Читать книгу Over the Spiked Picket Fence - Angela Aloisio Sander & Denvil Buchanan - Страница 7

It was strange, my constant, undefined and untamed emotion that I could not put a name to, but it was now at its most intense, and I would be overwhelmed with the feelings of excitement that threatened to suffocate me, beginning deep down in my pelvis. There was always a strange feeling that something within me was not quite right, that something was festering deep down in my heart waiting to come rushing to the surface and explode.

It was this feeling that had come rushing over me as I had stood in an empty spot not far from the church on the hill. It was the one with the high steeple, the bell-house and the cross across from the hillside cemetery. I had longed to be up and away from this quiet one-horse town with its one main street of simmering tar in the middle of the valley. I had always felt that this old man river would one day come rushing in during the dead of night to reclaim the basin that was his.

Everybody called me Dan. I was a kind of a pilgrim, travelling to and fro across the village and beyond, all over this green and fertile land of cane-piece, banana-plots and back-yard yam-hills, charting my own rite-of-passage, scoffing at any feelings of despair and anything that would block my passage out of this dead-end town.

I leaned upon the lamp pole on which perched the long-neck-garlins, by the

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