/lit/ - Literature

Get comfortable, boah. ‘Cus y’ain’t ne’er ‘gon forget this story.
Now, I ain’t much into this fancy-dancy book stuff, ‘nosuh, h’what interests me in this world of ours is the BUCK, and subtle art of ‘breakin ‘em. As my Pap used to say, “when e’er yer day is open, ye’ll always find a BUCK that needs to be broken.”
Heh heh, the Ole Fella was right about that, ‘yesuh.
I’ve been ‘breakin BUCKS for now on fifty years, and I like to reckon I’m something of an authority on the subject. Ye see, I’ve broken BUCKS all ‘round yonder. I’ve broken them in Ole ‘Virgin-ye, ‘mongst rows and rows of cotton; I’ve broken them in the ‘rollin backcountry of ‘Nawth ‘Jaw-ja; and I’ve broken them h’while watching the frothy channels of the ‘Mississip, that mighty river h’which flows with all the force of a h’white man’s seed into the bussy that is the Gulf of Mexico.
So skilled was I in the art of ‘breakin that h’when I turned twenty, or so, I was inclined to offer my services, for a small fee. So I started ‘puttin advertisements in the circulars.
“BUCKMASTER,” they’d read, “seven inches, will travel.”
Then there came a day h’when the boah from the Post Office delivered me a telegram. Twas all the way from Johnson County ‘Alabam, straight from the office of the Sheriff there. The telegram told a familiar story: A rowdy BUCK, fresh off the boat, upon first ‘seein a blonde-haired blue-eyed h’white woman had gone feral, broken out of his shackles, attempted to menace the woman, but fled for the hills at the sound of a h’whip. His h’whereabouts were unknown, but melon patches and chicken coops kept ‘gettin pillaged e’rey day ‘n night.
So’s I stuffed my carpetbag full of my ‘breakin tools, along with a stick of ‘buttuh, for ‘greasin, and made passage by bicycle o’er to Johnson County. Word spread fast ‘round those parts, and though I might sound a braggart, I wouldn’t be a liar if I told ye that I was greeted in Johnson County by cheering throngs and a ‘marchin band.
“Hurrah!” They cried, “hurrah for the BUCKMASTER!”
They gifted me with fresh wildflowers and h’whiskey, and I felt half-a-King. Yet, though I was, and still am ever-grateful to the people of Johnson County, I couldn’t be bothered by their platitudes, there was ‘breakin to be done. So’s I asked the Sheriff h’where he suspected this BUCK was ‘hidin.
The Sheriff said to me, he says, “I’ll eat my hat if that BUCK ain’t hold up in Ole Lynchtree Forest.”
I told the Sheriff I would depart for the forest with haste.
“Shouldn’t we muster a posse first?” the Sheriff, offering me a see-gar, h’which I was obliged to accept.
“Sheriff,” I says, ‘runnin that see-gar real casuallike under my nose, “perhaps y’ain’t ne’er heard of me, like ye says ye did.”
(1/3)

>>20801950
https://pastebin.com/Ur19rc3y
Could one of you read and critique my Buck Breaking short story?