided to rewrite what I have so far of The Waterfall. I am reducing Patty’s role in the series and will focus more on Fred and Murray’s teenage/college years. I will try to make more storylines about Justin, Kevin, Bianca, Alex, and James.
The Waterfall as is will still be available for a bit, but then, I have to take it all down and replace the chapters.
Thank you for understanding!
-Matt
Mason and Eric will be postponed. I will come up with an alternative, most likely a short story, that will premiere on December 23rd.
My Apologies!
ARRRRRRGH, MATEYS!!!!! I be Four-Eyes the Fabulous, and this be my color-changing pumpkin friend, Jack O’Lantern! We be takin’ over this here website!
Just kidding! It’s me, Matt! Happy Halloween, readers!
If I’m being honest, I didn’t used to like Halloween (sensory overload), but I’ve grown to it. I just have to avoid anything that would cause me to freak out, shut down, or have nightmares. But I’m getting better! In fact, I am even watching the 1978 John Carpenter classic slasher: “Halloween!”
The Vikings of Vancouver: More TVOV coming underway! I will only post a few more comics on WordPress, before shifting distribution exclusively to Webtoon and Tapas. Most likely, I will stop posting TVOV on here after the New Year.
Parker and Luca: I am getting started on Parker and Luca comics right now. I will try to create a character sheet for them as well.
Matt (Comic): I will be starting work on this comic soon.
Mason and Eric: I am one of those people who tries not to get all “Christmassy” (or “Winter Holiday-y” overall) until the Saturday after American Thanksgiving, but what the heck! I’ll announce this year’s Christmas Special! The 2021 Christmas Special is: “Mason and Eric!” More information to be coming next week. [Postponed, not canceled]
The Waterfall: Don’t worry! I haven’t forgotten about The Waterfall. Updates will resume sometime in December.
Tales of Human Nature Serial Killer: Coming May 2022!
Blurred Lines: Well, the story is coming along now, and will be updated as much as I can through November.
Max Fields #1: Coming February 2022!
Blue City Mysteries: I am in the process of writing stories for the series right now, but I’m still trying to figure out the characters, plotlines, and each individual story. I have some of my fictional version of Lakewood, Washington built up right now, but it’s not complete yet.
Also, I am not trying to put Lakewood in a negative light. I just wanted to set the series somewhere that is a) A diverse, medium-sized suburbia in the Pacific Northwest and b) close and near to my heart. I love that city. I lived there for a few years as a young kid, I have family and friends there, and I have a lot of memories there.
Voldensfjordian Murders: If you follow my work on “Chapters” I am so sorry I haven’t updated “A Voldensfjordian Murder” or its sequels and spin-off in a while! I am trying to get back on track, but it’ll be easier when I’m out of school for Winter Break.
If you haven’t seen them, please be sure to check them out!
Other Works: I have so many ideas in my mind, I can’t keep track of them! But I will be sure to keep you updated, and whenever I start truly working on a new project, you, dear readers, will be the first to know!
Personal: I am doing well in the Geosciences Major, and can’t wait for my winter quarter Screenwriting Class. I am also doing better, mentally, now that I am doing in-person classes. I am excited for what comes next for me in college, on this website, and in life! Also, my brother turned 15 years old TODAY! A Halloween birthday, how about that?!
P.S. Yes, those are real earrings. My Ears have been pierced since February of 2019, and earrings are one of my weird, random interests. The strange part, though? I’m not a fan of piercings elsewhere. Just ears. Not sure why.
Bone-us: Here’s a picture of my dog, Pizza, in 2019, dressed in his Halloween Costume.
(Hey, that rhymes!)
Evan Samuels drove his truck up the mountain. His breath was shaky, and he remained focused on the road ahead despite the fact that his brain was processing 2,000 thoughts per second.
He was dressed rather slovenly: torn jeans, one gray sock, one blue sock, five-year-old tennis shoes that were showing their age, a camo t-shirt, a flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped off, a beige double-breasted coat, and titanium tunnels stretching his earlobes to a centimeter.
His hands kept moving from the steering wheel to adjust his glasses, or change the radio, or brush his pink hair. He had no idea where he was going, but he didn’t care. He just needed to keep driving until he found a good place to stay for the night. But, of course, that might have to be the truck: it was snowing, it was eleven, and this was the middle of nowhere.
Suddenly, the truck started sputtering.
“No. Please not now.”
Luckily, there was a diner with a parking lot to pull into. The restaurant looked sketchy, though.
No way in hell in I’m going in there.
