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Farwell to Farrell

"Where does the sandman get his sand?"-BeaverReturn

Burning in a pit surrounded by desert sand, the acceptance letter curled into a ball like a torture victim desperately twisting into the foetal position. Eventually it disintegrated into flakes of grey ash, and the fire, hot as hell, carried the remains up into the night sky. The letter, as prestigious and honorable as it was once, shred into an array of burning cinders that floated upwards until they faded insignificant amongst the billions of visible stars.

"Learn to flip your finger up at society, do it confidently, and the rest of the world will bow down to you." said Farrell from under the brim of a dirtied ranger's hat, the campfire before them burning wild in the reflection of his aviator shades. Embraced into Farrell's blue jeans--ripped blue jeans, and a muscle shirt stained by desert sands shaded like amber ale, behind Tim was the coyote who became a kind of throne for the larger cow. Tim's throne was Farrell, Farrell's throne was the seat of his motorcycle, and with one in one, they would become the kings of the wastes, prophets in the desert, carriers of a script with only two-words written on it, "Fuck it."

**

"That's Farrell." said the southern-belle collie, a sweet scent hanging off her Look-At-Me-Now -Daddy booty-shorts, "He's nothing but the son of a washed-up shiner, Hun. Nothing for you to see. 'Specially when ya got me to look at."

Rested on the hood of a 1969 GTO Judge, Tim hooked onto his Southern Belle with his hoof-hands sunk deeply into the pockets of her Look-At-Me-Now-Daddy shorts. Disgruntled by the kiss he suddenly had broken, the collie was whimpering for another go, and yet, he was just too distracted now. She said there was nothing for him to see, and yet that was simply not true. There was a lot for him to see. The kid was a newcomer around Jon's Rust-Land arcade, and something about him stirred up Tim.

Jon's Rust-Land Arcade was a pit-stop hanging off the desert highway far enough from the city that it was easy to become a kingdom where the youth could reign. It helped also that Jon, the owner, was quite a relaxed sort of bear; long as kids were putting coins in his arcade machines then he didn't care what they did. It was the kind of joint where you could pass a joint, a lot where you could get alot, a place to find your place. Jon's Rush-Land kingdom might have been a home away from home for a lot of kids, but never before did he ever notice Farrell hanging round there.

"Don't like his look. It's trouble." Tim grumbled as he let slide his hooves from out of the belle's shorts. Farrell noticing Tim as he lifted away from his belle, snarled a set of mean teeth. Behind him sat his motorcycle.

"Snap out of it, man. If Dad finds out we was racin' round the sands again instead of packin' into tha books and studyin' he'll surely slug us a shot! He put a lot of money in tryin' ta get us the best, an ya know what, he sure as shit is expectin' it to eventually pay off." His twin brother spoke a bit panicked, a rather large bovine, with a face, exact, and yet slightly dumber than his mere-seconds-older brother.

"I'm getting bored, let's get on hurryin' back." whined the belle.

"No, I don't like the look of that kid hanging round here. You two hop a ride back; I'm staying round and finding out his deal." Slicking his hair back Tim rolled up the sleeves of his farmer's shirt and started to walk towards the coyote, his muscles tight under his shirt.

"Come on, be careful wouldja? The kid's got no parents, they'd been smoked up in some kinda moonshiner fire couple'a'years back. He's nothing but trouble." The younger brother said, grabbing the sleeve of the older bovine.

"Then he has got no place being round here." snapped the cow huffing mist from out of his nostrils, "You can all take the car back. I'll get Jon to hitch me a ride after closing."

**

The arcade's bathroom lights buzzed as the dried remains of insect's cake themselves unto the fluorescent bulbs. This screen of deceased bugs shaded the room within an odd miasmic tinge. Farrell, flaccid cock hanging out his dirty jeans, was pissing in a fungal-brown urinal when Jim barged in.

Farrell, before even zipping his fly up, was quick with his pocket-knife as he flipped it out from under his jacket. Jim merely continued to rush forward, the large back of his palm easily slapping the flimsy blade from Farrell's grasp. The coyote shot a surprised glance at the blade as it flew away, but become even more surprised when he felt the bull's large hoof-hand clutch the side of his face and pull him into a kiss.

