I promised to share the other prose piece I read at the Front Room on Thursday.
My first career was in advertising. I used to sell recruitment ad space in Computer Weekly, out of their offices in Sutton, when I lived in a horrendous bedsit in Croydon. More on that another time perhaps.
The original version of this is at least ten years old. I’ve reworked it over time, and now I think I’m finally done with it. Well apart from the odd change. I made two on the night just before reading it!
Is a piece of writing ever finished?
Only at the point when it’s published or you get bored of editing it I suspect.
This is another flash / micro fiction piece from my sequence about driving, Tangerine Dream and mental health that I intend to get published at some point. I’m pretty much done with adding to it, so I ought to pull my finger out and get it in print somehow – maybe as a self published short run.
I hope you like it. I’m pretty sure this is the first place I’ve shared it. But over 10 years after originally writing the first version, I can’t be 100% certain! My memory isn’t what it used to be, though my admin is better than what it was back then. It’s had to get that way.
The photo BTW is by Erik Mclean on Unsplash
Rinse Repeat Resell
I had a dream last night. We were resurfacing the rutted memories of our worn-down past. Steam rose as mountain mist from newly laid asphalt, but asphalt is nothing more than a mix of gravel and tar, of once-bedrock and fossilised plants, dug up, sifted, placed in order and compressed again. And what of cars? Are they not just biding time before the crushers’ egalitarian clasp. A block of memories broken down recycled and turned into something new something else to be sold to be used to be scrapped again as adverts show an empty road a clean road a shining car with shiny people in primary colour lives and perfect smiles and all the restless dreams we still could be for the road ahead is dead-end straight and cliche clear. No lockdown this, this is the world of perfect teeth of perfect style, of supercharged cool of cars as sex of power-steered chrome of alloy wheels of allayed fears of how we can live as never before in love with our reflections in buffed up steel.
As if.