I wrote this some years ago… have not edited or changed anything for here. It was a writing game, using I think several given words, with a limited word count. I only remember one of the words now. Fuzzy.
Hoping others will join as I absolutely love stories as a way of getting to know people.
Taking the time to find the perfect, secluded camp is always worth it. I move leisurely, lest I miss such as the dark, round strawberry leaves, three or five per wild vine, strewn generously across the dunes. I wonder on whose lucky tongue the sweet fruit melted… some two months ago, it would have been. Long legged shore birds, racing hither and thither, and the ever evolving clouds keep me company as I veer from the sight of man, the sound of road, and the whirring of my own thoughts.
So you might imagine my twisted visage as first I came upon what would have been my ideal campsite, and a heartbeat later, her naked form, dappled dark and light, halting me in my tracks, taking my breath. The sun glances through windswept brush, its ethereal fingers, warm, stroking the flat valley that rises, falls, between her hungry hips. Relieved, I inhale at the sign of life. My spot was taken, and had I come from the opposite direction, I’d surely have walked off in dismay at the site of the forlorn camp.
As it is I cannot move. Not for long minutes, but in that time I take in her broken tent, reinvented. The footprint became a makeshift canopy, rope and sticks crisscrossing and knotted in the fashion of a woman that doesn’t know how and doesn’t care, so long as it stands, mostly. A fire pit, cold and empty but for a chunk of charred log and big tin cup, is made of an assortment of oblong rocks, chosen, I think, for color.
Unbuckling my pack, setting it down, nearing her, I keep thinking she’ll wake. Sitting cross legged at her side, I watch her until goose bumps spread across her forearms and breasts, my traitor blood running effusive from my head to my dick… and now, of course, her eyelids flutter open, dark blue, taken by surprise and yet she remains still, watching.
“I wonder if… I could make you some dinner.” I blurt.
Taking her eyes from mine, she lifts bony knees and elbows with an effort, examining her slender limbs as though she hadn’t known.
“I think so.” She whispers.
“Okay, I’ll get to it then.”
For lack of firewood or the time to collect it, I dig for my stove, pan, a bag of soup, water and my spoon. Smoothing a space to set up, I turn my back to her, preparing our meal, listening, waiting. When it’s done, and her share poured into her cup, I find she’s only turned over, chin resting on the heels of her hands, her fair cheeks glowing in the last light of evening.
“Aren’t you getting cold?” I ask.
“Do you have a fuzzy?”
She shakes her head and stirs the proffered soup, blowing on it.
“Could I wear yours for a while?”
So I give it, and she zips herself in it, grinning, and it covers her bottom,