adrianhayter
Virgin
- Joined
- Jan 14, 2007
- Posts
- 5
I’ve had a couple of pieces accepted on this site, both with passable ratings. I was fortunate from the beginning to hook up with an editor willing to spend effort and time with my junk-but that’s one person with one view, and inevitably, a view shaded with kindness. What I’m in need of is something more than the feedback number.
As a novice, I’ve no idea where I’m going. I’ve written two pieces in my life-now three including this. This piece seems simple compared to what I read here. Am I a minimalist or is minimalist another term for lack of vocabulary?
I’m not looking for kindness but remember, my hymen is still intact.
Thanks
Adrian Hayter
Mimosa: The best-known species is Mimosa Pudica, which is also known as the sensitive plant or sleeping grass because of the way it folds its leaves down when touched. Prevalent in Mexico.
The Mimosa
The dog lay on the black asphalt, not noticing the heat of the afternoon as the Mexican Federales motioned the car to the curb. The girl beside him, beads of sweat on her cheeks, startled awake as the car rolled to a halt. She had slept for the last fifty miles, bored with the desert, not yet smelling the crisp salt of the Mexican gulf.
“What is it? Why are we stopped?” She asked, even before her lids opened.
“We’re almost there kid. You can smell the ocean.” He answered, using a cloth to wipe the moisture from her face, lingering over her eyes with the material, hoping they would let him drive on quickly.
She took the cloth and wiped the back of her neck, lifting the wet strands of hair and allowing the weak air from the window to blow along her skin. Excited at seeing the palm trees for the first time, her eyes took in the storefronts but skipped across the dark form in the road.
Brandon stared ahead, watching the police, and waiting for the signal; a signal releasing him. His fingers tightened on the wheel, his will demanding they finish with this business, when he heard the woman scream,” Oh God, it’s a dog. Oh God, is he hurt?”
“Well it’s about a hundred and twenty degrees out here and he’s been laying there for the last ten minutes. I don’t think he’s napping.” He answered, irritated with the authority’s slowness.
“Why are you such a son-of-a-bitch?” She blurted, tears starting to build in her eyes as her gaze returned to the form. “I feel so sorry for him,” She whimpered.
Keeping her gaze away from the form, Brandon nodded toward the sidewalk, “Which do you feel sorry for, the dog or that bastard over there that let him run into the street?”
The ex owner of the dog, an American expatriate by his clothes, paced the sidewalk. He walked from one broken sidewalk gap to the next, hands covering his chest, briefly glancing toward the body as he met each fracture. The authorities avoided both the American and the dog in the asphalt; intent on questioning others-others that bore less responsibility.
The curtained RV, waiting for the process to finish, idled by the curb. The air-conditioner’s quite efficiency hummed as police, sorting out the details, moved slowly in the heat. Only once, the driver’s tiny window opened and documents squeezed through the slit. Several times, flowered shades slid back a crack, and quickly closed; too fast to see the source of curiosity.
Brandon despised the man on the sidewalk; the Mexican sun broiling raw resentment into charred hatred. He despised the owner for neglect but mostly for his selfishness. He hadn’t chosen a pet to match his life; a life more suited to a two-pound ball of timid fur cradled in his arms as he strolled the malls. He’d chosen a creature born to hunt, and swim, and run-bounding with life. He’d picked a companion to fulfill a selfish fantasy. Brandon wanted to grab and shake the man, and scream into his face, “It’s not a fucking lapdog, you idiot.”
The RV had served a clean blow, giving the dark form, and captive witnesses, an illusion of rest. Brandon avoided the illusion and followed the Ameican until startled by a slap on the hood. He turned to see an officer, now satisfied with the investigation, impatiently waving the car forward. The officer jumped to dodge the fender as Brandon stomped on the pedal, accelerating across the yellow lines.
“Slow down. You’re going to get us a ticket or worse,” She demanded, afraid of his recklessness.
Brandon released pressure from the pedal and loosened his grip around the wheel. His elbow rested in the opened window as the fingers of his other hand began an intimate search between the woman’s bare thighs.
“I’m not in the mood, thank you,” the woman said, moving his hand away, as she turned to watch the passing buildings.
“I’m always in the mood,” Brandon acknowledged as his rejected yet not thwarted fingers worked across the nape of her neck.
“I believe that, you sick bastard,” She answered, moving further toward the window and out of his grasp. Flustered being unable to reach and feel her skin, he leaned back and focused his attention on the boulevard, alert for stray dogs.
He needed her palm to touch his knee. That contact would be enough but she absently searched the glass windows of the shops, uninterested in other things. They drove silently for several miles until Brandon said, “We’ll be at the marina in a few minutes. Do you need anything before we take the boat out?”
She turned her face, anxious to see the multitude of masts sticking above the buildings. The black, and brown spears, hung with flags and jutting above the marina roof made her happy. The comfortable memories smoothed her sorrow, as she replied, “I’m sorry for what I said but it was sad. How can you dismiss it so quickly?” She watched Brandon’s face, desperate for an answer, as he pulled into the graveled lot.
