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I was playing around with a story, about a boy on a tenant farm. It was a writing exercise, pushing myself to the limits. Here is some of it....

The fellow were a deep aboriginal, with the spectacles of a teacher, and the rugged look of an adventurer. He were dressed, in khaki, with a belt buckle of a ram’s horns. He were smiling, with his fists on his hips, and he spoke with the scent of tobacco. “Well, would you like to view my photo album? I bought negatives.” He proceeded, to wipe across a spare spot on the busy kitchen table, and placed a large black folder upon the surface, making a flop. There were a mug of coco, by the time that we had reached that far into the vestiges of time, the ancient black and whites of the first world war, with plans for the second. 

The photographs were unique, wrought with time in the libraries across the world, with small whiteout indexes in the corners, detailing the prices. He caressed the sleeves, like they were a watery grave, to be sunk by a finger. Those fingers danced the halls of time, like a pianist, or like the banjo that accompanied my grandfather’s violin, the evening before around the bonfire, with the echoes of the bats, flying high overhead. That night, had been spent, with the comforts of a rug, despite the conversation that could be had. I kept to myself the hot broth and savored it, the real life of an outback farmer’s romance. 

Each snap, had an accompanying tale, and he took pictures out of the sleeves, to let me bask in the reticence myself. He could recite each turn in the war effort, with ease, as he were subliminal, like a stink bug, or a cicada. His memory, were as a spider’s web, flinching with the tension, like flies on a pie. Where he would look, I would follow, and studied his face more than I ought, as his reflecting were peculiar upon his countenance. He paused, at each height, sighed at each low, and wondered with every sniff of victory, as the asphalt were laid upon some distant road, or the cut of a scalpel through the flesh of some recovering soldier, that I might be, or may have been, in different circumstances. 

  • This is deeply original and I am intrigued to see where it is going.  I gather the narrator is supposed to be damaged in some way, judging by the grammar(all those 'were' s'} although the concepts are very educated - 'He could recite each turn in the war effort with ease.'  I'm afraid I have no idea why a stink bug or cicada should be subliminal, despite having lived in Africa for some years, so am faint but pursuing  as they say.  Give us more!

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