WILDLANDS
Awake
STARTER / LONG POST / INTRODUCTION
Fiona
The sound of summer waves beat at her swollen eardrums…or maybe that was the sound of her own heartbeat throbbing against her chest. Her head already wasn’t against her own pillow. There were no sheets on the bed, something warm and sticky beneath her. Her head ached, the familiar sting of perhaps a hangover or something else entirely. If someone laced her Molly, she was going to be pissed. She must have gotten black out drunk…again. It was the only explanation. It was becoming easier and easier to do. It wasn’t her fault that her new ID was so decently fake that the clerk at the liquor store stopped bothering to check and gave her whatever she wanted. Tequila. Vodka. Rum. Anything to help everyone forget their problems, her own included.Fiona’s heavy lids took a few moments to open, her body’s bitter refusal to go back to the world of the living. If she wasn’t in her own bed, heaven forbid she was passed out in the middle of the lawn. She could already hear her father’s voice.‘Get the fuck up. What in the fuck you think you are doing? Sleeping with the pigs? Ya ain’t worth pigshit, Fiona Rickett. Hell, pigshit is worth more than ya. I can at least sell pigshit. Can’t sell ya. Now get up. Cows need milked.’Fi groaned. The sun was already hot, burning at her face and eyelids, flickering into her closed eyes. The sound of birds yelping and cawing…although they sounded strange. Not the morning doves coos that always pissed her off during her morning hangover wake up calls. No, these were…odd. Hell, maybe she was still high. Wouldn’t be the first time. She swatted at her face, smacking at her eyes. The traces of fake eyelashes and last night’s makeup still stung. Shitty dollar store makeup that she tried on in the bathroom and put back on the shelf. She rubbed at her eyes, groaned again, and let her hand fall back…into something…sticky…and wet.Her eyes shot open. The muddy jungle floor stuck to her fingers, mud caking itself under multicolored nails and the old candy bracelet around her wrist. She flipped onto her back, and was met with the full harsh rays of the sun. Lush green leaves fell into her path, shielding her for a moment. There was the scent of stale thick humid air, and whatever fresh hell came from the jungle. She sat up in a hurry. One high heel still clung to her foot, the wedge broken in half. The other shoe hung from a low lying branch, not far off.. The blue sequin splattered halter mini dress was ripped up the side. Her fingers began to shake.It was a bad trip. She was having a bad trip. That’s all. She just had to ground herself and she’d wake up in her bed…or something.Okay. Five things she could see. Trees. Thick, green, lucious trees. Trees that were not all local to her. Mud. Dirt floors. The poor velvet blue pumps that she hadn’t even purchased for herself. Did the shoes count as two things? I mean, there was one on her foot and the other was next to…was that bush moving?“Hello? Helllooooo? Oh, fuck. I’m still high as shit, aren’t I?”The bush shuddered again. A long thin tail emerged first, slithering backwards, and then the head of a snake glared at her, jaws opening in a yawn. Whether it was bored, or hungry, Fiona wasn’t waiting to find out. She screamed.
Fucking New Guy
INTERACTION / SHORT EXCHANGE EXAMPLE / ACTION AND EXPOSITION
Jamal
Sleek, low-slung sedan slipped into the back street, its custom grill grinning in the weak lamp-light. It cruised with a throaty rumble and pulled over in front of the building. Single level concrete block, massive, classic anti-hurricane style. The vehicle’s golden spinners shimmered in the dark like ocean under the Floridan sun. Strong bass trembled the cracked pavement, thumping through the courtyard. It led up to the wide stairs inviting to the school’s entrance.The car's tinted-glass door swung open and the rapper’s voice boomed in the street. They group spilled out of the dim interior. First J.D. with the shawty on his arm followed by a haze of smoke, then Jamal. The two were excited, prompting him to hurry. But he didn’t exactly feel the hype of the dumb school func…“Jammin’.”He stopped and looked back, barely understanding his older brother’s words from the inside, muffled by the rhythms. He shallowly bowed his head after the man was done talking.“Yeah, ‘course.” His voice came flat but never meaning no disrespect. “Got it.” He followed his friends, muttering to himself. “I ain’t stupid.” He was no child, he was eighteen. Some homies were stone cold killers way younger than that.The trio passed a bunch of guard dog teachers and caught up to the party inside. Tacky decorations, dancing idiots and Kylie Minogue’s newest release reverberating through the gym. Jamal liked her music, liked her accent. Australian, was it? Not like he’d ever admit that to anyone... JD’s girl spotted their crew in the far corner and gingerly waved to her sisters. They headed towards their tables, Jamal a few steps behind them. He was passing a group of older jocks and their preppy chicks when BAM. Cold and wet hit him. Spreading across his white t-shirt and splattering between his brand sneakers. A skinny guy with diamond stud earrings basically in his face—“The fuck!” Jamal shoved him both hands, making the guy stumble at the meatheads nearby. “Watch it!” He growled and looked down at his milkshake-dripping shirt. He pinched it off his skin with disgust screwing up his face. Fuck. Some people stared and talked, some pointed at him with amusement. He shot a glance at his buddies and felt his face grow hot. All of them were watching. Fuck.