Safe again, hearing her voice, Brandon ignored her question. He’d pushed the scene away, closed it off, refusing to let it interfere with this day or any day. As the car rolled to a stop against the curb, forgoing her natural exuberance, she remained seated.
“Look Babe, we’ve parked in front of a Mimosa tree,” Brandon said, expecting her to run to the tree as always and touch the tiny leaves, laughing as they closed tight from her excitement.
The woman ignored her favorite plant and asked again, urgently searching his eyes, ”Don’t you care about what happened? The minute we leave the accident, you want to fuck. How do you think that makes me feel? Don’t you care?”
A gust of wind shook the car as Brandon, unwilling to answer her questions, stared at the foliage. Particles of sand lifted from the beach and fell against the serrated leaves, forcing them to tightly close; a peculiar feature against a harsh environment. As the wind lessened and the grains of dust settled, the leaves opened to the sun.
Brandon pushed the switch, rolling the windows up to force a closure to the inquiry and turned to confront her. ”I do care about you and yes I want to fuck you and the two don’t always have to be inseparable, you know.” He said, still unable to understand her expression. The rapidly building heat in the car, designed to force her out, disturbed his concentration.
With one last-ditch attempt to escape the heat, he tried a theoretical approach. “Perhaps death has something to do with it. I don’t know but maybe there’s some deep instinct to continue the species when faced with mortality-to propagate, hence to fuck your brains out, Dear,” ending his treatise with a grin sure to win her over.
“What a crock of shit. That’s got to be the most moronic excuse I’ve ever heard,” She said, her anger exploding as his grin deflated, “If you followed that to it’s end, there wouldn’t be a Penthouse magazine for you freaks to jerk off to or porno movies to drool on. Hell, the erotic market would be ‘Gravediggers Quarterly’ with corpses laid on the ground. How hot is that, you dumb son-of-a-bitch?”
Brandon resented smart women but through some angry twist of fate, he circulated with that kind. Where was the bimbo when you needed one? Where was the girl who would collapse into his arms when confronted with his brilliance?
“Well then I don’t know. I’m just a horny SOB. Whatever you say,” He acknowledged, making one last attempt to finesse a spark of sympathy.
A long time passed, both sweltering, without a word until he finally gave in and said, “Are we going sailing or are we going to sit here until doomsday talking about some fucking dead animal_____?” The last word, barely intelligible, broke uncontrolled from his throat. He turned his head away and looked through the blurred window, watching the blowing sand when her hand settled softly on his knee.
As a novice, I’ve no idea where I’m going. I’ve written two pieces in my life-now three including this. This piece seems simple compared to what I read here. Am I a minimalist or is minimalist another term for lack of vocabulary?
I’m not looking for kindness but remember, my hymen is still intact.
Thanks
Adrian Hayter
Mimosa: The best-known species is Mimosa Pudica, which is also known as the sensitive plant or sleeping grass because of the way it folds its leaves down when touched. Prevalent in Mexico.
The Mimosa
The dog lay on the black asphalt, not noticing the heat of the afternoon as the Mexican Federales motioned the car to the curb. The girl beside him, beads of sweat on her cheeks, startled awake as the car rolled to a halt. She had slept for the last fifty miles, bored with the desert, not yet smelling the crisp salt of the Mexican gulf.
“What is it? Why are we stopped?” She asked, even before her lids opened.
“We’re almost there kid. You can smell the ocean.” He answered, using a cloth to wipe the moisture from her face, lingering over her eyes with the material, hoping they would let him drive on quickly.
She took the cloth and wiped the back of her neck, lifting the wet strands of hair and allowing the weak air from the window to blow along her skin. Excited at seeing the palm trees for the first time, her eyes took in the storefronts but skipped across the dark form in the road.
Brandon stared ahead, watching the police, and waiting for the signal; a signal releasing him. His fingers tightened on the wheel, his will demanding they finish with this business, when he heard the woman scream,” Oh God, it’s a dog. Oh God, is he hurt?”
“Well it’s about a hundred and twenty degrees out here and he’s been laying there for the last ten minutes. I don’t think he’s napping.” He answered, irritated with the authority’s slowness.
“Why are you such a son-of-a-bitch?” She blurted, tears starting to build in her eyes as her gaze returned to the form. “I feel so sorry for him,” She whimpered.
Keeping her gaze away from the form, Brandon nodded toward the sidewalk, “Which do you feel sorry for, the dog or that bastard over there that let him run into the street?”
The ex owner of the dog, an American expatriate by his clothes, paced the sidewalk. He walked from one broken sidewalk gap to the next, hands covering his chest, briefly glancing toward the body as he met each fracture. The authorities avoided both the American and the dog in the asphalt; intent on questioning others-others that bore less responsibility.
