- Jagermonster
- May 7, 2005
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Hey - NIZE HAT!
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This is the first Thunderdome entry I liked enough to keep working on/revise (original http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3527428&userid=0&perpage=40&pagenumber=90#post417028215)
In honor of the fact that there's a whole section at Barnes and Noble called "Supernatural Teen Romance," I re-title this
El Supernatural Fiend Bromance
An adobe ranch house stood abandoned, a gutted carcass. Cartel enforcers had carved out its former inhabitants. “Sinola,” written in blood, warned others away.
A chupacabra licked and gnawed at the dried blood. Standing on his hind legs it could just reach the bottom of the ‘S.’ Weak with hunger it dropped, clawing and scraping on its way down. It coughed up flakes of clay.
The chupacabra lifted its nose to the night. The moon refracted on its scales, warping the monster’s shape as it craned its neck, twisting its head, sniffing. It could catch no scent of goat blood. Human blood everywhere, inaccessible, tormented it.
Everything had changed when the dangerous men with guns came. They guarded vast stretches of land. They patrolled trails that swelled with people and trucks all through the night. The surrounding towns were now full of the dangerous men, men who killed other men, women, and children.
The men with guns did not drink the blood. They burned or buried or did worse to the bodies. The chupacabra came across men in a truck, bodies piled high in their payload. They hung them from a power line outside of a town. The blood dripped down and dried on the concrete. Such a waste.
It knew it would die soon. The ranchers had all fled, taking their livestock with them. Or they were killed by the dangerous men, their goats and cows and pigs butchered as well. The chupacabra could not feed. It curled up in his burrow. It would die as it lived its life, alone in the dark.
A whistle. Seven notes. Rising, then falling. Slow. Close. The chupacabra picked itself up.
Delirious and feeble, it crawled from one of its tunnel entrances. Nothing but the hot desert air greeted it. The whistle beckoned it again. The chupacabra plodded off into the night.
The whistling stopped. Gunshots thundered. It followed the noise to a crumbling building. Two men lay on the ground, their stomachs torn open. Their guns rested harmlessly in limp hands.
A sack lay crumpled in the brush. It smelled of death. The chupacabra tugged at it. Bones spilled out.
The chupacabra turned back to the men. It inched up to them. It chupacabra had never drunk human blood. It slurped it up, still fresh, oozing from their abdomens.
“Does that taste good, chupito?” something said with a voice of scraping gravel. “I thought you a myth.”
It screeched.
A pale man loomed over him. Not a man. The chupacabra could catch no scent of blood. A walking corpse, with rotting grey skin. Bloody entrails dangled from his clenched fists. A black sombrero covered his face.
“Little one,” he said, “I am El Silbon.”
It bared its fangs and growled.
“Such efficient tools,” El Silbon said. “You can put them to use tonight. There are wicked men in there.” The thing’s lip quivered. It looked hungry. “Men like my father who prey on women. Devils, like my grandfather, who take pleasure in others’ suffering. Men I must collect.” He extended his hands to the chupacabra.
The chupacabra did not understand El Silbon’s words, but it licked his hands clean. It wagged its tail.
“Come, father.” El Silbon tossed the fallen bones back into his bag and hefted it over his slumped shoulder. “You will have company soon.”
The chupacrabra followed the shambling dead man.
The companions entered the hacienda. El Silbon pursed its cracked lips and whistled. Seven shorts notes. Rising then falling. He repeated it. And again.
A man poked his head out from behind thick double doors. He squinted at El Silbon in the dim light. “The gently caress are you?”
El Silbon dropped his bag and shuffled forward.
He raised his gun.
El Silbon grabbed the man’s head and twisted.
The man screamed and fired a shot before El Silbon silenced him.
Footsteps fell like sudden rain.
El Silbon passed through the threshold. His body shook as bullets flew through him. Small pieces of him fell to the floor. He showed no pain. El Silbon looked back at the cowering chupacabra.
The chupacabra rushed forth. It had never attacked a human before. It panicked, releasing sulfurous smoke that choked the attackers. The men stumbled and lost all sense of balance and direction after looking into its glowing red eyes. It bit at ankles, calves, anything its fangs could reach as it scrambled around the room. The men lurched and fired wildly.
El Silbon advanced. He tore a grizzly spiral around the room, snapping necks and dismembering those he passed. None escaped.
