Old Man: Magic Realism

Old feet shuffling in the dust blew up a breeze that wafted in front of the hut. Old woman looked up from the pot she was stirring and shook her head. Old man, he be like a zombie, she thought, watching the blind man move past her door. He move, but he not think about why he move or where he going. He move because it all he know. Poor bastid. Me, now, me know where going. Me going to drift into the smoke of the kettle and go elsewhere. Not for me this cottage after my childer all dead and buried in the ground, like decent dead folks. When folks die, they should have the decency to lie down. Look how the flies be following old man.


Inspiration: Wyclef Jean's music.
Story Potential: Medium.
Finished Length: Short story?
Notes: Wanted a sort of island feel to it, trying to avoid the whole overdone-dialect thing would be good. Like the idea of disappearing into the smoke.