Sam Sam I Am seems eye am. K dad read that to him, Green Eggs & Ham by that Seuss cat. Told him his docdad (pawpaw) read it to him, as well.
K Tate knew this as crap, not til later, after he found a copy of Dr. Space, a book on Wernher von Braun. Inscribed: read this to your kid.
He had skittered into town on I-10, dug the closeby townname Horizon City, est. 1973. Funny, that horizon looked different 35 years later.
Pull onto Texas 62, off ramp leading to Manhattan Heights, like they can't just give up the ghost. Mostly deserted now, US popdrop millions.
Military funded in crazier places, the new Pentagon accessible through pneumatic tubing under Great Salt Lake. Ft. Bliss left behind, dust.
Walking the streets, reading the walls of K dad's brightpast, pawdad's darkpast narcoleptic thoughts wavered, did K dad love his docdad ever?
Twenty-three SAM Missiles abandoned, pointed Surface To Air in perfect two o' clockwork poses. Do I like green eggs on SAMs? Crazy town.
After Trinity, the bastards who got away but we kept close, Wernher's chums, came knocking. Prisoners of Peace, Operation Icebox, all true.
see, the bomb guys were kept on ice, the QT, hush hush, forget that they belonged in concentrated camp showers gasburst. Pray, St. Barb.
Saint Barbera, pretty much the patron saint of any who works with explosives. Did she hover over the city on 1960s nights hands clasped?
K dad and Karin, in bed, outside the first segmented missile, part Tiny Tim part 3045-100C JATO, shot airward as Karin screamed in orgasm.
Death from above, the bad guys lit unfiltered smokeswirl blackwhite smoke from the cigs smoke from the missile smoke for the future to fret.
Indecisive moments now, what to touch that K dad ingested a now deserted town of timetoys. Prescription City, Hi-Fi Records, BombaBeer:novel.
He'd put these places in the novel, touchstones to remember the past via the future. Just like the timetoys here, he was making timewords.
Walked those streets talking to ghosts, signcrossing St. Barbara justincase. Phantom strangers tipping brims. Repeat: Sam Sam I Am. KaBlam.
Military vehicle upside down under a bridge, half submerged in oil-slick groundwater, streamtrickle dirty. Scrambling down the embankment.
Wooden box of grenades, named after the French word for pomegranate. Pineapples in WWll. Invented a thousand years ago, China. Hawkspinning.
Serrated cast iron, chemical fuze mechanism, reservoir of explosive material, spring loaded striker, safety pin, percussion cap, detonator.
K Tate removed his jacket, folded it into a carrybag, took a dozen grenades. Ya never know, this day and age, when you'll need 'em, so on.
Later, gut empty, frying eggs in a boarded-up diner, nobody around, tornado warning? Ketchupstained eggwhites, memoryripped empty eyesocket.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment