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Time Flies — free sample

GAY ROMANCE /​ SCIENCE FICTION

ISBN: 9781938964039 (paper­back)
ISBN: 9781938964039 (paper­back)
ISBN: 9781938964046 (case­bound)
ISBN: 9781938964053 (ebook)
ASIN: B01MUFGNVW (Ama­zon Kindle MOBI)
BCID: 755 – 14419253 (goodreads)

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Time Flies — where to find the book

Time Flies - Wynn Wagner
ISBN: 9781938964039 (paper­back)
ISBN: 9781938964046 (case­bound)
ISBN: 9781938964053 (ebook)
ASIN: B01MUFGNVW (Ama­zon Kindle MOBI)
BCID: 755 – 14419253 (goodreads)


 

Hardback with dust jacket


Paperback


(per­fect bound, 6x9, 298 pages)


e-Book


Bulk copies and wholesale

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Time Flies

GAY ROMANCE /​ SCIENCE FICTION

Time Flies - science fiction by Wynn Wagner
ISBN: 9781938964039 (paper­back)
ISBN: 9781938964046 (case­bound)
ISBN: 9781938964053 (ebook)
ASIN: B01MUFGNVW (Ama­zon Kindle MOBI)
BCID: 755 – 14419253 (goodreads)


Small town Tex­as is tough on a gay kid, but this one decid­ed to learn karate. Prob­lem solved, or so he thought.

Time Flies is fun­ny. It’s the ten­der sto­ry of a young man who doesn’t let soci­ety or its machin­ery hold him back. He’s going to fall in love, and there’s noth­ing you can do about it. He’s going to save the world, and it’s so Top Secret that nobody gives him a medal or says Thank You. Those would have been nice, but what he got was love.

His whole life is about hope. If bub­ba doesn’t give you hope, you make it your­self. If soci­ety says you’re sub­stan­dard, go change the stan­dard. Andreas learns how to do that, and he’s real­ly fun­ny doing it.

Time Files starts angry. The nar­ra­tor hates liv­ing in Tex­as, hates the bub­bas down the street, and has a gen­er­al­ly foul atti­tude. His roost­er is con­tin­u­al­ly stoned on pot seeds from some­where. The book goes through snarky and fun­ny, and it ends with some of the most lov­ing prose we’ve seen in years.


NOTE: All eBooks con­tain live con­tent.


This is Wynn Wagner’s first book since a hos­pi­tal stay of 5-months awhile ago. He has no pan­creas now, and he suf­fers from demen­tia. Writ­ing with demen­tia isn’t as sim­ple as you might think.


Trinity Valley School — Kent Henning

by Wynn Wag­n­er


I went to Trin­i­ty Val­ley School (TVS) in Fort Worth for sev­er­al years. Bru­tal cours­es. I bare­ly had to crack a book when I went back to pub­lic school. What’s more, I rarely saw any­thing new in col­lege. Every­thing was stuff I learned at TVS.

TVS was the site of the only school bul­ly­ing that I expe­ri­enced. Two kids were the main cul­prits: Mar­t­in Fend­er and [?] Cush­ing. It was bad enough that my adopt­ed dad had a meet­ing with one of the school exec­u­tives. KENT HENNING had the balls to say bul­ly­ing — espe­cial­ly when it involves a gay kid — is just a fact of life. He told me to get used to it. He said there’d be no help from the school. This guy’s name (if you missed it) is KENT HENNING. The school is Trin­i­ty Val­ley, and they went out and named a golf tour­na­ment after this pro-bul­ly­ing dick.

You can imag­ine how dis­mayed I was to run across a web­page about the Kent Hen­ning Invi­ta­tion­al Golf Tour­na­ment. This offi­cial spon­sor of anti-gay bul­ly­ing has a golf thingy named after him.

I took care of the bul­ly­ing. I left TVS at the end of the year and went back to pub­lic school. It was nice there, and I rarely had to study.

TVS got kicked to the curb. I nev­er even thought about Hen­ning or Fend­er or Cush­ing. I moved on, but the golf game was annoy­ing. Hen­ning some­how hood­winked that school: mazel tov.

