Short-Short, Rough Draft for Fiction Workshop
Convention
The mad rooster shrieked inside his coop while the sun lay across mountains as if a mattress made of bad springs. I couldn’t spit, so I reached up to my forehead and wiped the sweat peeping from out my skin. The slick salt slipped into my eyes, causing the two figures standing above me to shimmer like a mirage in the dead of winter. I leaned on the shovel that I’d forgotten was in my hand when one of ‘em stepped forward to remind me what I was doing with the glare of a loaded rifle.
“I think its deep enough, dun’ you?” One said as the other hunched over the hole, nodding down at me, “looks bout as deep as the one beside.” At least, that’s how it sounded in my head.
They’d been watching for hours since my brother bled to death on the hard earth. I had trouble climbing out, save the ivory root that kicked out at me to give me a lift. I patted the filth off my knees and felt the warmth of snot hanging on my lip. I pretended it was taffy from when we were kids, regretting now that there was only me.
He was curled up like a fox on the side of the road, ten feet away, his bony arms and legs scrunched together toward the blood stain logo on his gray hoody dyed in purple. He must’ve been looking for me. His head and neck arched outward, his jaw tense with the rage of dying.
I couldn’t help it. Remembering. He said it was a bad idea to come out here in the middle of nowhere. The countryside was easy, rich with opportunity. A bunch of farms peppered lightly with an unfussy populace. It beat college, I argued, and beat having to get a job at the gas station. The plan didn’t involve this.
What the hell did they need the money for, anyway?
She had to have been fifty, or forty with an aging tan. Her eyes were worn down at the corners of her nose, creases outlining her stern features. Maybe she was a retired hate-filled clown, barely able to hold the shotgun she had had hidden in the bed of her pickup. The man, likely her son, was younger, skinnier, going bald and fashioned a mustache that made him always seem sad. He held his rifle upright with squared shoulders. What little he said, was obvious and was to act intimidating. They made one dubious duo.
I buried my brother as slowly as they’d allow. I talked with God until I was out of dirt. I got something off my chest to make room for the bullet inside. I chuckled as I climbed down into my grave and noted its craftsmanship. Not too shabby for a talent less thief caught empty handed. I felt philosophical. I wanted to muse on how close we’ll get to evil when we’re frightened and cold.
But, it was too late.
(Word Count: 500)
The mad rooster shrieked inside his coop while the sun lay across mountains as if a mattress made of bad springs. I couldn’t spit, so I reached up to my forehead and wiped the sweat peeping from out my skin. The slick salt slipped into my eyes, causing the two figures standing above me to shimmer like a mirage in the dead of winter. I leaned on the shovel that I’d forgotten was in my hand when one of ‘em stepped forward to remind me what I was doing with the glare of a loaded rifle.
“I think its deep enough, dun’ you?” One said as the other hunched over the hole, nodding down at me, “looks bout as deep as the one beside.” At least, that’s how it sounded in my head.
They’d been watching for hours since my brother bled to death on the hard earth. I had trouble climbing out, save the ivory root that kicked out at me to give me a lift. I patted the filth off my knees and felt the warmth of snot hanging on my lip. I pretended it was taffy from when we were kids, regretting now that there was only me.
He was curled up like a fox on the side of the road, ten feet away, his bony arms and legs scrunched together toward the blood stain logo on his gray hoody dyed in purple. He must’ve been looking for me. His head and neck arched outward, his jaw tense with the rage of dying.
I couldn’t help it. Remembering. He said it was a bad idea to come out here in the middle of nowhere. The countryside was easy, rich with opportunity. A bunch of farms peppered lightly with an unfussy populace. It beat college, I argued, and beat having to get a job at the gas station. The plan didn’t involve this.
What the hell did they need the money for, anyway?
She had to have been fifty, or forty with an aging tan. Her eyes were worn down at the corners of her nose, creases outlining her stern features. Maybe she was a retired hate-filled clown, barely able to hold the shotgun she had had hidden in the bed of her pickup. The man, likely her son, was younger, skinnier, going bald and fashioned a mustache that made him always seem sad. He held his rifle upright with squared shoulders. What little he said, was obvious and was to act intimidating. They made one dubious duo.
I buried my brother as slowly as they’d allow. I talked with God until I was out of dirt. I got something off my chest to make room for the bullet inside. I chuckled as I climbed down into my grave and noted its craftsmanship. Not too shabby for a talent less thief caught empty handed. I felt philosophical. I wanted to muse on how close we’ll get to evil when we’re frightened and cold.
But, it was too late.
(Word Count: 500)