One man remained, his back against a table, pulling the trigger on an empty, useless gun. As El Silbon approached, the man said, “I have money! Drugs! Take anything you want!”
El Silbon paused. He squinted at the man, then grabbed the man’s wrist. El Silbon dug his jagged fingernails into the man’s arm. “This is the only thing I want.”
The man screamed. He eyed El Silbon’s bag. “gently caress you! This poo poo isn’t real!” He kicked at El Silbon. “This some Michoacana bullshit? Huh? Zeta assassins? I’ll see you in hell!”
El Silbon tore his arm off. “First, you will accompany me through the hell you created.”
The man fell to the floor thrashing and shrieking and cursing.
El Silbon stripped the flesh. He put it in the sack. Then he grabbed the man’s other arm.
The chupacabra sated its thirst.
El Silbon’s bag bulged with fresh bones.
El Silbon surveyed the room. “These groups,” he said to the Chupacabra, “they spread so much suffering.” He looked tired. “I am pulled in so many directions. They are everywhere.” He stroked a tuft of fur jutting from the chupacabra’s scaly head. “You are welcome to accompany me as long as you like. It will be dangerous for you.”
The chupacabra belched. It swelled with a fullness of stomach and heart.
The companions wandered back out into the night.
Monsters hunting monsters.
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Jul 11, 2013 00:41
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May 14, 2024 04:18
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- Jagermonster
- May 7, 2005
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Hey - NIZE HAT!
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I've no real experience editing fiction, but here're my impressions:
Critique away. I've no real experience writing, but I want to improve.
I’m digging through the dumpster, throwing poo poo this way and that when something moves outside. I freeze, but I know it’s too late. Instead of painting a vivid picture, this beginning fills the reader with questions - is this a private eye looking for clues? is it someone looking for something lost? bum looking for food? Is he throwing "poo poo" because the narrator speaks coarsely, or is it bad vague writing?
I’m expecting a male voice to start yelling at me, but there’s just silence. how'd he know someone was there? why does he expect a male voice? if he's been caught doing this before by a particular person, name the person/describe the voice
I clamber out of the bin and brush off things that are stuck to me. Some of them crawl away when they hit the ground.
Standing in front of me is a girl with purple hair and black clothes. Not sure how old she is. I’m thankful for the sudden wind that hopefully pushes my stench away. too much telling rather than showing, like most of the piece, perhaps instead - "a breeze flutters through her purple air, hopefully banishing my stench down the alley"
She stares at me, at my clothes and then smiles. At least I think it’s a smile. I’m not sure anymore. is the narrator a broken robot? he can't tell what a smile is? are you trying to say he doesn't know what her smile means, i.e. pity, amusement, attraction?
“Are you hungry?”
Her voice is light and playful. It makes me feel good and ashamed at the same time.
I nod. I’m finding it hard to speak. clunky - its seldom necessary to use "I'm finding it," "It appears to be," etc."
She yells out to someone else. “Bring some food over here.”
A young man climbs up onto the parking lot. He stands close to the girl and holds out a tall cup and a brown bag. what kind of parking lot involves climbing? is his proximity to the girl what's important or how it makes the narrator feel what you're getting at?
“Here you go. Take it.”
I slowly reach out for the food and, finally grasping it, shove it down as fast as possible.
The coffee tastes so good. I rip the bag open and inhale the sandwiches. "shove it down" is awkward and "inhale" is cliche; exercise: scarf down your dinner tonight very quickly and then write what it feels like, your chewing, your breathing, etc.
The young man and the girl walk away.
“Uh, thanks! Thanks a lot!” I manage to choke out.
“We’ll see you tomorrow.” They wave goodbye and walk down the hill. I watch until their heads disappear. I know what you're trying to say with "watch their heads disappear," but it still strikes the reader as odd
I wave and then finish my meal. Today has been a good day. I thought he already choked down and inhaled the food?
At least until I get really sick. I guess I ate too much, too fast. describe it: "At least until I'm leaning over a park bench, dry heaving, the contents of my windfall a liquid mess on the pavement," etc. you get the idea
It’s a long night and I’m hiding under the bridge, puking my guts out when the light blinds me. What is going on in this piece? On a macro level its hard to evaluate this vignette based on what's here because it feels like a very small part of a much larger story. By itself, its a very mundane situation - charitable woman gives dumpster diving bum something to eat.
