This was an assignment for English that I kinda just felt like posting. Obviously not my book.
The trees that encroached upon the sunbathed clearing seemed more comforting than imposing. The warm, green river flowed almost silently, gurgling every so often. A small sigh was audible over the rustle of the rabbits in the bushes. Sloping grass covered hills smoothly fell away into the river, transitioning from grass to brush to water. Two men sat in the shadows of the trees, gloomy. Both sat silently, seemingly deep in thought. The taller one, Slim, the jerk line skinner, looked ready to comment, but seemed content to remain in silence. Shaking his hat clad head, the other man, George, sullenly sighed, and slowly looked forward.
"George?" Slim questioned warily. The only response he received was the distant sound of horses.
Turning his face toward Slim, George just nodded. The positioning of the sun cast a depressing shadow over his face, grotesquely disfiguring it. "Yeah," he whispered.
"George, you gotta let it go. Stop beatin' yourself up about it," the tall man advised.
A pause, then-"I know, dammit, I jus'- hell, I dunno," George confessed.
Creeping across the sky, the sun, as it moved, repositioned the shadows around the clearing. George took a deep breath, almost as delicately as a dancer, and began once more, "Ya see, I jus' was tryin' to do what was best for ever'one. The big bastard was jus' too much trouble. He never meant no one no harm, he's jus' di'nt know his own strength, tha's all. Yeah, tha's all," saying the last part more for himself than Slim.
The skinner extended a browned hand and placed it comfortingly on George's upper arm. He grunted in thanks, like a bull, once again studying his surroundings.
A rabbit raced in front of George's line of sight. The sun continued to waltz across the sky, once again repositioning the shadows, now less harsh and more melancholy than the previous arrangement. Lifting his face to the sky, Slim noticed the dimming sky, now streaked with orange, red, pink, and yellow. His head abruptly jerked to the right after hearing a rustling noise coming from the bushes. The rustling was interspersed with several curses and unintelligible words. Curley stumbled out, standing up and then brushing himself off. "Why are you two out here? Shouldn't ya'll be workin? The boss is gunna be might heated if you don' get back," he asked, his breath coming in short huffs, as if he had just run several miles.
Slim stared at him, George sat. There was a silence. This silence so bothered Curley that he decided to break it: "Either of you seen that damn stable buck? I gotta fight to pick with 'im."
"No," Slim sullenly stated. George lifted his head to stare at Curley. His glare was filled with hate, more than mere words could convey. He was the reason that Lennie was dead. Sure, George had held the gun and pulled the trigger, but that son of a bitch and that whore he called his wife were the ones who had sentenced him to his death. He continued to glare, funneling all his loathing for this man into it. Curley, feeling the heat, gave a feeble wave and returned from whence he came.
"That son of a bitch is the reason he's dead," George growled. Concerned, Slim tried to calm George down. "He's the reason, Slim. If he had the sense t' not punch 'im, then none 'a this woulda happened." Slim sat silently and nodded. George once again put his head down, quietly mourning for his best friend. The moon stood solemnly in the sky now, casting a pale glow over the clearing. The crickets began to serenade the night, accompanied by the bass tones of growling cougars and the tenor and alto tone of the wolves.
Slim, noticing the absence of light, slowly stood up and departed with a, "George, don't do anything you're gonna regret."
Knowing Slim could still here him, George responded with, "I won't. I'm gonna enjoy every damn minute of it."
***
A shadow of a shadow could be seen, darting through the bushes, carrying an oddly shaped sack. In the darkness, he emptied the contents of the sack into the river with a muted splash. The man then collected the sack and darted into the night, disappearing. Minutes later, another man appeared in the clearing, wearing a distinct Stetson hat and nodding his head in disappointment. He solemnly lifted his hand in a half wave, bidding his friend farewell.
If you could just alert me as to whether that sounded like Steinbeck's style, that would be great. Thanks. ~Book Muffin