No more phone lines above him, sun at zenith. Glen T. Searborg Memorial Drive, street name long as the effing church, envelopes ink smeared.
Searborg's team created the plutonium in 1940 for Trinity, K dad talked drunk. Called him Gadget Man, first bomb nicknamed The Gadget, see?
Last of the hippie neon: Gina Reno Screws Free, oy ote. (Coyotel?). Need a Loan, Go Ask Al Ice. Follow Apollo. Arrow up. Steeple distanced.
Convoluted conversion devalued from errosion. Sun fried Tatebrain. When'd he shave his head, was it Wichita? Church close enough to pray.
Abandoned! Dead dolls on steps, exes for iiis. Plaque inside door: GRANDAD SAW A VISION AND EYE DID TOO! Bomb wirshippers in melted flesh.
Hell...o, a phantom voice intoned. K Tate, suddenly entombed with pencils & trolls. Voice: no, you do not melt! We are the PKD Visagerists.
We are glad Eye found you, followsound, robed man clothskeleton. K Tate, know your exits, another Dick O bromide. He faced the face: Dixon.
Have you come to whoreship? Rhyming with more lip. Odd thing to say, K Tate seeing others in the shadows, boymen trolls scrolls dempenciled.
K Tate thought it out. St. Vitus Dance an epileptic fit, explains the way the room swayed. Electric blue dust on the pews, air streams.
Solipsism, is behind you non-existent if you cannot look. Funnel vision tunneled derision. You cannot know behind you yet the bomb went off.
Head spinning, K Tate, bluedustnostrilswasted. Unmoving. Visagery, grown-up Mike Dixon, pastor of nothing, said. We worship brainstreams.
K Tate backed away, his box of stuff outside, didn't want a crazy's touch near his grenaded monster dolls. Stopped by brainstream webbing.
Turning, he caught a gossamer glimpse of a slender girl in white, shyly averting her eyes. When he stared directly at her, she disappeared.
Heatstroke? Hallucinatory brainbuilds launched by a fatigued neural grid? She floated again across the edge of his vision, thin airclouds.
Her name is Lala. This from the pastor, hovering nearby and observing K Tate's discomfiture. She's a Sylph, an invisible being of the air.
She creates clouds in the skyscape with fanciful wings, painting artistic visions of expired brainstreams, empty darkhusks of thoughtwaves.
When a brainstream has been consumed, it roams free in the universe, and must be represented visually by Sylphs to quell its energy packets.
She's a mindreader, our brainstream rider, a seer, a savant, a dancer, a muse. She is not of this world. She is a truly mystical Visagerist.
Lala inhabits brainstreams as they expire, feeling and sensing what the streamer has experienced, reinterpreting and giving true meaning.
She cleanses corrupt streams, she debugs, purifies, wipes clear. She expresses, shapes, colors, makes art literally on the fly, in clouds.
The pastor hesitated, about to say more, then returned to his flock. K Tate looked directly at Lala. This time the Sylph did not disappear.
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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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