Fried out kombi + Thirty memoria - Seventy confabulation
I am twenty year old guy from Sweden, so english isn't my native language. This is the first time I'm trying to create longer segments of more story-like character, where before all I wrote was short poems. Any feedback is highly appreciated. Jack Kerouac is I think my greatest inspiration in the following texts.The grammar i use is new to me and somewhat experimental, so any input would really help me out!
Please note that these texts are excerpts from larger pieces and in many cases incoherent to each other.
...
Fried out kombi
We didn't climb as much as we stepped with huge steps into his kombi of light blue metallic and plastic wood details: An Eisenhower family-car in the public eye. Dwarfed by the spacious car and the seats that could swallow a man I closed my eyes and drank myself into debilitation of serenity and we flew off to Cosmopolis. The car accelerated with a certain tuneful rhythm – old albeit not yet archaic. Gentle in its grove as if lubricated. It was a fifties tune of smiling song and light beat – a progressing tune, not pulling but pushing. Walking like Louis Armstrong – walking with your shoulders as much as with your feet and legs. The driver by the name of Dave Philips said to be a vacuum-cleaner salesman with the sharpest line of gab in the city according to the man himself. Not a peddler in the sense of an old-time vacuum-cleaner salesman, it was now done in stores. A good citizen I suggested but he told me that he usually sold the cleaners to old people who already had a better one resting at home – he had a way of talking around them in circles. That's not a good citizen, he suggested. By this I understood that he had known that I was a simple hitcher pulling a trick on him from the beginning but gave me the ride for trying so hard.
...
Thirty memoria - Seventy confabulation
The wind was blowing in from north and for this reason the bay was a mirror and the world had no up or down. The oars cut through clouds and made them waver in circles, the fish flew. A scent of salt filled my tract, it rose from the water and traveled with the wind. The cool, ethereal breeze played with signal flags and by making them waver one at the time, it tried to form words – but none seemed to pay attention: the wind was lonely and tried to interact. The anchor ropes of the surrounding trawlers stretched from bulwarks in an angle of seventy-five degrees and then disappeared in the murky, turbid, green harbour waters. They were all clad in lovat seaweed of angel hair, suspercollating in a reversed manner. Pointing at the sun, seeking the nurturing light. It wavered with the surge, dancing secretly, it didn't need an audience: it was of passion.
Short story by NDF
Read 829 times
Written on 2011-08-22 at 14:13
Tags Feedback Biography Story
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