Ignacio
“Shit, sorry!” Yeaaah, he didn’t sound sorry. Except for the loss of the sweet treat. Laughing, he regained his balance, pulling away from the half annoyed, half entertained football team. He recognized a bunch of faces from the practice and even though they chirped something about soccer not being a real sport, they seemed impressed the last time he showed them what he could do with a ball—no hands.He shot a toothy grin at the other. “But you look good in pink.” Somehow in his drunk head it seemed like a good idea to mock instead of just fucking off like he probably should have done.
Jamal
The guy sounded drunk and Jamal doubted it was from the strawberries. He gritted his teeth, heart rate accelerating. He knew this was one of those moments that could define you at school for the rest of the year. Not like he cared about that now, it was their last before high school was over.The wet stain did little to cool him off. He grabbed his shirt and peeled it off himself, a thick chain on his neck clinking, glinting in the colorful lights.“Clean it.” He chucked the shirt at the latino’s chest, his own moving faster. He didn’t want to break that dude but he’d do what he had to if the guy didn’t show basic respect.
Ignacio
He didn’t catch it. Not like he couldn’t, he just didn't want to—his brain doing half the leg work. He really should have slowed down with the booze, shouldn't he? He had a feeling Brad poured something extra-extra to his punch when he wasn't paying attention to the cup. And he didn't exactly complain but it would be a damn shame to get a case of whiskey dick after the party, when he could have gotten some action with… What was her name? Sara? Sandra? Samantha!The shirt fell to the ground and he rubbed the back of his faux hawk. Styled exactly like the hairstyles of the popular soccer players, which Brad bullied him for before getting his hair cut the same way—chicks dug that shit.He glanced at the shirt on the floor, then back at the fuming guy.“Dude. You for real?”
Jamal
Jamal looked at his friends sideways. Some of them were coming over, revving him up. He couldn’t afford not reacting. Couldn’t let the word get to his brother either. That he was a pussy, a loser, a disgrace. So he got into the guy’s face. So close he could feel the guy’s vodka breath, foreheads brushing as he spat through pearly teeth framed by thick lips.“Pick. It. Up. Bitch.”
Ignacio
Ignacio always considered himself a diplomat. While his buddies used to taunt and provoke, he de-escalated and turned insults into jokes. But then when the games were over and fists came into play, most of his buddies would duck or run. He wouldn’t. He wasn’t the biggest or the strongest, far from it. But he was fast and compared to most young men, he knew what he was doing. He’d always helped clean up the mess they made.Now? When the kid he didn’t know got into his face like that? When booze coursed his system and he tried to mask with smiles and laughter the sorrows and anger from back home? Self-restraints came loose and he stepped right into that bravado, glaring back. No words. They were past words. His face said it all. Bring it.
Jamal
Bloodrush and music throbbed in his ears. Their eyes locked. His breath caught when he found something in the other's gaze. The matching kind of fire. Rarely school kids had enough balls to mirror the dark in him—that's what Marcus called it. The dark. The evil. Something that God had to give you mercy for every Sunday. Because they were nothing but human, they were not perfect. This guy seemed different than the rest as well and it made Jamal pause and think. Just long enough for the—“Break it up!”The teacher grabbed them by the shoulders, tearing them apart. “It’s your second week here and you’re already a pain in my back, Cabrera.” The man scolded the Hispanic punk, adding something in a lower tone when pulling the guy away. Jamal couldn’t make out the words but he didn’t have to. He knew what was said. The new guy was given a warning. To not mess with him and his crew. Good.He picked up his shirt and dragged his ass to the bathroom to wash it. At least the stain on his jeans wasn’t that bad or else he’d beat the living shit out of that beaner the next time he saw him.
