I wrote this, as an experiment. Could you please tell me if anything stands out as special, I would deerly love to know..
Besides the river, were a unique collection of dolls. Within the dolls, were hidden some marijuana, which were foreign to the boy’s hands, and he sat there a while, thinking upon it, as he held the plastic bag in his hands.
He used to walk the dog here, and at his eleventh birthday, he sat by the river, thinking upon his old dog. He walked home with the bag, and put it away inside his bottom drawer, but at the river there were a funny confrontation. The man were elderly, to his eyes, at a learned glance, about middle age. He held in his hand, the grasp of a young girls, and she struggled against him in tears. She wore a purple floral dress, the flowers of white.
She seemed to be swearing, and her tears were that of a gargled cry. As she released her grasp, he slapped her across the face, asking where it were. The boy crept off into the darkness, but he recognised the two as his new neighbours, the following day, and in the following weeks, he knew the household to be full of tears, and in the next few years he knew himself to be in love with the girl, but for the common day, he knew her to be that girl whom caught the bus to school alongside him, and he grew in temptation of the herb he looked up upon the internet, and knew to be weed, smoked in silence, in front of the television, or curled up in bed with a book. The possession of the bag, held within it, enough to last him a good long time, and creeping into her father’s room, held a secret stealing that went on, until he were old enough to search out the substance for himself, as he grew in fondness with the girl, visiting her each day and becoming one with her.
But at the river, he took up his smoke, and began to blow in recumbent silence. The cool rushing water tickled his feet, and he saw the tadpoles writhe, and looked for a yabby hole. The summer, had been long, and it were New Year’s Eve, the hour of two o’clock, and his birthday were on the first, so he had been eleven for two hours, and as he were drunk, the lights shone with a blue halo. He had been reclining upon the trampoline in a neighbouring kid’s yard, drinking light beers from the icy barrel. The reason he had left, were he had been punched by an older kid, and he were crying his head off, as he had struck him with a cricket bat, and had run for his life. Inside his pocket, had been the smoke and the lighter, and he had his father’s jacket on.
Feeling brave, before he had left, he had scaled the old rope tree, and watched the issue, his cigarette glowing like a possum’s eyes. The girl, he had not seen at the cul-de-sac party. A cul-de-sac, were a circle at the end of a road. It were a good place for a neighbourhood to gather. The light, were the shine of the moon, and he watched the man glanced up at him, as he hurriedly snuffed the smoke, and sat cheekily pursing his lips, but it did not stop there.
The realisation came, that the man were looking for the bag amongst the dolls, days later, as he searched for plants that germinated in plastic bags. He searched the dolls as he tried to discover the nature of the ploy, but he decided that the girl were trying to hide the bag from the man, and he did not talk to her, as if it were a secret to keep from her, like she were in leagues with the flowers, that would warn him like a tree to be chopped down. At this point, he were sneaking around corners, and jumping at shadows, like they were batteries come to charge his fear into flame.
Up in the tree, he saw the whole show. The man, were dressed in his night gown, which were navy blue or black, the boy could not determine in the light, as it were paltry. The girl, had purple and white, which the boy could make out, in the moon beam she stood in. It were the dead of night, but as the stars shone brightly, and the lights from across the road were in full effect, the boy could make out the purple, though not the navy blue, as it were almost black anyhow. The man had long dark hair, and his nose were long, like a bird’s beak. He were tall, and she were a mysterious sort of buxom and flounce, quite a lot shorter than the man’s shoulders.
The violence the boy witnessed, were like the tales they told behind closed doors, something you’d expect to appear on the news. The boy’s father, had slapped him, and his mother had lectured to her wits end, but he had never been the victim of domestic abuse. The subject in question, could stand testimony in a court of law, and could make out the clean bull bar of a police vehicle. It were sad in a way, but this display held the boy’s mirth, like he watched a pantomime, or a sideshow clown. He had long since determined that it were not the bully come to chase him, but at moments like these he knew with a cat’s practice the need for fire in his belly and a knotty fist at hand.
But he didn’t come down from the tree. In the end, the girl went over to the dolls, and searched, and he searched. The way the man bent down to hug the girl in the end, were reminiscent of gift bearing, or drifting off to sleep. Like a cat in the night, the boy were gone, as he shimmied down the tree, and walked home. He had waited for the two to leave first, and he left a wide gap, up there in the canopy, and watched the full moon, shining in the sky. The girl had left the dolls there, and the pile which beneath the boy had found the bag, were kicked apart by the old soul, as he searched for his treasure, the one which presumably made it so hard to make out a glimmer of hope, and through the decades the boy began to grow suspicious of what went on, in that motherless abode, but he had other worries.