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.
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.