He steered into the parking, put on his gloves, got out of his truck, and fetched the toolbox out of the flatbed.
Popping open the hood, he set the toolbox down on the bumper and put his hands on his hips as he surveyed all the gizmos inside the truck.
“Oh, who am I kidding?” he said to himself. “I don’t know cars.”
“Apparently not,” someone said, “Because that’s a truck.”
Despite the cold, snowy weather around him, Evan started to sweat.
“G-God?” he eeked out.
“Nope. But I have been called an angel and a demon by numerous people.”
Evan slowly turned towards the man the voice belonged to.
He saw a very attractive man in front of him: golden hair, short stubble, a thick down jacket, worn jeans, steel-toed boots on snowshoes, and a small gold hoop in each ear.
“Just come into the diner, I’ll have someone look at it in the morning.”
Evan blinked. “Um… no?”
The man chuckled. “I guess that sounded a little creepy given the circumstances.”
“Yep.”
The man stuck out his hand.
“Jim. Jim Crumb.”
“Evan.”
“Evan what?”
“Nice try.”
The man laughed.
“What do you take me for, son? A backwoods gun nut? Just grab your tool box, and come into the diner.”
Evan realized that unless he wanted to freeze to death, he had no other choice. So he grabbed the toolbox and followed Jim into the diner. Before he went in, though, he finally read the sign: “Jim’s Diner.”
“This is your diner?” Evan asked.
“Yup. Has been since 1988.”
~*~
Inside the diner, Evan froze and blushed a deep red as five men and four women sitting at the tables looked at him.
“Who’s the fresh meat?” a large, beefy man grunted.
Evan yelped and tried to run out the door, but Jim caught him.
“Joe,” Jim hollered. “Shut up and eat your steak.”
Joe shook his head and turned back to his steak.
Joe had black hair and a thick black beard. He wore blue jeans, a flannel shirt, black work boots, and had some tattoos poking out onto his neck.
“Sit down, let me get you a menu,” said Jim before disappearing into the kitchen.
Evan gulped. He had no idea who any of these people were, and there was no place in this small, roadside diner where he wouldn’t be less than a yard away from one of them.
“What are you afraid of, boy? Sit!” a short-haired brunette woman rumbled.
Evan took a deep breath, sliding into the nearest booth.
After what felt like hours, Jim finally came out with a menu for Evan: four pages of assorted breakfast foods and hearty burgers.
Another man came out of the kitchen.
“All right Jim,” the man said. “Where did you find this one?”
“His pickup broke down outside the diner.”
The man looked at Evan with a serious glare, scanning him up and down. Evan blushed even more now. Where the hell was he?!
“All right, Aaron,” said Jim. “You’ll have time to grill him after introductions.”
“Fine,” said Aaron. “I’m Aaron Stevenson, Jim’s husband.”
Evan’s eyes widened. “H-Husband?”
“You got a problem with that, punk?”
“No! Please don’t hurt me!” Evan yelped as he put his arms in front as a defense.
“Aaron!” Jim snapped.
Jim turned back to Evan. “Sorry about that, he’s a bit hot-headed. And anyway, we’re not legally married, but we have a son together. We’ve been together, oh… what has it been, 19 years now?”
“Yep,” Aaron said, softening a little. “If that’s not common-law, I don’t know what is.”
Aaron was tall- probably 6’3”- and well-built. His short, red hair smoothly connected to his short beard, which rested above a heavily tattooed body wearing a grease-soaked red apron and white t-shirt, work boots, white socks, half-inch tunnels in each ear, and, sure enough, jeans, as well. In fact, everyone was wearing jeans, except for the woman who told Evan to sit down, who had on ski pants, and the teenage boy in the corner, who wore torn khakis.
“Actually,” said Evan, “knowing you guys are a couple makes me feel a little better. I’m gay, too.”
Jim smiled. “I had my suspicions, I’ll be honest.”
The other patrons started smiling, as well.
“Damn it, son,” the brunette from earlier said. “What are the odds you’d end up here?”
“He’s one of us,” her companion, a skinny redheaded woman, said.
“All right,” said Aaron. “What’s your name, new guy?”
“Evan Samuels.”
The teenager got up from his chair and slid into Evan’s booth. He held his hand out, giving Evan a flirty stare.
“Zeke Crumb-Stevenson,” he said.
“Hello,” said Evan, taking Zeke’s hand.
“This our son,” said Jim.
“Who always acts like he’s smarter than us,” said Aaron.
“He is smarter than you,” said the brunette woman.
