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‘Crunch’ excerpt (p. 4)

Matt Marshall Leave a comment

A randomly chosen page from my novel Crunch, a book about collapse, about control (and the lack of it). 

Page 4:

the man and adheres her message to his pubic hair with the green square draping over the shaft of the penis. That would change everything, he says, fastening the penultimate button at the top of his shirt. The woman he is addressing has bent down to retrieve her bra from the floor and, standing now, slips it on over her breasts and fastens it at her back in one fluid motion. It’s just a possibility, she says, don’t go picking out names just yet. The corners of her mouth curl down to stifle a grin. The man is not amused. He challenges her for a moment with a hard, granite look, then exhales briskly through his nostrils. Some of us aren’t so flippant about these issues, he tells her. No? she replies, and how about the cocks of these serious fellows? Are they concerned? Clearly upset now, the man turns away from her and fishes a sport coat from the back of a chair that has been set at a 45-degree angle from the rectangular mirror that stretches across a large portion of the hotel room’s wall. The woman comes up behind him and wraps her arms around his midsection, interlacing her fingers just above his navel. Her chin nestles into the crook of his neck. Her eyes close and the line of her lips softens. The shoulders of the farmer, working under a bright afternoon sun, twist to his right as he brings the hoe up from the dirt, stretches it forward and plants it down again hard into the earth. His elbows bend, biceps flex, as he drags the hoe toward himself, plowing the dirt, then twists his shoulders again to lift the tool and repeat the action. A single bead of sweat runs

‘Crunch’ excerpt (p. 103)

Matt Marshall Leave a comment

A randomly chosen page from my novel Crunch, a book about collapse, about control (and the lack of it). 

Page 103:

living in a world transformed by war or some other travesty. A world turned to chaos where past sins would be erased and the possibilities would be endless. The romance of living life at a level near starvation, surrounded by people who no longer feel the burden of moral constraints, where the ground could open suddenly beneath you, or a building or some other thundering object could come tumbling down on you … You could be anything you wanted in an environment like that. The man next to him hunches closer to the bar, considering the remarks. I guess you’re right, he says, nearly inaudibly. It’s time, as I’ve continually impressed upon all of you in the past, as all our time here together has been preparing us, to simplify. To simplify not only our mode of living, but, as we head into battle, to simplify our very beings—to simplify spiritually. Several of the farmhands gathered about Isaac nod in agreement, though the expressions on their faces betray less certainty. The mosquito lands, pricks, and sucks. The valve on the water spigot is turned, causing the pipe to choke and cough. Nothing. So you’re really gonna play it that way, huh? Not gonna say anything? I’ll tell you again, I have nothing to say. I know nothing. None of us knows anything, the scientist sighs to her colleague. At least that’s how I’m beginning to feel. Things are moving too fast. What is this? she exclaims, extending a flat palm toward the microscope on the table between them. How can this even be possible? We’ve long theorized, her

‘Crunch’ excerpt (p. 50)

Matt Marshall Leave a comment

A randomly chosen page from my novel Crunch, a book about collapse, about control (and the lack of it). 

Page 50:

apparent effort of listening more closely to the broadcast. One person was dead from a single shot that investigators suspect might have come from the roof or window of one of the downtown buildings. The surrounding area has been blocked off and authorities are still performing sweeps of various buildings. They have not apprehended anyone, and police say they don’t have any suspects yet, nor even a description of the shooter. They advise people to be vigilant and stay away from downtown if possible. The woman’s hands flex at the top of the steering wheel and she rolls her shoulders up and back a few times. She puffs her cheeks and exhales. Infiltration, she says. He pushes himself up from the base of the trench, using his right hand to press back against the wall and aid his legs in lifting his weight. Upright, he starts off, threading his way through the long stretch of walled-in soldiers standing or sitting in the trench, alone or in small groups, silent or conversing, loudly, jovially or in soft, conspiratorial tones, acknowledging no one as he goes, nor being greeted by others, neither hurrying nor taking his time, a blank look on his face disguising his intentions, if, in fact, he has any beyond simply moving. The faucet handle is turned and the pipe coughs, spitting water from its mouth. It then goes dry and silent. Deep in the wall something moans, then knocks. The loud report of a shotgun, and a body falls. Indeed, Rebecca means almost nothing to me now, the man says into his phone, his shoulders relaxing from their formerly tensed