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One Minute Later November 9, 2006

Posted by dr. gonzo in Writing.
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I think I kinda know how Kerouac did the stream of consciousness thing. I think I have got it. While this isn’t entriely faithful to that ideal it is pretty damn close. More short, short fiction follows. One piece.

One Minute Later

It was over for him the minute she left. Tumbling, stark, naked, scraped across burnt coals all boils and blisters and raunch. Thought of lightning and quickness and evading the moment through a stream of unconscious miniscule actions that never stopped, they only paused for a second or hesitated. And then they started all over again. A rhythmic soul whine, right in time it hits the note, the beat is exact and perfect in every moment. and you can here it scream from across the parking lot or down the street no matter where its coming from it echoes off of him and holds the ear almost like it was close to the ground awaiting the coming rumbling in the distance. In that quiet callous moment before the rumbling crescendos into it’s all out whine and the world shatters like a crystal bowl under a ball peen hammer you can almost catch a glimpse through his eyes of the silent, romantic soul beneath that yearns to reach out but its caged, choked and ashen existence below the surface has rendered it unconscious. But you can still see it behind his green and blue eyes and it’s sad because it will never be free again. The nights are mostly cold now. That flicker of hope behind the eyes all but decimated and terminated to damnation, never to surface again. That moment is all gone now because it was over the minute she left him wallowing in a pool of blood and tar and stamped out cigarette butts in puddles, not even good enough for one last drag. And now he is sitting in a humorless room, walls clad in gray, like minded to the very last. Balled up in the corner are the memories of a different moment. One that was over the minute she left him.

–END–

I lie about everything. Another one follows.

The Flood

She’s craving the sea. The salt of the ocean and its breakers in the distance. The clear, crisp call of the gull and starfish at her feet. Here there is no longer sea, there is no tide, only the ebb and flow of disaster. Of flooded out streets, that dried and were reflooded with sorrow. Eaten coasts and eroded landscapes. Destroyed deltas, lingering hope of the people left behind. But she still craves the sea, somehow. She knows God is with her, but she can’t see Him anywhere, He never came to her rescue, no one did. So, left standing, alone, in the path of the tornado. She thought she remembered someone promising to keep her safe through the tempest, but that promise either never happened or wasn’t loud enough to manifest into reality. Impending doom can’t stop her from craving the sea. And remembering before the deluge came, before she was left behind. When she stares up through her cold and long-dead eyes she thinks only of those moments before she was stricken by broken promises and lies. Before she died inside. Finding dead, burnt bodies, all left behind, all forgotten. Finding him, and she died inside.

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Comments»

1. caveblogem - November 10, 2006

This one caught my eye because I live here in Lowell, Karouac’s home town. I came here from the west and read _On The Road_ dutifully before packing all my family’s belongings into the moving van. But I didn’t really enjoy it at the time. I think that its content made the stream-of-consciousness style a little too dated to enjoy, or at least to enjoy in the way it was intended. Or perhaps that style is not suitable for longer pieces (like a novel). It works here, with “One Minute Later.” Nice job.

2. dr. gonzo - November 10, 2006

Thank you. And thanks for reading.


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