Beast of a Man

This was a writing prompt given to me by a friend. "Write about a character with the characteristics of a bear."

He could feel the stares on his back as sharply as if they were knives. Orson Barrett arched his aching back until he felt the satisfying cracks, exhaling a small sigh of relief. The momentary pleasure was quickly batted away, however, as his steely eyes looked ahead, seeing a table of middle aged women look away hurriedly at his sudden notice of them. A broad hand raised from the worn wood of the coffee house table, raking through his coarse, dark hair. He should be used to it by now, he thought. People stared wherever he went.

Orson was a large man by nature, well over six feet in height, and as broad as most doorways. His voice was low and grating, often times sounding like a growl. It wasn't unknown to him that the large scar that crossed the bridge of his nose and down his right cheek did nothing to soften his demeanor.

"Is there anything else that I can get for you, sir?" came the waitress' voice from his left. Orson lifted his gaze to meet hers, and he didn't miss the way that the corners of her smile faltered - even if it was just slightly.

"No, thank you," he said lowly. She dropped the ticket on his table and was gone with the flip of her skirt, scampering as quickly as she could without running back to her counter.

His eyes lingered there for a moment, watching her lean her hip against the edge of the counter, elbow propped upon the tip jar. There was a gathering of hairs that had sprung free from their place in her ponytail, lightly tickling against her pink cheek. For a moment, Orson found himself thinking about what it would feel like to lay in bed with a woman that looked like this one, brushing away pieces of hair such as that one without the slightest hesitation. He blinked. He knew nothing like that would happen for him.

The hands that belonged to him were much too rough to ever be placed against the flesh of a female. Surely, they were too gentle and delicate to withstand his touch. He would tear them apart before he knew what he had done.

Orson stood from his chair, the table legs screeching in protest against the wooden floor as he did so. Dropping more than enough money on the table, he left the cafe, pushing his way out of the door, ignoring the tinkling of the bell, and the stares at his back. The world outside of the cafe was dreary and wet, the sky rolling with thunder before flashing brightly. Ignoring the water that was sprinkling his face and shoulders, he set off down the walk, moving toward...wherever his feet took him.

After a few minutes of walking, he found himself on the bank of the river that ran through the quiet, small town. He drew a slow breath, lungs filling with the rainy air, feeling surprisingly refreshed. Orson's eyes fell to the rocks beneath the few inches of water at the bank's edge, the ones that managed to glisten even in the sun's absence. Crouching before the water, he studied them for a moment before plunging his fingers into the water. His hand retracted a few, short seconds later, dripping, fingers clutching a small stone. The pattern etched on its side from water stains reminded him of the scales of a fish as he rotated it between his thumb and finger.

Standing, Orson, tossed the rock a few inches from his open palm before catching it once more. He weighed it thoughtfully before pulling his arm back in order to hurl the stone to a deeper depth in the river. Just before he released the throw, however, something made him pause. Rather than throwing the stone, he presented it before his eyes once more, lips pursing in thought. Glancing at the river, Orson placed the stone in his pocket, saving it for another day, another river.

Reviews

[Marley]

I might just do that. Orson started out as just an exercise, but he may turn into something a bit bigger. :] Thanks for letting me know of your interest!

[MeganMT7]

I so wish you would continue this, my interest is piqued :)