Because I was born into fos­ter care, find­ing ad hoc solu­tions to prob­lems is what I can do. My insur­ance pol­i­cy again­st pub­lic school bul­ly­ing was both fun and effec­tive. I put out for a cou­ple of foot­ball play­ers. I don’t real­ly know if we had quid pro quo. All I know is that there wasn’t any bul­ly­ing, for what­ev­er rea­son.

Brent: a Gay Book Hall of Fame

BRENT: THE HEART READER is the 2012 winner of the Gay Book Hall of Fame.

BRENT: THE HEART READER is the 2012 win­ner of the Gay Book Hall of Fame.

Here at Mys­tic Ways Books, we are gid­dy (and a lit­tle fright­ened) to let you know that Wynn Wagner’s Brent: the Heart Read­er has been induct­ed into the Gay Book Hall of Fame.

We’re a lit­tle fright­ened by this because Dr. Wag­n­er’s already got a big head, and this isn’t going to be shrink­ing it.

This is what the GBHoF said about Dr. Wag­n­er and Brent:

Brent the Heart Reader

Brent the Heart Read­er
In the Gay Book Hall of Fame

Wynn Wagner’s books are always decep­tively easy to read, and they are usu­ally fun­ny or irrev­er­ent. They are deep­er and stronger than you might think at first. He has an affin­ity for first per­son nar­ra­tives.

What makes his nov­els impor­tant for the LGBT world is that they are always about empow­er­ment. If there is a bul­ly, you can assume he or she will end up get­ting bul­lied. Sissies are the tough guys.

Although he is a retired arch­bishop in the Old Catholic Church, many of his nov­els deal with the hege­mony of orga­nized reli­gion run amuck.

In Brent: The Heart Read­er, Wag­ner takes on adop­tion. The nar­ra­tor was adopt­ed by a right wing evan­gel­i­cal fam­ily that hates queers. If you guessed that fam­ily mem­bers take a few licks, you’d be what we call cor­rec­ta­mundo. Along the way, the nar­ra­tor falls in love with a full-blood­ed Sioux. Brent has to learn and grow as oth­ers look to him for wis­dom and strength.

Brent is for mature audi­ences.

Brent: all dressed up for the holidays

        

Brent: the Heart Reader

 

TRAILER: Brent the Heart Reader

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This trailer is called “Brent’s Lonely Road”

This movie requires Flash Play­er 9

 

MEDIA INFO: Brent the Heart Reader

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Collateral

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Trailer

Title: “Brent’s lone­ly road (bul­lied)”
Length:  50 sec­onds
Audio: None
Video: 550px x 400px
Note: Words on screen may be NSFW

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Other

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WHERE TO BUY: Brent: The Heart Reader

 

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Brent: the Heart Reader

Paperback distribution channels

ISBN: 978 – 1470072841 — $16.99 (msrp)

  • Ama­zon (USA) (look inside the book)
  • Mys­tic Ways e-store (auto­graphed at no extra charge)
  • Bar­nes & Noble
  • Pow­ell Books
  • Ingram (whole­sale, Advance cat­a­log)
  • Bak­er & Tay­lor (whole­sale)
  • Light­ning Source (whole­sale)

Hardback (with dust jacket) distribution channels

ISBN: 978 – 1-105 – 61875-8 — $39.99 (msrp)

  • Ama­zon — in the pipeline
  • Mys­tic Ways e-store (auto­graphed)
  • Lulu (free pre­view)

e-Book distribution channels

ISBN: 978 – 1620955758 — $6.99 (msrp)

 

EXCERPT: Commitment Issues

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from Chapter One

[two]I was clutched by an angel. My angel want­ed to have sex with me when I was sure that nobody on plan­et earth want­ed me. It was the worst day of my life. I was even think­ing about sui­cide, but my angel swooped down and saved me.

Wait, before you say any­thing, I want you to know that I’m with you. I bare­ly believe it myself, and I was there. It couldn’t have been an angel. It was some kind of mis­tak­en iden­ti­ty. Angels don’t have sex with guys. If they did, it wouldn’t be the kind of angel we should asso­ciate with. The only kind of angel that would have sex with a human is one of those “fal­l­en” angels. I mean, I’ve been through all those argu­ments. I agree with the damn argu­ments, but I was there. I know what I saw. I know what I felt.

