As my first Novella, Post Modern Artist in Exile Is receiving a full makeover and re-edit, I thought I’d post a couple stories from it. This is from 2006.
As the sun awoke from the night sky the stars retreated to dance behind the moon. The twilight hours soon have passed and the darkness
of sleep vanished into the distance as he opened his youthful eyes to the world he knew all too well. Today is today and tomorrow will be tomorrow but the moment that has presented itself is ideologically perfect he thought to himself as he
scratched the back of his head. A misshapen middle class skull that was covered by a mop of hair that
was in no way going to be groomed before he left
the house to embark on his outrageously
minimalist daily studies.
As he pondered some meaningless brainwaves that
transcended into the dreams of the night he was
more relaxed then he knew he would be on a
melancholy day such as this. An hour was to be
spent on this early morning enjoying some of the
most personal delightful creations that social order
has produced. An hour may be wasted in the
purgatory between other spatial activities but when
one awakes early on a day when seasons divide the
calendar three objects suddenly come to mind.
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Coffee, Music, and Cigarettes!
Obviously In no specific order is it needed to
structure one’s appetite for addiction but as the
cool frost troubles the social order of consumer
transport a smile is reflected as the same hands of
youth splashes rust and soap on his unshaven
In many ways the three objects that construct a
function for the elite give him the notion of reality
and a sense of identity on days when nihilism
trumps his inherent humanistic qualities.
Turning away from the mirror he picks up a towel
that has recently been washed and wipes his eyes
with intense vigor. Walking out to his large but
confined bedroom he dresses in his normal attire
that is as much as a social costume as an alter ego
that lacks refinement. A cool day such as this calls
for an over sized sweater that smells a decade old
while bleeding memories of the past.
A contradiction of words is followed as the
memories are no longer visual but rather as part of
one’s essence as the blood that flows through the
aging body of a transparent social critic.
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The jeans are pulled up and the sweater holds the
warmth while the suit coat adds elegance to the
writer’s outward impoverished appearance. Many
great ideas are orbiting around the consciousness
that resides in such a worried mind. The
presentation is in place in order to protect oneself
from the fearful creatures that only see the work of
society in numbers with abstract labels of
The shoes do indeed shine my friend but the soles
show that retirement is soon to come.
With a mug of coffee in hand and a pack of
cigarettes that are placed in the front left pocket of
the brown vintage book inspiring corduroy jacket
he walks through the brick apartment. The wood
floors creek with life as there is a type of silence in
the air that one may never mention or be able to
explain to the other eyes we grace past in the brief
moments of such a solitary existence. Passed the
wood floors into the living room that resembles
some kind of grasp for knowledge, a converted
room, and a laboratory of identity he hardly notices
the clutter of amphetamine inflicted spiral notes of
misguided inspiration that lay scattered across the
cubicle of his life.
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Surrounded by used books and dusty shelves he
walks to the radio that was stolen from his
grandmother’s unused basement and turns the
snapping dial. The radio that was made before
World War Two is a gateway into society that
reveals the true nature of space and time. The radio
hisses with modern thought that is centered on post
modern enlightenment. In-between the criticism,
the speculation, and the articulation of what has
come and what will become the ghosts of the past
tremble out of the speaker with forgotten truths.
The distortion creates clarity that dissolves the
confusion of the chaotic cookie cutter organized
collective consciousness that inhabits the social
order of robotic mannerisms.
The orchestration that graces his ears is unknown
but that is beside the point. With caffeine and
nicotine addiction contradicting his sensory
perception he is fueled by the passion of the
creation that enters his ears. The door opens and
out in the world he walks, and as if he is the
ancestor of a great traveler of the past he sits on his
stationary ship and rests in a manufactured chair
that surly has seen poor tears in its creation. His
fragile mind observes not only the outside reality
but observes his life through the only eyes he has
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access to, his own. The chemicals that pass through
his veins and the cold air that brightens his cheeks
brings an optimistic smile to a once standard
traditionally minded child.
The Sun lights the neighborhood with inspirational
shades of concepts while side by side in dividing
lines the fellow sheep decide how to swallow the
last remaining creative thoughts of the future
individual genius of society. As automobiles drive
by on a damp road and the grass turns from brown
to white a hand wipes the sweat of a boy, no a man,
who is starting to become aware and intelligent.
Who believes that the will to change, to progress
and become better, kinder, gentler, and wiser is the
truth to the knowledge humanity has constantly
pondered about everyday of its young existence.
The eyes dilate, a grin emerges, the key turns right,
and the door is locked. The coat is zipped and the
feet do march, down the streets and passed the
minds that travel alone without a reason but are
symbols of signs.
He then waits for the bus and is crowded with
anxiety but does not know why for he is lost in the
pattern that existed long ago.
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The eyes do close, then blink for a moment, and
then he forgets, turns back time, and is invisible to
all who solely rely on the principle of death, love,
and the relativity of the impoverished creative