writeforfun

And now, having had breakfast, they were prowling about under the dripping limbs of black oaks and white pines on a cool, early April morning in rural Wisconsin. They (had) started off down a muddy lane in ill-fitting galoshes and came to a rusty barbed wire fence stretched between femur-like wooden fence posts. A hand painted sign read: “Trespassers will be punished”

Felix held the wire apart and Isabelle squeezed through. He snagged his waterproof jacket, the one his wife had given him on his 42nd birthday, as he came through and ripped it.

“Oh hell,” he said, absently, still pleasantly buzzed from the morning libations.

“I feel, so…” Isabelle began.

“Bad?” he said with a smile.

“Naughty, is a better word.” She smiled back. “And I like it.”

He felt his heart quicken, his throat tighten, and a warm, engorging surge of blood in his groin. He took her hand, their fingers interlaced, as they crossed the fallow field.

“Over there,” she said, pointing to a thicket strewn with fallen braches, pine needles and decaying leaves. “Let’s look over there.”

Under a white pine she came from behind and he felt her damp hand slither under his jacket and down his trousers. He gasped at the coldness and audacity of the unexpected invasion. She giggled.

“Here,” she breathed into his ear.

“Here?” he asked, her hand stiffening.

“It’s warm,” she said. “It feels good.”

He lay on his back, on the springy ground, the fecund smell of earth, pine needles and rot filling his nostrils, a smell of the potential of ill-begotten life. Isabelle grunted as she straddled him, her eyes closed, her thin lips slightly parted, the green hood of her rain slicker framing her face against the grey sky. She worked herself with one hand and with the other she seized clawlike at his chest. Then the rain came, pattering on her slicker, a drop suspended on the tip of her nose. She groaned loudly, brazenly. He looked away and there, next to a log was a morel, big, brown, penis shaped with a spongy head.


It was the only mushroom they found that morning. They took it back to the bed and breakfast and the owner, a Frenchman who used to be a butcher in Bulogne, prepared it for them with a tough cut of sirloin and a bottle of cheap Shiraz. They ate off paper plates and drank from plastic cups.

“Oh my God,” she said, taking a bite of the morel. “This tastes so… fucking good.”

He winced. A woman in her 40s, a professional woman, should be beyond adolescent vulgarities.

“What?” she said, reading his face. “It feels good to say “fucking”. “Why don’t you say it with me.”

“I think I’ll pass.”

She grinned. “What’s the matter with you? Mr. Larry Literary. Mr. Effete.”

He took a bite of the morel, nutty, rich, the taste of the earth as it smelled under the tree that morning. The smell of himself and of regret. If he could only now abort that unfortunate emission. He stifled the urge to vomit.

She watched him closely with her glassy, doe-like black eyes and a sly smile.

He choked down the bit of morel and took a large swallow of Shiraz.

“I’ll eat the rest of that,” she said, poking her fork into his soggy mushroom.

Later, they lay in bed, their legs entwined. Hers felt like fine grit sandpaper. She hadn’t shaved them during her bath. She was reading Miller’s Tropic of Capricorn and he was struggling to concentrate on the first chapter of Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night.

He was thinking of his wife, Michelle, his six-year-old daughter, Emma, and 8-year-old son, Ben. He was missing Ben’s soccer game. He hadn’t been to one since fall.

Isabelle put her book down and slid her reading glasses off her patrician nose. He sensed something heavy coming.

“How’s that book?” he asked.

“Like taking a bath in filth,” she said. “A bath of muck and sweat and hunger and vulgarity.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I highly recommend it.” She laughed. “The part I’m reading is quite engrossing, Miller is describing one of his cunts.”

He laughed uncomfortably.

“That word bothers you?”

“It’s rather, well, blunt.”

She chuckled. “Blunt — cunt. You’re a poet - and don’t know it.”

He smiled without enthusiasm.

“Listen,” she said, turning back to her book. “This is Miller’s cunt talking: "Men like to fuck, and so do women. It doesn't harm anybody and it doesn't mean you have to love everyone you fuck, does it? I wouldn't want to be in love; it must be terrible to have to fuck the same man all the time, don't you think? Listen, if you didn't fuck anybody but me all the time you'd get tired of me quick, wouldn't you? Sometimes it's nice to be fucked by some one you don't know at all. Yes, I think that's the best of all, there's no complications, no telephone numbers, no love letters, no scraps, what?"

She looked at him over her glasses, like his grade six school teacher. “I’m your cunt,” she offered. “I like being your cunt.”

Hours ago, this might have aroused him. Now it put him off.

“You know, you can live how you want without consequences,” she said, tracing her finger across his lips. “Why shouldn’t you be able to do that?”

“Do you really think so?” he replied.

“I believe you can,” she said.

There was along silence.

She moved her hand onto his and clutched it in what felt like a death grip.

“I also believe…I love you.”

