“It’s still snowing!” “Flakes” is a guys’ love serial novel with romance, intrigue, snow, chocolate, and a dash of Italy—start with episode one—and scroll down to read the latest episode.

This already written novel will be posted in 12 parts. This story is being polished as it is being posted, so please, feel free to use the comment section to point out typos, what you like, and what needs more polish. As always, each episode opens with a quote to tempt you to read on.

“Flakes” will only appear on this web site. It will be our little web secret, but feel free to share news of it. You can support “Flakes” by buying an “Inky Flesh” story, see below.

Flakes, episode 3

Nearby, silver-tipped eyebrows rose over a sinister smile as the one who lurked nearby responded to what he overheard.

Cristoforo was finally safely and warmly sheltered, but now, there was a man with silver-tipped eyebrows walking toward him. His heart raced as he watched the otherwise dark-featured man step closer and closer. He was quite tall. He was also nicely dressed—that is for a businessman caught between a deal and drinks. This one clearly made an art of both. Realizing he could handle neither at the moment, Cristoforo became nervous, for one or the other was clearly coming his way.

He looked toward the man in case he was wrong. Maybe he was walking toward but not to him? Alas, he was still making his approach—directly. More disturbingly, he wore the hint of a menacing smile on his face. If Cristoforo was nervous before, he was scared now. “What does he want from me? I best figure that out, for he is only a step or two away.”

The approaching man’s shadow was just about to darken Cristoforo’s feet when its approach was halted by a sure-footed stranger. The stranger’s sturdy foot came down like a pile driver breaking earth. This man, heretofore unseen by Cristoforo, planted himself between the one with the silver eyebrows and his sitting prey.

Cristoforo looked to the newcomer’s face, but he could not see its features with the brilliant ball of light blazing directly behind his head. All he could see was his silhouette, which was rather well-proportioned.His strong legs were topped by a pronounced v-shaped torso, which supported broad shoulders and a powerful neck. Cristoforo was uncertain if this was the silhouette of a man or a statue.

Like the other stranger, he was also well dressed, but this one was outfitted as much for dinner as he was for the deal. Cristoforo hoped he grew up to look like this man, and while he could not see the stranger’s face, he was sure it was fine face—one he would proudly call his own.

The stranger with the silver tipped eyebrows quickly stepped to the side. He walked away scowling like he had just given something up. Cristoforo wondered why he was so sullen, but before he could ponder this, the new stranger’s head eclipsed the blinding ball of light. This allowed his face to suddenly come into view. Cristoforo was bothered by it, for it was indeed a fine a face—too fine. “Why would someone want to be that handsome? That’s just showing off.”

Knowing he would never be that handsome, Cristoforo became sad, but his sadness quickly morphed into madness as the stranger stepped before him and picked up his hand: “Oww, why are you hurting me!?!”

The broad-shouldered stranger stood holding Cristoforo’s hurt hand between his own. Compared to his strong hands and thick forearms, Cristoforo’s own looked sleight: “I feel like a girl with this one standing before me.” This realization troubled him.

“You are hurt.” The stranger’s voice sounded as solid and sturdy as the rest of him looked.

Cristoforo’s cheeks heated with a blush. He did not know why, but this stranger unnerved him. “The other one scared me . . . this one makes me nervous.  Why do these men make feel this way?” He withdrew his hand angrily: “Stop! Don’t, my friend is helping me.”

“Some friend, he left you all alone.”

Fury showed in Cristoforo’s eyes and sounded in his voice: “You don’t know he left me. You don’t know him.”

“Never mind that one. I will take care of you now.” The man reached into his pocket and fished around with his fingers.

Standing far enough away to be unnoticed but near enough to hear and see everything, the stranger with the silvered eyebrows pressed his body flatter against the wall. He stood there silently still and staring.

Withdrawing a handkerchief from his pocket, the man quickly fashioned an effective bandage over Cristoforo’s hand. He smiled warmly as his disciplined hands finished tying it off. “There, all done.”

Cristoforo looked at his bandaged hand and smiled with welcome surprise. “You stopped the bleeding. I bleed a lot, or at least, I think I do.”

The man laughed. “What do you mean you think you do? You either do or you don’t.”

Cristoforo became angry. “You ask too many questions.”

“Then, tell me what you mean directly, and I will not have to.”

This reasonable response angered Cristoforo, but after a moment, his anger melted. “I don’t want to tell him, but something makes me . . . trust this one. This is so confusing.”

The man stood patiently waiting for Cristoforo’s response. His enduring patience prompted Cristoforo to speak despite himself. “I don’t remember . . . anything . . . but my name . . . Cristoforo. So, I don’t even know if I have good or bad blood.” HIs shoulders slumped and his voice lowered. “I must have bad blood, very bad.”

Nearby, silver-tipped eyebrows rose over a sinister smile as the one who lurked nearby responded to what he overheard. The lurker was not the only one responding. If Cristoforo had not been looking down at his feet, he might have noticed the stranger’s face reflecting a sudden sadness. “You don’t remember anything?” His sad face turned sadder yet. “You might remember something if you try.”

“I told you I don’t remember anything.” Cristoforo’s nostrils flared with anger.

The embodiment of anger and sadness stood facing one another with upside down smiles and slouched shoulders. Reaching for Cristoforo’s unhurt hand, the man spoke. “Don’t you remember . . . anyone, anyone at all?”

Withdrawing his hand, Cristoforo snapped. “No, I don’t! But, I know I’m Cristoforo.”

Steadying himself, the stranger straightened his frown and his shoulders before looking hopefully into Cristoforo’s eyes. “I’m Carlo.” He then searched Cristoforo’s eyes for several seconds, but not finding whatever he sought there, his frowned returned.

Cristoforo could not understand why this man was so sad about his situation. He examined the stranger curiously. “He looks as sad as I feel. I must look like him on the inside.” This made him more curious. “I don’t know him, so why do I trust him? It’s like I already know him.” Becoming increasingly nervous, he searched his mind for answers. “Why does this stranger move me so?”

Carlo once again took Cristoforo’s hand. “Why does he keep touching me? He makes me more nervous when he does that! Everyone can see what we . . . what he is doing.”

Feeling self-conscious, Cristoforo remembered the rest of the room. The sea of faces was still there. Everywhere he looked, like a peeping tapestry, the men still stared at him—at him and the stranger before him. He could hear them still whispering. “Are they together?” “How’d he get his attention?” “How cute!”

Their whispers rose in his ears until the word cute stirred his anger: “Let go of my hand!”

But, Carlo refused, grabbing it more tightly, and he was much, much too strong for Cristoforo to resist. “Not until you tell me how you came to be here?”

“My life is none of your business!” If he was angry before, Cristoforo was furious now.

“I won’t let you go until you tell me how you got here.”

Cristoforo’s anger flowed from him and unloosed his tongue. “I don’t know! I woke up in the snow. My friend carried me in here, and now, you won’t leave me alone, and everyone is staring at me!” His head dropped as hot tears fell from his eyes. “I’ve told this stranger everything. Now I have no secrets from him, no secrets, except for what is still secret to myself.”

Lifting Cristoforo’s head by the chin, Carlo looked directly into his embarrassed eyes. “That one is not your friend. He deserted you, but I’m your friend.”

Cristoforo considered his words. “This stranger helped me, but the price for his help was my secrets.”

Reading the hesitation in the young man’s eyes, Carlo answered it. “You have no past, so your future is uncertain, but one thing is certain, you cannot stay here. It’s not safe, not safe by a longshot.”

Cristoforo agreed. He needed to get away from all these men—these endlessly staring men, but where would he go? “But, I’ve nowhere to go.”

“You will go home with me.”

Cristoforo’s face stirred with confusion. “I know too little about myself, and this one knows too much about me.” He shivered with uncertain fear.

Seeing Cristoforo shake, Carlo removed his jacket and slipped it over the shoulders shaking before him. “You are shaking. Let’s go home.”

“Without a past, I have no other place to go.” Overwhelmed by sadness, Cristoforo’s eyes filled again with tears as he began sobbing. With one swoop, Carlo took the shaking heap before him into his arms and carried him to the door.

Cristoforo settled into Carlos’ arms and rested his head against his thickly developed chest. “Take me away from this strange place and these strange staring men. Take me home, where I will be warm and safe.”

With the slightest movement of his chin, which might have been akin to something like nuzzling, Carlo wordlessly responded while stepping toward the door with his arms full of a sighing young man.

Silver-tipped eyebrows lowered over a scowl as the pair approached the door. Suddenly, beside him, there appeared a tall, thin, young man, holding a bandage in his hand. He looked anxious, then sad. “He is leaving without me.”

The scowling man beside turned to face him with anger. “Stay away from him, Angelo, and you will, if you know what’s good for you.”

Angelo’s anger rose, which rarely happened. “But, I was the one who found him!”

“But you weren’t man enough to keep him. Were you? Are you man enough?”’