Tongues met in the ambiguous encounter, the hardening members of the two males becoming squished between them. The coyote's adrenaline became unsure what stream to flow down, his body trying to make sense between one event and the encounter happening right then. But eventually Farrell would be able to close his eyes and begin to enjoy the flavour of the other male.

When logic fell, and reality became just something solely accepted, Farrell kiss's become flavoured by a kind of demand for anarchic destruction. All the while Tim himself burned with the flavour a kind of rebelliousness that was desperate to scream out.

Farrell used this desire to his advantage as he elevated his paws onto Tim's tall shoulders and pushed downward. Tim was happy to oblige Farrell, quickly taking the protruding erection into his mouth savouring no single bit of the hard cock but instead immediately taking it whole. Grabbing the back of the head of bovine, Farrell bounced the cow's head up and down his cock, guiding him quicker and quicker as he become drunk on the seemingly practised tongue of Tim.

With Farrell grunting, and Tim moaning, the buzzing of the moldy lights faded above as the sounds of their lusts became supreme. Breathing heavy as Tim massaged the coyote's orbs in his large hoof-hands; Farrell tried to whimper out a warning as he felt himself coming closer to the edge but could not find the words. It was the way Tim worked, with a determination to make him cum, a yearning to taste his seed, that Farrell just could not stop him. His pleasure was surmounting, summiting fast as he began to buck his hips, pushing himself deeper into the maw of the bovine.

"Damn..."

Farrell's release was quick and yet brilliant, the shots of his cock heavy and thick as it fell down the cow's throat. Swallowing it all proudly, Tim sucked every single bit of the coyote's unrighteous seed: a magic potion that immediately flourished a sense of burning freedom in Tim.

Farrell, fully spent, fell on his knees to Join Tim who grabbed him. Huffing loudly, the bovine nestled the other male into his bulky chest as they become paired on the surface of the grimy tiles. They were silent, not because they couldn't find words, but because there were no words that they needed to say. Instead, the muteness held between them told them all they needed to know about the other.

**

"I'm very proud of you son." His father said passing him his "first beer" on the porch of their antiquated manor, "I just knew you would be accepted. You'll be a man after this summer. Off to school you'll go and when you come back--hell you'll be making more money than even me I reckon."

"I'm not going dad. I got accepted, just like I promised you I would. But I 'aint goin nowhere." Bolting up from the step, Tim threw the beer his father had given him onto the wood boards of the porch. The open can splashed out, spraying his father's shirt, to which the father responded with a nasty growl,

"You worthless sack o' shit! After all the work I did for you, you go ahead an' think ya can just throw it all away? Yah aint any better than that dumbass brother of yers who gone and knocked up that damn worthless bitch. "

"That damn worthless bitch USED to be MY girlfriend."

"And a lot good you did with her. Hell she could have been a good wife for yah and you go ahead and let your brother get all over her. Now y'all three have gone an' screwed up everything." The father stood up, bumping his chest against his taller son.

Tim, stronger than his father, grabbed the older bull by the collar and tossed him off the porch. The father landed on his aged back with a loud thud but had only needed to shake the pain off as he stood back up. Tim rushed forward but his father side-stepped grabbing Tim by the horns and tackling him to the ground. Climbing on-top of his son, the father then lost all nerve, throwing his solid hoof-hands into the face of his son, bruising, and then latter bloodying the hide of his face.

Struggling in the dirt, Tim eventually was able to throw his father, but was unable to continue the fight. The dizziness suddenly infecting his head seemingly became inspired by both physical and mental pain. As he tried to flee his enraged father, his legs folded beneath him during his escape, but still he was able to scramble into his car. Searching his jacket he looked for his car keys as his father screamed at him,

"Get back here. I've wrangled shit-stains off my pants tougher than you. Get back here and finish what you started you ungrateful bastard! Get out of the car!" The father clutched Tim's shoulder as he ripped open the car door. As the father tried to pull his son out of his car, Tim defended himself with a hard head-butt to the father's nose. His dad fell backwards and Tim shut the door, locked it, and then started his car.

