The tunnel

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.


The tunnel grew narrower and I could almost reach out and touch the matt concrete surface that was the sidewalls that sweepingly went past. A flickering, livid, cold light left traces in closed eyes; it was a freezing light that turned the road into ice it made the tunnel a death trap. It crept up the walls and built black contrasts in the course surface that could have been a mountain range. The radio gave us an elevator jazz number the walking tunes of the little jam session of "Three Little Words" by Jackson and Coltrane: Music that brings silence. You lose yourself in the rhythm and break any ongoing conversation; but it's not rude it's the same for everyone. Drops of water sat on the walls and pendulously hanged from the pipes in the ceiling in an unsteady wavering manner. Distinct on the bluish maintenance doors siding the tunnel, where they sat as prisms. Drops broke to form rivers down the doors and left run marks of rust down the steel frame: red took on brown; brown took on a colour of tar, and the blistering tar wrought cracks into greenish, vaporizing steel. The door bled from its acid wounds; shedding blood and tears that diluted the water into an orange color everything is alive, although decaying flesh is of more eminence to a living creature alike. Some drops took off from the copper brown, steaming pipes of the ceiling whereas others adamantly sat comfortable waiting to go ripe. The boiling water spat on the plate roof and I scoffed at force mejeure that had wanted the car to be a cab and calculated and calibrated with that in mind. A seething drop would hit Dave on the forehead and the car would go spinning into a wall as a glowing comet and spark a neon show before vaporizing our bodies. In this city even force mejeure has grown obtuse and sluggish; and so the shiny silver car kept on rolling, exhibiting opulence and divine excellence at the side of rust and dust and squeaking gear-works. Eventually we reached the blinding tunnel exit where the livid light slowly approached the sunlight, which made a spectacular change to the concrete settings. We met a car: a red Ford Focus, and we all turned to search for a face. It was a blank countenance that we came to see: Impossible to describe. He didn't turn to look at us but had his eyes fixed on the flashing road stripes. I was gripped by an odious demon; a feeling that I knew from before. Let the parasite have its volitions and it won't hurt you. Shed the fears and the disgust and let its slimy tentacles and irascible maw work your body. The fly landed on my knee and warned me not to abet the creature's insidious attentions. I didn't listen: I thought that I was strong enough and I once again tried to embrace it, but it had changed in some way and it had learned how malleable I was. It was in my stomach as a noxious bubble about to burst and it worked me from the inside. I looked out through the window, which was covered with condensation from my silent, intense breathing.

Short story by NDF
Read 639 times
Written on 2011-08-22 at 14:12

Tags Feedback  Biography  Story 

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