Luke Neima, the equivalent of Luke Skywalker on ABCtales, asked me about story structure. I gave him the short answer. Each word in a sentence has a weight that makes up the ongoing narrative. I mentioned tropes, flung in a bit of trophallaxis and ended by feeding him the story of my life in which the words which were flew from the page before he could read them. I noted them down quickly, but they didn’t make any sense, but then life never does. Look over my shoulder, I’ve got my arm over them pinning them down.
When I was five I stole a gun. Dad got mad and told me told me to take it back and shoot somebody. That way I learned social responsibility and since that day I’ve not shot anyone else.
Setting the scene:
We lived in a house so dirty it was always night. Family portraits were hung facing the wall to keep them clean. Our house, in a derelict street, didn’t smell as much as ooze. I call that stage of my life early fauvism.
Transitions. (Sentence always look forwards and backwards):
Early desuetude, of course, led to late desuetude. Dad had a good job breeding lab-rats, but he didn’t know where his work started or ended. They developed diabetes and were heavy smokers, like him. He became strapped to the chair, grew depressed and the rats took over. They ate our shoes and clothes. Our wardrobe squeaked. Even the shadows groaned and moved out. People smashed our windows and shouted in at us, sitting quietly in the parlour, that our house was haunted.
Mum had a foul temper and a war trumpet for a mouth. She would never let them get away with that. She haunted them. Sometimes I take her picture off the wall and look at it. I hung my picture next to hers so we could get closer once more.
We were forced to move, but nobody wanted us in their neighbourhood. Jails were full. The Insane Asylum had stopped taking people that were sane and The Poor House was full of cheap, no-good chisellers. We fell into the official categorisation of the ‘Unlucky Luckies’. We were left in isolation, but they had already gone over budget. Our only option we were told was the office of Remedial Care when only came into effect, retrospectively, when you didn’t need it.
We took to sleeping outside their office—leaning on each other—listening to the vinyl scratch of a long playing record telling us the long wait was almost over and the short wait would soon begin. We became as immune to it as a Status Quo record.
Clichés and False Moustaches – wrapping up:
Revolution was not about corruption, but apathy. In the chrysalis of waiting we grew wings and became ourselves.
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