What the hell, make this a ghost town go round, maybe have some fun at the end. Minutes later, bland grenades cradled by Technicolor trolls.
Found a box, kicked it over, shovelled everything inside, hard like family secrets. Took the toothpick box out of his pocket, opened it.
Eye impaled on the last remaining piece of wood. Secure. Look around for more stuff, wheel it down to the old house. A middle-aged kiddie.
Check it out, he thought. Von Braun bobbleheads. Only two, K Tate kept one, left the other in mute motion. File cabinet, empty. Cheesecake.
Lili St. Cyr, 1964 calendar, sipping a cool drink. Slipping a cool wink. Looked like she was staring at her crotch, no, went to a newspaper.
Jayne Mansfield dead, head severed in a car wreck, photo of said head blurred black & white while Lili was so creamy. K Tate grabbed both.
No shoeprints in the dust but his, a skittering of spiders he heard as echoes. He took a bowling pin striped red twice like ground zero.
Boxes of scratchy pencils, 24 Hour Bowling, all nubbed. Overturned desk: a dead horse with palsied legs. K Tate rapidly bored. What else...?
He swiped random shelfshapes into the box, then fingertapped curled pages. Tiptoed look, worth examination. Light slivered in doorway. Whoa.
More missing kids decadesgone. Doubleblink. Each kiddo, mano-o-Maneshewtz! One freckled kid had a green pencil in the faded colored pocket.
Bowling score scratchy. Another boy a birdcall in his bony grasp, sure enough, two in the box. Same for a monster keychain & Django Sherwin.
Shoved the pages, 11 in all, beside the trolls. A mystery of history, mid 60s strangeness when, miles away, men designed the bombs of future.
K Dad lived zigzaggy close. Security fences new, no diagonal now. Look for Actinium Corridor, end of alley. No sound but rolling wheels.
K Tate didn't care where the military went, maybe ran scared from irradiated Rio Grande. Coward convoys covered with tin can courage. Right.
70s grafitti further up, broken fence like sadstreet mansmile. K dad's fave, the doors of perception guy, epileptic fractured paingrin truth.
Crazy ass neon. Hard to fade, easy to piss darker. Longhair flattened by a divine flash, K Tate poetic, organ music ghosted. Arms funneled.
Nuttown City Limits. Looked up, birdshadow. Followed communication lines, stopped dead at alleyend. One last phone pole, a sad root canal.
Rolled his trollbox, #10 sturdy, little things picked up from Uncle Dick O, claimed #8s were too small for animal pet corpses, #12s bouncy.
Pole ramrod straight, sun bleached but for a square-missing kid box?-magenta staples clue. Midget high, a discolorized faintly discordant
windbent sign, peroxide plutonium blue. St. Vitus Dance First Church of Solipsism. Here's the kicker, Mike Dixon, pastor of arms. Conversion.
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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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