Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 5

fiction? Fiction that's truthful to who you are? That comes from the soul of a gay man who believes in love?
    ARCHULETA: Human fiction, decent fiction, is not gender specific. Besides, love isn't unique to humans. Every dog is born ready to love. The human emotion is passion. Passion so strong it scorches. Do you have any idea what I'm talking about?
    BLUE: Can I read something you've written?
    ARCHULETA: Sorry. When I get the final draft just the way I want it, I set the paper on fire and let the soul of the work rise to heaven on the smoke.
    ACT 3
    The protagonist achieves his goals after facing an ultimate test of wills. (from The Structure of a Three Act Play)
    "Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge." Paul Gauguin
    Ben Blue was not a happy man. He'd been on the verge of tears since he'd set foot on Koro. Why? It was a damn paradise! Every frigging person on the island was rolling in the warm, salty Pacific and feeling fat and happy and all he wanted to do was stick his head under a pillow and weep.
    "Betrayed," he admitted. That was it. He felt betrayed! Let me make a list of the betrayals: One, there was no Evangeline. The story was, as asshole pointed out to him, fiction. Two, asshole no longer seemed to believe in the love he'd once written about with his heart and soul. And he refused to admit what had happened to turn him from the heights of love to the cynical prick who thought only about the earthly delights of organic chocolate. Three, asshole was gay and did not seem to even recognize that BB was also gay! How could the author of Searching for Evangeline have the gaydar of a church lady? Or, worse, what if the asshole knew he was gay, but was simply not interested? That cut down to the bone with an icy knife.
    Four, asshole was burning his writing. Ben had received specific instructions not to return without a poem or short story in Gabriel Archuleta's handwriting, even if he had to steal it and smuggle it out of the country in a swallowed condom.
    Wait a minute. Wait just a cotton-picking minute. What if asshole was not telling him the truth? Well, duh! Ben already knew that asshole liked to lie! And with an ego that big, would he have burned his poetry? No fucking way! The writing was somewhere in this house. Ben just had to wait until chocolate boy went out to prune his cacao trees and then he could search.
    Ben took a few snaps of the room Gabriel used as an office with a tiny spy camera he'd bought before leaving the city. He'd felt like a fool buying it and more of a fool using it. What was the big secret? The floors were old plank wood, the desk was a wide table piled with papers and notebooks and pens. No computer. Ben studied the walls- woven matting of some kind between bamboo poles, wooden shutters in the windows. No computer and no glass! How could asshole live like this? It smelled good in the room, though, like some sort of sweet grass and honey and candle wax. Candle wax? Maybe he was burning his poems. This thought caused a clutch somewhere behind Ben's solar plexus. Chocolate boy was a pain in the butt, but even through his hurt and betrayal and confusion and jetlag, Ben could tell that deep and wild thoughts were bubbling in Gabriel Archuleta's mind.
    Ah! There it was. A poem that appeared complete, or nearly, called Coatlalopeuh, Poem for Gloria Anzaldua. Who was Gloria Anzaldua? How did chocolate boy live without Wikipedia? Gabriel didn't have a computer, but he was hooked to the internet for the pleasure of his guests. There was a plug and an Ethernet cable, for God's sake, in Gabriel's room.
    Ben sat on the floor, typed the poem into the interview and sent the entire thing off to Rolling Stone. Fuck it. He was done with it. He wanted to put his head down on the smooth wooden floor and cry. My God. What had he done? Had he just stolen and published a poem by Gabriel Archuleta without…Oh. My. God.
    "It took a lot of hard work and growing up before I got over my need to seek the praise and respect of the world." Gabriel was leaning against the door frame, watching him. "Before I was able to write just for the joy of writing. I wanted to write the same way a whale rolls in the cold of the ocean. Because he loves the feel of the salt on his skin. Because he can. And because he can't stop. Don't write that down. That's just between you and me. Have you found what you were looking for?"
    Ben shook his head, felt ashamed at the tears that flooded his eyes. "Now I'm not even sure