Sergie
From my days at sea, with the seventy four sodden logs from which I will not bore you, I recall Sergie, who I came across on the cusp of the Caspian. He appeared the wild wispy froth of that foamy sea washed up on a shore and beach to which he didn’t belong. It was exactly a nickel and a dime, or rather its exact equivalent in piastros and mitres, I held out in my palm on first seeing him. He hadn’t asked, but I told him: this will buy food. He didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. His ribs caged him. Are you a sadhoo? I asked, banking on my vast knowledge of transnational metaphysiques. His countenance through the few unhaired spaces on his face registered nothing. A fakir? A derwaish? Nothing. You dog! I said. It was then that he said, Sergie. But I am Sergie, I said.
I really like this passage. It certainly has your delightful original touches. It did confuse me a little and did take me two readings but in such a short passage, you’ve delved to the point and you have managed to say quite alot. I love the following lines:
“He appeared the wild wispy froth of that foamy sea washed up on a shore and beach to which he didn???t belong.”
“His countenance through the few unhaired spaces on his face registered nothing. A fakir? A derwaish? Nothing. You dog! I said. It was then that he said, Sergie. But I am Sergie, I said.”
I might just have to paste the passage here lol
Sergie=Sir g=Sir J…
hahaha…
sorry im a little high!