New Bedlam; A Short Story in the Making

Well, kids - I am working on a story called New Bedlam. It'll be a short piece -- no longer than 3 pages -- on a boy's plight in a mental institution, and love lost to suicide. I want opinions on waht I have written so far. It's needlessly abstract and makes little sense, but taht is what i am going for---it's your job to find the meaning in it for yourselves! No opinion is invalid! But I digress. Read along:

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New Bedlam, Chapter One Excerpt

The sun broke against the moon’s hew, and with it the breaking day. Much as the crow flies in the winter. Its majesty unhindered by common place eventides and complex bewitchment; against the grain, and with common foe. The rabbits were the exodus of the forest. And now everything weighs on Egan; the choreographed dance of the summer ray on his chest, the reaping stone. It all seemed as if the serpentine waltz would continue forever, where the snake offers the pomegranate and relishes in its spoils. The spoils of a war lost in the annals of a crazed man’s meanderings through the garden of grief.

Egan sat in the sun, absorbing its corrugated, wretched remembrance; where he was recumbent in the budding afternoon. It was the season of life, and he felt ever more enraptured by the beating beams of brilliance on vying verily for his vantage, veering for his visage; the candor of it all, grim with the sun’s austere entrancement.

He pondered the myriad creatures lying in wait, wanting the blood of stalks. They plying for the sky, but would soon be shot down by the ravenous beast of the yester-trees. And thusly, they shall die, but live anything day had their seed progress from it’s roost to the precipice of the soil, the rounding luminescence of the iridescent ruminations of the ground parched by gamma rays.

And again, it sounded high, bring me forth, oh master of the leaves green. Where again our sun would breathe life into the caustic interstitial mass that was the canopy of foliage and the grand designs of whatever god governed them. Away in the passed dusk, the past of reminiscence And again in the dawning of a grandiose epiphany, Egan thought again of the fox chasing the rabbits, and it’s feet chasing he ground. [more to come]

Bad :thumb: Mojo

By the way, I haven't slept in 24 hours and I'm living on coffee and cigarettes---and hoped up on amphetamines.... so be kind!

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Originally Posted by Bad Mojo

By the way, I haven't slept in 24 hours and I'm living on coffee and cigarettes---and hoped up on amphetamines.... so be kind!

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hey me too....cept ,i'v e got hippy crack buy the boxes upon boxes.....

:thumb: :thumb:


and i gotta start boilin' up some mescaline for a Gathering.....

i like it...kinda hard to follow ,but it's there,that's why it's cool...
:)

It's meant to be reasonably incomprehensible, I'm trying to draw conflicting images from peoples' sensibiltiies (if indeed they do exist in people).

Bad :thumb: Mojo

are you in england, man? cuz it reminds me of english writing. (not the class-but acctual stories written by brits.) very expressive and I love the way the words paint the picture.

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Originally Posted by malcolm

are you in england, man? cuz it reminds me of english writing. (not the class-but acctual stories written by brits.) very expressive and I love the way the words paint the picture.

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I'm living in Canada, but I am British by birth. I appreciate your comments. I am actually trying to capture the asyncrhonism of mental illness, and I hope I am pulling it off. I will post more later.

Bad :thumb: Mojo

it's good.I understood it-but I also read a lot of british novelists stuff too, roald dahl-anthony burgess-clive barker.......

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Originally Posted by malcolm

it's good.I understood it-but I also read a lot of british novelists stuff too, roald dahl-anthony burgess-clive barker.......

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I don't read much in the way of fiction, I just write it. Mostly I read non-fiction. I'm reading a psych book at the moment, all about how genius in children goes unattended. It's relatively fascinating.

Bad :thumb: Mojo