Post by nova on Jun 24, 2011 12:56:51 GMT -5
I have finished a story and was wondering if anyone could give me his or her impression of the beginning? Thanks!
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“Meet me at the cemetery at two o’clock sharp,” Leboda said into the phone.
Catfish and Leboda hadn’t spoken for months, ever since the day of the surgeries. Leboda had gone in for yet another round.
Catfish obeyed the command. He left his house and walked over to the town graveyard. First he stopped at his own mother’s final resting place and said a small prayer: I know you had it hard, please let God take care of you. Then he climbed the hill. He arrived at the appointed destination winded and feeling slightly anxious. Catfish dug into his jacket pocket, found a joint, lit up. Being high gave him nerve.
“I’m here.” It was Leboda.
Catfish tripped over his own feet and landed on the hard bare ground.
“Nervous?” Leboda helped Catfish to his feet. “Oh yeah, I forgot: your irrational fear of cemeteries.”
The winter sun was already low enough in the sky so that it lined up directly behind Leboda’s head. Catfish was short and Leboda tall.
Catfish was afraid to say the wrong thing. He was also fighting off the urge to flee the graveyard. Catfish had always known that ghosts came out at night. It was winter and darkness came early.
“Nah, I’m okay. Got over that a long time ago.”
Leboda laid his bouquet of supermarket flowers against the headstone, kissed his own fingertips which didn’t seem to belong to him and touched those fingers to the wide arc of the engraved tablet. His black cashmere coat flapped in the wind.
When Catfish got tired of waiting with his nose dripping and his eyes shifting and seeing shadows he told Leboda that he had run into Rita recently. This should speed things up, Catfish thought.
Leboda laughed! But it was a fake laugh, like hohoho.
“And?” Leboda asked.
“Nothing… she asked how you were doing,” Catfish answered.
“She means nothing to me.” Rita with the turned out lips and mobile hips, Leboda thought.
“Sorry,” Catfish said.
Leboda stared down at his mother. “Isn‘t this more important?”
Leboda abruptly turned and marched down the hill.
Catfish tried to keep in step. “So watcha up to these days?” Now that they were leaving Catfish examined Leboda. He couldn’t get over how much his friend’s looks had changed. Only the voice and gait remained.
Leboda kept up his heavy stride. “I’ve healed from my surgeries.”
Leboda felt sorry for Catfish: the guy couldn‘t think straight for more than two minutes.
Leboda stopped. So did Catfish.
“So. Tell me what you really think,” Leboda said.
Leboda towered over his friend. Muscle, all muscle.
“You look… different,” Catfish ventured.
“I don’t know why you have to keep smoking that crap,” Leboda pulled the snuffed-out joint from Catfish’s fingers. Then Leboda threw the weed down, lifted his coat collar and surveyed Catfish‘s face. Still the same whiskers, but grey now.
“I’ll see you soon,” Leboda said.
“Hey can’t you spend some time?!” Catfish’s voice got blown out by the sharp wind.
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“Meet me at the cemetery at two o’clock sharp,” Leboda said into the phone.
Catfish and Leboda hadn’t spoken for months, ever since the day of the surgeries. Leboda had gone in for yet another round.
Catfish obeyed the command. He left his house and walked over to the town graveyard. First he stopped at his own mother’s final resting place and said a small prayer: I know you had it hard, please let God take care of you. Then he climbed the hill. He arrived at the appointed destination winded and feeling slightly anxious. Catfish dug into his jacket pocket, found a joint, lit up. Being high gave him nerve.
“I’m here.” It was Leboda.
Catfish tripped over his own feet and landed on the hard bare ground.
“Nervous?” Leboda helped Catfish to his feet. “Oh yeah, I forgot: your irrational fear of cemeteries.”
The winter sun was already low enough in the sky so that it lined up directly behind Leboda’s head. Catfish was short and Leboda tall.
Catfish was afraid to say the wrong thing. He was also fighting off the urge to flee the graveyard. Catfish had always known that ghosts came out at night. It was winter and darkness came early.
“Nah, I’m okay. Got over that a long time ago.”
Leboda laid his bouquet of supermarket flowers against the headstone, kissed his own fingertips which didn’t seem to belong to him and touched those fingers to the wide arc of the engraved tablet. His black cashmere coat flapped in the wind.
When Catfish got tired of waiting with his nose dripping and his eyes shifting and seeing shadows he told Leboda that he had run into Rita recently. This should speed things up, Catfish thought.
Leboda laughed! But it was a fake laugh, like hohoho.
“And?” Leboda asked.
“Nothing… she asked how you were doing,” Catfish answered.
“She means nothing to me.” Rita with the turned out lips and mobile hips, Leboda thought.
“Sorry,” Catfish said.
Leboda stared down at his mother. “Isn‘t this more important?”
Leboda abruptly turned and marched down the hill.
Catfish tried to keep in step. “So watcha up to these days?” Now that they were leaving Catfish examined Leboda. He couldn’t get over how much his friend’s looks had changed. Only the voice and gait remained.
Leboda kept up his heavy stride. “I’ve healed from my surgeries.”
Leboda felt sorry for Catfish: the guy couldn‘t think straight for more than two minutes.
Leboda stopped. So did Catfish.
“So. Tell me what you really think,” Leboda said.
Leboda towered over his friend. Muscle, all muscle.
“You look… different,” Catfish ventured.
“I don’t know why you have to keep smoking that crap,” Leboda pulled the snuffed-out joint from Catfish’s fingers. Then Leboda threw the weed down, lifted his coat collar and surveyed Catfish‘s face. Still the same whiskers, but grey now.
“I’ll see you soon,” Leboda said.
“Hey can’t you spend some time?!” Catfish’s voice got blown out by the sharp wind.