Four writers for the price of one blog
Her backpack lay in the mottled brown leaves some feet behind her. There were books just beyond the backpack. A hardcover textbook was overturned and the pages opened to the ground. The pages of a slimmer book lifted and flipped as a breeze rattled and shook loose leaves above her.
Her short, sharp cries admit each thrust. She’s a few feet beyond the backpack and books. She’s on her hands and knees. Her knees are wider than her hands. Her dark hair hangs down and trails in the leaves. She doesn’t look back but sometimes straight ahead and sometimes she hangs her head. Her mouth is open. Her eyes are wide and her eyebrows strained with surprise. Her spine is raised. Her fingers bend into the leaves as if she meant to crawl away or dig or fight the soil under her knees.
Her blouse is buttoned and trim. Her sneakers are white and the laces neatly tied. Only her skirt is lifted behind. It hangs down like a curtain from her pelvis. The sharp thrusts jolt the skirt. Thick hands hold her waist. Her short pleas quicken as the thrusts grow harder and deeper. She opens her knees a little wider. She plants her hands a little further ahead, bracing against her palms.
And then the rhythm of her cries becomes a hiccuping grunt and a long moan as the sharp thrusts stop. The wide hands hold her tightly. Her fingernails dig into the earth. A sound, like trickling water, between her knees. And then a final shudder, not hers, that jolts her abdomen. She abruptly exhales. The hands let go. She hears a zipper, then dry, unhurried footsteps leaving her on her hands and knees.
She stays like that at first. Then, without turning, she slowly stands. She presses her palms against the base of her abdomen. She presses her knees together. She lifts her dress to the small of her back. She curls her other hand hand behind and under her lifted spine. Her thumb and index finger return glistening. She rubs them together, parts them, rubs them together. She smells. She sees the grit on her hands and brushes them off. She lifts her skirt again and this time lifts the panties that had been stretched midway to her knees. She brushes off her knees and lets the skirt fall.
She turns. She scoops up the backpack and puts it on. She picks up the books, one by one, and carries them, as she had been carrying them, arms straight and in front of her. A clear drop slides down her ankle and dampens her sock, then the other sock as she walks away.
William Crimson | October 3 2015