“Well, he sure as hell doesn’t need to act like it!”
Zeke leaned in closer to Evan. “I graduated high school at 16,” he said.
“And you’re…” started Evan.
“Nineteen. Currently at the university for Meteorology.”
“That’s pretty cool. I got my bachelor’s in Geography.”
“Nice. How old are you?”
“22.”
“And he won’t buy beer for you,” Joe joked.
Zeke blushed. “Gross, no. I hate beer.”
“And just how do you know that?” Aaron questioned.
“All right, all right, maybe we should let Evan order already,” said Jim.
Everyone looked to Evan.
“I’ll need another minute,” he said.
Jim and Aaron walked back into the kitchen. Evan gazed over the menu. However, he felt eyes still on him. He looked up, and Zeke was still there.
Zeke was raven-haired, except for some green stripes, with a pink t-shirt, a white hoodie wrapped around his waist, red tennis shoes, and a lime green solitaire stud in each ear, as well as an industrial in his right.
“Hey,” said Zeke, grabbing Evan’s hand again. “Is that a tattoo I see?”
Zeke pushed Evan’s coat sleeve up to reveal part of an ivy-leaf vine tattoo going up his right arm.
“It’s pretty cool,” Zeke continued.
“Here,” said Evan, “I have some other ones too.”
Evan slid his coat off and rolled his shirt sleeves up to reveal numerous other examples of skin art.
“Impressive,” said the brunette woman, “but you should see Jill’s.”
The redheaded woman rolled her eyes before rolling up her jeans, showing off a blue viper going up her left leg.
“That’s pretty cool, Jill,” said Evan.
Jill was wearing a parka with snow boots, small gauges, and a backward ball cap.
“I’m sorry,” Evan said to the brunette woman, “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Maggie,” she responded.
Unlike Jill, Maggie kept her hair pretty short. She wore a blue fleece coat, snow boots, and small silver hoops. She also wore glasses with thick black rims, much like Evan’s.
Aaron and Jim came back out.
“Alright, kid,” said Jim. “See anything on the menu yet?”
Evan handed him the menu. “I’ll take the chicken fried steak and some orange juice.”
Aaron swiped the menu. “Good choice.”
He went back through the kitchen door, and Evan saw him through the service window as he took his place in front of the stove.
“So, kid…” said Joe. “What’s your story?”
“Well, I’m originally from Montana, just outside Missoula. My family’s very traditional, but I decided that I would come out to them before the millennium. Well, my dad’s brother had gotten him this beautiful truck for Christmas. I thought he would be in a good mood after that, but I was wrong. He kicked me out.”
“Wow. That’s rough, Evan,” said Zeke.
“Wait…” said Jim. “Didn’t you come here in a pickup truck?”
Everyone turned to Evan, whose face turned red with embarrassment.
“Well…” He started, “I’m not proud of this- I almost never do anything like this, and I don’t even have a record. But the way he reacted- I- I…” he picked the keys and twirled them on his finger. “I guess I just snapped.”
Jim sighed, putting his hand on Evan’s shoulder.
“Look, Evan,” he said. “We all do stuff we’re not proud of. I had a record back before I met Aaron. Believe me, if I hadn’t met him, I’d be in a very bad place right now.”
“Tell him how you met, dad,” said Zeke, using his foot to drag a chair over to the booth.
“All right,” Jim said, taking that seat. “It was 1980. I was at this gas station in Tukwila, filling my car, when this tall twig of an 18-year-old in church clothes jumped in my car. I yelled at him to get out, but he insisted that I drive him away. Turns out, he had just escaped from conversion therapy. I still wanted him out of my car, but he kept insisting, even offering to pay me. After a while, I finally broke down, and drove us both out of there. I was headed to Spokane, and he just wanted to get away from the ‘camp.’ But by the time we got to Leavenworth, we had grown on each other. So we stopped here-“
“And managed to rub off on each other,” said Aaron, placing Evan’s dinner on the table. “I got him to clean up his act, and he got me to loosen mine up. I mean, look at me,” he continued, gesturing to his ear gauges and tattoos, “do I look like a church kid anymore?”
“Evan,” said Joe, “stealing that truck was not a good decision, but you’re not alone. We all have stories. We’re all running away from something, whether it be trouble or homophobia.”
“Welcome to the Runaways, kid,” said Jill.
~*~
While everyone else was inside awaiting the advent of the 3rd Millenium, Evan joined Zeke outside on the porch of Jim and Aaron’s upstairs apartment.
