A Must Read Novel by Mark A. Roeder!!

A Triumph of Will

WWII. 1942. Will’s brother is fighting the war in the Pacific, but Will is forced to remain behind. Will takes his brother’s place in the academic world of Indiana University, where he meets two students and two soon-to-be-legendary men who will change his life forever.

Will thought he was the only boy attracted to other males, but when he sneaks into Professor Kinsey’s marriage course he realizes his mistake. Will meets Ben, who he suspects is not unlike himself. When his suspicions are confirmed, the pair begins an awkward, halting relationship of self-discovery and love.

Will is shocked that Negroes attend IU. He’s leery and afraid of Adam, but becomes ashamed of his prejudice when he comes face-to-face with the discrimination Adam faces daily. Together, Will, Adam, and a powerful ally join to subtly and surreptitiously integrate IU. But, just as changes for the better come, Will is faced with prejudice much closer to home, prejudice that can only be banished by tragedy.

A Will to Triumph is a story of friendship, ignorance, fear, and the power of knowledge and love to make the world a better place.

Mrs. Whitman’s Miraculous Christmas Tree by Mark A. Roeder

I must confess that when I first encountered the tale of Mrs. Whitman’s Miraculous Christmas Tree I was skeptical at best and hostile at worst. This point must be understood very clearly from the outset for what I discovered…well, we will get to that presently.

I had no intentions of seeking out Mrs. Whitman in the beginning, none at all. The story that came annually to my ears was just that—a story and nothing more. It could not possibly be true after all. It was nothing but a Christmas tale to amuse children and the gullible.

As the years passed I became privy to inside information about Mrs. Whitman that made me even more of a disbeliever. My barber’s wife’s brother’s secretary knew a woman whose cousin’s sister-in-law knew the boy who shoveled the snow from Mrs. Whitman’s sidewalk. The details related to me in confidence were so preposterous that I had no doubt the tale of Mrs. Whitman’s Miraculous Christmas Tree could be anything but entirely false.
One of my friends, being more trusting, or more gullible, depending on how one looked at it, did not react to the particulars of the story as I did. Indeed, he took the tale ever more to heart and insisted that it must be true. I argued the point, of course, as any sane being would, but he would not be dissuaded from his false beliefs. He even went so far as to bet me $100 that the tale was true.

Partly to teach my friend a lesson, and partly to lighten his wallet, I took the bet and set out in search of the very Mrs. Whitman of the tale. I was confident I would discover falsehood and return to enrich myself with my friend’s foolishly wagered funds.

Locating Mrs. Whitman was not as easy as it might seem. My barber’s wife’s brother’s secretary’s friend’s cousin’s sister-in-law revealed many peculiar particulars of the tale, but not the location of Mrs. Whitman herself. I momentarily considered approaching my barber for the information, but by the time my request made it along the chain and the reply come back it would likely be well after Christmas. Christmas was, in fact, only days away. It was either find Mrs. Whitman now or wait another year to collect on my bet.

The tale vaguely related that Mrs. Whitman resided in a small town in the neighboring county of Pike. The size of the town was of no assistance, for all the towns in Pike County were small. That the number of towns in the county was few was of considerably more help. I traveled to said county and began to discreetly enquire as to Mrs. Whitman’s whereabouts. I will not tire your mind with my quest for, though long, it was not particularly interesting. Suffice it to say that a waitress in a small café pointed me toward Winslow and the residence of Mrs. Whitman herself.
In minutes, I had driven to the pleasant, if not quite charming, little town located on the banks of the Patoka River. There was little to recommend the town except for a small grocery and the obligatory gas station. I did note the presence of a modern looking library. The citizens were obviously possessed of some pride, for the Main Street was well decorated for the season. All in all, Winslow did not look as if it was a bad place to live.

I pulled up to the address given me. It belonged to an antique house that, despite my familiarity with architecture, I could not quite place in time. It was old, in any event, and a bit on the worn and shabby side. Still, it presented a pleasant, homey ambiance and seemed just the right kind of place for the famous Mrs. Whitman to reside.
Gaining entrance to Mrs. Whitman’s abode was not as easy as finding it after I’d been given directions. Her nurse, a fairly disagreeable woman named Susan, refused me entrance. It seemed that I was not the first to come seeking to establish the veracity of Mrs. Whitman’s tale. Unlike the others, I’d come with a secret weapon. I would like to claim that I foresaw the difficulty of gaining entrance to Mrs. Whitman’s home, but truth to tell I’d merely brought her a token of thanks for her time. One detail I remembered from the story was that Mrs. Whitman was fond of flowers, red and white carnations, specifically.

