In Brief: A Spanish Summer

So. Fence challenged us to write a 700-word story on any picture we like a couple of months ago.

Unfortunately, time and life proceeded to make a hash of all of my plans. Likewise, despite Google being my friend, I could not find a possible artwork that I could turn into a story. So I decided to cheat: taking inspiration from K.J. Bishop's The Etched City, I took an idea and went looking for a picture.

(Picture taken from this site.)

Anyway, here we go...

It had been six day since he left Madrid. Traveling through the countryside in the summer heat, he did not stop to rest. And a black hound dogging his steps kept him walking even at night.

He paused under a sprawling tree one afternoon and took off his white hat. He pulled out a dirty linen handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his bald head. Two ravens ruffled their feathers hidden in the branches above him.

“I know,” he said. He took a drink from his canteen. Water dripped from his white beard. “Could have gone to the coast. Wouldn’t have been a good idea.”

He stowed away the canteen in his pack and started walking again. The two ravens flew ahead, disappearing in the bright sky.

When he saw the town in the distance, the sun had climbed to its apex. He headed down the road in search for respite.

It was a small town. He could find no indication of the town’s name on his map. There was also no one on the road to ask when he entered the town. He thought it uninhabited but smoke was pouring out of the houses.

“Hello?” he called out.

“No one’s here. They’re at the corrida.”

He turned around. Behind him was an old man seated on a porch. His thin legs were wrapped with a frayed old blanket.

“I’m sorry. What’s the name of this town?” he asked. He had to swallow first. The dust in his mouth felt thick on his tongue.

“Doesn’t have a name,” the old man said.

He looked around. In the distance, he heard shouting and applause.

“Thank you,” he said. He turned to walk toward the town center.

He found a small café but it was closed. He banged at the door. Above, one of the ravens perched on a windowsill. It squawked, flapping its wings.

“Damn you, can't a man drink without making it an issue?” he said to the raven.

The other raven flew by.

“It would seem so,” he said, looking around. He continued walking.

He found what seemed to be the whole population of the town in the square, chanting Toro! Toro!

A plaza de toros composed of a fenced wooden ring was built in the middle of the square with risers around it. The townspeople cheered as the players entered the plaza: the picadors and their spears on horses, the toreros and the banderilleros waving at the crowd, and the matador himself with his red cape.

At another outburst from the crowd, the two ravens fled.

“Cowards,” he said. He pushed past those watching who could not gain seats on the risers.

Finding a position near the seats, he leaned against it. He fanned himself with his hat. The afternoon sun and the milling bodies made the heat unbearable.

The crowd went wild as drums began beating at the other end of the plaza. He swung his head around to look but could not see anything. He realized it was not drums he heard but footsteps.

A roar from the entrance of the ring drove the crowd to answer back with one of its own. He stepped on one of the risers to get a look at the bull. At first he saw the players range itself at the entrance of the ring. He turned his head and his jaw dropped.

A giant with a bull’s head stood at the entrance of the plaza. Dressed in a beaten leather apron, it flexed its shoulders as it roared another challenge. Sunlight glinted on its ivory horns.

Far above him, he heard the ravens squawk their own surprise.

Well, the word-count is 667. That's good enough for 700, right? And this one took quite a bit as I had to emulate a certain style. Man, Hemingway really knew how to minimize.

Two more stories to go...