The father raced into the house as Tim pulled his car out of the driveway. Just as he got onto the road the father remerged with his shotgun, blasting three shots into the car side before Tim was safely away from his father.

Tim reached for his car's phone but then remembered that the phone was no longer there.

**

"You sure you cool with this bro? I mean, I'm sorry, you've just been so distant lately, always hanging in your room-- and she just sorta came to me one night looking all sour I--I've always had a thing for her."

"She aint my girlfriend anymore. I don't care what happens to her."

"Tim, I got her pregnant."

Tim's blood boiled. Suddenly he DID care about his ex-belle. Suddenly the idea of his brother porking his old girlfriend made him angry. He didn't understand the anger, he just knew that it was there. Why did he care what happened to his girlfriend? She was just some shield that helped his dad forget that time he caught him playing "rubby sticks" with his best-friend all those years back. She was just some tramp, and his brother, well he was just about as equally as dumb. In fact, Tim could even believe that maybe they would even be happy together.

"Fuck." Tim screamed as he threw the car phone into the waters below the red rusted cliff. The circular body of water beneath sparkled against the rays of the full moon as a deep "plop" echoed around the recesses of the old quarries' rocky bowl. The echo seemed to linger longer than usual but eventually it too did fade into the quietness of the firefly night. Farrell, naked behind Tim came to wrap his arms around the large bull. Tim fell down and Farrell followed, holding the bull behind him as Tim started to weep into his hoof-hands.

"You know, every night I'm with you feels like a dream. And it's every fucking morning that I know that I got to wake up. I get it, dreamers can't sleep forever. But it's hard. It's like sometimes I'm not dreaming when I with you. Sometimes it kinda feels like, well-- any time I'm not with you I'm actually just sleep walking till I see you again. That I'm only really awake when I'm with you. But that's not right, because I don't want you to be around when I'm awake, I don't want you to be real--I don't want you to be real because THEY are the real ones, my brother and my dad all of them. But you--I just need you to be a dream because you are the only dream I got--man--you're a dream, so let's just leave this desert. Let's just leave this desert and ride as dreamers that never have to wake up..."

"Dreamers eventually will always have to wake up. That's why they dream."

**

The shotgun shots had hit his car engine, and he had only gotten halfway to the arcade before the car had completely broken down. This meant that he would have to walk the rest of the way. As he shambled down the lonely road, his leg pulsated with an unruly sting. His face hurt, some of the bruises had started to swell, and the blows to the skull had left him with a powerful headache. But his leg, his leg REALLY hurt, and yet he was too scared to look to see if a shell had hit him or not. So he kept walking. He kept walking down the lonely road looking at the infinite stars above him because he was too scared to see the blood trail below.

A few hours later and the night was in full twilight. When Tim got to the arcade it was closed, lights off, and yet the door was wide open. There inside, playing within the orange glow of a pinball machine was Farrell. Tim's knees gave way at the sight of the coyote. Seeing Tim, Farrell gave him a warm smile turning away from the bright machine as he walked over to Tim and offered him a paw up.

Tim stood up only to fall down into the embrace of Farrell who easily supported the large bull. The tears were now streaming down over the lumps of his bruised flesh. Beaten down by his dad, broken down like his car, and burdened by pain he could no longer carry, the love Farrell offered seemed so easy to surrender into. So surrender he did, the warm heal of the coyote's kiss giving him the strength to learn how to stand again.

The wounds stayed but they stopped their suffering as the coyote and bull joined into each other's embrace. Tim collapsed; Tim folded towards the point where their kiss met, the shroud of his bloody clothes unnoticeably becoming removed off his person.

The bull, nude now, never seized the passionate exchange between mouths as he worked to unlatch and then whip off Farrell's leather belt. Dropping his large hoof-hand he felt the familiar warmth of the canine's hardening member as it responded to his rubbing touch. Farrell moaned pushing his pants downward and exposing himself into the air of the arcade. Farrell, now unclothed, knelt himself down in-front of the bull's thick member and slowly brought the sizeable bit into his mouth. It was a challenge to fellate his lover; he struggled as he slowly got use to its mass.