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Jul 11, 2013 18:53
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- Jagermonster
- May 7, 2005
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Hey - NIZE HAT!
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This is the first Thunderdome entry I liked enough to keep working on/revise (original http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3527428&userid=0&perpage=40&pagenumber=90#post417028215)
In honor of the fact that there's a whole section at Barnes and Noble called "Supernatural Teen Romance," I re-title this
El Supernatural Fiend Bromance
An adobe ranch house stood abandoned, a gutted carcass. Cartel enforcers had carved out its former inhabitants. “Sinola,” written in blood, warned others away.
A chupacabra licked and gnawed at the dried blood. Standing on his hind legs it could just reach the bottom of the ‘S.’ Weak with hunger it dropped, clawing and scraping on its way down. It coughed up flakes of clay.
The chupacabra lifted its nose to the night. The moon refracted on its scales, warping the monster’s shape as it craned its neck, twisting its head, sniffing. It could catch no scent of goat blood. Human blood everywhere, inaccessible, tormented it.
Everything had changed when the dangerous men with guns came. They guarded vast stretches of land. They patrolled trails that swelled with people and trucks all through the night. The surrounding towns were now full of the dangerous men, men who killed other men, women, and children.
The men with guns did not drink the blood. They burned or buried or did worse to the bodies. The chupacabra came across men in a truck, bodies piled high in their payload. They hung them from a power line outside of a town. The blood dripped down and dried on the concrete. Such a waste.
It knew it would die soon. The ranchers had all fled, taking their livestock with them. Or they were killed by the dangerous men, their goats and cows and pigs butchered as well. The chupacabra could not feed. It curled up in his burrow. It would die as it lived its life, alone in the dark.
A whistle. Seven notes. Rising, then falling. Slow. Close. The chupacabra picked itself up.
Delirious and feeble, it crawled from one of its tunnel entrances. Nothing but the hot desert air greeted it. The whistle beckoned it again. The chupacabra plodded off into the night.
The whistling stopped. Gunshots thundered. It followed the noise to a crumbling building. Two men lay on the ground, their stomachs torn open. Their guns rested harmlessly in limp hands.
A sack lay crumpled in the brush. It smelled of death. The chupacabra tugged at it. Bones spilled out.
The chupacabra turned back to the men. It inched up to them. It chupacabra had never drunk human blood. It slurped it up, still fresh, oozing from their abdomens.
“Does that taste good, chupito?” something said with a voice of scraping gravel. “I thought you a myth.”
It screeched.
A pale man loomed over him. Not a man. The chupacabra could catch no scent of blood. A walking corpse, with rotting grey skin. Bloody entrails dangled from his clenched fists. A black sombrero covered his face.
“Little one,” he said, “I am El Silbon.”
It bared its fangs and growled.
“Such efficient tools,” El Silbon said. “You can put them to use tonight. There are wicked men in there.” The thing’s lip quivered. It looked hungry. “Men like my father who prey on women. Devils, like my grandfather, who take pleasure in others’ suffering. Men I must collect.” He extended his hands to the chupacabra.
The chupacabra did not understand El Silbon’s words, but it licked his hands clean. It wagged its tail.
“Come, father.” El Silbon tossed the fallen bones back into his bag and hefted it over his slumped shoulder. “You will have company soon.”
The chupacrabra followed the shambling dead man.
The companions entered the hacienda. El Silbon pursed its cracked lips and whistled. Seven shorts notes. Rising then falling. He repeated it. And again.
A man poked his head out from behind thick double doors. He squinted at El Silbon in the dim light. “The gently caress are you?”
El Silbon dropped his bag and shuffled forward.
He raised his gun.
El Silbon grabbed the man’s head and twisted.
The man screamed and fired a shot before El Silbon silenced him.
Footsteps fell like sudden rain.
El Silbon passed through the threshold. His body shook as bullets flew through him. Small pieces of him fell to the floor. He showed no pain. El Silbon looked back at the cowering chupacabra.
The chupacabra rushed forth. It had never attacked a human before. It panicked, releasing sulfurous smoke that choked the attackers. The men stumbled and lost all sense of balance and direction after looking into its glowing red eyes. It bit at ankles, calves, anything its fangs could reach as it scrambled around the room. The men lurched and fired wildly.
El Silbon advanced. He tore a grizzly spiral around the room, snapping necks and dismembering those he passed. None escaped.