Angelo’s head dropped as his cheeks reddened. “No, Giacomo, I’m not.”

A sinister smile rose beneath Giacomo’s sliver-tipped eyebrows. “But, I am.”

 

Check back or submit your email to know when the next episode is available.

Click to reread episode one. 

“Flakes” © MJ Isola

 

Support “Flakes” by reading an “Inky Flesh” story, visit MJ’s Amazon Author Page.

Read the “Inky Flesh” rainbow, for story, style, & steam.

Just a pic of me in Portugal. I am thinking about adding some pictures from my trip here.

“It’s still snowing!” “Flakes” is a guys’ love serial novel with romance, intrigue, snow, chocolate, and a dash of Italy—start with episode one—and scroll down to read the latest episode.

This already written novel will be posted in 12 parts. This story is being polished as it is being posted, so please, feel free to use the comment section to point out typos, what you like, and what needs a bit more polish. As always, each episode opens with a quote to tempt you to read on.

“Flakes” will only be appearing on this web site. It will be our little web secret, but you should feel free to share it with your friends. You can support “Flakes” by buying an “Inky Flesh” story, see below.

Flakes, episode 2

So many men, so many eyes, so unnerving.

The snow continued to fall, as the tall stranger, who carried Cristoforo slumped over a shoulder, moved quickly through it. Coming to sudden stop, he planted both of his feet before the snowy façade of a building. As the winds created a clearing in the snowfall like a pulled curtain. This revealed a set of roughly hewn steps. These steps, which had either appeared suddenly or were already familiar to the stranger, led to a subterranean space below. Either way, the stranger quickly descended while still carrying the barely conscious young man.

They descended deeper and deeper into the darker space beyond and below. With a slight bend of the knees, like a sudden graceful curtsy, they passed through a small doorway, which the figure kicked open. The door opened on to a small entry way that served as a passage way to a cavernous space beyond.

As they entered, Cristoforo, feeling more groggy than conscious, could not help but notice the rush of warmth against his frigid body. He had been very cold, cold enough to hurt, so the warm air was very welcome. Wherever they were going, it was decidedly warmer in here than it was outside, so Cristoforo felt himself consenting to wherever he was being brought and to whatever it led. Besides, what choice did he have slumped over the stranger’s shoulder?

Having entered without hesitation, the tall figure walked along a brick wall before bending to unburden a tired shoulder from the weight it bore. Cristoforo unfolded over the stool he found his body deposited upon. This movement roused him, but before he could pick up his head to see where he was, he heard voices everywhere. They were engaged in very curious conversations. “Where’d he come from?” “Never seen him before.” “Are they together?” “Cute!”

His eyes popped open when heard—before feeling—the stranger’s hand slap his face. This was immediately followed by a stern command. “Wake up!” The slap prompted several rounds of gasps and giggles from the various watchers and listeners beyond, who must have been craning their necks to see.

Cristoforo’s face flushed with anger and surprise. “You slapped me!”

“You need to wake up so your blood will warm.” The stranger replied.

Despite the sting of embarrassment, Cristoforo was not surprised by what he saw, for he had heard the crowd whispering before seeing the chorus.

The cavernous room spread out before him. It gave way here and there to additional rooms, others hallways, and even more stairwells, which led further down. The exact relationship of the various rooms eluded him, for there was a vibrant tapestry of men before him. Their movements obscured his view of this or that detail or corner. The sea of men was varied, and while there were too many men—and too many kinds—to take in all at once, Cristoforo could tell from first glance there were men of all ages, sizes, and shapes within it. They stood watching, whispering and wondering about him and the young guy that had just slapped him, for he could see that his companion now resembled a man, at least the stranger did here under this light. All the men were talking and carrying on about them. Cristoforo was certain of this, and his face flushed with red heat under the scrutiny of such attention.

His hand was also reddening once again, and it was surely still hurting. He looked toward it, and it was only then that he noticed the stranger was already holding his hurt hand within his own. He stood staring at Cristoforo’s wound with wonder yet concern: “You are still bleeding. Let me get you a bandage. I’ll be right back with one. I’ll be back before you know it.” Then, he disappeared into the crowd as quickly as he had appeared through the snowflakes on the street.

Cristoforo could not tell what made his head swirl more the suddenness of the stranger’s help, the abruptness of his comings and goings, or the sea of faces still staring at him from every nook and cranny he could see—and from a few he could not—or so he felt. So many men, so many eyes, so unnerving.

He could still hear them carrying on and whispering. Their voices rose within yet quickly fell from his ears like a will-o’-the-wisp daring him too venture further forward to listen. One voice rose from the others before landing like an invading spider in his ear. “Want a drink, cutie?”