When I presented the bouquet Susan decided that I was a cut above the rest and agreed to inquire as to whether or not Mrs. Whitman would receive me. After some minutes spent standing in a long hallway filled with Victorian prints and photos of no doubt long dead relatives, Susan returned to escort me into the presence of Mrs. Whitman.

Mrs. Whitman received me in an old-fashioned parlor from the Victorian era. The furniture, the objets-de-art, and even the wallpaper dated to a hundred years or more before. Mrs. Whitman might well have been of the same age. When I set my eyes upon her I knew, without doubt, that part of her tale was true. Mrs. Whitman was confined to her wheelchair and most certainly could not have decorated the allegedly miraculous Christmas tree herself. Even if she had not been confined to her wheelchair, she was far too old and frail to hazard decorating a purportedly sixteen-foot-tree. That did not, of course, eliminate the distinct possibility that others set up the tree and decorated it for her, as had been my suspicion all along.

Mrs. Whitman thanked me for the flowers and agreed to speak with me about her miraculous Christmas tree. According to the tale, the tree appeared, fully decorated and lit, complete with presents, sometime on the night of Christmas Eve. Mrs. Whitman related that she’d never given out the exact time as it was hard enough on Christmas Eve to keep the curious at bay.

Mrs. Whitman asked Susan to make us some tea. I should remark here that Susan had become a good deal friendlier once she knew that her employer was more than willing to speak with me. Perhaps her abruptness was not rudeness, as I had first believed, but rather a dedication to preserving Mrs. Whitman’s privacy.

When Susan left to make tea, Mrs. Whitman continued with the tale of her miraculous Christmas tree. It was much the same as I had heard it often before, differing only in unimportant particulars. Her tale was nearly finished when Susan returned with an antique tea service and porcelain cups. I had no doubt these were relics of a time when the Whitman’s possessed considerably more wealth. Despite the antiques, I could tell without difficulty that Mrs. Whitman was of the most modest of means.

Once Susan had again departed and Mrs. Whitman and I sat tea cups in hand, I was free to question the old lady about her story. I did so with great politeness and respect, of course, even though the story could not possibly be true.

“An angel, Mrs. Whitman? I daresay that few believe that part of your tale.”

“No doubt you are among those disbelievers,” said my elderly companion.

I knew there was no hiding anything from this sweet, but shrewd, old lady. She had already figured me out and I’d barely begun to question her. She did not seem in the least angry, however. She was more amused than anything.

“Well, you must admit, it is a bit difficult to believe.”

“For some,” she replied. “Others take it on faith and they are all the richer for it.”

“So tell me, how did you come to meet this angel?"

“That was during my hardest time. I was merely old then and not yet ancient. I was, however, confined to my wheelchair just as I am now. It was the first Christmas after my dear, sweet Harold passed on. Harold was my husband. We were childhood sweethearts. Oh, the tales I could tell you about those days! But, you’ve come to hear about my tree.

“Each year, on Christmas Eve, Harold went out and cut down a beautiful pine tree. I sat and watched as he set it up, strung the lights, and hung the many decorations. In earlier times when I could walk, I helped him decorate the tree, of course. It was mostly my province then, but Harold was always here to help. When I could no longer handle the decorating in more than a very minor manner, Harold took over. We used to sit here in the parlor with a fire in the hearth while Harold decorated the tree for me.

“After Harold passed away, there was no one left to set up the tree. Some neighbors presented me with a small potted tree which I decorated and sat on the parlor table over there, but it wasn’t the same. I was sitting in this very parlor on Christmas Even night, missing my Harold terribly, and fondly remembering the Christmas tree he set up for me each year when He appeared.

“The angel?”

“Yes. Oh, he was beautiful—so beautiful I couldn’t bear to look at him at first. He was a mere boy, and yet it was hard to tell his exact age. The more I looked at him, the less he seemed to be of any particular age. He had long, golden hair and a face I can only unimaginatively describe as angelic.”

Mrs. Whitman described the angel with such a light in her eyes that I found my skepticism ever so slightly in doubt. She seemed to truly believe what she was saying. There were, of course, the possibilities of senility or dementia. Mrs. Whitman was of quite an advanced age after all.

