Prose Rust (OC)

[BK38]

So maybe we could help each other.

Pm me sometime and maybe we can Houdini something up***

 

[Rainman1964]

Rust​

Steel-toed boots and steely blue eyes and a gaze as tough as leather. Sam tried to hustle through the crowd, his feet heavy; the thudding of a man who used to never walk fast for anybody – no way, no how. He felt like a lost sheep instead of the Cattle-herder he was raised to be, the cattle herder he was born to be. The beep beeps of metal detectors and the cacophony of screaming children filled his ears. He missed the old country, the smell of shit and sweat and the toil of real men. He missed the roar of the crowd as he slid onto his nemesis, a Bull madder than hell, a tangible enemy.

He absentmindedly bumped into a little girl – “Dui Bu Qi” he muttered. The words are gooey and warbled – clunky and slow; uncouth and alien. He used to send the eyelashes fluttering and the hearts racing with his smooth, deliberate Southern drawl. Too many “used tos.” A plane screeched over the sky and pierced him to the core, reminding him his era was bygone; his gait in life archaic. He didn’t belong here and he knew it.

He cursed his old man. “There just ain’t money in cattle no more son, I’m selling the ground to the city folk, it’s time for you to make your own way.” The words echoed in his head and he hated him for it; he had come so close to his station in life and now it was gone. “Flight CA137 to Kun Ming now boarding” The foreign inflection of the Stewardess sent his head spinning. Life in the old country was straight forward – Get a job, work hard, find a pretty missus that wasn’t too harsh on the eyes, settle down on a patch of land and don’t take nothing that ain’t yours for the taking.

Flashing gizmos and doo-dads, passing fads and the latest fashions filled his vision and meant nothing to him. Unwelcome tendrils of unfamiliar scents filled his nostrils and they flared like the Bulls he used to tame. The Chinese were taking over and got the world in a hurry too fast for his liking. He was amongst them and yet despised them. Where was the culture? Where was the rush of Dragons and martial arts mastery? Where was that certain something that an Iphone and the latest Western fashion trend failed to capture?

The cars continued to honk, the planes continued to roar off into the sky and the sullen Cowboy of a misaligned age receded into himself.

Hi.
Here is a quick rewrite, just for fun.

Steel-toed boots and steely blue eyes and a gaze as tough as leather. Hank pushed his way through the crowd, his feet heavy, the thudding of a man who used to never walk fast for anybody – no way, no how.

He felt like a lost steer instead of the cattle-herder he was raised up to be; the cattle-herder that he was born to be.

The gentle beep-beeps of metal detectors and the cacophony of screaming children filled his ears. He missed the old country, the smell of shit and sweat, and the toil of working men. He missed the roar of the crowd as he slid onto his nemesis, a large menacing bull, madder than hell – a tangible and worthy enemy.

He idly bumped into a small child. “Dui Bu Qi,” he muttered under his breath. His words were gooey and warbled – clunky and slow; uncouth and alien.

Hank used to send the eyelashes fluttering and the hearts racing with his smooth Southern drawl. Too many “used tos.” He turned his face up to the sky as a plane screeched over him and pierced his insides all the way to the core, reminding him that his era was long gone. Telling him his gain in life archaic. He didn’t belong here, and he knew it.

He cursed his old man. The memory of that day, his father half drunk from the bottle of Jim Beam he consumed on a daily basis. “There just ain’t money in cattle no more son. I’m selling the ground to the city folk. It’s time for you to make your own way now.” His father’s words echoed in his head, and he hated him for it. He had come so close to his station in life and now it was gone.

"Flight CA137 to Hong Kong now boarding at gate 12.” The foreign inflection of the female voice over the loudspeaker sent his head spinning. Life in the old country was straight forward – get a job, work hard, find a pretty wife that wasn’t too bad on the eyes, settle down on a path of land, and don’t take nothing that ain’t yours for the taking.

Flashing gizmos and doo-dads, passing fads and the latest fashions filled his field of vision and meant nothing to him. Unwelcome tendrils of unfamiliar scents filled his nostrils, and they flared like the bulls he used to tame.

The Chinese were taking over and got the world in a hurry too fast for his liking. He was amongst them, and yet, despised them. Where was the culture? Where was the rush of dragons and martial arts mastery? Where was that certain something that an Iphone and the latest Western fashion trend failed to capture?

Hank could hear the cars honking off in the distant, the planes continued to roar off into the sky, and the sullen cowboy of a misaligned age receded into himself as he walked toward Gate 12.