One man remained, his back against a table, pulling the trigger on an empty, useless gun. As El Silbon approached, the man said, “I have money! Drugs! Take anything you want!”
El Silbon paused. He squinted at the man, then grabbed the man’s wrist. El Silbon dug his jagged fingernails into the man’s arm. “This is the only thing I want.”
The man screamed. He eyed El Silbon’s bag. “gently caress you! This poo poo isn’t real!” He kicked at El Silbon. “This some Michoacana bullshit? Huh? Zeta assassins? I’ll see you in hell!”
El Silbon tore his arm off. “First, you will accompany me through the hell you created.”
The man fell to the floor thrashing and shrieking and cursing.
El Silbon stripped the flesh. He put it in the sack. Then he grabbed the man’s other arm.
The chupacabra sated its thirst.
El Silbon’s bag bulged with fresh bones.
El Silbon surveyed the room. “These groups,” he said to the Chupacabra, “they spread so much suffering.” He looked tired. “I am pulled in so many directions. They are everywhere.” He stroked a tuft of fur jutting from the chupacabra’s scaly head. “You are welcome to accompany me as long as you like. It will be dangerous for you.”
The chupacabra belched. It swelled with a fullness of stomach and heart.
The companions wandered back out into the night.
Monsters hunting monsters.
No takers? Anyone want to post a story and exchange critiques?
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Jul 16, 2013 14:43
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- Jagermonster
- May 7, 2005
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Hey - NIZE HAT!
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There's a lot of stuff I really liked about this story. The tone of the first version really spoke to me. The clarity of the second was nice. Crit here is intended to try to get the good parts of both in one.
I love the characters here. I also love the story. Pacing, suspense, and action need some work. If you're struggling to keep the word count low, cut some of the dialogue that the viewpoint character doesn't understand anyway. The only dialogue we really need is exposition that the readers need which chupacabra can't understand (who these people are, why Silbon is hunting them.) The rest is nice, but could be cut for length if necessary.
And then you have the edited version, which lacks the symmetry of the first one (The “he knew” paragraphs at the beginning and the end.) This has more clarity, though. I would bring some details from this into the first version, but use the structure of version one, which had a great emotional kick and subjective, character-based feel.
I like the first version better, but the action scenes in the second have more detail. I want to see more subjective cupacabra point of view, because the strength of his sweet, innocent, lost, hungry, and monster-shaped character really caries the whole story.
Wow thanks a lot. I did not expect you to do a full critique of the original too. You really went above and beyond the call of duty. These are thoughtful, clear, and enormously helpful.
One of the criticisms I got from the TD judges was that the "reveal" the POV character was a chupacaba came too late. I tried to stick it right upfront because I wasn't trying to Shymalan the reader. I can just change "he knew" to "the chupacabra knew" at the beginning.
I've struggled mightily in other entries with POV third person tone. I always have an impulse to change to first person, which in some cases may be appropriate, but I should probably try to avoid until I get better at the more generally accepted third person past tense.
Jagermonster fucked around with this message at 22:57 on Jul 16, 2013
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Jul 16, 2013 22:54
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- Jagermonster
- May 7, 2005
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Hey - NIZE HAT!
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Here're my impressions, I hope someone else jumps in too:
Tear it apart!
Salt
753 Words
At dawn we sprinkle salt around the house. not sure this fits here - perhaps separate it from from the next sentences Downstairs they chant, discordant voices rising and falling. Mother, strident and low, sets the pace. Grandmother, cracked and reedy, rushes ahead and falls behind. My aunts and sisters fill out the chant, slow and quick, low and high, quiet and loud. I like this description, though on a reread "discordant" seems kind of redundant.
