July 11, 1964. Mantell's netherstorm rips St. Petersburg a new winter, Moscow dissolves and Siberia duplicates then shrinks. Love. Karin.
Still thinking of the blonde til the very last sob. Not realizing he had made the US the great atomic power. Bio-atom 8, the final frontier.
Kindred and RFK hand in hand, with a little help from Nixon Culhane (R.-CA), give French Indochina the greatest Insane Unknown Offensive yet
The medicine cabinet only held toothpaste, Prell shampoo, that empty bottle of Bayer, the Cope, spotshined surface. No prescription pills.
What made him do a mental inventorial, he thought but did not amplify. Perhaps he'd appear on Mike Douglas, Tammy Toxcity: publicist nodded.
Wiped a brow, world safe. Wife MIA, who cares Karin, mental list, Chevy buff, volume up, I bought a dead world & I want to blame it black.
Kindred in bellbottom blues, eyes his overlong sideburns in the small bathroom he installed in the hardsteel hut beside the swimming pool.
Corinna is afraid of this deeppool Kindred handbuilt into the coolstone beneath their backsplit. Connected to the netherworld, she insists.
He can hear the softbabble of societies yearning to be free, voices wanting choices, lives underdeveloped, gurgling in his grimy sinkdrain.
Micronesia, Polynesia, amnesia, South Africa, Berlin, sharkfin, Moscow, Nam bam thank you ma'am, he turns on the hot water tap, flushdown.
Scalding singsong verbiage bubbling upward through the braindrain. Glistening waterdrop poised on chrome lip, quivers on the brink of doom.
Vocals by Jim Morrison, riders on the storm, there's a killer on the road. Brain is squirmin' like a toad. Echo pipishly ripe premonition.
Kindred sits on a wicker chair Corinna has painted green, tears open an envelope, his name inscribed with a girlish scrawl, inkly promising.
Dear Dr. Kindrad, I am defenately your biggest fan!!!! If you ever cum to USC look me up here is my photo. Almost forgot, Karin is my mom!
My name is Seashell. I am 20. Five four and 114, people say sexy. I guess so but more sporty if you like cute girls with an all-body tan!!!
Kindred crumpled up the note and flushed it. Fan letters, Man of The Year, bigshot nuke scientist, calls daily from Bobby K. President Bob.
Ephemeral praise, hardly earned, evanescent meanderings of an easily-impressed populace, America I see you in the gloaming, future hopeful.
Karin never told him she had a daughter. Twenty. Born in 1946. His father knew Karin then. Seashell could be Kindred's babyfat half-sister.
Kindred stepped onto the diving board, windowleaked New Mexico sun licking his nape with a longing hot tongue, paint it red, color me dead.
Life stultified, Corinna vacuous, Kindred sucked in an easybake lungbag of desiccated oxygen and pondered his options, jet ripping skybound.
Dove headfirst into the empty pool and entered the drain wetly succulent, poured himself into the Pacific ecosystem, emerged in Lalaland.
This is an alternate universe, Dr. Kindred. Welcome to AltU. You will be teaching the Transience of 1960s Era Idealism: The Dream is Dead.
This building looking vaguely reminiscent of the shelter your father abandoned in 1945 with its stolid lines, your dorm, sorry about that.
Let me introduce you to your roommate, Seashell. Hi! A sweet girl, a little innocent, none too bright, well, sir, you two have a good night!
Kindred suspicious, dropping leather travel bag well-battered, brushes Seashell's downy cheek with a lipflick and falls immediately in love.
CLICK TO READ NEXT CHAPTER
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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