The curtained RV, waiting for the process to finish, idled by the curb. The air-conditioner’s quite efficiency hummed as police, sorting out the details, moved slowly in the heat. Only once, the driver’s tiny window opened and documents squeezed through the slit. Several times, flowered shades slid back a crack, and quickly closed; too fast to see the source of curiosity.
Brandon despised the man on the sidewalk; the Mexican sun broiling raw resentment into charred hatred. He despised the owner for neglect but mostly for his selfishness. He hadn’t chosen a pet to match his life; a life more suited to a two-pound ball of timid fur cradled in his arms as he strolled the malls. He’d chosen a creature born to hunt, and swim, and run-bounding with life. He’d picked a companion to fulfill a selfish fantasy. Brandon wanted to grab and shake the man, and scream into his face, “It’s not a fucking lapdog, you idiot.”
The RV had served a clean blow, giving the dark form, and captive witnesses, an illusion of rest. Brandon avoided the illusion and followed the Ameican until startled by a slap on the hood. He turned to see an officer, now satisfied with the investigation, impatiently waving the car forward. The officer jumped to dodge the fender as Brandon stomped on the pedal, accelerating across the yellow lines.
“Slow down. You’re going to get us a ticket or worse,” She demanded, afraid of his recklessness.
Brandon released pressure from the pedal and loosened his grip around the wheel. His elbow rested in the opened window as the fingers of his other hand began an intimate search between the woman’s bare thighs.
“I’m not in the mood, thank you,” the woman said, moving his hand away, as she turned to watch the passing buildings.
“I’m always in the mood,” Brandon acknowledged as his rejected yet not thwarted fingers worked across the nape of her neck.
“I believe that, you sick bastard,” She answered, moving further toward the window and out of his grasp. Flustered being unable to reach and feel her skin, he leaned back and focused his attention on the boulevard, alert for stray dogs.
He needed her palm to touch his knee. That contact would be enough but she absently searched the glass windows of the shops, uninterested in other things. They drove silently for several miles until Brandon said, “We’ll be at the marina in a few minutes. Do you need anything before we take the boat out?”
She turned her face, anxious to see the multitude of masts sticking above the buildings. The black, and brown spears, hung with flags and jutting above the marina roof made her happy. The comfortable memories smoothed her sorrow, as she replied, “I’m sorry for what I said but it was sad. How can you dismiss it so quickly?” She watched Brandon’s face, desperate for an answer, as he pulled into the graveled lot.
Safe again, hearing her voice, Brandon ignored her question. He’d pushed the scene away, closed it off, refusing to let it interfere with this day or any day. As the car rolled to a stop against the curb, forgoing her natural exuberance, she remained seated.
“Look Babe, we’ve parked in front of a Mimosa tree,” Brandon said, expecting her to run to the tree as always and touch the tiny leaves, laughing as they closed tight from her excitement.
The woman ignored her favorite plant and asked again, urgently searching his eyes, ”Don’t you care about what happened? The minute we leave the accident, you want to fuck. How do you think that makes me feel? Don’t you care?”
A gust of wind shook the car as Brandon, unwilling to answer her questions, stared at the foliage. Particles of sand lifted from the beach and fell against the serrated leaves, forcing them to tightly close; a peculiar feature against a harsh environment. As the wind lessened and the grains of dust settled, the leaves opened to the sun.
Brandon pushed the switch, rolling the windows up to force a closure to the inquiry and turned to confront her. ”I do care about you and yes I want to fuck you and the two don’t always have to be inseparable, you know.” He said, still unable to understand her expression. The rapidly building heat in the car, designed to force her out, disturbed his concentration.
With one last-ditch attempt to escape the heat, he tried a theoretical approach. “Perhaps death has something to do with it. I don’t know but maybe there’s some deep instinct to continue the species when faced with mortality-to propagate, hence to fuck your brains out, Dear,” ending his treatise with a grin sure to win her over.
“What a crock of shit. That’s got to be the most moronic excuse I’ve ever heard,” She said, her anger exploding as his grin deflated, “If you followed that to it’s end, there wouldn’t be a Penthouse magazine for you freaks to jerk off to or porno movies to drool on. Hell, the erotic market would be ‘Gravediggers Quarterly’ with corpses laid on the ground. How hot is that, you dumb son-of-a-bitch?”
Brandon resented smart women but through some angry twist of fate, he circulated with that kind. Where was the bimbo when you needed one? Where was the girl who would collapse into his arms when confronted with his brilliance?
“Well then I don’t know. I’m just a horny SOB. Whatever you say,” He acknowledged, making one last attempt to finesse a spark of sympathy.
A long time passed, both sweltering, without a word until he finally gave in and said, “Are we going sailing or are we going to sit here until doomsday talking about some fucking dead animal_____?” The last word, barely intelligible, broke uncontrolled from his throat. He turned his head away and looked through the blurred window, watching the blowing sand when her hand settled softly on his knee.
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