“Hey,” Evan said. “What are you doing out here?”
“I just needed a break from the party.”
Evan nodded, looking back at the party.
“10! 9! 8!” everyone inside chanted.
Evan turned back to Zeke, who was acting rather shy right now.
“Hey,” said Evan taking a surprised Zeke’s hand.
They leaned closer.
They gave each other a kiss as the people inside cheered.
“Happy New Millenium, Zeke,” said Evan.
“Happy Y2K, car thief.”
Evan gave Zeke a playful punch on the shoulder.
“Hey, now, I just gave you a kiss.”
They chuckled as they reopened the sliding door, rejoining the party.
Evan never thought he would find a group like the Runaways. But these people, with their similarities and differences, managed to create a family for themselves. After Evan had been getting to know them for a while, he became of member of this family as well. And that’s what everyone needs, whether they be chosen or not: a family you can lean on.
Set your story in a roadside diner. (Prompt #1, Sept. 10th, 2021, Reedsy Weekly Prompts Contest)
The nine muses of Ancient Greece were the inspiration for the poetry prompt from Gage from the Instagram page @impromptuwriters: “Choose a muse and write a poem based on their domaine of inspiration. Be sure to start it off by invoking them!”
I decided to write haikus about each of the muses. After sending them in, he gave me some feedback, before posting some of my haikus on his page. I was pretty excited to be featured on another writer’s page, and I shared that excitement with some close friends and family members. Below, I have embedded the two posts I’m featured in, which together have seven of my haikus. I have also posted as the ones for Polyhymnia and Euterpe. Please enjoy, and be sure to check out Gage’s page for writing prompts and featured writers!
“Hello,” (Euterpe, Music)
Hello, Euterpe.
Help me sing my soul out loud.
Bless me with a song.
“Orpheus,” (Polyhymnia, Sacred Song)
Polyhymnia.
Your son, Orpheus, plays well.
He takes after you.
I have two ideas for the 2021 Six Lakes Halloween Special. I am having trouble deciding between the two.
So I am doing a poll: which idea sounds better? Please read through the descriptions, and then take the poll below.
Blurred Lines #1 (“The Choir”): I’ve actually had the idea for a ghost-themed procedural for years.
Angela Blurry works at her family’s hotel in Gig Harbor, Washington, but also part-time as a civilian consultant for the Pierce County Sheriff’s Office. The unit she works with is the Supernatural Investigation Unit, whoch oversees murders and other crimes in the county related to the supernatural: in this universe’s case, ghosts, demons, angels, curses, possessed mortals, haunted locations, and half-ghosts.
What is a half-ghost, you ask? A half-ghost is born to a living parent and a ghost parent. While there are of course problems with this state of existence (which the story will go into) there are also advantages, such as being able to sswitch between ghost form and human form. That means one minute, a half-ghost can walk through walls, and the next minute, they can eat solid food. Half-ghosts are pretty rare, but thy exist. Just ask Angela and her brother David. Their mother is a mortal, and their father is a ghost.
The Nightman of Bellingham Bay: This idea is newer, but I’d like to see what I can do with it.
In 1956, Vampire Alvin Skinner was abandoned by the vampire who sired him. In 1969, after being released without charges from a New York holding cell following the Stonewall Riots, he finds out through a fellow vampire that the one who abandoned him is living in Bellingham, Washington. Alvin immediately heads there to seek vengence.
Upon arrival, he attracts attention from his neighbor with his mannerisms and appearance, drawing suspision that he has a rather dark reason for his presence in their city (He does, but he’s not telling). Alvin also becomes subject to rumors when he develops a fascination with high school drama teacher Ernest Zullo.
The poll will end a week from Saturday. But fear not! Both ideas will be created. However, only the one you vote for will be written this year. Let me know what you think!
This poll is now closed.
France, Oregon
11:45 AM, Sunday, January 22nd, 2023
Patty Newman sat in her grandfather’s attic, sorting through all the items he had left with the help of her wife, Tess.
“Grandpa lived a full life,” Patty remarked. “I just know he’s up in the sky with grandma now.”
“Murray was a good man,” said Tess. “This town won’t be the same without him.”
Patty pulled a boxed of unsorted photographs off the bottom shelf of the bookcase.
“Photos,” she read. “March 1957-October 1958.”
“Yeesh. Didn’t your grandparents have photo albums?”
“Yes, but the Newmans take so many pictures, there’s not enough photo albums in the world.”
Patty opened the box and saw a big pile of photos of her grandpa’s family. He looked so young in the pictures.
