| Message | I am writing the begging of a short story, iahve had difficulty deciding between a 1st and 3rd person wrting style. Would grateful if you could read my introduction and gives me your honest thoughts. Thanks
I am not a writer, in fact I first thought to write this book to impress someone, this may seem strange, I mean why couldn’t I do the normal things. Ok and perhaps I should, but this girl is special and I need to say something before I meet her again. And for another thing, I’m not very good looking, in fact I’m pretty average. Don’t take that away from me though, if you’re a women you’d probably think I wasn’t too bad, but this girl, like I said is special and I’m nothing like her. She’s different somehow, I’ve known her since she was a baby, that’s got to seem creepy but I don’t see how it can be, I mean were supposed to like babies, there cute and I can honestly say there was nothing perverse about it. Her eyes were cute, they were emerald, and kinda safe to the sun. She found delight in light, as others do in dreams. Sharp sciatica sweet rays bore no baby parallel between her eyes, as if she could hungrily absorb it. It creeped me out, they were like hand me down eyes, wet old men’s eyes, she sat with them gazing, until time gave her legs, on which she could scurry. Away from the old men, who sat in their cots of cheap leather, cured of years, whining and incontinent.
I would describe myself as medium height, I have some pretty boring brown hair and these really blue eyes, sort of like ice, people like Louis think their nice. Louis’ not gay or anything he just likes that sort of thing, he likes to touch people like he was gay, but its all a sort of show.
That sort of thing still worries me though, I mean it makes me think about myself, I mean I told you already that I fancy girls but somehow just thinking about Louis worries me. You can’t tell about stuff like that. I mean, we once had this women at school, who came in to give out the prizes and there was something about her. The point of focus in her eyes was not so much in the cherry sweet, pip hard iris but in the camber of the eye brow. An angle which revealed to me the vomiting coquettishness of a not forgotten youth. I mean she was old, really old. She was like some library of corsets, cracked corns, soft dripped bosoms, heels of hands soft, to the sharp ground glass between her fingers. I do not know of the gastronomy of love, much less ardour, but I do know this women had been left out in the sun, gone hard, wheyed beyond the belonging of my primitive palettes. Its not even that I’m bashing that sort of thing, the truth is I got kinda stiff. I mean not like whoa, what goin on here, but more stiff and feverish. And that is why to cut a long story short, I know I am not gay. Though you would probably call me perverse and maybe your right.
After that Louis called me ‘hard’ for a few weeks. This really cracked me up, you probably think it’s a crap joke, but my names Richard, my friends call me Rich, so the ‘hard’ nickname was kinda smart of Louis. Louis’ funny like that but he’s one of those guys who always takes it too far, he’s always running up to me and trying to slap my arse and it really hurts. It seriously does. My eyes fill up and everything, sometimes that’s ok, like when I’m in a good mood. Other times it really pisses me off. Louis’ that sort of guy, he’s eldest to the point of mediocrity. Sort of falsely imprisoned to masculinity, with his small digits and wide hips, most perfectly formed for pails, baskets and even the soft embryonic cranial abscess of a baby. Who, and I know this for a fact, always find comfort in the sour skin of his hollowed chest, if not redolent of milky bosoms or experienced hands, then of the patched blanket of the bed which both conceived and bore them. As if Louis was in himself a patchwork amalgamation, fricasseed flesh and charnel house lust. Bringing an illusion of mother earth, which only testicals could distort. Sometimes I write like that, and other times, I cant be bothered, I like the way you can describe people like that, with all those long words and metaphors. I could describe anyone, like I could describe my cat or my brother or a stone, and the words sort of take me away. Like I said I’m not really a writer.
You don’t need to know a lot about my family, there just a normal family, my dad works for the British consulate in Chicago, but I go to a British boarding school. That’s where I met Louis. I suppose I shouldn’t really have liked Louis, I mean the guys a complete moron with his arse slapping and stuff. But I sort of knew he was lonely and I guess he only spanked people to get their attention, not because he liked it. That’s really sad when you think about it.
Now here’s where things get interesting, Louis dad was a Baptist or something, basically he didn’t want to find you with your hands in your trousers. Being such a bible basher as he was, he wanted Louis to meet the Louisiana Baptist union, who were like big to him or something. Now having a family who live in the US and spending loads of time there, I was kinda worried for Louis. I mean their not all KKK, but that’s hardly the point. You can’t slap people arses round there, so I decided to with him. I mean Louis’ eighteen, I’m seventeen and Louis’ foster brother Antoine is only 16, so this was kinda of our first big adventure.
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