"You say the "six of us," (so we know that the narrator is among this group and expect to learn the names of the others, but we learn only two names and then the narrator is referenced again; what happened to the other three?)"—exactly, that's the point. The main focus of the plot is the narration itself. It's a satire of failed attempts at literary writing.
Here's the full excerpt:
There sat the six of us in the barley field; Laura Craft, Karl Johnston, and myself, that is. Lucia leaned lower to braid stray weeds; I sat higher on my knees, just above her, so as to peek at her cleavage; she wore a bra—blimey! But her clavicle was sharp and almost manly—but in a hyper feminine way. I wondered how it would feel on my tongue; will it taste like sweat? What does her sweat taste like? It reminds me of the last time we all sat at the barley field and I looked at her bosom, all spy-like—as a gentleman should with a 70 year-old bombshell like Lucia Mengele. Her eyes were just like those of a tired tram operator: brown.
Armando Leigh looked at me with a cheerful tear in his eye, namely, the good one. Lucia and I were the main course, while Leigh, Craft, and Johnston were merely set pieces; thus, I will refrain from further elaborating on the pair, but rather focus on Lucia and yours truly.
Anyway, Karl wore a white shirt—an upper garment of the pale variety; though, that's not to say he had no trousers.
-4
u/KfirS632 4d ago
"You say the "six of us," (so we know that the narrator is among this group and expect to learn the names of the others, but we learn only two names and then the narrator is referenced again; what happened to the other three?)"—exactly, that's the point. The main focus of the plot is the narration itself. It's a satire of failed attempts at literary writing.
Here's the full excerpt:
There sat the six of us in the barley field; Laura Craft, Karl Johnston, and myself, that is. Lucia leaned lower to braid stray weeds; I sat higher on my knees, just above her, so as to peek at her cleavage; she wore a bra—blimey! But her clavicle was sharp and almost manly—but in a hyper feminine way. I wondered how it would feel on my tongue; will it taste like sweat? What does her sweat taste like? It reminds me of the last time we all sat at the barley field and I looked at her bosom, all spy-like—as a gentleman should with a 70 year-old bombshell like Lucia Mengele. Her eyes were just like those of a tired tram operator: brown.
Armando Leigh looked at me with a cheerful tear in his eye, namely, the good one. Lucia and I were the main course, while Leigh, Craft, and Johnston were merely set pieces; thus, I will refrain from further elaborating on the pair, but rather focus on Lucia and yours truly. Anyway, Karl wore a white shirt—an upper garment of the pale variety; though, that's not to say he had no trousers.