“I assure you I was in my right mind,” said Mrs. Whitman, as if she had read my own. “I doubted my senses momentarily as I think most would, but it soon became evident that what I was seeing was quite real. I was more convinced by the feeling than by the sight. Not that I doubted my own eyes. It’s just that I felt such peace, such love, and such understanding in his presence that I felt this must really be an angel who had come to visit me.

“I couldn’t speak at first, but the Angel told me that he’d come with a Christmas gift for me. I found my voice and asked what I’d done to deserve such a gift and he replied that I had loved with all my heart. He told me he knew how keenly I missed Harold. He reminded me that Harold wasn’t really gone and that someday I’d be with him again. He told me that to remind me of that he would cause a beautiful Christmas tree to appear every year and disappear again on New Year’s morning.

“I had no time to doubt his word, even if I’d been inclined to do so, for a brilliantly decorated Christmas tree appeared with the most enchanting decorations and beautiful lights. The tree looked so like the last that my own dear Harold had decorated for me that I almost felt as if he was with me again. There were even gifts under the tree that the Angel said were for me to open on Christmas morning.

“Of course the tree aroused great interest. Friends and neighbors who dropped by during the remainder of the Christmas season enquired as to who had decorated such an enchanting tree for me. They knew full well I could not have set it up and decorated it myself. I could reach only the lowest branches. I was loathe to tell them the truth for I was almost certain they would not believe me. I have never spoken a dishonest word, however, and to do so now seemed ungrateful to the beautiful angel who had given me such a great gift.”

“How did your friends and neighbors react?”

“As I thought they would. At first they thought I was teasing them or playing a joke, but as I stuck to the story they began to fear for my sanity. For a while, I myself feared they would have me carted off, but apparently they decided that if I was crazy, at least I wasn’t a danger to myself or others.”

Mrs. Whitman chuckled for a moment before continuing.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you about Christmas morning. I spent the early morning alone as I had for some time. I had my tree to keep me company, however, and I had the gifts left by the Angel.”

“What did he leave you?” I asked with growing interest.

“What I needed or desired most. There were six packages. In one I found a new coffee maker. Mine was on its last legs. I’d been putting aside some money to purchase a new one. I unwrapped another gift to find a receipt indicating my heating and electric bill had been prepaid for the entire winter. I can’t begin to tell you what a relief that was. In another box, I found a new housecoat and matching house shoes. Mine were threadbare so I was especially pleased. The fourth box was filled with books from my favorite authors. That gift alone was worth its weight in gold. There would be no more lonely winter nights for me as I would have my books to keep me company.”

“What was in the last box?”

“That was the darnedest thing. I’d been thinking of a particular doll I had as a child. Oh how I loved that doll, but somewhere in all the passing years it had disappeared. My parents had given me that doll and I’d spent many afternoons playing and having tea parties with her. I tore the wrapping away from the last gift and there she was. It wasn’t merely a doll like my old doll either, but the very same one. I knew because one of the blue eyes had a violet cast to it the other didn’t. If I hadn’t believed before, I would have believed then that the boy who came to visit me was an angel.”

I must admit that my skepticism was no longer intact by this point. I was far from convinced, to be sure, but the story about Mrs. Whitman’s long missing doll struck me in the most particular way. Still, those gifts, even the doll, could have been left by someone other than an angel. Perhaps someone had found her old doll in the attic and had wrapped it up for a special Christmas surprise.

“No one bothered to ask me where I’d obtained the new coffee maker, the books, and other items. I think by this point they feared the answer. I could tell by the way they spoke to me that they believed I was a bit off my rocker. You know, the way one speaks to a small child or to those who have truly lost it? I believe, by this point, that my friends and neighbors had decided I was charmingly eccentric, rather than crazy, although there is no real difference between the two. Eccentric is just a polite way of saying someone is a bit insane. Something soon happened, however, to shake their certainty that I’d gone batty. On New Year’s Eve my neighbor and his son told me they would come the next day to take down my tree for me. I told them they need not bother, for the angel said it would disappear by New Year’s morning. They told me they would stop by ‘just in case,’ which, of course, meant they fully expected the tree to be standing there when they arrived. When I came into the parlor the next morning, the tree and its decorations were gone. There was not so much as a pine needle upon the carpet. When my thoughtful neighbor and his son dropped by later in the morning, the tree was, of course, nowhere to be seen.

