Write your own story

BLAND, gray is the landscape;
DUSTY the car, the gravel roads.
FRUIT in the passing orchards,
LAYER on layer, has that tint of the
LOWLY, like men rising, who are
MINERs, from the pit at day’s end.
QUOTH my friend, sweating, ‘The
SCRUB ahead seems a sweet place to
SLEEP, to make camp. Open. Clear. My
SNOUT finds it out. I take my
STAND upon the very air itself, I
SWEAR by mine own career as a lion
TAMER it will go well with us.’ My
UNCLE – wrecked, panicked,
UPSET – groans. His antipathy to my
WACKY friend clearly shown.

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