Here in the attic, I sing. The salt sticks to my fingers as I pull it from the old leather pouch, clumping in the wet summer heat. I leave a trail, thin and white, across the west window ledge. It will be clear today; I can see the stars fading. I do not understand the interplay between clear days and fading stars I stoop to the baseboards, singing quietly. Downstairs the chanting rises, builds momentum, and I hurry to keep up. it's not clear whether the narrator is working with or against the chanting which may be more distracting than intriguing
I do not chant with them, but our power is one. The ritual is as strong as the family. vague and bizarre As the line of salt meets itself the circle completes. I add my last soft, high note as the chanting stops. Invisible, the protection rises. My fingers tingle as salt calls to salt. salt calls to salt? I feel the power binding the house, binding the family, binding me. binding may work with the family, but I'm not sure if its right with "house" and "me"
I shudder. I like this separated out
I scrub the salt off against my pants. The drawstring catches as I jerk it tight, this is an awkward description of closing the bag, especially right after talk of pants loop it around my neck, and hide the bag under my shirt. It hangs against my skin, heavy and solid. Binding me. again with the autobinding Protecting me. It makes us one and makes us powerful. It holds me in my mother's arms; it drowns me like a stone. Drowning like a stone is powerful? Very contradictory. Plus, lots of semicolon usage - use them sparingly
Downstairs they start breakfast. I will steal down later, mouse-like, to nibble from the scraps. I eat begrudgingly of their bounty, wanting to owe them nothing. I will take the best for my brother to try to coax him to eat. does the narrator not owe anything for taking food for the brother?
He's still asleep, sweat clumping his hair. second use of clumping The blankets are thrown off in the heat; passive voice confuses who is throwing the blankets - the brother? evil spirits? in the gray light his ribs cast angular shadows against his pale skin. He hugs an empty bottle to his chest. I glance away to the old stuffed bear in the corner, soft and worn. Pain stabs deep in my gut at the changes half a decade has wrought. "half a decade has wrought" seems superfluous I hate the ghosts who have taken him from me. the last sentence feels too tell-y
It smells of vomit. what does? I pick up a bucket from the corner and listen at the doorway. Nothing. Downstairs pans clang against metal. I climb down the narrow attic stairs to fill the bucket from the bathroom sink. The plastic bangs on porcelain, loud in the silence. Through two floors I can still hear the clinking of dishes in the washbasin and the harsh cawing of voices. They won't have heard. objection: speculation
The men are sleeping. I hear my father's snores through the old heat vent. Perhaps "My father's snores drift up through the heating vent" instead (we know the narrator is "hearing" them Always, we work our magic early and late. why? They have learned to sleep through what they are not welcome to participate in. why? We protect them in their sleep and when they wake. We are strong. again, with the declarations of strength. I am getting the impression the narrator is very weak.
The bucket drags my arm down as I walk back up the narrow stairs. I kneel beside my sleeping brother and listen to his breathing. Steady, regular, deep. a lot words to describe mundane action I match it to calm myself. He has survived another night and another bottle. The salt will keep him safe today. Vomit sticks between the floorboards. I scrub with the grain of the old wood. The open windows draw a fresh breeze.
“Hey.” I touch his shoulder softly. “Hey, you gotta wake up.”
His eyelids open, close, open, and scrunch shut. “'s too bright.”
“It's not light out yet. You need to shower. You don't have much time.”
He covers his eyes with his arm and his voice comes out muffled and groggy. “Before what?”
“We did the barrier this morning. She'll want to check.” Mother can't find him like this. The old sickness haunts him, the ghost sickness. the what now? The salt and the magic should keep them away, but don't. Only the alcohol does. If she knows they haunt him she will call for a cleansing. what is going on with these rituals/haunting?
We cleansed my uncle when I was small, with the fasting and the cold water and the fire. He'd screamed and screamed until he had no voice, but his eyes hadn't lost the wildness. awkward - "eyes never lost their wildness" instead? The burns had festered and wept, and still the ghosts had haunted him. They'd made me bathe the wounds and sing the healing songs. not sure if "had" is necessary here, the reader can tell this is happening in the past
He died anyway.
He drinks to drive the ghosts away. I can see it killing him, but her way is no better, only faster. I will hide his sickness and his cure. I will find a better way.
All in all, there are some very nice, descriptive passages, but the nature of the rituals and haunting are too vague and mysterious. As I mentioned before, the story is more perplexing than intriguing. So ghosts can make men physically ill, women chant to protect them, and the narrator uses her own singing and salt based ritual. Plus, drinking helps (I'm assuming alcohol, though its not crystal clear. A potion?). I like the last sentence, but it would be stronger if more was established in the story. Are the women ignorant? Cruel? Superstitious? Is it really even ghosts or just illness the women blame on the supernatural?
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Jul 18, 2013 04:20
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May 14, 2024 04:18
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- Jagermonster
- May 7, 2005
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Hey - NIZE HAT!