“They asked me who had come and taken away the tree. I told them the angel had taken care of it. This was the truth, of course, but they weren’t able to believe it and more’s the pity. I have a notion that they asked around to see who had taken down the tree for me, but, of course, could find no one who would admit to the good deed for none of my friends and neighbors had anything to do with it.”

I myself chuckled at this point. It was obvious that Mrs. Whitman found the disbelief of those around her entertaining and had enjoyed their efforts to get at the truth. I was finding the story behind the story quite as entertaining as the story itself.

“The next holiday season those around me became just a bit uncertain as to whether or not I’d gone potty after all, for the tree reappeared on Christmas Eve decorated as before. What especially perplexed my neighbors was the timing. The tree appeared between two closely spaced visits from neighbors. It wasn’t here when Mr. Franklin dropped in to check on me, but it was here less than an hour later when Mrs. Thompson dropped by for a chat. It was when Mr. Franklin and Mrs. Thompson compared notes that things began to get interesting. No one could figure out how anyone could set up and so beautifully decorate the tree in under an hour, especially without being seen. My neighbors, then as now, tended to keep an eye on my place, more out of concern for my welfare than nosiness. Of course, no one saw the freshly cut Christmas tree coming through my door because it didn’t come in that way. I was in the parlor when the tree appeared. One moment it wasn’t there, the next it was—complete with presents again, no less.

“It was then that my neighbors, God bless their disbelieving souls, decided that one of their number must be in cahoots with me. Someone must have delivered a tree at night, hidden it within the house, and then secretly decorated it. My part was merely to claim an angel had made the tree miraculously appear. Suspicion fell most heavily upon Mr. Franklin and Mrs. Thompson, naturally, but no one was quite sure.

“Well, the next year my home was under much closer surveillance. You can be sure not so much as a cat approached my home from any direction without being observed. But, of course, the tree appeared again on Christmas Eve, much to the astonishment of all.”

Mrs. Whitman actually laughed at this point and I joined with her in her merriment. I could just picture the bewilderment of her neighbors.

“It was the next year that people ‘round about began to believe. Word about my miraculous Christmas tree had spread and not only was the house watched from the outside, but from the inside, too. Mrs. Perry and Mrs. Conder both paid me a visit on Christmas Eve. They didn’t say they’d come to observe, of course, but I wasn’t fooled. I wasn’t bothered in the least for I enjoyed their company and had nothing to hide.

“Well, they both left the parlor to make us a bit of tea. They were gone not five minutes, but when they returned there was the tree! I greatly feared Mrs. Perry would upset the tea tray and smash my cups when she saw it, but, trembling, she somehow managed to set it on the table.

“Of course, neither could explain how the tree had so suddenly appeared. No one could have erected and decorated it that fast. In fact, it would have been a feat if any living soul could have decorated that tree in less than six hours. There were that many ornaments and that much detail.

“Word quickly spread about what had happened. Some believed that Mrs. Perry and Mrs. Conder were part of a growing conspiracy, but more than a few began to earnestly believe.

“As much fun as I had with my neighbors’ dilemma, I began to grow tired of living under a magnifying glass at Christmas. The next Christmas Eve I invited my closest friends and neighbors to spend Christmas Eve with me. Everyone accepted my invitation, of course, because by this point the entire town was just dying to know what was going on.

“Everyone brought a little something and we made it quite a party. At no time were there less than three or four people in the parlor. When the tree did make it miraculous appearance every one of my invited guests was in the room. They were astounded for the tree appeared, apparently right out of thin air, before their very eyes.

“Well, there was no disbelieving my tale now, at least as far as the Christmas tree and gifts were concerned. Some few might have doubted the involvement of an Angel, but most believed the entire story after that day.

“From that Christmas season on my neighbors became my allies in keeping the curious at bay. I would have had no peace without their help because word had spread and everyone would have liked to have seen for themselves when the tree appeared. At first my friends and neighbors had quite a time of keeping the curious out, but as the years passed the task grew easier. Most came to believe the story was just a myth, just a pleasant Christmas tale to tell by the fire, but those who were closest to me knew the truth.”

Mrs. Whitman turned her eyes upon me and fixed me with a stare.

“I can tell that you don’t quite believe the story even now, do you?”

I was most uncomfortable under the old woman’s gaze for her eyes were piercing and I felt as if she could look into my very soul.

