It was late afternoon on 5th of August in the year 1757, as the old cathedral clock dolefully boomed four times deep in the center of the sleepy pueblo just as a one legged seaman carrying a battered old crutch hobbled up from the beach that bordered its east shore. He ignored the fact the tide tugged hungrily at the small skiff drawing it farther and farther away from the shore. It didn’t matter what happened to the little boat, for he had no intention of leaving.
Mangy hairless dogs sleepily guarded dusty thresholds while a thousand eyes peered from slightly open doorways and dark corners, following the cripple with a sort of uneasiness as he tottered down the dirty dust filled, streets. It would be a difficult task to find a vagrant with a more wretched appearance, but the typical vagabond’s eyes are usually filled with a broken defeat wandering with inane purpose. But this man’s eyes were overflowing with intelligence and burned with a bitter light. His movements were precise and driven by an unquestionable intention.
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August 5th, 1757
The old cathedral clock boomed four times deep in the center of the sleepy pueblo as a one-legged seaman hobbled up from the eastern shore. He ignored the tide that bit hungrily at his small skiff, drawing it farther and farther away from the shore. The boat no longer mattered, for he had no intention of leaving.
Mangy dogs slept on dusty thresholds. A thousand eyes peered from slightly-open doorways and windows, following the cripple as he tottered down the dirty streets.
Never had there been a more wretched-looking vagrant, but this one had eyes. Not like a usual vagabond’s eyes, filled with broken defeat and glazed with inane purpose: this man's eyes had intelligence and burned with a bitter light. His movements were precise, driven by unquestionable intention.
Well, the prose is vaguely purple, including too many adjectives, and the first sentence is too long.
Try:
It was late afternoon on the 5th of August in the year 1757. The cathedral clock in the center of the sleepy pureblo boomed four times, as a one-legged seaman with a battered crutch hobbled up from the beach on the eastern shore. He ignored the tide tugging at the small skiff in which he'd arrived, drawing it farther and farther away from the shore. It didn't matter what happened to the boat, for he had no intention of leaving this place.
Mangy dogs guarded the dusty threshholds of the pueblo, while a thousand eyes peered from open doorways and dark corners. They followed the cripple with unease as he tottered down the dirty streets, for it would have been difficult to find a vagrant with a more wretched appearance. Still, the eyes of most vagabonds were defeated or wandered inanely, but this man's eyes were filled with intelligence and burned with a bitter light. His movements seemed precise, driven by a clear intent.