Perhaps it was the veranda after all, wrapped around the house like a page ripped from the Cyprian book of the dead.
Toads aplunder wonder what yonder ganders gather together for whether she will or whither she won’t love him or love him not. Plots thicken like a slurry stew when mewling fingerlings forget to turn off the rapid rise to the skies of abundance and shelter. Smelters in Xanadu shut down for the annual rite of rites where Alf the sacred alien swam unbidden to his swan song on Swan Lake all the way into an ode on a Cyprian urn.
Turn, turn, turn, the troubadours learned to sing the song of seven pence–inflation beating taxes and death for the crown of certainty on the veranda, no less nor no more, no more.
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Artfully conveyed
I had veranda similes for an old Victorian gambling den on the pacific coast, but in accordance with the material, even though it was pulp, I avoided the Chandler trap of everything being like something. Ah well, a cluttered cutting room floor means real work was done. And damn! Try to get AI to get you a one story without the cupola. Sheesh! Yours looks a lot like mine, only color🤣
Fantastic!
Love the painting & the prose! 🙂
Wonderful illustration – very jealous!!