Campfire Ugly

“Yeah.  Yeah, guy was a dick.”  Grayson rubbed at his stubble.

Rob chewed his lip and nodded jerkily.

Torver grunted.

Mercer exhaled and took a drink.  The silence stretched out.  It stretched until the only sound was the silent tearing apart of their peace of mind and the tearing grated mutely until no one could think of anything but that deafening tearing.

Mercer smiled.  “So what the hell is up with Parrish?”

Rob blinked and squinted, his eyes flickering wildly.  Comprehension dawned.  “She’s cool.”

“Cool?  She’s been around for, like, six years and now she’s cool?  She’s one of the guys, man.”

Rob dragged the toe of his sneaker through the dirt, building a little pile of dry earth and dead pine needles.  “Yeah, she’s cool.  She’s one of the guys, none of that catty girl bullshit.”

Torver nodded.  “That’s actually really solid.”

Rob smiled at his little mound of earth.  “Yeah.”

The silence crept back between them, sooner this time.  Each of them pulled at it, fraying the edges in nerve-numbed fingers.  When the edges they held unraveled, they tugged at the silence for more to fray.

Grayon bounced to his feet.  “I’m gonna build the fire back up.”  He picked up a leafy branch from the firewood pile and jerked it down over his thigh.  It snapped in half.  He picked up another branch, this one slid down the side of his thigh and jabbed at his knee.  He shifted his grip and broke the branch the second time.  Grayson scooped up another branch.

Rob toed the dirt.

Torver rubbed at his nose.

Mercer laced his fingers together, rolled his shoulders, and stretched his arms high over his head.  “Who wants another beer?”

Everyone muttered assent and Mercer ducked into the tent, coming back out with two beers, crossed at the neck, in each hand.  The bottle opener arced back and forth over the sullen fire.  A branch snapped in the flames.  A soft breeze, little more than a breathy exhale, drifted across their clearing.  Torver grabbed a handful of leaves off the ground, lit the tips in the fire, and let them stagger and spin like drunken firebombers wobbling around town square. 

“Yeah.  Guy was a dick.”

And Now For Something Entirely Different...

Well shit.  Things have slowed down pretty good and I've got more time on my hands to actually get a bit of writing done.  However, I'm not back in the swing of things just yet.  The brain's like a muscle and all that jazz.  The fiction-writing portion of my brain has gotten a bit flabby of late, but I don't wanna keep neglecting this blog so it's time for an experiment...or a compromise if we're being accurate.  I've got a part of story that I'm satisfied with.  I like the story idea, I like the portion that I've written out, and I'm gonna post it and pretend that I've got enough followers to actually get some feedback on it in hopes of spurring me forward and toning my brain back up.  If any of you ladies and gentlemen care to feed my delusions then please lemme know whatcha think of this introductory excerpt and this experiment as well.  If this little experiment actually pans out (and who the hell actually expects that it will?) I'll prolly give this another shot--and even if I don't get any feedback I'll prolly still do this again if it tickles me right.

Soul Food (excerpt)

The sin-eater was tall, almost a head taller than anyone else in the room, and a malnourished-looking skinny.  His biceps and triceps were thin slivers of overly tenderized skirt steak glued to either side of his humerus.  A cheap fleece-lined hunting jacket hung across his too-thin shoulders.  It was probably green, but filth and exposure had rendered it a vague shade of dark something and gray-nothing bits of stuffing poked through the various slits and holes.  Underneath the jacket was a white t-shirt with a capital ‘A’ on it that could have been the anarchy symbol or a poorly drawn pentagram or even the beginnings of a mediocre attempt at Aerosmith’s logo.  His jeans were in shambles, worn through in multiple places and so thoroughly caked with dirt as to look like they had been brought straight from the sweatshop pre-dirtied.  His boots were almost entirely covered in various dark shades of duct tape.  Creased, dirty, and sun-baked, his face matched his clothes.  His crooked nose was too flat, his cheekbones pressed against his skin too hard, and his chin came to a point.  His eyes were small and dark and hid beneath heavy brows and his hair stopped at his jaw line as if raggedly sheared by the sharp edge kept by his jawbone.  He leaned against the wall and flurries of dust shotgunned off.

“Hi.”

Half the room started checking their shoelaces and the other half checked the wallpaper for tears.  One person made eye contact and offered a nod and a strained facsimile of a smile in return.  Mary Whitaker was the stout head of the Whitaker family and was determined not to show superstitious fear in front of anyone.  She was not so determined, however, that she would offer the sin-eater a handshake.  Whereas the sin-eater could have been hung up on a wooden post in a cornfield, Mary Whitaker could have been rolled down the hallway like Violet Beauregard—if the roller was willing to lose the hands with which they rolled and then be strangled with them.