Goodbye
FLASHBACK / LONG POST / EXPOSITION
Weston
Weston still had dirt under his fingernails. They dug the grave last night; it took him and pa an hour to dig it deep enough to fit ma’s pine box six feet down. The loamy soil was good for growing new things, but apparently not good for burying dead things.Arms still tired from the digging last night and his pa working him like a farm mule made being a pallbearer extra difficult. It wasn’t just the weight of the plain pine box with his dead mother in it - she was a little waif of a thing and always had been - but the weight of his pa’s glare on him, and the warning not to drop the coffin.’You drop your ma, and you’re goin’ in the hole right after her’ the man had said. He knew it wasn’t an idle threat, either.The service was dour and depressing. The priest spoke of sins, of eternal judgment, and the very narrow path one must walk to avoid hell. Maybe if he was smarter or more into this kind of thing he would have been able to tell himself the message here was that his mother had, against nigh-insurmountable odds, remained a proper God-fearing woman and achieved what was required of her to ascend to her heavenly reward. But instead, all he heard was backhanded confirmation that his mother was a piece of shit.Not like he disagreed or anything, but it felt embarrassing to have it pointed out. The shitty state of the Jones family was something he didn’t want other people to talk about, no matter how badly it ground him down to dust with each passing day. It was his shameful problem to have, not one to be witnessed by others.Whatever. She could keep pa’s seat in hell next to her nice and toasty.It was a small crowd gathered for the funeral - his pa, his sister, his grandma on pa’s side, some cousins, a few people from ma’s work and a couple of guys that knew pa one way or another. His grandfather on ma’s side was dead before he was born, and his grandmother on ma’s side was in a nursing home for old people who couldn’t remember who they were anymore.The crowd at the gravesite was even smaller, given the oppressive heat of the midsummer sun, and as soon as the priest’s words were concluded they all took turns throwing in their shovel-full of dirt. He wished they’d hurry up and just leave, so him and pa could finish the work of burying her and he could go home. There was a cold shower and a box fan calling his name.“We should have done a Sittin’ Up, like in the old days.” His grandmother commented as she waddled up closer to the grave, putting in a half-assed shovel-toss worth of dirt onto the woman she never much seemed to care for. The comment was directed at his pa, but loud enough for everyone else to hear. All except maybe the priest - he was halfway across the grassy lot and headed to his parked Oldsmobile, hustling to get out of here. Even God’s mostly gentle souls couldn’t stand to be around them long, apparently.“Ain’t nobody done a Sittin’ Up since the seventies, Eula.” Pa snapped back. “Days of sittin’ with a corpse in my living room? People comin’ an’ goin’ through my house to visit and sit there and stare at her? Not a chance. That’s what funeral homes are for. We get it done quick, we get out, we move on.” He shook his head, narrowing his eyes at her. Mamaw Jones narrowed her eyes right back at pa.“Bet you didn’t cover the mirrors and open the windows and doors like I told you to.” Mamaw Jones tsk’d and shook her head, shoving the shovel at pa. He grabbed it, looking for a moment like he was considering shoveling her into the grave pit too.“Like I said. Ain’t got time for that wive’s tales bullshit.” Pa in turn shoved the shovel at Weston, who staggered back a step to suddenly have a fist and shovel against his chest.“Boy, get ‘er buried, make sure you get all the dirt back in and flatten up that top when you’re done. I’m headed out. I’m busy.” The last comment about being busy was directed at Mamaw Jones, but Weston knew better. Pa wasn’t busy. He was just headed to the liquor store.Pa and his grandmother were the last to leave. He had no idea where his sister had slunk off to. Left alone in the old cemetery, sweating bullets and tired, Weston let out a heavy sigh and started shoveling the dirt into his mother’s grave alone.“Got what you wanted, ma. Hope you enjoy it.” He muttered as he stared down at the pine box at the bottom of the grave, letting out a deep sigh before he proceeded to bury his mother.