November 30, 2009

Adventures in Anti–Narrative, part one

They will be non-chronological, self-referential, post-modern adventures of course.

To begin, a story about a beard, thus far untitled, because if it is about anything I don't know what it's about. Created using the cutting-stuff-up-like-we-did-when-school-was-full-of-sandpits-and-glitter method in the seminar a little while ago.

Off into a dim, he grew a beard at the soft zero of his chin. Beard throughout carried the ground-near-visible heard distance his teenage there, and to him endlessly earliest childhood which mother prattled tugging where realer dreams from his earliest he could. And after a son moment he height and moaning as he approached, showed him perhaps, the them to grow. Keep himself aware of the warm hardiness and who would was enraptured: strength and became aware maturity he, he had only an authoritarian of all that neat but pubescent thickening most importantly bristled mass by the pubescent burgeoning all that and full-bodied to touch the darkening of each beard. Large chin and darkening gone, was stroking unashamed fuzz but still they bodied and entailed his small bristles wool-jaw and patches and wire scrubbing razors. His fears, even by the tide refused tugging where compromising and a few millimetres imposed on his face like the victorious stamp of adulthood.


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