Charles Mills Gayley

Francis Beaumont: Dramatist by Charles Mills Gayley

An anthology series of gay stories. Some funny, sad, explicit, and out right dirty. Each chapter tittle is the name of the story's protagonist. The stories are mostly in a high school setting, showing the fun and challenges of being gay.

Watching Angela walk off through the club, Adam couldn't help but notice what a fantastic ass she had. Not just curvy, but the kind of J-Lo bubble butt a man wanted to cup with his hands. The kind of cheeks a man could get a solid grip on as he pounded into her. Shifting a bit uncomfortably in his seat, he turned his attention back to his friends to find they were all staring at him. "What?" "What was with the power play man?" Rick asked, looking at Adam a little askance. "You don't usually pull tricks like that. I would have expected it from Chris but not from you." "Hey," said Chris. "I was perfectly polite to the lady." Rick rolled his eyes. "Mostly." All three of them looked at Adam, even Andrew who normally didn't get involved in the interrogate-your-friends sessions. Since he didn’t like to talk about his own issues, he rarely got involved in trying to talk about others’. The fact that Adam's actions had aroused even Andrew's curiosity meant he'd been less subtle than he’d thought.

Sebastian Miller a well known boy in his university, some nickname him a "comic handsome guy" because of his talent that everyone want to have, a good singer, dancing, arts, even in sports, captain in basketball at highschool and he's now a 3rd year college student. Some even says that 'he's probably out of this world' or 'a comic did really exist and Sebastian proved it' but what happen if he encounter a werewolf and a vampire at the same time? not just meet but these two fall in love with him. who would he pick a werewolf Ethan 'Uno' Ferrer? or a vampire Aziel Ezra?, Sebastian Miller life is an indeed comic.

Jimmy Stevenson is trapped in a strange club created by his friends, they will gather every Friday after returning from college to discuss paranormal stories. To be honest, he prefers to practice soccer instead of doing this. But his heart immediately stopped pounding when he offered to summon Bloody Mary, while what appeared was a figure who took his heart instantly. From there, Jimmy who is called "The no-nonsense man", begins to try to attract the spirit's attention and is rejected time and time again with scenarios that are sometimes very stupid and sometimes too scary, sometimes disgusting. But what he realized was that by summoning the spirit, his soul was sucked out and it shortened his lifespan. Fighting the approaching death and his love for the non-human being, he must find a way or a hole so Jimmy can get both; his age and the spirit he loves. This is his journey of love.

The call came at 7:05 PM on our tenth wedding anniversary. My husband, David, was in an accident. At the hospital, he was awake, but a young woman, his assistant Chloe, was holding his hand, acting like his wife. When I walked in, he looked at me, a blank stranger' s stare, then asked, "Who are you?" He laughed when I said I was his wife, then demanded security remove me, while Chloe, smiling, pretended to cry. It wasn't just memory loss; it was a cruel, targeted erasure. I tried proof, the marriage certificate, but he pushed it away as "just a piece of paper." Then Chloe waltzed in with his favorite soup, and he defended her when I confronted her. "She' s the only one who' s been here for me!" he screamed. He snarled that I was "exhausted, haggard," compared to Chloe, who was "kind and gentle." My wedding ring, a symbol of our forever, flew from my hand as he slapped it away, clinking under the bed. "Don' t come back," he said, turning his back on me to comfort Chloe. Later, I learned why: he had been having an affair with Chloe, his mother's 65th birthday ruined by his absence and her answering his phone. My world shattered when Mark Johnson, David's estranged best friend, told me what David said: "The fake amnesia was a stroke of genius, right? A clean break." My husband had faked a brain injury to throw me away. A car hit me, sending me to the hospital, and I knew what I had to do. When Mark came in, I looked at him, my face blank, then asked, "Are you… my husband?"

Francis Beaumont: Dramatist by Charles Mills Gayley

Avalynn Grimaldi and Nicole Bonavich didn't realised that they were about to be married off because of their parents promise to each other. Since both family doesn't have male heir, their first born were force to sign the marriage contract their parents had set up for them. How can two person that hated each other to the core be joint in a holy matrimony? Will they do something to break free from the contract they were tricked to sign? Read to find out.

