Journal zaxios's Journal: No foreign, sorry 10
The Captain's dim eyes peered out from under his hat.
"Sorry, I don't speak foreign," he said.
I stepped forward, further into the dust, which was abrasive and intrusive, having been scorched by the sun and prodded by the wind into my pores.
"You mean there are dialects of foreign?" he exclaimed with mild surprise. He then snatched up something to chew off the ground, but he didn't bother to look at it or even turn -- connoting a familiarity with chewing items off the ground he evidently believed was impressive. Yet the chewing upon which so much nonchalance had been staked proved harder, much harder, than was anticipated and a sound like the stirring of gravel slipped from his lips; the Captain couldn't crack the stick that had turned out to be a rock -- nor could he stop chewing it without abandoning his original intention of being impressively indifferent. Blood tinged the tips of his lips; his gums were bleeding and his eyes spilling small tears.
I began to talk over the noise. I confess I was roused at once by the merits of the prospects I revisited in their recitation: I spoke with relish -- and with the grace it often inspires. From the captain my words elicited several more grunts of dull interest at the distant foolishness of things foreign.
"Sorry, I don't speak foreign," he said.
I stepped forward, further into the dust, which was abrasive and intrusive, having been scorched by the sun and prodded by the wind into my pores.
"You mean there are dialects of foreign?" he exclaimed with mild surprise. He then snatched up something to chew off the ground, but he didn't bother to look at it or even turn -- connoting a familiarity with chewing items off the ground he evidently believed was impressive. Yet the chewing upon which so much nonchalance had been staked proved harder, much harder, than was anticipated and a sound like the stirring of gravel slipped from his lips; the Captain couldn't crack the stick that had turned out to be a rock -- nor could he stop chewing it without abandoning his original intention of being impressively indifferent. Blood tinged the tips of his lips; his gums were bleeding and his eyes spilling small tears.
I began to talk over the noise. I confess I was roused at once by the merits of the prospects I revisited in their recitation: I spoke with relish -- and with the grace it often inspires. From the captain my words elicited several more grunts of dull interest at the distant foolishness of things foreign.
No foreign, sorry More Login
No foreign, sorry
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