Serial Storytelling, in Paragraph Proportions - Fragment 1

My mother named me Pyna...

In a soft sing-song, an unnerving iambic.
It slides, now soundlessly, on naked little toes from out his muddy gaze then back again, to and fro. Shadow to gloom, dark to adumbration, then back again.

Sand and rock-salt pebbles rasping deliberately beneath a bare heel, keeping his sluggish attention on a short, sharp hook.

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