literature

Apple Country TG AR WG

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Literature Text

Last summer, Andrew decided to tour as a little girl. The Chapmans, who weren’t looking forward to the dreary August weather, offered him a place at their beach cottage. After some promises to visit the aquarium and ride the rides on the boardwalk, Andrew assented. Considering all the Chapman’s had been through, one couldn’t blame them for being a little indulgent.

The first day he got pulled out to sea by a rip current and the Coast Guard had to rescue him. The Chapmans didn’t let him out of their sight after that, and they kept Andrew close with ice cream and potato chips. When fall arrived Andrew emerged with love handles and a tight pink bathing suit.

His family still having issues, Andrew spent the autumn with the aunt of good friend who lived upstate. Kathleen never wasted anything, and no matter how many times Andrew asked her not to, she always brought home new clothes from the church collection box, although that may have been thanks to their dinners. Andrew sent home a photo: his belly sticking out, shirt as tight as a drum. The skirt hid his thighs. It was apple country.

Puberty struck like an express train. His family politely invited Andrew to Thanksgiving dinner and he politely declined, as usual, instead staying with a divorcee on her farm. The less said about this, the better.

A Christmas card arrived from New York from Andrew and a Mr. Tulley, in Greenwich. Enclosed was a photo of him Times Square.

It wasn’t hard to imagine Andrew in his tight shirt, eating apple fritters and bacon each morning until his pink puppy shirt ripped up the side like a potato sack. It was only difficult to imagine Andrew stopping. Those bosoms that stretched his sweaters were soaked in bacon grease and stuffed with sugar. One imaged him smelling like a glazed ham.

The Yuletide washed in chocolate truffles and tree cakes, four Advent dinners and Hanukkah invites. One imagined his Santa sweater blowing up with square gaps in between the yarn. A shelf of fat popped out, like a half-fried doughnut, ringing his waist like an inner tube. Andrew was nearly as wide as he was tall. All of his growth spurt had gone to his chest, which his black overcoat could not hide. Rather, it made him look like an igloo, standing on its tippy-toes to kiss Mr. Tulley when midnight struck.

Trimmed with white fur and not daring to step on the ice, Andrew wintered at Lake Champlain, where a trio of socialites took him in and carried her to Montreal, but rather than joining the group and lowering his weight down to their level, Andrew brought them up to his level. The trio was rarely seen without a crepe in their hands, then when their double chins sprouted the three bought fur stoles. They made the most of the situation with corsets, for which the city was famous, pushing the fat up their torsos and forcing their breasts to breach like orcas. Andrew kept an album of those months. Between the swelling rolls and their false tits, there was little room for anything else, and clothes were unreliable, if not unwanted.

So they made for the hot springs, and Iceland, where no one knew anybody and bathing suits were not required. The Danes were very accommodating. The nights shrank a little each evening, and the children came out to play when Andrew waddled through the snow. He understood when the boys laughed at him, though they never laughed for long. He was quite generous with his fur coat.

He abandoned the coat when it no longer fit, giving it to Jan, the resident orphan, then insinuated himself onto a cruise ship, where one more child would inconvenience no one. He dashed off a postcard at Newport, inquiring of renowned aquariums, and made landfall in Camden. A handsome tour guide was honored to show him the nearby battleships.

His family (Andrew’s) was jostled to see him at Oyster Day. They had not sent him an invitation, nor had they sent him the three piece suit he wore. The chef was appalled. While cocktails were passed around Andrew introduced a child more than five feet tall and wearing a silver evening dress.

“I’m honored just to be invited,” she smiled, growing another two inches.
A fun experiment I did to try out some new writing styles.
Writing is fun mostly when the pressure is off. Try writing by hand sometime, without changing anything until it's done. There's always time to edit later.

Andrew has decided to spend his summer at the beach, as a little girl. His family does not approve.
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Great story! The fur coat really adds something to it.