“Just take that home, Patty,” said Tess. “We need to finish the house by Friday.”
But Patty saw a curious-looking photo resting on top of the pile. It was a photo of Murray and a boy she recognized from other photos as his childhood best friend, Fred. However, in this photo, Fred held Murray how one would carry a newlywed over the threshold. It looked like they were at a party.
“Whatcha’ got there?” asked Tess.
Patty flipped over the photo and found some writing on the back.
South Clatsop Homophile Association, February ‘58 Meeting.
Patty then read the inscription below that, written in different ink.
Patty, I knew this photo would get your attention. You see, I am bisexual. This isn’t something I shared with many people. People in my generation rarely discussed sexuality in public or with family, outside of activists. There’s more information in the diary under the baseboard behind the parlor TV.
Patty found the diary and brought it into the kitchen, where she and Tess were taking a lunch break.
“This is surprising,” said Tess. “I knew he was accepting, but I didn’t know he was bi.”
“Neither did he, apparently,” said Patty, “But Fred helped open his eyes.”
Patty read the diary out loud to Tess over their lunch.
Location: The forest outside France, Oregon
Time: 3:18 PM, Monday, July 15th, 1946
Ten-year-old Murray Newman sat on the bank of the France River, near the base of Berberry Falls. He watched as the wooden sailboat his uncle gifted to him during his Fourth-of-July visit. It was peaceful to watch as the boat floated gracefully down the river.
Suddenly, the boat started going faster. And then over a tiny drop.
“Uh oh,” he said to himself. He needed to catch the boat before it got too far away.
He ran towards the bend, hoping he’d get to the boat before it got to the fast part of the river.
But someone pulled the boat out. Murray ran up to the boy who had rescued the tiny vessel.
“Looks like your Navy went AWOL,” the boy said.
“Thank you so much,” said Murray.
“Name’s Fred Stavridis. I’m new in town. I’m starting sixth grade at the Public School next month.”
He held out his hand, which Murray shook.
“Murray Newman. I’m starting fifth grade there, but I turn eleven on September 2nd.
“What do you know?” Fred remarked. “That’s when I turn twelve.”
“Well ain’t that on the beam?”
“Listen, if you want, maybe we could race boats sometime. I have a great one my grandpa got for me a while back.”
“Sounds fun.”
The boys walked back towards town, chatting away with each other.
France, Oregon
3:23 PM, Friday, April 14th, 1950
Fred and Murray became fast friends and were almost inseparable over the next few years. But still, Murray was a year younger than Fred, so he wasn’t part of the same social circles at school.
Meanwhile, the France High School Varsity Baseball Team did not have a great track record, so they were searching hard for a hitter who could get them ahead. But the team had some… “concerns” when their pitcher, Fred, suggested his eggheaded younger friend, Murray.
“The hell are thinking, trying to bring that twig onto the team?” said Coach Dilbert. “He’ll put us further back! Worse than last place!”
“Yeah, Fred,” said Jimmy, the catcher. “He’s an egghead. The other teams will eat him up.”
But Fred was adamant.
“Murray and I played baseball all the time with my family. He’s plenty capable. You jerks have just never seen him play.”
“Guys?” said Murray.
Everyone looked over at Murray.
“As much as I’m enjoying this conversation,” he continued, “just let me show you what I’ve got.”
The team begrudgingly walked out onto Beach Street Field. Fred was about to walk onto the pitching mound, but coach Dilbert stopped him.
“Absolutely not,” he told Fred. “You’ll pitch to his advantage. I’ll do it.”
“Fine,” Fred replied. “If that’s the only way you’ll give him a chance.”
Coach Dilbert took the mound. Murray stepped up to the plate. As the coach wound up to throw a whopper at Murray, the other teammates looked at Fred, who firmly held a confident glare at the diamond.
Coach Dilbert threw a curveball at the young, skinny, left-handed batter. He then watched in awe as the ball flew high over the fence, landing far into the beach.
Coach Dilbert turned back to Murray, smugly smiling at the coach.
“Beginner’s luck,” the coach dismissed.
Except it wasn’t. After the coach and three different pitchers, Murray’s tryout ended with him batting .325.
Needless to say, he made the team.
6:39 PM, Friday, June 2nd, 1950
The France High Swordfish were finally free of their dismal record. They finished the 1950 season with a final score of 75-70, third in the league. The team decided to throw a party after their last game of the season at Fred’s family’s restaurant.
Fred smiled at Murray, who sat across from him, eating spanakopita.
