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Closed For Lunch

I didn't really know which Forum to stick this in, as it's a piece of (unfinished) fiction, although like all fiction it's semi-autobiographical.

Five days until I go to Colombia and I very much hope that with the time to relax away from my regular job, I'll be able to concentrate on my writing.

Like I said, this is unfinished, but I hope you enjoy it and perhaps I'll get the chance soon to finish it.

Closed for Lunch

By Cockney Colombian

It was a standard green Bienvenidos sign, the kind that stood at the end of the road across a string of towns and villages throughout the region. Invariably they were sponsored by Nectar, with giant gaudy, almost cartoon like bottles of Aguardiente, taking greater prominence than the village's name. Average Daily Temperature, Population and Altitude was standard, though those who lived in Pueblo Salamanca laughed at the notion of 26o C as far too cool for their daily inferno. Salamanca was a small sleepy town, one it seemed in a state of permanent siesta. So much so that long ago some wag had scrawled graffiti across the sign, which read "Closed For Lunch" and the Mayor had merely laughed before lolling his head to return to his slumber.

Melquiades shifted uncomfortably in the heat, acutely aware of the large sweat stains already forming across his shirt. He was in his Sunday best, light blue trousers and a crisp iron shirt. He fought an inner battle every week torn between looking smart for church and wondering if perhaps God would mind if he simply wore his usual shorts and vest. There was no question of course; the village priest was off the strictest variety, probably having recited Leviticus from birth, though Melquiades suspected a streak of bitter resentment that the congregation were forced to swelter just as the priest was beneath his heavy robes.

Melquiades was a short man very much in the autumn of his life. His crinkled skin was burnt bronze, the result of eight decades living in the sun. Gaunt of face, evidence remained of the handsome hawk like profile of his youth, and though his skin may have betrayed his age, he nonetheless maintained a ramrod posture and his eyes blazed intelligence, any hints of dementia being nothing more than an affectation for his grandchildren when he would send them running by cackling madly till his false teeth popped out. The truth was that he was desperately tired, surrounded by the onslaught of time for even the youngest of his children was just shy of forty and his great grandchildren totalled in double figures, but a sense of proud dignity kept him from betraying this feeling to the world.

His youngest, Rosalba, was seated at the lunch table. Even in the shade, she was glossy with perspiration and her skin flushed pink, as she blew on a spoonful of scalding grey soup. She had left the town long ago, aged ten in fact, taking in by her half brother Jose Maria. "Brother, not half brother", Melquiades quickly corrected but as usual his subconscious had betrayed his thought processes. Even though he had raised him, Jose Maria was not his son.

By Cockney Colombian on Jul 23, 2005, 01:56 in Friendly Talkzone.

greenday says on Jul 23, 2005, 04:40:

since you're writing fiction make sure you include an account somewhere of Peter in Miami kicking my ass...lol

good luck with your writings!!!

0 funny, 0 helpful.

rjstuff says on Jul 23, 2005, 07:25:

Nice descriptions so far Where is the dialog and action. Its very nice but you need to do something to hold on to the reader pretty quickly as in:
He spotted Elmodfq runnin half naked in the street shouting, "Ash, where is my b**** Ash etc." Thanks for sharing it. Have fun!

0 funny, 0 helpful.