This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1919 Excerpt: ...loss of humanity. Henceforth she must deal with realities, leaving him to his painted mummery.... She could understand his frenzy, his fury, his despair. \"That will do, Charles,\" she said very quietly. \"I will see what can be done about Mr. Clott, and whatever happens I will see that you are not harmed.... If you like, you can dine with Verschoyle and me tonight. You can come home with me now, while I dress. I am to meet him at the Carlton and then we are going on to the Opera.\" \"Does Verschoyle know?\" \"He knows that you are you and that I am I---that is all he cares about.... He is a good man. If people must have too much money, he is the right man to have it. He would never let a man down for want of money--if the man was worth it.\" \"Ah!\" said Charles, reassured. This was like the old Clara speaking, but with more assurance, a more certain knowledge and less bewildering intuition and guess-work. A Few weeks later, with Verschoyle and a poor relation of his, a Miss Vibart Withers, for chaperone, Clara left London in a 60 h.p. Fiat, which voraciously ate up the Bath Road at the rate of a mile every minute and a half.... It was good to be out of the thick heat of London, invaded by foreigners and provincials and turned into a city of pleasure and summer-frocks, so that its normal life was submerged, its character hidden. The town became as lazy and drowsy a spectacle as a field of poppies over which danced gay and brilliant butterflies. Very sweet was it then to turn away from it, and all that was happening in it, to the sweet air and to fly along between green fields and orchards, through little towns, at intervals to cross the Thames and to feel that with each crossing London lay so much farther away. Henle...

I thought leaving Hollywood, branded a plagiarist and heartbroken, would bury the past forever. My film school dream, "Desert Bloom," was supposed to be my triumph, a shared vision with Isabella Hayes, my muse and first love. Instead, it became my ruin, as Isabella, seduced by Julian Vance, the slick heir of a rival studio, coldly betrayed me. She stood on stage, her voice trembling with feigned sincerity, publicly accusing me of stealing my own script, conceived in our golden days. The humiliation was a physical agony, a death sentence for my nascent career, forcing me to flee to Europe a broken man. How could the woman who once looked at me like I held the stars in my hands, surrender our shared dream, our love, for a manipulative con artist? I rebuilt my life from the ashes, finding solace in a new career, a loving wife, Olivia, and our beautiful daughter, Lily, who became my anchor. But now, years later, the past has crashed back. I'm back at my old school, and Isabella, the architect of my ruin, is here too, brazenly trying to rewrite history. She's publicly proposing we "reunite" to finally make "Desert Bloom," attempting to reclaim a story she deliberately destroyed. She expects me to play along, to let her manipulate my narrative, to fall back into her toxic orbit. She has no idea about the life I've painstakingly built, or how fiercely I will protect it. Tonight, the ghost of my past will finally face the undeniable truth of my present.

My 18th birthday was supposed to be a celebration, a chance for my biological family, the Hewitts, to finally accept me. Living in their lavish Napa Valley winery, I desperately hoped for their love, despite being cast aside for their adopted daughter, Nicole. But the party turned into a nightmare when Nicole burst in, smeared with fake blood, dramatically accusing me of hiring men to hurt her. The room erupted. My "parents" looked at me with disgust, my brother Andrew, the one I' d longed for a bond with, unleashed his fury. He beat me, kicking me as I collapsed, while my father watched indifferently and my mother prepared to institutionalize me. They dragged me out like trash, sending me to Dr. Albright' s "behavioral correction facility" – a private asylum for inconvenient children. I felt a deeper pain than any physical blow; the betrayal was absolute, the injustice unbearable. How could they believe such a monstrous lie? How could my own family turn on me so viciously, so easily? They broke Molly there, with every needle and shock, every whispered lie, until, on the brink of sexual assault, her gentle spirit gave way. But a whisper echoed in my mind: "Stella… make them pay." That night, Molly died, and I, Stella, was born, ready to exact a chilling revenge.