Sip by Brian Allen Carr

Author:Brian Allen Carr
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literary Fiction
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2017-06-23T19:29:01+00:00

Drummond Alone

The poisonous poetry of Drummond’s shadow intoxication thinned to whispers as the hours passed. He wasn’t quite in focus, but certain things did come to him. Hunger, for instance. His belly felt scratched dry. He tarried from the pond, puked water, and worked his way up the crater wall to the crown of the formation. In the distance, green-leaved trees rolled with the breeze. He went that way, loping confusedly, led on by his hunger.

As he neared, he saw pale-orange fruits that bobbed from the branches.

He picked up speed, reached out and grabbed one. He didn’t know it, but they were grapefruit. He bit the rind and bitterness shocked him. The sweet, acidic juice of the thing stung his lips, and he tore open the fruit at the spot he’d bit it, smashed his face into the ruby-red flesh, smeared the sticky thing against his cheeks, nose, and chin. Satisfyingly painful. Burning in some good way.

He made quick work of that one, set to some others, gorged on the grapefruits until his throat stung. The fruits didn’t quite quell his hunger, but they dampened it, held it off at some distance to be observed.

He then realized that his skin stung with sunburn. He wished for clothing. He went to lie beneath one of the trees, but there were dropped, dried limbs thick with malicious thorns, and he decided that the area was against him.

He clutched up as many grapefruit as he could gather and retreated to the pond, ambled up over the crater bluff, back down to the water. If he was spotted by those who dwelt on the opposite side from him, he didn’t care, wasn’t certain.

He made his way back to the cattails and rested again in the mess of them, letting the fruit he’d harvested bob in the water. His haunches sunk into the mud, as did his hands. He lifted a fistful of the stuff, and he figured he’d found an answer. He took the mud and began to run it over his face and shoulders. It was cool against his weathered skin. He smeared his whole body. It felt pleasant. When the sun dried it to a crunchy texture, he washed the earth off him and smeared himself again.

He passed the whole day that way, but the next morning, while hunkering in the reeds, a face gazed toward him from across the pond. He saw it stay on him. A few folks amassed and stayed focused on his position. Drummond threw into anxiety. Queer vibrations beset him. A constriction of his heart transpired.

A few of those across the pond began to round the perimeter of the water toward him. He stepped back, slipped, landed ass down in the mud. The splash must’ve echoed out. His audience moved toward him with speed—from far away, but he could see.

Drummond plucked his frame from the muck, raced up the embankment, ran on his bare feet in whatever direction he happened to be moving.

He dashed through tall grasses, low branches, dancing around cacti paddles, their yellow needles catching his thighs, drawing blood.

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