J Kelley
07-29-2011, 09:41 PM
[Not sure where this will go in the context of the story, or if will sense to anyone just by itself...but the following is an excerpt that I keep shuffling from place to place. It describes an encounter between 2 characters that become major players in a novel that I've been working on since the beginning of time. Any and all feedback is welcome and appreciated, especially on the narrative voice in general, and if you kind of get a sense of the characters....]
Trouble
Across the railroad tracks of an adjacent city the temperature had climbed. Foothills crouched against a matte sky amidst clusters of bungalows boxed with rusty chain link fences and dirt lawns. A little boy in baggy shorts and hiking boots sat on the curb, jabbing a stick into the carcass of a squirrel. There were scabs on the boy’s knees and elbows, and his eye had swollen beneath longish, black hair that kept sliding into his face.
Behind him a woman in three layers of patchwork skirts stood in the doorway of a grungy white bungalow, shouting for the boy to come home. The boy pretended not to hear. His shoulders tensed, and he gathered his knees, letting the stick fall. He tossed an icy glare at the porch steps and shook his head. His jaw stiffened. “Get in the house!” his mother scolded. “Your father wants a word with you.”
The little boy knew better. He stared hard at the asphalt, determined not to cry. Inside the house, he could hear his father cursing and tossing around furniture. “Israel, you get inside this instant. You’re only making things worse.”
Israel knew she was right. If he could make the blood stop shaking in his chest, he would march into the living room and look his father in the face. He’d show his father that he wasn’t afraid. But Israel was afraid. It would only make him cry to see his father so angry, and crying would only make things worse. It would make things worse than staying outside on the curb until he cooled down a little.
Israel branded the carcass with a sullen glower and took a deep breath. The sooner he could pull himself together and walk into that grungy white house, the easier it would be, and he couldn’t very well sit on the curbstone all night long while his father stayed inside getting angrier and angrier.
By now his father’s face had contorted with rage and the veins were standing on his forehead, beads of sweat springing to his temples, nostrils flaring. Soon his eyes would go dead and the house would be quiet. Mother would go back inside to fix his supper and tidy up the mess of shattered glass and skewed end tables and everyone would speak softly or not at all. They would scuttle along the walls trying not to be noticed while Israel’s father stayed very still, motorcycle boots planted to the carpet, holding a yellow yardstick. Israel knew the longer he let his father sit that way, the worse things would be for him. It would be easier to go inside right now if he could keep himself from crying.
Suddenly he felt sick. His mother had stopped calling him, and Israel wondered if she was still standing on the porch. Slowly he climbed to his feet and, pocketing his fists, started up the walk with eyes skimming the ground. Then he felt someone watching him from across the street, and he turned.
A boy his own age stood on the opposite sidewalk with the same hiking boots and a bruise over the same eye. Shadows filled his pale skin, making him look ill, and he seemed kind of weird for a kid. Coal-dark hair hung to his shoulders. They stared across the street at each other. “Hello,” the boy greeted.
Stooping to the ground Israel gathered a handful of rocks and started hurling them in the direction of the boy one at a time. At first the boy didn’t move; he only curled his arms over his head. So Israel paused, aimed carefully, and beamed the kid’s elbow with a chunk of asphalt. There.
Eyes narrowing Israel shook his head and would’ve shouted at the kid to get the hell off his street if his mother hadn’t called again from the porch. So letting the rest of his ammunition fall Israel turned and marched into the house.
Across the street the other little boy rubbed his eyes. Certainly he hadn’t just seen a phoenix. Absently, the little boy with the pale skin licked blood off his elbow and turned all the way around to see if anyone was watching. Perhaps it had only been the sun glinting off a windshield somewhere, but the kid in his same hiking boots appeared to have a deep red aura and a shadow much darker than the shadows of the palm trees. His eyes appeared to glow from a fiery halo. Magnificently. “It can’t really be a phoenix,” the little boy mumbled, scratching his head, and continued down the block on some imaginary quest, to save the world or maybe destroy it. He hadn’t decided yet.
Trouble
Across the railroad tracks of an adjacent city the temperature had climbed. Foothills crouched against a matte sky amidst clusters of bungalows boxed with rusty chain link fences and dirt lawns. A little boy in baggy shorts and hiking boots sat on the curb, jabbing a stick into the carcass of a squirrel. There were scabs on the boy’s knees and elbows, and his eye had swollen beneath longish, black hair that kept sliding into his face.
Behind him a woman in three layers of patchwork skirts stood in the doorway of a grungy white bungalow, shouting for the boy to come home. The boy pretended not to hear. His shoulders tensed, and he gathered his knees, letting the stick fall. He tossed an icy glare at the porch steps and shook his head. His jaw stiffened. “Get in the house!” his mother scolded. “Your father wants a word with you.”
The little boy knew better. He stared hard at the asphalt, determined not to cry. Inside the house, he could hear his father cursing and tossing around furniture. “Israel, you get inside this instant. You’re only making things worse.”
Israel knew she was right. If he could make the blood stop shaking in his chest, he would march into the living room and look his father in the face. He’d show his father that he wasn’t afraid. But Israel was afraid. It would only make him cry to see his father so angry, and crying would only make things worse. It would make things worse than staying outside on the curb until he cooled down a little.
Israel branded the carcass with a sullen glower and took a deep breath. The sooner he could pull himself together and walk into that grungy white house, the easier it would be, and he couldn’t very well sit on the curbstone all night long while his father stayed inside getting angrier and angrier.
By now his father’s face had contorted with rage and the veins were standing on his forehead, beads of sweat springing to his temples, nostrils flaring. Soon his eyes would go dead and the house would be quiet. Mother would go back inside to fix his supper and tidy up the mess of shattered glass and skewed end tables and everyone would speak softly or not at all. They would scuttle along the walls trying not to be noticed while Israel’s father stayed very still, motorcycle boots planted to the carpet, holding a yellow yardstick. Israel knew the longer he let his father sit that way, the worse things would be for him. It would be easier to go inside right now if he could keep himself from crying.
Suddenly he felt sick. His mother had stopped calling him, and Israel wondered if she was still standing on the porch. Slowly he climbed to his feet and, pocketing his fists, started up the walk with eyes skimming the ground. Then he felt someone watching him from across the street, and he turned.
A boy his own age stood on the opposite sidewalk with the same hiking boots and a bruise over the same eye. Shadows filled his pale skin, making him look ill, and he seemed kind of weird for a kid. Coal-dark hair hung to his shoulders. They stared across the street at each other. “Hello,” the boy greeted.
Stooping to the ground Israel gathered a handful of rocks and started hurling them in the direction of the boy one at a time. At first the boy didn’t move; he only curled his arms over his head. So Israel paused, aimed carefully, and beamed the kid’s elbow with a chunk of asphalt. There.
Eyes narrowing Israel shook his head and would’ve shouted at the kid to get the hell off his street if his mother hadn’t called again from the porch. So letting the rest of his ammunition fall Israel turned and marched into the house.
Across the street the other little boy rubbed his eyes. Certainly he hadn’t just seen a phoenix. Absently, the little boy with the pale skin licked blood off his elbow and turned all the way around to see if anyone was watching. Perhaps it had only been the sun glinting off a windshield somewhere, but the kid in his same hiking boots appeared to have a deep red aura and a shadow much darker than the shadows of the palm trees. His eyes appeared to glow from a fiery halo. Magnificently. “It can’t really be a phoenix,” the little boy mumbled, scratching his head, and continued down the block on some imaginary quest, to save the world or maybe destroy it. He hadn’t decided yet.