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I revised a thunderdome entry from Florida Man week to make it more Hemingwayesque, and would greatly appreciate any additional feedback. TIA
The Florida Man and the Sea
He was a Florida man who lived alone in a trailer in the Gulf and he had gone eighty-four days now without being arrested. In the first forty days a woman and boy had been with him. But after forty days the woman had been picked up for assaulting a Wendy's drive-thru worker and the boy had been taken by the state. It made the boy sad to leave the Florida man and the Florida man without the boy grew reckless. Running through the surf high on bath salts one day the Florida man got his hand bitten by shark. The hand was patched with duct tape which had become gnarled and caked with dried blood.
The Florida man was thin and gaunt with spider web tattoos on his neck. A burn scar mottled his bottom lip from whena homemade electronic cigarette had exploded. His rap sheet ran as deep as the sea off the keys, filled mostly with DUIs. It was difficult to drive now with a shark bitten hand. The Florida man took it as a blessing. He would not go back to jail until he had taken his vengeance on the shark.
Everything about him was Florida except his eyes which were determined and undefeated.
A light shaking of his foot woke the Florida man. He sat up in his cot and rolled a joint. "I thought you were with kin in the panhandle."
"I left them," the boy said. "They ran a scam setting up fake job interviews and then resold the people's urine. It did not suit me."
The Florida man finished rolling his joint and tucked it behind his ear. He shook two pills out of a small bottle of Amphetamines.
The boy admired a rifle the Florida man had stolen from a neighbor. "Can we shoot things in the woods today?"
"No. Today I am going to find the shark that bit my hand."
Dark clouds hung like smoke from burning tires as the Florida man and boy walked down the path to the beach.
"I am worried for the Triple H," the boy said.
"Do not worry. I saw him wrestle in Miami once. I also went to the beach in Miami where women lay topless and I saw their breasts."
"You told me."
"Should we talk about wrestling or breasts?"
"Wrestling," the boy said. "Tell me again about the great Stone Cold Steve Austin."
It started to rain as the Florida man told the boy of the many powerful back rakes he had seen Stone Cold give his opponents.
The rain fell heavy now as the Florida man and the boy arrived at the pier on the beach.
The Florida man set up a fishing pole he had shop lifted from a Dick's Sporting Goods. He baited the line with rotten fish a cousin who worked at the Olive Garden had given him.
"You do not have to stay for this," the Florida man said.
The boy looked to the Florida man. "I know."
The Florida man cast his line. And then again. The wind and the rain picked up and the boy tried to duck under the corner of the pier's wooden railing for cover.
After several hours the Florida man felt a pull of the line. He let the line run from his rod without the shark feeling any tension. "Take it," the Florida man said aloud. "Take it like you took a chunk from my hand."
The Florida man let more line out and then pulled the rod back hard. “I got it.”
The boy stood motionless like a raccoon caught going through the garbage. “How do you know it’s the shark?”
“I just know." The Florida man's hand throbbed as he cranked the reel. He grabbed his crowbar.
The shark rose out of the water. It whipped around as it dangled. The Florida man leaned over of the railing. He hooked the crowbar under the shark’s tail and flung it onto the pier.
The Florida man circled around the three foot mako shark. He pumped his duct taped fist in the air. He dropped to his knees behind the shark and humped it. Three good thrusts showed the shark who was boss between it and the Florida man.
The Florida man sank his teeth into the shark’s right pectoral fin and jerked his head to the side. The fish thrashed. The Florida man spit the meat out. He watched the shark’s mouth open and close. Its gills fanned in and out.
The Florida man grabbed the shark by its tail and flung it back into the water. A salty mist washed over The Florida man and the boy.
You did not hump a shark and then kill it, the Florida man thought. You hump it for pride and because you are a man. You respect the shark before it bites you and you respect it after. If you respect it, it is not gay to hump it. Or is it more? Either way, something so badass should not die because it did what sharks do.
The Florida man's hand hurt worse than before. The sand of the beach swayed and swelled like the sea. The Florida man took the joint from behind his ear and put it in his mouth. He sat down on the pier. "Do you have a light?"
The boy took out a lighter for the Florida man.
The Florida man took a hit from the joint. He handed it to the boy and closed his eyes.
"Rest now," the boy said.
The boy sat and watched the Florida man fall asleep. The Florida man was dreaming about breasts on a Miami beach.
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Jul 11, 2013 00:41
