God I miss the days when you could show up to a stranger's farm and he'd say "what's your name, son?" And you would take off your hat and hold it close to your chest to better let him see your face and reply "why, I ain't got one, sir, on account of my mammy passed on before she could give me one" and he'd tell you he's damn sorry to hear that and ask what he can do for you and you'd tell him that you can't read nor even write either but your mighty good with horses and can mend them fallen fence posts what you saw on your way in and won't ask for nothin much more than a hot meal and a warm barn to sleep in and he'd keep his wife and daughters inside but send his boy who ain't got married yet even though his mama tells him he needs a woman out with a lantern and some stew at night and the two of you would get to talking and he'd throw you his flask to take a swig from and watch you drinkin from it while he leans against the door frame and when he finally got called on back up to the house again he'd take a sip from too real slow-like like it weren't the whiskey he were trying to savour.
God I miss the days when you could show up to a stranger's farm and he'd say "what's your name, son...
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Like this post immensely
This is your brain on hollywood propaganda
Nice literature related thread.
>on account of my mammy
lol plz make this copypasta
“Whose that” you would ask, and the little boy would say that’s his baby sister M. And the father had asked you to bring in milk to meet Lucy and Grace, the older ones, but it’s M you can’t keep your eyes off of. Maybe because she’s the one pulling pranks around the barn, making her dad holler and hootin and cursing up a storm. Maybe it was the way she brought you dinner once half eaten and then let out a small fart as she left. Whatever it was it wouldn’t leave your mind. She’d seen you tearing up one afternoon, thinking about days past and you’de look around to see her staring at you, and in her youth you’de see the figure of an angel looking over you, her gaze wiping your tears, her approach and her twirling her fingers and your feelings back to the sunny day, the wind. She’d appear in the morning in early hours leaning beside the barn, fixed to the wall, peeking through a door ajar. M you would say your under your breath, nodding as her smiling older sisters would pass, and then her, peeking through your soul ajar, fixed to her soul.
nice post. thought it was going to go gay. it didn't go gay. or did it?
farmhands fall in lust, not in love, son
>lust is not love
>love is not lust
Ok boy
proof that rural retards should be enslaved for their own good and the good of the nation.
ok, now I know I'm in a faggot thread.
"Dern toot rangum," her wizened uncle would wheeze from lips flecked with chawin' tabaccy. His was a body twisted and windswept by labor and life into a form that called to mind half-rusted cattle wire, yet you could see in the gnarled, browned skin the virility and strength of a youth that lay dormant. When coming back from the hay bailing, each man walking along golden and shadowed pillars of sunset, the uncle would occasionally call forth a violent "HRUCK" from somewhere deep in his throat and spit a gob as golden as the light that caressed his hunched, yet dignified form onto his faded overalls. In these moments his eyes would catch yours, perhaps a little too long, and you would look away, for fear that your eyes would betray the longings of your soul. "Hengum dat werngummen" he would mutter gently in your direction, running his tongue over his remaining teeth, and the weariness of the day would slide from your body to burn to cinders in the furnace of kindled desire.
You deserve a better inner voice
n-no homo
Cease this faggotry
lmao
It’s a creative writing thread, user
The dog, Comet, took a particular liking to me after one lazy Sunday afternoon when I gave it half my homemade ice cream that Nana had made for the family and I. Comet was a nice dog, and trained to not spook the horses and cow that lived in the barn with me. He was shaped like a labrador with a boxer's snout and would chase the barn cats up trees and across the barnyard to the farmhouse porch, where they would hide under it while Uncle would play his harmonica to M and her sisters. Over the summer that I worked that farm, Comet took to sleeping with me on the cool midwestern nights when the whiperwhil would call and the candles in the farmhouse windows had long been blown out. He would sniff and scratch at me as I tossed from some unbearable memory, and soon I would be back in the present. But soon enough, as the heat of the night pressed on, I would get aroused to the thought of my little M, and be reminded that this was her pup. What we did later on during those nights is my unspeakable secret, but Comet was a good dog, and that's what I would tell him. "You're a good dog, Comet."
