The Gay Icon Classics of the World Read Free

slowly cut away to see the now-empty bloodless chambers. He cut from south to north ending at the yellow crown. He cut away and peered inside.
    To his surprise, there lay the smallest angelic being with wings and a bow but no arrows. The angelic being lay near death and looked up at Haakon with his crystal-like eyes.
    â€œWhere are your arrows? Have you lost them in battle? I see no scars,” Haakon inquired. And in the faintest of whispers - so faint that Haakon had to lean in to hear - the angel said, “Look down below you.”
    Haakon glanced below to the floor and there, laying all around him, were golden little arrows with heartstrings.
    Haakon, in horror, realized who this angel was and what had happened. Unable to penetrate Haakon’s cold soul to reach his heart, the arrows laid all about him on the floor. He knew now that this angel was really the god Cupid. He looked at Cupid but Cupid was now dead.
    â€œOh, my prince, do you see this?” Haakon said while turning to his amorous prince, but he too was dead. The foolish soul didn’t know the prince couldn’t survive long without his heart. Haakon looked all about him. There lay pools of blood, the golden arrows that failed to penetrate his heart, a dead god and a dead prince.
    Gazing at the lifeless corpses, feelings began to pulsate through his veins and his heart beat a sorrowful note. Overcome with remorse, Haakon asked himself, “Is this love?” Haakon will never know.
    Sadly, the truth is that in remorse there exists only the glimmer of love which is called “loss.” However, in this glimmer, Haakon knew that he had lost something wonderful—not from one heart but two.

The Wrong Voice Far Away – Egypt
First Published “SBC Magazine,” WINTER EDITION 2001
    It was a journey that I thought would never end. A journey to the homeland of my mother. It was a hot, endless journey along the Nile from the Egyptian city of Asyut by caravan. The caravan would have several overnight rest stops. The sites were uncomfortable, flea infested, and dimly lit and the food was awful. I would lie awake at night wondering why I was there. The journey was to pay respects to my mother’s family, as her father, a man I did not know, had died. I was the only one of my 13 brothers and sisters who was able to go. My mother, a housewife, told me that she was of noble stock from a nomad tribe of what is now known as southeastern Sudan and western Ethiopia.
    She married an Egyptian, my father, who was a merchant at the time. He’s now a statesman, and with such a position comes arrogance. He has adopted Western ways and Western thinking from the British occupiers. It was easier for him to change to the British lifestyle. He was a Christian. He looked down on my mother’s culture and forbade her to tell us anything about it. His insolence overshadowed his heart, for he forbade my mother to attend her own father’s funeral.
    To be honest, I had no interest in going. However, when I last visited my mother, her cries and pleas that her favorite son go overpowered both my reason and disinterest.
    I remember telling Mohammad that I was to go and that it would be one month’s journey. He said nothing. Three weeks before I was to leave, I told him again, and still he said nothing. He wasn’t a man of many words, which annoyed me. He got up from the bed, as he did every evening, and went to the bathroom. He washed himself in preparation for prayer. I remember the dim light blinding me to his figure in the bathroom. It was my bathroom. Quietly, Mohammad washed his face, hands, and feet and came into the bedroom. I was angry at him. I paid the rent. Muslims always brought their own sujada —special prayer rugs (sujada). It always disturbed me him praying like this in my bedroom. As he kneeled facing the same direction – just as he did every night from my room for the last 6 months he’d been with me – I