IMHO, Nifty is a resource that is every bit as valuable as the free Gutenberg Project or the free Audio Librivox and they still need periodic support. Please Don't let Nifty's 20th anniversary go unnoticed!

The author “Chance” is me, “Larkin” This is an effort to re-compose my old roster into a new roster comprised old and new works, re-written and done with more careful editing. (omitting junk) I hope you will understand.

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Boy Grunge

by Chance. All rights reserved

Filthy canvas high tops, laces dragging. Ragged and torn jeans. This characterizes Sammy from the waist down. Just when you think that you have seen something commonplace, it becomes special. Then you notice Mark right next to him. The two boys, each 12, are dressed in the similar style of grunge. If it were winter they might be wearing hooded sweat shirts but in the warmer weather they had on old worn, over-sized tee-shirts. Today Mark's tee-shirt has the faded image of the Green Day logo. Sammy's shirt said, in distorted lettering, "Please Kill Me". Although not brothers, their clothes formed a common pool of whose shirt, pants or even underwear was whose, made no difference to them at all.

There were other similarity between the two boys. They were still small and worryingly thin under their over-sized clothing. Starting in the Spring and now into late summer, their hair had grown to shoulder length. Parted in the middle, bedraggled, looking filthy and uncombed, was an identifying trademark for the pair. They just didn't care about presenting a socially acceptable image, they wanted just the opposite and made a careless effort to achieve it.

Since Sammy's house was consistently unsupervised the two boys spent all their time there and since it was summer Mark never went home. Sammy's room was chaos and clutter that smelled of boys socks and underwear. There was a large mattress on the floor void of sheets and piled high with unzipped sleeping bags and dirty clothes. It was, for lack of a better description,.. a nest.

The two came in, slammed and locked the bedroom door, pushed the clothes and debris out of the way and crawled onto the naked mattress. Mark grabbed the brown stained plastic bong that had been left out in plain sight and from a crumpled baggy, loaded it with pot. Sammy lay face down, legs and feet dangling above his butt and stared at the floor. When Mark lit the bong and drew smoke through the plastic cylinder he nudged Sammy who sat up to take his turn.

They lived in a part of Oregon where pot was plentiful and the simple truth was that it was much easier for Mark and Sammy to get an ounce of pot than it was to get a six pack down at the corner store.

Sitting Indian style, Sammy blew out a column of smoke.

Looking around the room he said, "Everything in this fuckin room is fuckin broke."

He passed the bong to Mark who immediately re-lit it.

Sammy went on, "The Nintendo is broke, the TV is broke, the lamp is broke, that fuckin disc player is broke too."

Mark picked up an old claw hammer that was lying on the floor and moved menacingly over to where the broken portable TV sat. He upended it and said, "It's not broke, it just don't fuckin work."

The hammer came down hard on the glass screen but it didn't break. Instead it made a loud clink. He did it again with the same results, and again. Sammy came over and then the two struggled over the hammer. "Let me fuckin do it!"

Soon they were rolling around on the floor struggling for the hammer almost hitting each other with it trying to secure the right to smash the picture tube. Sammy finally got it and pushed Mark out of the way.

Mark yelled, "Fuck you, asshole!"

They went at it again but they were so equally matched that only craftiness or cheating could gain the advantage. For some unexplained reason, Mark suddenly let the hammer drop and they lost interest in whatever it was that they were doing and went back to the bong.

Sammy refilled the bong and they continued the ritual. There was a sudden loud knock on the door that gave them both a start. Mark and Sammy looked at each other thinking that it could only be trouble or bad news.

Sammy yelled, "What!"

From the other side of the door they heard a voice, "It's me, Chuck, you got any pot?"

Sammy got up and let him in. Chuck was one of his Mom's x-boyfriends. "Come on, spare me some. I'd do the same for you."

Mark said with pessimistic sarcasm, "Yeah right..."

When he got what he wanted, Chuck was out the door and instantly gone. Mark peered under the window shade and saw the cloud of dust left by the banged-up Toyota.


It was beginning to get dark and Sammy reached for the small crate that had a tableau of melted down candles on it. He searched the multi-colored lava like mass for a wick and found two or three. He lit them for a comforting light.

He was high from the pot and looked over towards Mark. "It's like an Indian camp fire and we are like, in a tribe of ghost Indians."