“Well, I…I’m much closer to believing it than I was when I arrived.”

Mrs. Whitman laughed. “You tell the truth. I like that. I let you in on account of your thoughtfulness in bringing me my favorite flowers. Since you are a truthful man, I will allow you to return on Christmas Eve to see the miracle for yourself.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Whitman. I very much appreciate that.”

“Return on Christmas Eve, not after one p.m., for otherwise you may miss the miracle and have to wait another year. I’m not sure how many years I have left, so time is running out.”

“I will be here sharp at one ma’am. I give you my word.”
With that I took my leave of Mrs. Whitman because I’d taken more than enough of her valuable time. She had been gracious to tell me her tale and I was not so ungrateful as to demand more.

I eagerly anticipated the arrival of Christmas Eve, perhaps as eagerly as the children of the world anticipate the coming of Christmas morning. When the 24th at last arrived I set out early, for it was a veritable blizzard outside and I did not wish to be late. It was a good thing I allowed myself an extra hour for travel because I arrived just barely before one.
When I arrived, however, I found a black wreath upon the door. I knocked and Susan answered, clad in black. I knew then that though I had come on time, I had arrived too late. Mrs. Whitman was gone. She had passed away only hours before.

I turned away from Mrs. Whitman’s home feeling a sense of loss. I had come so close to witnessing the miracle for myself and now it would never be seen by anyone again. The proof had been within my grasp, but had slipped away.
The truly odd thing was, however, that I no longer needed proof. I no longer needed to see Mrs. Whitman’s miraculous Christmas tree appear out of thin air to believe in it. I realized that I believed in the story even before I had reached Mrs. Whitman’s door on this snowy Christmas Eve afternoon. Seeing her eyes as she related the tale told me all I needed to know. Her eyes spoke the truth.

Some might say that the look in an old lady’s eyes was not proof enough, but then some would not believe if they had witnessed the miracle for themselves. They would insist that there was some magician’s trick to it. Others believe without seeing the tree or Mrs. Whitman at all. Those who could believe without seeing were all the richer for it. I had set out demanding proof, but somewhere along the way I’d become one of those who could accept the miracle, and others like it, on faith. Mrs. Whitman’s Miraculous Christmas Tree was indeed a wonderful gift, and not only to her, but to all of us who believed.

I shed no tears for Mrs. Whitman. I grieved for her not in the least. I knew her angel had come for her and had taken her to her beloved Harold. They were together again in a place where they would never be parted. Mrs. Whitman’s miraculous Christmas tree had helped her through all the long years until she could once again be with the one she loved. This was not a time for mourning; it was a time for celebration. I bid Mrs. Whitman a silent Merry Christmas and went upon my way, all the richer for having known her.

"Homo for the Holidays" makes a great Christmas gift. The Kindle version is only $3.99:

The Antichrists

My author friend Mark A. Roeder has released another novel today! It is called The Antichrists! Definitely worth the read for every Christian and non-Christian alike.


Elijah has a dream—to follow in the footsteps of his brothers and make the VHS football team. But, for Elijah it’s an uphill battle. Unlike his tall, muscular brothers, Elijah is small and weak, but he pushes on, determined to realize his dream. Elijah’s faith is a source of comfort and strength, but when his new pastor begins to preach out against gays, Elijah feels increasingly unwelcome. While his church seems increasingly un-Christian, Elijah is exposed to the gay boys of Verona—boys who care about each other and reach out to those in need. Why are those who are called abominations acting more Christian than the Christians? When Elijah admits to himself that he is gay his faith is weakened. His belief is further shaken when he becomes sick. Is it a punishment from God? How could God create him gay and then punish him for it? As Elijah’s troubles and doubts increase, a very special boy comes into his life and helps him find his way. Elijah learns that much of what he has been taught in church is wrong, but that he shouldn’t turn his back on his beliefs. He learns that sometimes, those who present themselves as moral leaders are anything but. They are the Antichrists.

It is available in both paperback and Kindle!

Free Novel on Kindle

My friend Mark A. Roeder is releasing his novel The Soccer Field Is Empty for FREE on Kindle for the next several days.

Mark is a boy who wants what we all want: to love and be loved. His dreams are realized when he meets Taylor, the boy of his dreams. The boys struggle to keep their love hidden from a world that cannot understand, but ultimately, no secret is safe in a small Mid-western town.

