light fractalstream pouring through pinprick holes in computer punchcards, spraying detail across the neuralnodes of the sylph's receptors
illuminating desire, fear and hatred, for those are the big three, whitehot flashpoints of cannonfire reshaping history according to whim
trinity is there, PKD's brainstream begins with mushroom cloud ascendant heavenward, goats floating on airy vibrato musical muscles flexing
the watcher crouches until the shockwave passes, then topples over backward to twitch on desert sand, eye gouged out gone, blind to meaning
pink sandstorm scours headlamps clean to shine dark lies under clear skies, high today 107 and still climbing great god almighty the creator
K tate flinches as the sylph adjusts the amplitude of the brainstream she is monitoring to damp down the soundtrack a few decibels, shotgun
K dad's childhood blastflashes through the expiring brain of g-man falling, zipforward to nam and hauling culhane across wetfields dripping
lala's eyes flitflickering at rem speed as she retransmits the brainstream across the nightsky for the visagerists, white-robed worshippers
music of the gods, brainstream tonewaves resonate to PKD's favorites, country joe and the fish, grateful dead, stones, jefferson airplane
audible gasp from the throng mindriding the headwave pulsing from lala's fingertips, blueinvisible electricity drives humming turbinepulses
some of the women are panting eyes closed hipgrinding, involuntary reaction to the thrumming lifeenergy transmission, sexual rhythms bumping
their white-robed pastor arms akimbo, howling gibberish as they race past saturn, universal mist of eons etched in neon on retinas burning
K tate slumps in his chair then rises bodily toward the ceiling, three men lunging to grab his foot and pull him down like a bobbing balloon
they open a door and take him outside, a bonfire sending sparkcrackles into the night air, a baby is crying in dead decades gone, oh glory
waiting for the sign, they watch lala as she projects long pulseblue beams that warp around stars to light the heavens, brainstream moonbeam
she nods and they release K tate and he floats rapidly away until he is a mote in god's eye and the visagerists hum incantations primeval
whalesong sparrowcry muzzleroar thunderclap backfire whistlepeep doorcreak gurglerush yawndown hisswish bombfall keyboardclack heartbeat
K tate appears hovering above the desert floor and drifts down as the visagerists scramble to make an opening, lala's enigmatic sunsmile
they rush to touch him and some tear away his clothes as keepsake souvenirs, beltbuckle, shoelace, anything, everything, until he is naked
K tate lies down with lala in a clearing behind a dune and centuries pour through him as ocean waves pull memories, interplanetary wisdom
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