Friday, April 27, 2012

Fuck Your Mother

Fuck Your Mother
Bobby Derie

Hrun and Thum sat on piled stones of the weir, fishing into the grey waters of the river, away from the fires and smells and sounds of the Place. Thum threaded a squirming blackbug onto the v-shaped bone hook, slim brown fingers working at the spindly legs. Hrun preferred small balls of old goat cheese, pungent and sickly-smelling, that sank slowly by the weight tied to his lines.

None would mistake them for father and son. Thum was lean and not yet into his full height or beard, the scars of his thirteenth summer still healing on both cheeks, sandy brown hair loose and unruly, hanging past his brown eyes and covering his face, a stone knife at his waist. Hrun was taller and wider, his skin burned darker by seven more years under the son, and blue-black lines crawled up both arms to whirls on his shoulders and chest, half-hidden under a mane of dark brown hair; bits of shell corkscrewed around the edge of his one good ear, the other bunched and cauliflowered.

They sat that way as the insects buzzed and the birds sang, watching their lines in the water, until finally Hrun broke the silence.

“Hrun fuck Jhill.” the older man said.

Thum drew a hand over his face, parting the hair so he could look at Hrun, but the older man’s eyes were fixed on his own line, which gave a tug. The younger man drew in his own line, the hook empty of bait or fish, and let Hrun on the weir.

Fhana’s lean-to was on the far side of the Place, and Thum circled around the game trail, not wanting to see or be seen by anyone. Thum arrived to find Fhana bent over before the Mhelgran, and lay down at the base of a tree. He waited as they grunted and gasped, and remembered the sounds Jhill and Mhal had made beneath the bearskin, when he was a boy, and thought of the sounds that Jhill and Hrun would make, and Thum bit his lip and grasped the handle of his knife until the knuckles turned white and the leather thong bit into his palm. Presently the Mhelgran left, and Thum waited until he was out of sight before rising and turning to Fhana’s lean-to.

On bare knees with ass bent to the air, Fhana kneeled where the Mhelgran had left, one hand idly playing at the crotch, the other arm serving as a chin-rest. Flushed and blushing, Fhana smiled as Thum came into the clearing and pointed at the bulge in his loin-cloth, but Thum nodded his head no.

“Hrun fuck Jhill.” the younger man said.

Fhana’s smile became a frown, and sat up, bare backside coming to rest on dusty heels, head rising to the height of Thum’s chest. One hand still ran up and down the shaman’s cock, but the boy-girl finished quickly and motioned Thum to sit as Fhana got dressed, then came and sat next to him, one hand brushing the hair back behind his ear to see Thum’s face.

“Hrun fuck Jhill.” Fhana said. “Hrun hurt Thum.”

The young man shook his head.

“Jhill hurt Thum.”

He shook his head again.

“Thum fuck Jhill.”

At that, Thum started, shifting away from Fhana, but Fhana’s left hand caught him at his collarbone, and Fhana’s right hand gripped Thum’s wrist as he tried to draw his knife. Fhana leaned in close, breath smelling of the Mhelgran’s seed.

“Mhal dead.” the boy-girl whispered into Thum’s ear, the warmth of her breath causing him to get hard again. “Hrun fuck Jhill.” Thum managed to nod his head no.

Fhana turned as she stood, still grasping Thum, and with impossible force the young man was thrown onto his back, slamming into the earth hard enough to knock the wind from him. Fhana stood over the young man, who skittered backwards over the earth away from her.

“Hrun fuck Jhill.” Fhana said, louder, and Thum was already on his knees at the game trail.

“Hrun fuck Jhill!” Fhana screamed, as Thum ran away.

Thum slowed down when he reached Jhill’s fire. She was holding a fish over the coals with a fire-blackened stick, fat sizzling and dripping into the flames. Her hair was the same sandy brown as Thum’s own, but her skin was twelve summers darker from the sun, and her eyes were green.

He sat down next to her.

“Mhal dead.” Thum said, and saw Jhill stiffen a little, her eyes less bright than a moment before. “Hrun and Jhill…” he let the name trail into the wind.

Jhill dug the stick into the earth, letting the fish hand over the lowest part of the fire, and wrapped an arm around Thum. The two embraced, the young man’s head buried in the older woman’s hair.

“Mhal dead.” she said. “Mhal and Jhill. Mhal and Jhill and Thum. Thum and Jhill.”

Thum brought his head up, his brown eyes looking into her green eyes.

“Hrun and Jhill.” he said.

“Hrun and Jhill and Thum.” she said.

“Hrun fuck Jhill.” Thum said, and kissed her on the mouth. Jhill smiled as he got up. The older woman turned back to the fish that was almost black on one side, as Thum walked away.

Thum found Hrun still on the weir, a small pile of fish beside him, sucking the last of the cheese-bait with sticky fingers. The younger man sat down next to the older man, and watched the line pull in the water a little.

“Hrun fuck Jhill.” the younger man said.


No comments:

Post a Comment