The Soccer Field Is Empty is a story of love, friendship, understanding, and an age-old prejudice that still has the power to kill. It is a story for young and old, gay and straight. It reminds us all that everyone should be treated with dignity and respect and that there is nothing greater than the power of love.

Amazon.com Reviewer:

Heart and gut wrenching, but it's CRITICAL you read it November 26, 2002

By Douglas Kendrick

Format:Paperback

You'll think I'm nuts, but tears are welling up in my eyes and I'm trembling even as I write this review, thinking of the emotion and feelings that The Soccer Field Is Empty filled me with. It is without reservation the most powerful book of gay fiction I've ever read and its story has changed me forever.

The novel opens with a flashback and the first lines from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet: "In fair Verona where we lay our scene..." This sets the entire tone for what turns out to be a modern-day interpretation of that tragedy-but for two boys in midwestern Verona, Indiana and not the ancient Italian town. It sets that specter of tragic inevitability in the reader's mind.
The story is incredibly moving and incredibly complex. We view the lives of these two boys-Mark and Taylor-through their own eyes in the form of a sort of ping-pong, back and forth between their journal entries. From their shy beginnings, through their happiness, their sorrow, their desperation and finally, their end. Roeder has weaved it all together into a constantly moving, roller-coaster ride of a story. I continue to marvel at how my emotions were torn back and forth, back and forth until I was almost left a wreck. I've never before read ANYTHING that at one point had me sobbing uncontrollably, inconsolably for over 20 minutes. That may sound alarming-and believe me, it was at the time-but I wouldn't trade the experience or this story for ANYTHING. The very fact that Mark Roeder could DO this to me is nothing less than miraculous and a testament to his prowess and God-given talent as a storyteller. I'm almost PLEADING with you to read this book.

In the end, the story serves as an incredible cautionary tale of what might happen when those "ancient prejudices" lead to tragedy.

The Soccer Field is Empty is the kick-off of Roeder's Gay Youth Chronicles saga (it's actually an expanded and reworked edition of his earlier novel, Ancient Prejudice, Break to New Mutiny which only tells the story from one side). If you read this book first, you're on the right track. I think part of my emotional turmoil in reading this novel was the fact that I'd actually read Roeder's third novel, A Better Place, first-and it contained several "spoilers" which made Soccer Field very tough indeed. Please, PLEASE continue reading his books-they are amazing, and each has a different but important or even simply entertaining story to tell. I promise you that you'll not be disappointed. (See my review of A Better Place and others as I post them.)

Recently I published online my first short fan fiction story. It's called The Soccer Field Is Full Again.

In The Soccer Field Is Empty by Mark A. Roeder, Mark Bailey and Taylor Potter commit suicide rather than continue to take the physical and emotional abuse from their classmates and parents about being gay. However unbeknownst to Taylor a one night drunken stand with his pretend girlfriend results in the birth of his son, Jordan Taylor Potter. Jordan, also gay, and member of the hugely successful pop group Phantom meets Ralph Rogers and together they become the parents of twin brothers Taylor and Mark Rogers-Potter. This is set entirely within Mark's universe and has been written with his permission. Mark has written over 30 novels in his universe and you should read them. They can be purchased through his web site. The series is called The Gay Youth Chronicles. 

Please check it out here!

New Audio Book!

Scotty Jackson Died... But Then He Got Better, by Mark A. Roeder, is now available as an audio book!

Scotty Jackson is a gay boy in trouble. His fanatically religious parents cannot accept his attraction to other boys. Scotty tries to fool them at first, but they grow suspicious and clamp down on him until his life isn't worth living. Fearful that Scotty's parents will send him away to be 'cured,' Scotty's friends spirit him away while desperately seeking a way to make his life better.

While Scotty is in hiding, Dorian comes up with a brilliant idea to improve Scotty's life - he'll kill Scotty! Sometimes, only death can make parents see the error of their ways.

