Day Four: The Candy Man Can.
Note that some materials from the story are omitted here, but you can pick up the book and read it all. Like this: chapter (day) 4 above, for instance. This story is told from a Carib-Jamericanadian perspective, with a twisted comedic edge. Presented (sometimes) in a richly blended language mix of, nonsense talk, sensational spelling, double entendre, and Jamaican patois inserted here and there throughout, as may be found fitting. So, here is:
Day Five: Riding Again, today.
Aloada's Shirt Factory is just across the path from the Pottery. Yeah, that street right there where the flowers are in full bloom and so very pretty to eat. But they must be plastic because the air is still nippy out there on the street and on the paths. But won't obey the
commands to go away to taw. I must not forget to say it properly, by the way, that's a
SHIRT factory right there, across the Pottery Bay. It's surely in need of some repair.
That signboard is really ripe and ready for a repair job already, if it's to be steady. It's there, the shirt factory along with all of the other garment manufacturing entities in the building. This is the very building that collectively supplies shirts and other garments of worth to the Shirt Depot for packaging argument and distribution when sent. It's the largest of the
entities in the building which helps her in paying the rent.
Prick and his mother live on the other floor of the same building sinting, or something. Yeah, that one. The basement apartment is reeling him in. The prick is headed there right about now, hunched over the argument cow, and arguing yet more about the pole and how he's dragging it between his feet and moving on up to the flat cold. To a deluxe old apartment near the hole. His favorite horse and jockey position from way back when. From way out of the cold and coming to him from the days of old.
Even though he himself is not that old to be shaking cold in his soul, he's been doing it, yes, he's been doing the stick riding thing bit from way back when. You know, like, from when he was just another child about the children's playpen. But he's almost alone here in the frigid-zone rain, and riding again, horseback bare. But he ain't having fun none, not like he used to do over there. Not this time around, oh no, my dear.
But really now. One has got to ask for a time or two more.
What if that thing that you thought that you were seeing wasn't what it was to be being, like, wasn't what you were actually seeing? Because it was not what it really be being? Kiss me. Kiss me nuh. Kiss mi nuh man. Kiss mi damn teeth, kiss mi granny plated false teeth, again. Si dem deh. Kiss them. To be continued.
An excerpt from a book called "The Shirt Factory." It's a Christmas tale to warm your heart. The perfect gift for the person who has everything; get it early. It's available where books are sold.
Yeah, man, a Jamaica yaad mi cum fram. Sorry, I meant to say, I'm Jamaican-born and bred, okay? Yes, wordplay is the order of the day around here.
Note that some materials from the story are omitted here, but you can pick up the book and read it all. Like this: chapter (day) 4 above, for instance. This story is told from a Carib-Jamericanadian perspective, with a twisted comedic edge. Presented (sometimes) in a richly blended language mix of, nonsense talk, sensational spelling, double entendre, and Jamaican patois inserted here and there throughout, as may be found fitting. So, here is:
Day Five: Riding Again, today.
Aloada's Shirt Factory is just across the path from the Pottery. Yeah, that street right there where the flowers are in full bloom and so very pretty to eat. But they must be plastic because the air is still nippy out there on the street and on the paths. But won't obey the
commands to go away to taw. I must not forget to say it properly, by the way, that's a
SHIRT factory right there, across the Pottery Bay. It's surely in need of some repair.
That signboard is really ripe and ready for a repair job already, if it's to be steady. It's there, the shirt factory along with all of the other garment manufacturing entities in the building. This is the very building that collectively supplies shirts and other garments of worth to the Shirt Depot for packaging argument and distribution when sent. It's the largest of the
entities in the building which helps her in paying the rent.
Prick and his mother live on the other floor of the same building sinting, or something. Yeah, that one. The basement apartment is reeling him in. The prick is headed there right about now, hunched over the argument cow, and arguing yet more about the pole and how he's dragging it between his feet and moving on up to the flat cold. To a deluxe old apartment near the hole. His favorite horse and jockey position from way back when. From way out of the cold and coming to him from the days of old.
Even though he himself is not that old to be shaking cold in his soul, he's been doing it, yes, he's been doing the stick riding thing bit from way back when. You know, like, from when he was just another child about the children's playpen. But he's almost alone here in the frigid-zone rain, and riding again, horseback bare. But he ain't having fun none, not like he used to do over there. Not this time around, oh no, my dear.
But really now. One has got to ask for a time or two more.
What if that thing that you thought that you were seeing wasn't what it was to be being, like, wasn't what you were actually seeing? Because it was not what it really be being? Kiss me. Kiss me nuh. Kiss mi nuh man. Kiss mi damn teeth, kiss mi granny plated false teeth, again. Si dem deh. Kiss them. To be continued.
An excerpt from a book called "The Shirt Factory." It's a Christmas tale to warm your heart. The perfect gift for the person who has everything; get it early. It's available where books are sold.
Yeah, man, a Jamaica yaad mi cum fram. Sorry, I meant to say, I'm Jamaican-born and bred, okay? Yes, wordplay is the order of the day around here.