It was a hor­ren­dous day: the fifth anniver­sary of the death of Car­los. Five years had passed since the day that I had got­ten blot­to on rum and Coke. Car­los was out of his gourd on beer and kick-ass hydro­pon­ic mar­i­jua­na. Car­los and I nev­er fought because we tried to be spir­i­tu­al. We med­i­tat­ed togeth­er and could sit for hours star­ing into each other’s eyes. We nev­er used chem­i­cal accel­er­ants dur­ing the week because of school, but Car­los was an expert on ways to tur­bocharge our week­end adven­tures. One week­end we might do fresh-picked psilo­cy­bin mush­rooms, and we’d spend the next week­end on mesca­line. Car­los intro­duced me to psy­che­delic drugs in col­lege, and he usu­al­ly pre­ferred those to street crap. For some rea­son, he decid­ed to do beer and mar­i­jua­na. I don’t like beer, but don’t tell me that I’m going to be left out of the par­ty. I got out the rum.

We were paint­ing the liv­ing room until the fight start­ed. It was my fault. I decid­ed it would be a good idea to put semi­gloss onto a lamp­shade. It looked good to me, but Car­los went out of his mind. He said the lamp had been his grandmother’s. That was why it looked so out of date. I told him that he’d love the update. He told me that I was out of my fuck­ing mind. I told him he was an igno­rant wet­back. My wet­back com­ment pret­ty much did in the rest of the day.

I knew how to curse in Span­ish, but he was rat­tling things off so fast that I wasn’t able to keep up. Car­los threw an ash­tray at me. I threw his stu­pid lamp back at him. I remem­ber hear­ing mari­conada and­cabrón, nei­ther of which you usu­al­ly heard pass the lips of my lover. May­be I had crossed some invis­i­ble line, but there was no going back.

We were down on the Gulf Coast, and he knew the area. He had plen­ty of fam­i­ly, but I didn’t know much more than the house and the city lim­it sign.

Car­los was so angry that he shook as he screamed at me in Span­ish. He grabbed his keys, and he stomped out of the front door. I heard him start his motor­cy­cle, and the wheels screeched as he raced down the street.

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He didn’t come back that night. He nev­er came back, because Car­los was killed when a drunk dri­ver ran a stop sign. We were drunk and stoned, we fought, and Car­los was killed by a drunk dri­ver. He was rid­ing with no hel­met, of course. It was the five-year anniver­sary of that day when my angel showed up.

It doesn’t get worse than that, right?

Bull­shit. It gets worse. Car­los and I dat­ed all through col­lege, and we were set­ting up our life togeth­er. We had dat­ed for years, and final­ly we were out on our own. Our nest was com­ing along, and we were ready to ride into the sun­set with our pick­et fence and Lhasa Apso. When he was killed, we had lived togeth­er for three days.

Three fuck­ing days as a cou­ple after dat­ing for years. We got drunk and stoned, and you add a motor­cy­cle and anoth­er drunk dri­ver to the mix.

One more thing: it was Labor Day week­end. Every­body else is off being hap­py, but I have an entire hol­i­day week­end where my stu­pid­i­ty is laid out before me. Labor Day week­end. Yeah, I always feel like swim­ming and cook­outs on Labor Day.

Okay, I’m done. That’s the whole sto­ry.

I got sober a while back, but Labor Day is still there to raise its cru­el head. Some stu­pid­i­ty just doesn’t go away, and I car­ried that awful, hor­ri­ble day with me. Some­times I can’t for­get or for­give. I remem­ber.

My angel appeared on Labor Day. It was the fifth anniver­sary of me killing Car­los with our drunk­en fight.

It was bed­time, and I was com­ing in the back gate of my apart­ment. My Alco­holics Anony­mous spon­sor said that I was hav­ing a rough go of it. “Rough go” seems like a clin­i­cal way of describ­ing it.

Sharon knew all about Car­los, and she had seen what Labor Day did to me in the pre­vi­ous years. This year would be one of those major mile­stones: five years. She sug­gest­ed that I take myself out on a date to my favorite Chi­ne­se restau­rant. It was sup­posed to be a “date” with myself, not just sup­per. It was great until the for­tune cook­ie. When I opened up the cook­ie, the lit­tle piece of paper was blank.

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