Reviews

How many people can say they crashed their own funeral? That's the idea behind another excellent book by Mark Roeder. Mark has written over 30 books so far and I have yet to be disappointed and this is no exception. Once again the gay boys of Verona show that they will look out for one another even if it means having to plan the death and funeral of one of their friends. Anyone who hasn't read any of Mark's books, this is a good place to start although I would recommend you start with the first in the series. Those of us who are his fans and consider him a friend as well eagerly await anything that he writes. Most of Mark's fan's are older but for any gay or questioning teens or their friends I would say you really can't go wrong here. Mark doesn't talk down to kids and they are suitable for teens to read. I wish something like this had been available when I was a teen back all those many years ago. I think it would have been a lot easier for me then, knowing that there were others out there like me. This was a very enjoyable read for me and I plan on rereading it several times. I'd give this one 6 stars if I could. Highly recommended. ~ Victor Thomas

When this author, Mark Roeder, gives us a new book, I immediately purchase it for my kindle. This book had me wondering as to what a story with this title might be. The story is outstanding and I read the book in less than two days. This is another Roeder book that joins his excellent collection of the Gay Youth Chronicles and adds greatly to the series. The time factor of the story is high school of the early 1950s and I was in my junior year of college at the time. The twist in this story is in the title which I will leave for the reader to learn. Great characters that have become friends of those who read Roeder's books. The story moves right along bringing the reader into fast-forward to learn what is on the next page. The story will bring one to think of the importance of good friends and their support. ~ Charles E. Brock

What I'm reading!

The New Bad Ass in Town
 by Mark A. Roeder

cover design by me!

Everyone has his own demons.

Brayden is the new bad ass in town. He has a bad attitude and a temper to match. Caspian has his own rep to protect and can’t decide if Brayden is friend or foe. The decision is made for him when Brayden attacks Dylan, a stereotypically gay boy who is known for being too aggressive in his pursuit of young men he finds attractive. Caspian steps in to save Dylan and so begins a mutual distrust between Caspian and Brayden that repeatedly threatens to come to blows. Despite being nearly bashed by Brayden, Dylan won’t back off. The gay boys of Bloomington are sure Dylan’s obsession will come to grief, but then Brayden himself steps in to save his stalker. As Caspian gets to know Brayden better, he realizes the boy has his own demons and the pair of them have more in common than he ever guessed.

Tyler and Caspian explore the new territory of their relationship. They stagger through their romance, trying to balance taking things slow with their mutual lust. Tyler’s dad and Percy’s uncle are dating as well, adding further complications. As Tyler’s dad and Caspian’s uncle come closer to pulling them all together as a family, the relationship between Tyler and Caspian grows increasingly awkward. The young boyfriends may soon be brothers! What will they do then?

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Cover Creation

Over the last few years I've been creating novel covers for several authors. It is a lot of fun to do because I get to take the author's writing, usually someone else's photos and my own imagination and create something that hopefully will help the author sell his work. Sometimes I just have to take a stock photo and add the author's title and name but sometimes it requires much more work. Blending multiple photos together seamlessly to get the desired results. Thought I'd share some of my creations here.

Friend's Novel Now on Audio Book

AA Boy Toy for Christmas

Chauncey Cadbury is rich, young, and appears to have it all, but lives under the shadow of his family. He wants only to live his life in his adopted hometown of Bloomington, Indiana, but his domineering grandfather will not let him be. Desperate to get his grandfather off his back, Chauncey devises a plan to so shock his family that they'll never want to see him again.

He searches for the perfect boy for the job and discovers Cole, a teenage prostitute and Goth who despises the over-privileged. Together, the mismatched pair enters the insincere, backstabbing world of the Cadbury family and shares an adventure that changes their lives forever.

©2012 Mark A. Roeder (P)2013 Mark A. Roeder

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Oh yeah I did the cover for both the paperback and the audio book!

I learned something new in Photoshop!

Was working on a new cover for Mark A. Roeder the other day and I wanted to add tears to the stock photo I was using because the character pictured just got some horrible news. So I looked online and found the steps. Pretty good for a first try I think.

A novel by my favorite author, Mark A. Roeder

The Nudo Twins

Tyler and Tanner are identical twins and best buddies, but their relationship is about to be transformed forever. Tyler grows increasingly uncomfortable with the rumors that haunt him and his brother, but Tanner doesn’t want their relationship to change. Wanted or not, change comes. Tyler falls for Charlie, the new boy in town, and Tanner reaches out to help his teammate, Iggy, who is crippled in an accident and confined to a wheelchair. As Tyler and Charlie grow closer, Tanner grabs onto the small ray of hope that Iggy may someday walk again and pushes Iggy to make it happen. Just when he feels he’s losing his brother, Tanner begins to develop feelings for Iggy that he never thought he could feel for anyone…except his twin.

The Nudo Twins is the story of an unconventional relationship and the ability of love to adapt to almost any situation.

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I did the cover design by the way!