He gave the member a few ups and down as Tim instinctually let a moo of delight escape his lips. Tim's size was challenging for the coyote to take, and yet determined he was to take it all. Pausing only to pleasure the large hanging orbs of the bull with a playing tongue, Farrell took Tim's cock with a kind of hardened determination. His actions became a loyal promise, "I would suffer for you."

"Ah-" The bull cried pushing Farrell off his member, "Enough..."

Farrell rose to his feet grasping Tim's and his cock together as they kissed again, the pumping paw of the coyote making their tongues weak under the seal of their joined mouths. As they shared pre down the length of each other's erection, the paw continued faster, rising a feeling of burning glory at the parts where each body met. Comparably, they sent out hell to the world around them, for only they lived in this heaven that they shared together.

The coyote brought the bull up over to the pinball machine. Using their bodies in silent negotiation, the coyote pushed the bull backwards as Tim hoisted himself up on glass viewing surface of the machine. Turning his head he saw the words behind him as they were written on the pinball's backboard, "World Challenge 2: Atlas's Globe."

The bovine raised his legs and placed it on the shoulders of the coyote. Farrell smiled at the tail-hole that exposed itself for him. Driving his nose forward he slid his tongue repeatedly along the eye of the bull' rear coating it healthily in saliva. As he hungrily divulged in the puckered flesh of the other male, Tim began to moo again, his body quivering in the delight that become so divergent to the pain he once had. With a few final fingers exploring his depths, the bull finally became ready for his lovers offerings.

Suffused in the golden light of the powered pinball machine, he winced as he felt the coyote push his shaft into him. Even with the coyote spending time to prepare his mate, Tim still felt an initial uneasiness when he became entered. Farrell paused to look at his lover with worried eyes as though to say, "Are you okay?"

But then Tim just returned with a look that promised, "I would suffer for you."

Tenderly, Farrell repeatedly drove his thrusts into the other male's opening, kissing and licking the bovine legs that rested on either of his shoulders. Passion and pleasure grew between the pair, the pinball machine beginning to ring bells and buzz sensors as it became moved by Farrell's accelerating thrusts. Caught between the mating pair, the pinball machine became like a mechanical instrument playing its own song; pinging and chiming to the delights of its own tune.

Tears had started to escape Tim again. But these tears did not cut, they mended. The actions of his love were intoxicating. He felt above the world, even if global environment of the pinball machine beneath him was merely synthetic. He was drowning in a cornucopia of sensations, where the heavy breathing of his lover seemed commonplace against the harping of the pinball machine. It was this strange delirium, like a fount of liquid pleasure, which began to spark wildness between the two as they indulged into the marvel of each other's sexuality.

The incantations of each other's breath cursed the air with undeniable need. Farrell's domination turned into an unrelenting force as he burrowed harder and deeper into the bull. Tim responded to this by pulling his lover forcibly forward, bringing the smaller male into his embracing grasp as Farrell continued to pound with one leg now on the machine. The sounds of their deep breathing, of their resonant moans, and of the organic mashing of their bodies, became like a thick fog that quickly consumed the world around them. The pinball machine so loud before became difficult to hear as the two became luminous within the other's presence. Between the two, the building gift of love's passion built within the coyote as he surrendered himself harder into his lover's passage.

"Fuck...It's coming." Moaned the coyote before he let out an elongated sigh and collapsed into his lover, his spent seed coating the insides of the bull with a generous load. With his lover finished, Tim worked his own cock, his own orgasm but on the edge for him, easily became worked out as he sprayed his own chest in the pearl aftermath of his own climax.

"Damn."

**

Cutting the horizon as though it was a steak, the rising sun broke away the night's shadow. The sky was blue, purple, but also it was orange, pink, but mostly it shined with a heart red. Farrell sat on his motorcycle. Tim stood beside him. The lingering chill of the desert's night wind still persistently haunting the both of them.

There were no parting words between them as Farrell started his motorcycle. The rumbling of his engine had said enough. Instead Tim focused on the returning sensations of the bruises and scars that covered his flesh. The sun was rising, and just like he wanted, he was waking up again to feel the world's weight return. His only last desire was to kiss him before he left, but even that would seem like it would be a breach of the contract they had spoken of that night,

"I would suffer for you."

