Floral dress, summershift thin, Karin is in. Why does this memoryjog my noggin? Black and white glossy image brainstuck revealed, deathmask.
Green-eyed Karin's slow summer smile, 1973 sun paints lambent cheekbones on my retinal parade, dust rising high into a burnt midwestern sky.
Montana-born breeze sighs in the trees, hot rainwater drips inside a gutterspout from a flashrain rolling east like an empty freight train.
Glass bottled Coca Colas dripping icebits onto a chipped wooden verandah, sharpbarking dog announces the arrival of a lonesome north wind.
Karin whispers into my ear, numbed by eyepop regret at a lifetime of violent misunderstanding and unmitigated angst over clandestinations.
I feel weak. A barncat leaps lightly down from a highbeam headlight in broad daylight and lands on purepaws on babyhearted bright delight.
Something in my drink? Slurwording neuroses of angular rectangulars, spinning bullet zinging along whistle clean spiral chamber, I duckdown.
Karin catsteps back and I headsmack the harvest table as I tumbledumble, bloodspurting from my broken beak, heavyhands unliftable, slowfeet.
Floral dress, summershift thin. Karin's inscrutable smile says goodbye. Brainspark recalling the deathphoto I sent myself postmark 3-15-72.
In the picture, dead-me was breathlessly innocent, mouth open, saliva bubbling at the corners, her small hand mashpushing my dumbhead down.
And now as her Coca Cola concoction incapacitates my pushback, she takes my head onto her lap and smothers me into gulping glub gasposity.
Her small hand hardedged and unforgiving, same hand that touched my father now nape-pressing me selfhelpless breathless heartsick dying.
Light flares eyely as I expire, noting with last neuron drift that the wall calendar is a redsuited hohoho Coca Cola Santa, December 1972.
It takes her nine months to smother me, baby gestationally, loving me to death concubine sensationally. Mississippi reverses, backtime slam.
She takes a photo every day, me lapping up my own demise on her muscular thighs, slobbering walrussy, 280 pictures of dying me, airlessly.
My 1982 self collapses into my soulhole, I am reborn blinking in nuclear singularity, grinning for posterity. Say cheese everyone, snapshot.
And now it's 1973 and the new me is coming back to see Karin again. I look behind me as I shufflewalk west and see no footprints. Traceless.
Karin on her verandah, my spiral descent replaying in long looping streams as I am drawn magnetory to my recycled doomspin, floral dress.
Locked in timeburp, Karin kills me a dozen times, a thousand, zillion trillion infinity of deathly smothers, care for an ice cold beverage?
I step onto her porch admire her floral dress this time it will be different this time I will not die this time I will not this time I will.
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A twitter novel
The Boston Phoenix says: "Joy Motel is a microblogging book worth scrolling upward for."
Joy Motel is an unconventional sci-fi narrative that was written in real time in 140 character bursts on Twitter, the Internet's fastest-growing social networking platform.
It takes its freeform, disconnected style from the randomness of the Twitterstream itself.
This is a novel for the 21st century, captured in quick bytes by a 5-time Bram Stoker Award Finalist and a Gold Award winning adman, who are transcribing the 'brainstream' flowing inside the neural net of its lead character, Kindred.
He has unknowingly purchased an untested, corrupt brainstream from a black market uploader, which has become an uneraseable part of Kindred's persona as he grapples with an ever-shifting sense of reality, dreams that twist into nightmares, and unreliable perceptions of time and space.
At the center of his struggle, a psychiatrist he calls Psychdaddy is attempting to resolve Kindred's repressed childhood memories of the 1945 Trinity nuclear blast in New Mexico and decode his father's role in a radical collective of bomb-worshippers called the 12 Disciples.
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