/lit/ - Literature

>>16557242

Old Uncle Nick was peeled away like barn paint and crooked up in knots. They say cause he was drinking, but I say it’s cause he was dreaming. He kept thinking he’d be someplace else one day, so today he’d rest, today he’d do his work, but tomorrow he’d be somewhere else living big. So he stayed and rotted here till there was not much left of him. And if there was someplace where he could have gone, it didn’t want him no more. Not in the wicked state he was, all used up and wretched. He hung with the hoodlums, the drunks and swindlers—slinging whatever they got their hands on. He was more honest than the rest of them, but he was okay dippin down low, because he knew he was going places. He never did realize low was the only place he went, and it’s where he stayed.


Georgia was all spirit and no mind. “Who is you? Is it your legs and your arms? Nah, if a turtle got no legs and no arms it’s still a turtle. It’s when you crack that shell open and see all the slithering bits and pumping parts. That’s what you are. A pile of other little things, all working together. Don’t your forget what you are. A community of things, all keeping the rest alive.”