His eyes were sandpaper.

Not like sandpaper.  They were paper balls, covered with a fine layer of sand.

His face was wooden.

Not, as you will have guessed, emotionless and still, but wood.  Knotholes and all.

He was an analogy and an anachronism.

He feared sleep.  He feared fire.  

He lived his whole life trying to avoid rubbing anyone the wrong way, but especially himself.

And hay-fever season was hell.

on 10 January, 2011 Snailrind said . . .

Delightful as always. Thanks for the read.

Is Mini-NaNoWri-Mo-Scrino a real thing?

on 12 January, 2011 boot said . . .

boot's avatar

Nah, just a figment of the overly-fevered boot imagination.

And, thank you.

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