AN: Okay, so I wrote this when I was 15, so it may be a bit, uh, I don't know, mid-adolescence-y :) We had to write a Creative Response in Year 10 English and this is mine. It's set 5 years after the end of the novel. Hope it's ok :)
The bar was dim and smoky. Card tables littered the place, as did men, all with scraggly, wispy beards and reddened, jovial faces. Beer was flowing freely, sloshing over the floor and over the felt, fountains escaping whenever a vital point in the game was achieved. The game being contested on the centre table was nearing completion, a young upstart from a ranch down south nervously anticipating the direction of his opponent's play. He was twitchy, but had proclaimed boastfully of his winning prowess and his eager and expensive challenge put forth to the surly, menacing local card shark had piqued most interests.
It was the final hand; the bar became deathly quiet, no sound other than the creaking of the porch and the whistling of the wind. The young man took a drink and despite his desperate attempt to seem neutral, the mirth in his eyes was unmistakable. Eventually, he released his ill-disguised delight and cockily slammed his cards face up on the table. At the sight of his more than commendable hand, the bar erupted into wolf-whistles and jeering, the patrons swarming to congratulate the newcomer. Elated, the young man turned to smirk at his opponent, faltering at the small, secret smile on his face. Painstakingly, he turned his cards over one by one, dragging the edges to the end of the table before disclosing their identity. Royal Flush. Horror stretched over the man's features and he dropped his bottle and sprinted out the door, the wooden frame connecting with the outside wall with a deafening "SMACK". The men laughed, obnoxious clapping and catcalling resonating through the air. The victor stood up slowly, brushed his hands on his trousers and smirked grimly. He turned to the exit and, in a deliberate, loping manner, took off after the young man, flanked by the bar's patrons, all in hot pursuit of the absent stake that the victor was now owed.
The bar was thrust back into silence once again, now devoid of its rowdy inhabitants, and in a dark, lonely corner something stirred. A small, dark-haired man was slumped on a stool, aimlessly swirling his beer, his pale, contorted face seeming increasingly gaunt in the flickering light. His stubble was slight, yet roughly contained and his hair was long and knotty. His skin, almost transparent, was scarred and mottled, evidence of tolling ranch work, and his eyes were dead, the light diminished, and sunk back into his head.
He worked his knobbly fingers around the stem of the beer bottle and scuffed his feet on the floor, all the while mumbling incoherently. "Tell me like you done before…'bout other guys and 'bout us…they ain't got nobody…hoot in hell…but not us, tell about us now…I got you an'…I got you…got each other…take your hat off, Lennie…the air feels fine…feels fine…feels…"
Sighing, he got up and left the remainder of his monthly pay on the bench, "Take your hat off Lennie…take…feels fine" and lumbered out the door. He descended the steps, vision blurry and walked down the main street of the town, staring forlornly at the ground. In the crisp night air all the sounds carried like they were on the back of the wind itself. To his right, he could hear fake girlish laughter and the boisterous shouts of men. He could hear the jeering and encouraging yells of young hoodlums in a fight and he could hear the music and seductive sentences of the girls from the whorehouse opposite. "Ain't you gonna give me hell? Sure, like you always done before…you remember ever' word I say…ain't you gonna…if I was alone…could live so easy…get a job…no mess…go on…when the enda month comes…when the enda month comes I could go to…cat house…no." He shivered and dug his hands deeper into his pockets, clenching and unclenching his fists to try to regain feeling. "C'mon…ain't gonna give me no more hell? No…no" he murmured.
He neared the outskirts of town and cut across a glade of trees down toward the river. He crunched through the scrub, leaves and grass crackling under his heavy footfalls. "Hey! Hey!" he shouted, "Have you found him? Is he over here? Curley? What about there Carlson? Found the bugger yet? You wait 'til I get my hands on him! He'll pay he will!" He quieted and looked skittishly around him, dodging the moonlight and tiptoeing to the clearing. It was here though, that he found he could dodge it no more.
The moon was full, its translucent shining face, together with the winking stars illuminating the whole bank, the majestic cliffs of the Gabilans and the river itself. In the moonlight, he saw the lithe movements of a water serpent, moving its periscope head from side to side. The wind picked up and it raced around the clearing, the gust driving through the tops of the trees like a wave. The sycamore leaves turned up their silver sides and glinted like ghostly hands waving a somber goodbye. The pool erupted with row on row of tiny waves, beginning with such vigor, but abating before they could reach the end. Then, all was silent.
"George…George…George! What you yellin' bout? Air feels fine…" He gathered sticks and sat dejectedly down on the bank, creating a skeleton of a fire from them. He stared for a long time, and then raised his hands as if to warm them by the non-existent flame. "Why…enough beans for four men…I like them with ketchup…ain't got any! Whatever we ain't got it's what you want! I could…I could eat anyplace I want, buy a…buy a gallon of whisky…stay at a cat house…stay anyplace I want…whatta I got? Got you…crazy son of a bitch…George…was only foolin'…don't want no ketchup…wouldn't want it…if it were right here beside me…if it were right here…right…"
He stood up and knelt by the pool, washing his face with his hands. Once the ripples subsided, he noticed his reflection and, overcome with a surge of hatred punched it as hard as he could. He cringed as his knuckles connected with jagged stone, but it did not deter him, pounding into the water again and again, desperately trying to erase the image that kept spiting him with its re appearance. Eventually, he slumped face forward into the sand and used a bloody and broken finger to wipe away a tear.
Though his face was pressed into the bank, such was his position that he could strain his right eye and see the cliffs across the river. "Look acrost the river Lennie…almost see it…tell how it's gonna be…gonna get a little place…click…" he made the sound of a safety being released from a gun, a few more tears escaping from his desperate eyes. " Go on…How's it gonna be? Have a cow…an' down the flat…alfalfa…for the rabbits! Rabbits…and I get to tend the rabbits…you get to tend the rabbits…and live off the fatta the land…yes…Le's do it now…get that place now…" He was hysterical now, great heaving sobs wracking his whole body, hot, salty water streaming down his cheeks. "Sure. Right now. I gotta. We gotta." He stilled.
Then he whispered, "Bang," and closed his eyes.
The next morning, Slim approached the clearing with a heavy heart. George had gone missing, no one had seen him since last night and he had not turned up for work that day. Slim alone knew what George had done that day five years previous, so he sent the other men to menial places like bars and cat houses and had taken this spot for himself. He neared the river and saw him lying face down in the sand, dried blood surrounding his knuckles and dirt glued to his face from tears. Slim stared, bowed his head and picked the other man up. "George," he said, wiping his face clean. He scanned the clearing, hating it with every fiber in his being, then turned and carried George up toward the ranch.
At dusk that day, Slim shoveled the last remaining pile of dirt onto George's grave, patting it smooth with meticulous care, just as he had done 5 years before mere metres to the left. A tear rolled down his cheek and dropped from his chin onto the dusty ground, a sign of weakness he would let no one see. Sighing, he chanced one more look at the graves and then turned, trudging back to the ranch and the gossipers he was loath to appease.
He wished he could find someone.
In the last remaining seconds of the sunset, when the entire plain was bathed in an eerie red light, the grasses stirred. Out of the scrub appeared two rabbits, one bigger than the other and they hesitantly sniffed the wind for signs of danger. When all seemed clear, their anxious spell broke and they rejoiced, bounding together this way and that across the plain, until the darkness engulfed them.