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Sharu
I am, therefor I think

Age 30, Male

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Akita, Japan

Joined on 7/30/08

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Response to Weekly Writing Exercise: Characterization

Posted by Sharu - December 30th, 2011


Warren Saunders stood six feet tall, leaned on a dark wooden walking stick, and had a pair of eyes that both matched his cane and looked out on the world as though they didn't give a shit. His voice was as creaky as his bones and about as often used. Moving about was difficult in his late sixties; years of farm work had thrown out his back and knees. He didn't really care about his knees, or his back for that matter. Whenever they acted up he would just swallow one of the Advil pills he always kept in one of the many pockets of his jean overalls, give the offending body part a little whack from his cane, and carry on. He had taken the same approach to raising his children, but that was years ago.
He lived in a small and slightly run down farmhouse, with the green paint peeling off of the sides to reveal rotting wood and rusty nails. Warren would wake up every morning at five and go sit in the wicker rocker on his front porch and watch the sun rise, reflecting off the the dew which had collected on the forest of weeds which inhabited his front lawn. Occasionally there would be a cool breeze off of the river which ran through what was left of the farm and blow off a strip of paint, landing it on the porch where Warren sat rocking and smoking his cigar. Only once did he ever shift his eyes from the array of reds radiating from the horizon to observe the gliding green paint fragments. That was when he had finished his cigar and was getting up to go back inside. As he slowly raised himself out of the chair, with much assistance from his wooden cane, the strip flew and hit him in the face. The wind that morning was strong enough so that it almost blew off his hat and he staggered back in the breeze, swatting the piece of green, man made, time worn foliage from his jowls.
He had known the paint was peeling off. He also knew that his rafters needed fixing. He knew that his barn was run down and in disrepair, and that the grain silo had no roof left. It had been blown away by some storm or another that had blown through; he couldn't remember which. He had raised cattle for over forty years, and now their house and his were rather worse for ware. But, as for everything now, he didn't care. The cattle had served him well. They'd done their job and he'd done his, getting up early every morning to feed them, letting them graze and watch the sunrise. Now they were gone, and all he had and cared to remember was the dawn.
If he had wanted to, he could have remembered when he sold his entire herd of cattle to pay for the college education his son so badly wanted. He lost the best farm hand he had that day, but he didn't care. His son was where he wanted to be. If he had wanted to, he could have remembered the day he got married to the most wonderful girl he ever knew. She was gone now, and he didn't care. She was in a better place. He lived alone in his rotting house on his weed ridden farm which was falling apart, but he didn't care. His wife was gone, his son had left: there was no reason to.


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