you're insufferable
lol fuck
I am telling this story because something happens one night that I can not describe without a story, so here it is. It began in the afternoon, the winds were heavy and the clouds were black, the sun was shining and it was hot and wet. Lighting began striking farther away onto Benny’s ranch and further to where engines roamed. They began striking and the thunder became louder and it was clear that it was getting closer and closer, and the seconds between were getting shorter and shorter. The day before a man came by and said that we would have a visitor from way out coming by motorcar, a banker. Well he came just as the lightening strikes were just over the hill, and a small fire started. He pulled up in a black Buick that look liked the beetles that would crawl between the cracks of the floors and up the dresses of the girls making a scream that would jolt me up, and I would run in with the shotgun only to realize some insect was behind it all. Well, this man opened the car door in a very sharp white suit and he stood there in front of the house as we all stood around. What he said to us was that this house, that was built by hand by M’s great great grandfather, who was buried in the back yard with everyone else they ever knew, all of this from the apple tree to the burning hills, was to be confiscated by the Royal Bank of New York City, and that we had seven days to take what we needed and leave. We didn’t understand what this man was saying. He smiled and apologized and got back in his car. He rolled down the window and shouted before disappearing in a cloud of raised dust that if we didn’t leave we would be trespassing on private property and would be shot on site.
Sounds like a pedomaniac diary.
Now let me tell you about the catalog.
You don't get catalogs like these today, these were for the rural areas when you had to order it or make it yourself.
There were some farms: except for what they got at the market they got everything from the catalog.
There just wasn't anything else around.
So these catalogs had to have everything in.
I remember this one time down at the farm I was searching high and low for the perfect X-mas gift for M.
Now I had saved up a bit, cost me nearly five months of savings.
I hadn't really got the knack of letters yet, so I had to ask her uncle to read the captions for me, real slow like because he had a bit of an accent.
But the thing was, a wanted it to keep it a secret!
So I had to be real cunning, trying to trick uncle.
So after X-mas we were gathered round and uncle just had the biggest grin on his face.
And I just knew at that point he knew.
So what was a boy to do?
cringe
OP, I like your writing style, you are good! What did you read to pick up this style? Who are your influences? You remind me of Faulkner and Sherwood Anderson maybe but I’m just guessing here.
The bank man's arrival was as the blowing of the seven trumpets to the family. Uncle Julius Gaius Caesar, for such was his name, unlikely as it may have been, took the news of the loss of the farm harder than the rest of the clan. For long twilight hours he could be seen standing against the lengthening shadows, muttering obscenities to unknown figures and packing wads of chawin tabaccy into his cancerous, yellow stained craw. The sight aroused something in me, I knew not what, it may have been my penile erection. My status as farmhand rendered me helpless to assist my newfound benefactors and I knew that, by necessity, I would have to be turned out once the harvest was brought in. The helplessness of our situation rankled me fiercely and I was forced to slake my frustrations on Comet and Lizzie, the nanny goat who shared the empty horse stall with me and Mab, the aging, bedraggled hen who sometimes sheltered in the barn. Some nights, after his sojournings into the heart of despair and bitterness, Uncle Julius would join us. We knew these were but brief respites, these moments when, with the aid of a willing dog's carnal cavity we could be made to feel like men, rather than flies caught in webs of money and power we couldn't begin to understand. The farmer's son entered the barn once, but he didn't join, just watched as the barks, grunts and squawks were punctuated by the hollow splash of his flask as he drank.
Extremely sufferable, and based to boot.
M mean Madelyn. And can their last name be Bonkers
Yes! So far so good
this thread is filled with fakes trying to imitate OP.
OP's gay love story doesnt have any . or ,
no breaks
pretty good story
what accent is this? my first association is australian but i've seen people on here saying it's boston. are they right?
Not 2019 Hollywood propaganda, more like 1970's.
>and then let out a small fart as she left.
please. please don't go there.
>vocaroo.com
Most certainly not Australian.
All of the greatest literature contains homoeroticism. You're a closet gay if you're insecure about it.
It’s not Australian. Might be Boston or New Jersey.
Lmao
Gabbagool
drinkin out of cups
>very disrespectful
lol
Norm, can you cool it with the golf tweets? And when are you going to release any new comedy or shows?
This does kinda sound like Norm...