Schema

In Medias Res
1st Person
Partial-Omniscient Narrator
Screen/Radioplay?

This would be the back of the previous t-shirt illustrations.

Lafayette, Louisiana lost part of its soul when it lost this.

1.0 Simplify & Amplify

This is a continuation of the necessary work I should be doing elsewhere. In an attempt to jumpstart the process, and follow the above titled advice (blatantly stolen from Kazu Kibuishi’s Bolt City website http://www.boltcity.com), I shall now post sections of my ongoing melodrama, nee’ dissertation, A Voice In The Night: An Exegesis of Technological Immortality and The Digitized Soul in Contemporary Fiction.

Section III: The Virtual Spirit

Chapter One: Past Relations

Chapter Two: The Current

Chapter Three: Forward Toward Infinity

 

I Love Toothpaste For Dinner

http://www.toothpastefordinner.com

Samhain

The October wind shimmers with peals of unseen bells.
Rust drifts in sliding arcs, orange rose petals,
strewn on the path for all Souls’ return.
The shuttered belltower, night sealed in a jar.
The narrow shaft from spire to transept,
the dark flows top to bottom, the drop a column of shadows,
filled with fireflies enjoying dark dancing. –ia.

Black Bayou: Chapter I

Power walking through the South Louisiana night was like wading up to his neck in viscous tepid water. Sweat streamed from Allan Guidry’s swinging hands complete the sensation as he strode through the steaming twilight. “The sweatshirt,” Allan thought. “Th’ cloth. It too thick. Is too much, yeah.” His pace slowed. His small rented house was still so close he could have seen the television he’d left on playing silently through a side window. He wished he’d worn a t-shirt.

Even though he was a native Louisianan, Allan was suffering in this heat. Record highs had been recorded for the past year, ever since Hurricane’s Katrina and Rita had torn through the Gulf. The winter had been balmy, unusual even for the normally sub-tropical coast. The spring had been dry and too warm. The summer, now at an end, had begun brutally and had remained so. As Allan slowed to a stroll he absently thought that it was late September, and well past time for Mother Nature to deliver a few daily hours of milder temperature.

Ever since his wife had gone to stay with her sister he had been walking at night. A stout man, he tended toward round with each passing year. Almana had been unhappy for months; ever since he’d started working at the shipping warehouse at the port. The pay was good, especially for someone not trained in aspect of the region’s higher paying oil field industry. The warehouse job itself, in fact, was an ancillary company of an offshore diving firm that paid wages so astronomical to its deep sea welders that even the trickle-down pay for a worker like Allan seemed a fortune.

But the pay was hard earned. Allan’s job consisted of helping two other men unload supplies from a never-ending caravan of trucks and vans, then assembling them into packages within larger containers, and transferring the unending stream of material out to waiting boats bound for offshore delivery. The hours were long, 12-16 hours, and the days were scheduled around the offshore crews. 14 days on and 7 days on-call was the typical schedule, meaning the majority of Allan’s waking hours were spent moving painfully through the gloom of a sweltering metal warehouse.