Children of the Program Read Online Free Page B
Author: Brad Cox
introverts.
Though the punks seemed to be fighting a war against an unknown threat, I appreciated their thirst for cred and their willingness to bring normalcy to fisticuffs. They lived to draw distinctions, foster principles and write anthems of revolution. Their code, was an oath tattooed on ideals; only they knew the rules. Amendments were made by the leader of a criminal hierarchy and intended to strengthen a cultish cause. Acceptance meant security and was an ironic mark of individuality.
My increasingly zealous trips to the basement recording studio tested my father's otherwise patient demeanor. He was nearing wits' end and suffering an understandable exhaustion with my obsession. We were two peas in a pod, raised on opposite sides of Eden. The inevitable shift in our dynamic was sparked by my new Crue, an expanding generational gap, and the heightened awareness of unresolved and inconsolable maternal issues. Time stored precise records and forced actualization to draw strain. The less he understood, the less he could tolerate my musical vision and color-coded shoelaces!
Throughout these years, my bizarre night terrors persisted.
+++
It was a crisp winter evening. In the shadows, I gazed through my bedroom window toward the western lights of a magnificent orange and purple skyline. My affected black light flickered like a séance candle. Plumes of rebellious patchouli smoke asphyxiated the second floor of my vacant Christian home. Chair cocked, my hypnotized feet rested upon a wood framed television set. An audience of cheap beer and bluesy cigarettes witnessed.
Counting sheep...
Chasing REM, I walked naked through a crystal landscape of snow mounds. Icy sharp daggers poked through the thin layers of powdery white snow, cutting a path; presumably, to a superhero's home. A gray bird circled and pecked my stubborn skull, hungering for my vision. Like a motherless child, it never wavered in its quest for notice. Insistent to follow, a trail of drawn blood drained from my trembling limbs and marked the journey. With each begrudging step, the gray bird's will tested my determination.
Echoing, I could hear the cries of a small child whistling through the tundra. The roar of lions and tantrums of thunder swiftly followed. Blanketing the ashy sky, purple and gray cumulonimbus clouds descended. The antagonizing sun only peaked to reveal the horror of an apocalyptic storm. I was surrounded by darkness. There was no turning back.
Suddenly, the vision froze. I stared in glazed twilight, as a female hand repainted the entire scene on my quivering lips.
I awoke to the sound of a playful voice.
“Wake up! Wake up!”
chapter 4
paint the desert with my heart
A 35 hour trek across the United States left an exasperated Neco wandering aimlessly through the patterning Painted Desert. Stumbling toward a flat, barren expanse, roughly five miles off of the forgotten road, he stopped to siphon a moment of clarity and digest his tranquil surroundings. Nestled beneath his throbbing feet rested the volcanic ash of immeasurable years and an encapsulating white ring. The curiously marked shape was 30 feet in diameter. Iron embedded in the shale and mudstone compounds produced a reddish hue upon the universe's rocky stage props. The fixtures stood like gods, casting grandiose shadows. They were the omniscient voyeurs of a billion lifetimes.
“How long have you been here, Cowboy?” asked an inquisitive and flirtatious voice.
Emerging from behind an eclipsing rock formation was an elegantly dressed female. She was ravishing. Her pouting lips were a
Though the punks seemed to be fighting a war against an unknown threat, I appreciated their thirst for cred and their willingness to bring normalcy to fisticuffs. They lived to draw distinctions, foster principles and write anthems of revolution. Their code, was an oath tattooed on ideals; only they knew the rules. Amendments were made by the leader of a criminal hierarchy and intended to strengthen a cultish cause. Acceptance meant security and was an ironic mark of individuality.
My increasingly zealous trips to the basement recording studio tested my father's otherwise patient demeanor. He was nearing wits' end and suffering an understandable exhaustion with my obsession. We were two peas in a pod, raised on opposite sides of Eden. The inevitable shift in our dynamic was sparked by my new Crue, an expanding generational gap, and the heightened awareness of unresolved and inconsolable maternal issues. Time stored precise records and forced actualization to draw strain. The less he understood, the less he could tolerate my musical vision and color-coded shoelaces!
Throughout these years, my bizarre night terrors persisted.
+++
It was a crisp winter evening. In the shadows, I gazed through my bedroom window toward the western lights of a magnificent orange and purple skyline. My affected black light flickered like a séance candle. Plumes of rebellious patchouli smoke asphyxiated the second floor of my vacant Christian home. Chair cocked, my hypnotized feet rested upon a wood framed television set. An audience of cheap beer and bluesy cigarettes witnessed.
Counting sheep...
Chasing REM, I walked naked through a crystal landscape of snow mounds. Icy sharp daggers poked through the thin layers of powdery white snow, cutting a path; presumably, to a superhero's home. A gray bird circled and pecked my stubborn skull, hungering for my vision. Like a motherless child, it never wavered in its quest for notice. Insistent to follow, a trail of drawn blood drained from my trembling limbs and marked the journey. With each begrudging step, the gray bird's will tested my determination.
Echoing, I could hear the cries of a small child whistling through the tundra. The roar of lions and tantrums of thunder swiftly followed. Blanketing the ashy sky, purple and gray cumulonimbus clouds descended. The antagonizing sun only peaked to reveal the horror of an apocalyptic storm. I was surrounded by darkness. There was no turning back.
Suddenly, the vision froze. I stared in glazed twilight, as a female hand repainted the entire scene on my quivering lips.
I awoke to the sound of a playful voice.
“Wake up! Wake up!”
chapter 4
paint the desert with my heart
A 35 hour trek across the United States left an exasperated Neco wandering aimlessly through the patterning Painted Desert. Stumbling toward a flat, barren expanse, roughly five miles off of the forgotten road, he stopped to siphon a moment of clarity and digest his tranquil surroundings. Nestled beneath his throbbing feet rested the volcanic ash of immeasurable years and an encapsulating white ring. The curiously marked shape was 30 feet in diameter. Iron embedded in the shale and mudstone compounds produced a reddish hue upon the universe's rocky stage props. The fixtures stood like gods, casting grandiose shadows. They were the omniscient voyeurs of a billion lifetimes.
“How long have you been here, Cowboy?” asked an inquisitive and flirtatious voice.
Emerging from behind an eclipsing rock formation was an elegantly dressed female. She was ravishing. Her pouting lips were a
Readers choose
Mischief on Albemarle
Chris Tetreault-Blay
Lori Wilde
Ruby Dixon
Ryan Farr
Kathleen Rovner
Bobbi Smith
Carol Midgley
Fay Risner