Story Slam, January 2011
Words: mound, sling, slippery
He grabs the bucket, slings water out into the woods. It arcs, full of leaves and dead insects, which spray across the grass on the way. She feels drops of dirty water hit her crossed, bare legs. The mound of sand in the sandbox is starting to grow bits of grass and weeds, untilled for ten years, when she was last a child. Everything is slippery in the late-summer heat, the sheen of the fresh-flung water fades as the ground soaks it in.
(didn't read this)
Line: The worst you can do
(nothing)
Theme: cowboys
It's about the jeans, the way they bunch around the skinny legs. The way the waistband hangs a little below the tanline when they go out at night, when they bend over pool tables and stretch their untucked shirts away. The way their shoulders roll under the thin cotton of their shirts, the array of faded plaid. The jeans dusty, oil-stained, or crisply, newly clean and so stiff they could stand on their own. It's about how they always seem a little separate from their clothes, a little naked; no matter what they're wearing, the whole frame shows below. He grips the neck of a Corona in New Hampshire, and he's a cowboy, 1200 miles away from a wild horse, and I'm sold.
Final round: knife, roof, velvet
He knifes the velvet off the horns of the deer, the buck hanging from the metal rack by its back hooves. They're in the side parking lot of the general store, the blood running down from the gash in its belly, and she's sitting on the roof of his truck, wanting to see and not see, wishing he wouldn't do this in the open at this time of year. In the fall, everything's colder, drier, not yet frozen solid but getting there. It's not right for him to do this in a t-shirt, for her to be able to smell the blood. The velvet skin falls to the gravel parking lot as he carves it away, scraping all the way down to bright white bone, antler that hasn't had time to shade to ivory. The blood drips down blue-red, he carves at the antlers, and she watches from the roof until the sun goes down, until he gets it perfect.
He grabs the bucket, slings water out into the woods. It arcs, full of leaves and dead insects, which spray across the grass on the way. She feels drops of dirty water hit her crossed, bare legs. The mound of sand in the sandbox is starting to grow bits of grass and weeds, untilled for ten years, when she was last a child. Everything is slippery in the late-summer heat, the sheen of the fresh-flung water fades as the ground soaks it in.
(didn't read this)
Line: The worst you can do
(nothing)
Theme: cowboys
It's about the jeans, the way they bunch around the skinny legs. The way the waistband hangs a little below the tanline when they go out at night, when they bend over pool tables and stretch their untucked shirts away. The way their shoulders roll under the thin cotton of their shirts, the array of faded plaid. The jeans dusty, oil-stained, or crisply, newly clean and so stiff they could stand on their own. It's about how they always seem a little separate from their clothes, a little naked; no matter what they're wearing, the whole frame shows below. He grips the neck of a Corona in New Hampshire, and he's a cowboy, 1200 miles away from a wild horse, and I'm sold.
Final round: knife, roof, velvet
He knifes the velvet off the horns of the deer, the buck hanging from the metal rack by its back hooves. They're in the side parking lot of the general store, the blood running down from the gash in its belly, and she's sitting on the roof of his truck, wanting to see and not see, wishing he wouldn't do this in the open at this time of year. In the fall, everything's colder, drier, not yet frozen solid but getting there. It's not right for him to do this in a t-shirt, for her to be able to smell the blood. The velvet skin falls to the gravel parking lot as he carves it away, scraping all the way down to bright white bone, antler that hasn't had time to shade to ivory. The blood drips down blue-red, he carves at the antlers, and she watches from the roof until the sun goes down, until he gets it perfect.
Labels: story slam
posted by Elizabeth Thorpe at 10:07 AM
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