Posted: April 30, 2019 in beat generation, fiction, LIFE AND STUFF
Tags: , , ,

Smoking cigarettes, blowing smoke rings in the air, drinking wine, cherry flavored, to mask the bitter wine below, to drunk the spirits, to keep us fly, to keep us high.

Winston was first, reading, ‘Lost’, about his mother’s suicide.

He was 25, a writer for the local college’s rag, writing about life, in the city.

His mother, destitute and broken, living in some squatter’s apartment down on Fifth Street, took a bottle of sleeping pills, downed it with whiskey.

She had called him; half past nine; told him she wasn’t feeling too good; maybe he could come over.

For some reason, inside his mind, he knew, he dialed the police, before heading over, his foot pressing down on the gas as far as it would go, tearing through the streets.

He was too late; she died before he got there, the police at the door, pounding hard.

He had the key, he let them inside, found her on the ratty couch there; they rushed to her, trying to shake her awake, back to life, this was the end, it would seem, he didn’t even cry, he just stood there, a moment frozen in time.

He had called his brother; hello, yeah, she did it man, she really did it.

He hung up.

No other family; his father hadn’t been in the picture; just a sperm donor; left while Winston was still just a blip inside his mother.

He had lied, up there on the stage, his grandmother was still alive; a woman in some rest home, not knowing full well what the year was, or even what planet she was on, no point in calling her.

We all laughed as he stated that line.

It seemed right.


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