By Jeffrey A. Paolano
The enthralling flame, as it consumes paraffin-soaked paper, excites Punch.
“Spread the fire, ya damn fool, or we won’t be paid!” shouts Brack, as he scurries about spraying kerosene.
Punch holds off, enjoying the flame-induced gut churning.
Brack raises the sprayer and swings to locate Punch, accidentally soaking him and creating a conflagration.
Quickly Brack grabs a tarp, smothering Punch and knocking him to the ground.
Punch screams, primal like, heart-rending.
Brack prays, “Good Lord, Good Lord.”
Punch’s deceptive smile is a toothy grin; his lips have withdrawn in the heat, exposing copious gold-capped teeth.
Brack seethes, deploring his mortal sin.
You did it again, Jeffrey. This is a real WINNER! Great characterization.
Great story. My only problem was that I stumbled on the line where Punch screams. I would suggest that you rearrange the sentence or eliminate it because as it is now it breaks a nice rhythm you had established.
Mr. Warner, b.:
Thank you both for your kind words and informative feedback, I am always enlightened by readers perspective.
Jeff
Wow. Strong voice – this thing grabs you from virtually the first word.