A dream of contempt

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.

...



I woke up but I didn't move. I had dreamt a dream of contempt and woke up sighing. A fly stopped, parallel with and by my stomach, staring at me, tranquil, almost dead. Staring. Hover off little fly! Rubbing her legs, cleaning hundreds of mirror red-eyes working my face in precise unison. Making a statement: let go of that self-piteous you! A fly would never lie. The room had undertaken an erubescent colour, reddish womb, and a morning sun was shining: not a happy light. Something was growing inside of me and would eventually have to surface either as a monstrosity or pour out as divine light. I was not going to fight it, I was to embrace it: otherwise it would crack through my breast. It was a new feeling and I found it quite frightening. I was prepared for the utterance and it put me into state of idleness or catatonia. My muscles were rigid and refused to do as told. I tried to scour it off in the shower but it was pulling me down and the white sheep inside of me cried out for help. The leviathan inside of me pulled it back and it surfaced as a piteous yelp. I tried to breathe slowly in and out all the way in both directions embrace the sickness that's the only remedy to this remediless disease. I accepted this new feeling and the tethers eventually loosened its grip and I was given chain to actually enjoy the neon show that was the sun shining through the orange and red curtains. I was back on track in the backseat of a black Cadillac I wasn't naive and I knew that it wasn't going to last for long so I let myself ride that proud feeling, without in any way having to worry about any kind of provocation of Lucifer. The light played with shapes in the dark corners of the room and added contrasts to the Raised-relief wooden globe the islands became more distinguished and Africa got underlined by a shadow all along the west coast, from Tangier of Morocco to Cape Town of South Africa. All the objects in the room casted long shadows at the most distant of the walls forging a black silhouette city skyline with a hat hanger as a great monument but I decided that the morning show was over and went to pull aside the curtains. In fact the shadow fiends creeping in the gloom frightened me they were alive. The sun almost knocked me off my feet and the world went spinning not yet noon. I took my breakfast to the balcony to watch the city and I saw a living creature that was more or less floating down the road, fast but floating. Over its torso it carried the words: Choral, 50% off. It didn't find time to stop by under the balcony, look up and say: - horrible weather isn't it? A magpie cried and I cried right back at her don't you be too sly now Polly! She looked back at me with a snide innuendo and I recoiled terrified by her intelligent female eyes sharp. She flew across the street and sat down - perched and fluttered courteously at the top of an antenna, tuning in. It's the nine o'clock news. Flew off with the antenna still shaking; I never really saw her. I had to leave my apartment in order to survive the mental surges of the city it was crucial not to be at one place too long. I wasn't sure if I had actually seen that bird just a minute ago or if she was a figment. The city had found me it was a trickster and it had already started to play dark tricks on me.






Short story by NDF
Read 595 times
Written on 2011-08-22 at 14:01

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Your English is excellent. This segment is vivid. It brings to mind Camus and Bowles. A noir, existential quality. There is also humor, the magpie, which lightens the mood. Many men (assuming this is a man, though I don't know why I should assume that) have stood at a balcony window contemplating life, dreams, fate. You have joined the ranks of writers creating that scene.
2011-08-22