for keeps of my dumb writing lol
05-08-2020 boringgg
A clacking rooster on early dawn had woke up a young boy ensconced on his precarious wooden bed softened with hidden hays underneath the thin upholster of interconnected sewn rags. Living on a shack, a golden sunlight, intruded through the dilapidated roof and the only window of his tiny chamber, had accentuated his shabby and ramshackle home.
Another drudgery of his life unfolded. Aware of the morning sun, he roused up and took a glance outside by his sleazy window of asymmetric woods and protruding nail heads. The field was a meadow of grasses with scarce trees of mahogany spread afar. A great pasture land for his two cows and a flocks of chicken nestled on a small hutch beside his shanty home.
He trudged toward an antiquated door with broken knob jutted out. Wearing his drab shirt with holes and pants reaped of senescence, he grabbed a piece of bread on his hoard above his crumbled cabinet. The scanty food was his breakfast. It usually paired with a drop amount of strawberry jam which he had forgot to buy yesterday. He lumbered to his hutch and snatched a handful amount of winnowed corn. Feeding his chickens became a soothing and warm sight of the cold morning. His feet again walked toward a stock of hay. His hand grappled full as he sauntered back to feed his two cows.
His rustic life was once far from his present solitude. He was not alone, but was joyful child of his loving parents. His father was a sole farmer labeled as one of the ‘untouchables’ or the poorest of their society, toiled hard to earn their living, and his mother a governess of his education was an angel of beauty and grace whose blood was formerly of noble class but had been cast away for her rebellious liaison with his father. Despite the adversities from ungraceful deeds, his family earn a life of mediocrity. They own an acre of land to farm and established a good dwelling. But after the accident, his house was gone and had been put as a mortgage of their debts leaving him only their hutch and a small portion of land.
He was just a child year ago, now turned to a sixteen-year old immured on reticent life of tedious work, no one to depend nor to find succor. After one year, he was somehow grown accustomed of his tough daily routines. He became habitually inclined in taking care of his little inheritance, from feeding his animals to earning profit by selling eggs and working as assistance in a mile away town.
 Today was his third month of being a helper to the plump and prompt baker of town. Afraid of even trivial delinquency, he ambled with brisk toward his miniature well his grandpa had made according to his father. He remembered his parents scooping a bucket of water of the hole and their faces etched with wide smile and his father, a jolly person, ladled a handful water, splashing to them like a newly freed dog after a long time of being chained to its post. They had always played beneath the morning sun with his mother acting as her shield from the chimera of depths, a role performed by his father. The memories became more vivid but innocuous after a year passed. His eyes sparkled by an accumulating tears, but for months, it stayed still, frozen by countless nights and days of mourn and forlorn.
The reminiscence was washed out by a pouring water from his hand clutching an old dipper. Couples of minute fleeted and he had already donned his less drab working clothes. A beige shirt with a collar and few white buttons from his neck paired with a black lose pants extending to his ankles. It was a gift from his parent during his thirteenth birthday. A clothes not made for a tacky work. With waned sandals, he snagged his tawdry satchel and gone for a mile walk to the bustling town