Filling with fury, Cristoforo could not help but shout an angry response: “No!”

Despite the rage within himself, he managed to contain the rest of his fury to his thoughts: “How dare one of these men speak to me like that? I’m boy, yet he speaks me as if I was a girl! I may not know where I am, but I know who I am. I am not a girl!”

Having to figure out who you were was work enough, but now, Cristoforo found himself trying to figure out where he was—and why there were so many strange men in this place. The tall stranger said his name was something that sounded like Angel, but Cristoforo wondered if he was lying or if he really meant to say devil—or worse, for why would an angel bring him into a place such as this?

His anger led his confusion in a frustrating dance of questions. “Where am I? What kind of place of this? Who are these strangers? I’ve never seen so many men before. Why are they all here?” Question after question raced through his mind, but he soon found his mind seizing on one. “Where is that man’s shirt?”

Moving from within the midst of the crowd of men yet appearing to have nothing to do with the others, there stood the tallest, broadest, and most unclothed man Cristoforo had ever seen before. Was that legal? He was not wearing a shirt, yet even his feet, bulging calves, and thick thighs threatened to burst out of his clothes. Cristoforo’s face reddened, for he was embarrassed for the man—and for himself. “Where was his shirt?”

One question after the next once again raced through his mind, for there was so much to figure out. “Wasn’t that man cold without his shirt?” Cristoforo thought he must be, for his chest stood up with a most indecent attention to the air. The rest of his torso appeared to be wet. How had he gotten his chest wet? He wondered if a water pipe might be actively leaking somewhere above. He looked toward the ceiling, but he found himself blinded by a suddenly illuminated large revolving ball, which hung high over the crowd.

He could not tell through the glare, but the ball looked broken. Its surface looked cracked, like it was about to shatter into shards, but these shards yet held. They appeared to reflect every light, every color, every face, and every movement in the room. He was nearly blinded by the rainbow of this brilliant illumination. So much so, he could no longer see as well. He feared if he moved he might trip, and he worried he might be going bind. This panicked him, but before he could further worry, he was distracted by a distinctly feminine laugh. Somewhere in the crowd, there was a girl here.

Cristoforo could hear her giggling and squealing with glee. She sounded delightful. His ears rejoiced in the sounds of her happiness. She sounded so mirthful, so free, so very much the opposite of how miserably lost and upset he felt. He wanted to see her, so he strained his eyes to find her. Wasn’t that her hand there? The hem of her dress just below there? Wasn’t that the flow of her hair above—no, just behind the shirtless man? Had she been dancing with him? Why was he smiling so? And, why did she seem familiar? Had they met before? Did he know her?

Cristoforo wished to find her, so he might ask if they had met before. He suddenly wished to ask her many questions—to discover all her secrets. Maybe they could be friends. In his position, he needed new friends, so he thought to introduce himself, but just as he looked for her face, she disappeared without a trace. He could no longer even hear her giggle, no matter how hard he tried. Who was that girl? And, why was she was the only one here—in a roomful of men?

Distracted by this swirl of sights, sounds, and thoughts, Cristoforo had not noticed the man who was staring at him the most, the one who made no apologizes for his staring. The other men would, at least every now and again, look away or blink, but not this one. His stare was hard, constant, and eerily accented by the inner third of his eyebrows, which were silver while the rest of them was black. He had not seen him, but as he noticed him now, a chill flowed out from his soul and ran over his skin. “Where am I? What kind of men are these? What kind of place is this?”

His face took on a look of fearful concern, but the staring man remained unmoved. Cristoforo could not help but notice him now. The attention he received from his eyes was so strong Cristoforo could almost feel it pushing against his body—no, not pushing—pulling. He could almost feel his body being pulled in by the man’s unyielding attention.

Cristoforo tired to look away, but he could not. He strained to notice something, or someone, else, but he could not. He tried to blind himself by looking directly into the broken ball of light above, but the more he tried to look away, the more he noticed this man’s attention. This made the man’s face seem larger and closer with each next passing second until it was all Cristoforo saw—that and his silvery accented hard staring eyes.

Reflexively, Cristoforo’s eyes took on a look of fear as his hands began to shake. Had the eyes moved just a step closer?

Click for the next episode.

Click to reread episode one. 

“Flakes” © MJ Isola

 

Support “Flakes” by reading an “Inky Flesh” story, visit MJ’s Amazon Author Page.

Read the “Inky Flesh” rainbow, for story, style, & steam.