Sammy nodded yes, but mentally, he was somewhere else. Sitting with his back up against the wall and legs spread out on the mattress, he pushed his pants down in preparation for the second jerk off of the day. Seeing this, Mark came up and sat next to him as he often did and prepared to join him.

Perhaps it was their inadequate diet or maybe they were both stunted from the pot or something but both boys were still small and hairless. Once erect, they pushed their pants down further and pulled their tee-shirts up out of the way exposing bare, undulating torsos.

Like Gemini, Sammy and Mark were the best of friends but they were not in love with each other. Occasionally their arms and hands would cross over to trade the manual chore of jerking off but it was just an honorable reciprocation. When one would come, he would go on to other things seemingly unconcerned about his friend's approaching orgasm. On this particular day it was simultaneous and vocal with barely a spritz of juice between them. They were blissfully unaware of the overdue transition into puberty that lay just around the corner. Two boys, with their penis and naked bellies exposed as they were at the moment of resolution, both dropped off into a deep sleep.

It was hours later when Mark woke up to a black room. He wriggled his pants back up and looked around for the Bic to light the candle mass. Naked butt exposed, Sammy was curled up facing the wall, still asleep. In another minute, Sammy was up and in the light of the sputtering candle.

Then both boys went out the window and into the night.

"What time is it?"

Mark said, "2:30."

The streets were abandon and now they were night creatures. Their aimless journey had no destination except to avoid the headlights of approaching cars in the off chance that it might be the cops. There were no streetlights and on this night, no moon so eyes adjusting to the dim light that presented a gauzy and surreal landscape. Occasionally they would run into a friend who had snuck out from a parental fortress, but tonight, no one else seemed to be around. The short story was that there was just nothing to do. Their wanderings took them to a neglected ball field along which ran a series of abandon bleachers. Sammy and Mark climbed up and sat huddled together at the top.

Mark looked off into the murky distance and then turned to Sammy and said, "If we ran away, where would we go?"

Sammy thought about it and said after a long pause, "I don't know?"

Then Sammy went back into his fantasy quest for the tribe of ghost Indians. "I wish we could find them and maybe if we did we could join up and be ghost Indians too."

Out of the two, Sammy was the most imaginative and fantasy prone. Mark enjoyed his stories and willingly let himself be swept up into them.

Mark said, I would like to ride my own horse bareback and I would have a long bow and a dagger.

It was then that they saw a dark figure standing at the foot of the bleacher. "What are you boys up to?"

The immediate impulse to run diminished but the sat silently eyeing the potbellied man who had intruded into their world.

"It's a little late for you boys to be out,...but don't worry, I won't say anything."

He slowly and cautiously climbed up closer and sat a respectable distance away. "What do you boys like to do when your out late at night like this?"

Neither one answered the man.

In a superficial gesture of friendship he offered them a cigarette and when they both refused, he lit one for himself. The match brought a momentary glow of color and detail to the translucency of the scene.

"What do you boys do out here this late or maybe I should say, what do you like to do?"

Sammy and Mark's telepathy was full on and they did not have to talk it over. In perfect concert, they rose, hopped and ran in long strides and landing on the field then ran even faster.

When they were sure that they hadn't been followed, they resumed an ambling pace.

Mark was the realist. "He was a motherfuckin pervert, wasn't he? Sammy, did you recognize him?"

He said, "No, I don't think I never seen him before."

Mark said, "I think I have but I can't remember where."

Their indignant response was not based on an objection to an anonymous invitation to sex with a creature from another world, it was because it threatened the union of the two. The idea of telling the police never entered their heads. The last thing they needed was any association with the police. It was just plain, bad Karma. Mark or Sammy alone, actually might have responded to the man in an effort to see what they could get off of him, but not paired up. It would be like looking into a mirror. They formed a strong protective bond when they were together that was more important than what they might do separately.

 Still dark they crawled back through the window and into the dark and unlit room. A word was not spoken between them. Sammy shed all his clothes and in the silent darkness, pushed his naked back and behind up against Mark's body. Sammy was completely erect. Mark interpreted this as an offering and began to handle Sammy's body as carelessly as if it was his own. After discarding his clothes he conjured up spit and used it to enter Sammy from behind. Mark did it as efficiently and thoughtlessly as a back yard dog and when he was finished reciprocation did not always follow.

Maybe tomorrow or next month the roles in this secretive event might reverse but it was all left to chance rather than ritual.

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