Felix’s mind flailed like a fish on the beach, urgently seeking to flop its way back into life giving waters – big waters into which he could swim far into the deep, where fish had no need of eyes. Yet from the deep surfaced a memory, unbidden, of Felix’s first hunting trip when he was 10-years-old and his dad had taken him to public land near the lake.

He felt like that deer buck must have felt, the first one he ever shot and the recoil of the bolt-action .308 Winchester had bruised his shoulder. His buck fever was bad and his bullet struck the poor animal in the gut. The wounded animal bounded forward in agony and lurched into the brush, leaving a bloody trail behind it.

They found it after an hour of following the blood trail. The wounded creature lay on the ground in a bed of rotting leaves, its glassy black eye staring up, indolent from exhaustion. Felix could see the thin line of reddish white foam around its mouth and hear the soft, desperate, wheezy breathing of it and his dad had made him finish it off with a shot to the head.

“Never let a thing suffer,” his dad said. “That was a terrible shot you made. You must learn from it, son.”

Outside the Bed and Breakfast the rain began to fall heavily and Felix listened to it thrumming on the roof.

“I’m not just going to let you go,” Isabelle said. “You know that don’t you?”

Felix didn’t answer.

She withdrew her hand, put her reading glasses back on and with a self-satisfied smile began to read again.

Felix pretended to read, too. But he was thinking about the cool feel of that Winchester and the “snick” the bolt made when he pulled it back, then slammed it forward to chamber a round. He thought of his dad who had been dead two decades and what he had said.

“Never let a wounded thing suffer.”

He tried again to read but the words were indecipherable. He stared at the same page for a long time.Isabelle snored softly. His “cunt” must have dozed off.

He listened to the rain on the roof. He thought it might be time to consider hunting again.

terrib

Hey I think this was very good, it could be a erotic romance you know. Watch the adjectives.

There was along silence. Did you mean a long?
I would leave out deer and just use buck. but buck-fever was fine.

gregorio

I liked the story. You done good! "He lay on his back, on the springy ground, the fecund smell of earth, pine needles and rot filling his nostrils, a smell of the potential of ill-begotten life" Wow! Very good. The last part, underlined, seems like it could be tweaked to read more smoothly. "...a smell of ill-begotten life" Just a humble suggestion. Good work.

writeforfun

Thanks for taking the time to read. Appreciate your comments.

Terrib: this strikes you as being in the erotic genre? interesting.

Did either of you get anything deeper from the story; or did it seem superficial?

thanks,

wff

SoNickSays...

Well, to me it didn't seem superficial. Your style reminds me slightly of Stephen King.

I love your memory of the hunt, and your metaphor with it at the end. It was well written, and had a good flow.

However, I wish I could say that a man in that situation would change that suddenly, but in a way I feel he may not. But don't take what I say too much to heart, as I have no idea if he would or not, but in my gut I get the feeling that he would have a small feeling of dread and regret just before (and even maybe while) he screws, despite the erotica.

Overall, I think you wrote this well, developed the flow, and you clearly took of a lot of time in editing. I love the metaphors you use in it, too.

Definitely worth the read,
Nick

The Prodigy

One question: what is your age? Another question - I'm curious - are you married?

I only ask, because I reason that someone with experience in life would be able to write so well. It is certaintly plausible, and written with undercurrents that carry, may I say morality or self-examination, as possible themes. Admire the story, but appreciate the question you asked the two who posted. Do you exspect one to take some deeper meaning or revelation from your words. Ah! That's another question. I guess I better stop myself.

The ending was great, I believe, simply because I think he may not have changed at all but came the the realization of what his actions meant. I don't like simple sometimes. The story wasn't oversimplified. It was a carriage of reality, inner perceptions, changing beliefs, impending action, etc. all culminating in the metaphor of the buck, which accomplishes it purpose. There is already some great advice posted, but I will suggest that while I connected with your characters well, I would have liked to have connected more. My guess, it would increase the personal impact of the story.

Appreciated the read.

__________________
...the writer must live with hope, work in faith.
- J.B. Priestley

JWalker

I liked this. I do agree with So nick says that the memory of the hunt was well written. Although I think you could have written more before ending it.

JW

writeforfun

Thank you for reading and for your thoughts.

This is actually the 2nd draft of this story, including some edits recommended by a friend. The friend also suggested the inclusion of the passage about "c--ts" from Miller's book. A good call I think.

But upon reading it again, I think I'll change some of his suggestions, especially the ones that "telegraph" or "explain" such as "She moved her hand onto his and clutched it in what felt like a death grip." To me this is bad, because it overexplains, plus "death grip" is a cliche.

Also, there are some sloppy typos, i.e. "along" instead of "a long..."

I agree that the characters maybe need some more "flesh" to be more fully realized and alive so that the impact is greater.

I usually don't like to write stories that contain such vulgarity as I think it limits one's audience and suggests the writer is not clever enough to make his point without being crude.

Anyway, thanks again and I'll definitely read your posts when I see'em.