And as Farrell ripped his motorcycle out into the wastes of the desert sand, Tim's dream had finally come to an end. The only sign of Farrell left was the wheel traced path in the sand that Tim dared not follow. It was a single road, for one single person, and that was a truth he accepted. The dream had ended. Farrell had left, no longer could Tim be a dreamer, no--it was time that he awoke, the summer had ended for him- he must be awake now that he was officially an adult. He must be awake because he only desires to dream again.

--

Authors Notes:

First and foremost a shout-out for the lovely Lana Del Rey who really helped inspire this piece. You can go ahead and blame the song and video for "Ride" that was so incredibly beautiful to me that I couldn't help but subtly reference it in my story. On a rainy day as today, I was happy I got to listen to it for the first time because it was the perfect fit to how I've been feeling lately.

Recently I've been kind of making it as a writer. As you read this, this work is actually the work of a published writer! Woo, go me! Only now with some of my work suddenly becoming published do I see the curtain start to fall off the dreams I've made for myself.

I'm a lover of all things art, and I have dreams that one day I'll be an artist more then I'll be a writer. But it's hard to write things as art, because art in virtue should be challenging, and because it seems more and more that this generation itself enjoys less and less to be challenged when we read. Even I suffer from this predicament. I'll bitch about the terribleness of most of the best sellers lately but when trying to honestly tackle some more "art" works in literature I'll find myself struggling. If you prescribed to any modern theories, then you'll likely say that this problem arises from our brains becoming rewired for purposes beyond contemplative reading. I don't know if I believe it, or if I just don't want to believe it, but it's challenging when your ambitions becomes first handed suffered by editor's who seemingly only want cookie cutter works.

In trying to figure this all out, I've devised that there is two kinds of writing: writing for the self and writing for an audience. When writing for the self you are writing works that you create to challenge yourself and to explore the extent of your abilities. When writing for an audience, you are fulfilling a demand and vision the common market desires from you. You get this all the time in other art as well. I know it's cliché to say, "I've done this mostly for myself," but it becomes something you understand once you realize the division between the two reasons for writing.

So why not write the stuff that pays your bills AND write the stuff that's going to contact the sole few whose brain that are still wired to think?

Because there are further depths to consider. You have to be able to write for yourself AND write for your audience because you don't want to be another sell-out writer. With one of my stories I thought I could say, "aw fuck it--it's another accolade on the resume," but seeing that piece now I feel like, much to my dismay that the piece which now represents me as a writer no longer feels like one of my works after it went through the editing process (A Simpsons episode staring literacy heartthrob Neil Gaimen talks a little bit about this effect). An editor can tell me, "I want to support you as a writer," and yet I'm tempted to say, "Are you really?" when my work gets re-modified into some kind of abomination.

Maybe I should just get a pseudonym?

I'm trying my best to be realistic here--Our world is not a world of heart, and I'm not going to be able to sustain myself with idealism and dreams. It's like what my mother says, "At the end of the day it doesn't matter what you do as long as you can get your meat and potatoes."

But I'm just not the kind of guy who can turn out junk for pay. I get bored if the work feels too simple and easy. This is both a blessing and a curse I suppose. Maybe one day I'll see it as the difference between being a bottom feeder and actually feeling like somehow history might remember me.

I know I can walk the path of the artist, and I know what that path looks like. All I need is a driving force to carry me down it and right now that driving force is a love to write. But I'm worried about how far that love can take me. One second being published is the greatest event of my life, and another time it becomes a desperate realization.

Maybe I'm just panhandling for inspiration/advice right now. Maybe I'm just venting because I want to believe that I can be an optimist and a realist--even if realism often has me feeling so pessimistic. Maybe, I'm trying to prove to myself that deep down inside I'm scared as all hell to the starving failure I might become. Maybe, I'm seeing the gap between now and the "other side"-- but really...nothing gained if nothing ventured. I suppose if I were die a fool blinded then at least I'd have proven myself as something.

I know in my heart that I can be a writer (NOTE: NOT A PROOFREADER--lol)--I just don't know if the rest of the world believes it yet.

Anyways till next time this is BeaverReturn reminding you to Watch, Fav, Rate, and COMMENT!!!!