“What?!” asked Murray, blushing.
“I’m just so proud of you,” said Fred.
“Oh, this little thing?” Murray humbly bragged as he caressed the Team MVP award given to him by Coach Dilbert.
“Knock it off,” said Kevin, the right-fielder. “Don’t let this get to your head, but you are the best damn player this team has ever had on its roster.”
“Three cheers for Murray!” someone shouted.
Three hours later, Murray was in Fred’s bathroom, getting his pajamas on for the sleepover he was having with Fred.
“Hey Fred?” he called to his friend through the door.
“Yeah?” Fred asked while looking through his baseball cards.
“What do you think of Hannah Graber?”
“That girl from your English class? She’s alright, I guess. I don’t know her that well. Why?”
“I think she’s sweet on me.”
Fred froze in the middle of turning the page. He couldn’t figure out why, but he was somewhat bothered by this revelation. Was he jealous because he liked Hannah, too? Nah, that couldn’t be it. He barely knew her. He maybe talked to her all of two times.
Murray came out of the bathroom.
“What do you think?” Murray continued.
“About what?”
“Fred! Do you think she likes me?”
Fred thought for a moment. He knew he didn’t like Hannah, but he still felt jealous. Was it because he wanted a girl to like him?
“No,’ Fred answered. “I wouldn’t go for it unless you know for certain. Plus, I may not know her that well, but my sister does, and I overheard her tell one of her friends that she likes Jimmy Elkins.”
“Damn!” Murray exclaimed. “Of course she likes him. All the girls like him! It’s so unfair.”
Murray sighed. He was definitely disappointed.
Except Fred lied. He couldn’t figure out why, but this was making him incredibly jealous.
Another three hours passed, and Murray was dead asleep on the bottom bunk of Fred’s bed.
Fred, however, was wide awake. He couldn’t fall asleep. He kept trying to figure out why he was jealous that Murray was interested in Hannah.
Fred climbed off the top bunk and headed into the bathroom.
While washing his hands, Fred’s mind started to wander.
So what if Murray likes Hannah? Fred thought. That shouldn’t make me jealous. I don’t like her that way. And so what if she likes Murray? I don’t know if she does. My sister might.
What’s wrong with me?! Fred wondered as he turned off the sink. Do I wish someone would like me? Do I want to feel this way about someone? Of course, I do? But who? I tried dating that girl Lisa last year, but it just didn’t feel right. Who the hell do I want to have feelings for me? Who do I like?
Fred exited the bathroom and saw Murray’s face illuminated in the moonlight shining through the window. He snuggled his pillow against his face and laid with his right knee pulled up to his chest. Fred smiled when he saw this.
Maybe Hannah does like Murray, Fred thought to himself. Why wouldn’t she? Look at him. He’s probably the cutest kid at sch-
That’s when it hit him. Fred had finally realized why he was jealous. He didn’t want Murray to date Hannah…
…because he wanted to date Murray.
Thank you for reading the WordPress preview of The Waterfall. This is the only chapter that will be published here. For future chapters please check the Six Lakes Studios Wattpad and Tapas Pages on Sundays.
Based on the prompt “Start your story with someone discovering a photograph that has something written on the back.” Reedsy Prompts, week of July 23rd, 2021.
If you are subscribed to SLS on WordPress, you may have gotten an email showing you the first chapter of my new story, The Waterfall.
However, that was not supposed to be seen by ANYONE until August 1st at 4:30 PM PST. It was accidentally published due to an error on my part. Please do not share the story!
The Waterfall Ch. 1, now that the scheduling is fixed, should premiere on the above date, like planned, on Tapas, Wattpad, and here. The following chapters will be uploaded on Sundays on Wattpad and Tapas, but not here. Sorry about that, but I don’t want to crowd the homepage with all the chapters of my longer stories.
Sorry about the mixup!
If you are not yet subscribed to this blog, please do, but also, please read the first chapter of The Waterfall on Sunday!
If you are subscribed, and received the email with the first chapter, then please, again, don’t share it! Let it be our little temporary secret 😉.
-Matt
PG; Language
Time: 5:13 PM, May 5th, 2017
Location: Olympia, Washington
The rain platted on my umbrella as I ran inside. That whole stereotype about Washingtonians not using umbrellas? Not true right now. You’ve never seen rain like this.
I step inside and shake my umbrella off through the door before putting it in the stand. Then I turn around. Every other Friday, after class, I come to this store. No, they don’t sell food or video games. This store was more about… the curiosities. From the fascinating to the bizarre, this store had items from all over the Pacific Northwest. Historical machines, artisan furniture, glass art, and odd-looking decor are only a part of this store’s unusual inventory.
I first came here when I moved to Olympia from Tukwila back in ‘14. I didn’t have many things to fill my apartment, so my mother took me around town to different stores to make my new place feel like home. After visiting several chain stores and warehouses, we decided to stop for a burger before heading back.
However, next door to the restaurant was this place I now frequent: The Curious Store. Throughout our lunch, my mind, for some inexplicable reason, kept wandering to this store. Was it the name? Or what the name was implying? When we walked out of the restaurant, I asked my mother if we could go in there. She sighed, saying we had already spent too much that day. However, she gave me an ultimatum: I can buy one item, for under $20 of my own money, as long as I meet her back at the car in ten minutes. I quickly thanked her and went in.
As soon as I opened the door, the spectrum of colors from the oddities immediately overwhelmed me. I was pulled inside purely by intrigue. My autistic brain spent the first three minutes cataloging every detail of the items I picked up. I wanted to look at everything in the store, but I also knew mom would be pissed if I dawdled too long. I looked around for any signage in the store that would lead me to something I would at least use instead of a weird trinket I’d only use once before tossing it onto the top shelf of my pantry, never to be seen again.
My eyes landed on the sign pointing towards the clothing area. At least clothing would be practical. As soon as I got there, I saw what I wanted: The perfect sweater. A yarn-woven, long-sleeved sweater with patterns that could keep my eyes occupied for days. A beautiful tapestry of blue, orange, purple, pink, and brown. Not colors you’d usually think of together, but they worked on this sweater. And I saw the price tag: $18.95. How lucky could you get?
When I went to pay for the sweater, I was stopped in my tracks by the man behind the counter. He was striking. His silver-green eyes made contact with my hazels. His short, black pompadour greatly contrasted my messy blonde waves. He smiled at me, his teeth sparkling like the rocks in his ears. I was hoping to God that I remembered to brush my teeth that morning.
“Did you want to ring that up for you?” he said, snapping me out of my stupor.
“Um… yes?” I squeaked out as if I wasn’t sure.
I sweated like a crazy person. Because of course, I was nervous! Here he was, a well-groomed, put-together beauty of a man, while I stood in front of him in a wrinkled hoodie and a pair of sweatpants I’d been living in that entire weekend. I wish I had known that day that I’d be meeting a guy like him, but that’s not how life works.
He put the sweater in a paper bag with the receipt and two wrapped mints. I blushed as I struggled to get my next words out.
“Thank you…” I started, glancing down at his nametag. “…Brandon.”
“No problem… sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Christian.”
“Nice to meet you, Christian. Feel free to come back anytime.”
I wear that sweater a lot. Every time I do, I sit on my couch after dinner, tracing the patterns with my finger, thinking of Brandon.
I went back to The Curious Store two weeks later. However, unlike my first time, it was crowded in there. I’m not too fond of crowds, so I instinctively went right back out and sat at the burger place instead. My bacon and mushroom burger didn’t taste as good that time because I was mad at myself for chickening out.
So I made a plan: every two weeks, no matter how crowded it was, I would stay in the store after class for an hour.
This isn’t just for him, although I am glad that he works in this store. The store itself is good for me. I get stressed easily with Asperger’s and ADD, especially near the end of the quarter at school. This store, I find, has helped me calm down when I need it. When I come in, I go to the last place I was the previous time and look at the details of anything that grabbed my attention. Sometimes, I would trace my hand over an object. Touch is an overlooked sense. The feel of a certain texture can change your emotion. I enjoy smooth or patterned textures, but rough, moist, uneven, and sticky items make me uncomfortable. I don’t touch everything, though, either through my own aversion or if the item seems fragile.
My favorite part of the store is the bookshelf in the back of the store, near the hallway leading to the bathroom and a barricaded staircase that I can only assume leads to the apartment upstairs. Like the rest of the store, the bookshelf is loyal to the PNW: you’ll only find titles from Washingtonian, Oregonian, Idahoan, and British Columbian authors on here. Like David Guterson, Debbie Macomber, Sherman Alexie, and Gary Larsen are among those that line the shelves. I look at the covers and read the descriptions on the back, trying to decide if I should buy a book that day, if at all. I sometimes peek inside that book, but never too deeply. Brandon gets annoyed when people get too into the books on the shelf, treating the store as if it were a library.
But there’s one other thing in the store that piques my interest: the phonograph next to the bookshelf, surrounded by paintings from local artists. I’ve never dared touch it, nor buy the unsurprisingly expensive antique, but I wanted so much to hear music played on it.
This brings us to tonight: May 5th, 2017. It was already dark thanks to the heavy rain. The sound of rain on a window has a hypnotic, relaxing effect on me, and during a storm like this, my mind will go where it wants to. As I was staring at the 90-something-year-old phonograph, a daydream took over my mind. I was attending a 1920‘s ball, standing by the phonograph as a waltz played, and couples in haute couture danced by.
And then I saw Brandon walking toward me. Instead of his usual green apron, polo, and khakis, he was in a luxurious tuxedo. He was stunning. That characteristic sparkle of his was there, too, in his eyes, teeth, and earrings. I wanted to say something, but he opened his mouth first.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Suddenly the daydream flew away, and the store was back to normal. His tuxedo was gone, as well, replaced by his uniform.
“Huh?!” I sputtered out.
“You were just staring off into space for a while there,” he continued.
“Um… sorry. I let my mind wander sometimes.”
“You come in here a lot. Remind me what your name is?”
“Christian.”
“Right. Why do you come in here so often?’
I’ll just tell him the truth. I won’t be able to come up with any less weird of a lie, anyway.
“I come here to stim,” I said.
“Stim?”
I have no idea why I’m telling him all of this, but the ball’s already rolling.
“I have Asperger’s, and ADD,” I continued. “Self-stimulating, or ‘stimming,’ is a repetitive behavior many autistic people perform to calm themselves when they’re stressed. When I stim, I trace patterns, like the hexagonal one on that wall hanging.”
I pointed to a wooden wall hanging covered in hexagonal tiles.
“Huh,” he replied.
Without queue, I continued. “My favorite pattern to trace is on this sweater.”
I opened my raincoat to show him the sweater I had bought the first time I was here. His face lit up immediately when he recognized it.
“That sweater,” he whispered as his hand reached out to touch it. “May I?”
I hesitated, trying to process the situation. But before I could string together a clear thought, I blurted out: “Go ahead.”
His fingers brushed down the sleeve on my right arm. His touch sent a shiver down my spine. I had never thought this would happen.
“I remember this sweater,” he continued. “You bought the first time you were here.”
“I was fascinated by the patterns.”
“I see,” he said, still brushing his fingers along the sleeve.
I could feel my face getting red. We’ve never been this close before, yet here he was, tracing patterns on me.
I think he realized how long he’d been doing this because he suddenly pulled away, blushing. It was weird to see him like this. Every time I saw him behind the counter, he was always focused and calm. Now he looked… flustered and nervous—time to break the awkward silence.
“How long have you worked here?” I asked.
“Ten years,” he said. “I started out helping my grandparents, but after I finished college last year, I’ve been running the store myself. They still live upstairs.”
“So, this is technically your store now?”
“My grandma still has the final say, but I guess?” he shrugged.
Trying to hide my blush, I looked at the phonograph.
“There’s no one else here,” said Brandon. “You can try that out if you’d like.”
My eyes widened. I finally get to play this thing?
He went over to the phonograph and opened the drawer, pulling out a blue phonograph record. He blew the dust off of it.
“This hasn’t been played in a while. Bear with me,” he said, slipping the record onto the turntable.
When the needle hit the disk, Brandon held out his hand, and the room filled with a beautiful waltz.
“Can I have this dance?” he asked.
Originally written for a Creative Writing class project at Eastern Washington University.
Carousel, Carousel
Spinning wooden horses
Watch the colors fly by
You and me, me and you,
Kids riding horses
Chasing euphoric highs
Growing up, going up
We have to go to school
We sign up for sports and clubs
not much, not enough
time we have left
to ride the wooden horses
Teenage years, College days
We have to get jobs
We have to get ready for life
schoolwork, work hours
take over our days
no more time for the merry-go-round
Adulthood, maturity
Cars, posts, and meetings
Where has our playfulness gone?
Dating, networking
wining and dining
We don’t even think about carousels
Parenthood, family
Children in our lives
remind us of simpler times
memories, pastimes
now in the present
being created again
Carousel, carousel
the kids want to ride
mesmerized by twirling colors
tugging arms, pulling sleeves
leading us to the horses
asking to join them today
Carousel, carousel
All worries aside
No more thoughts of adult life
for it’s time to toss it all aside
to be kids again, be free again,
riding those painted wooden horses
Carousel, Carousel.
Six Lakes Studios 
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