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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2257561-The-Storm-of-the-American-Dream
Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Contest · #2257561
Done in the amounted time concerned, I was able to confine involvement and written works.
“Whose aim belongs to God, when his facet manners are birthed into the existence of natural orders, compiled with inevitable hatred against mankind's desire for evil? The violence in human hearts confine us and bring out in us the system of our values, which is violence, and self-murdering thoughts.

I, too, have these simple, moronic beliefs, and contain them into the severe undervalued construction of the Word of God, which demands life onto those who seek it. Wisdom can not be misplaced or misused, but current world events are passing, as does money in cages reposed into steel bars, but the bills break through, slide out between the steel bars, and develop a loss of currency.”

I barked with intense interests partaking me to exist among the few humans left in the bar. The stool was aimed at the ass, and I was concerned about the human men and women barging in from the front, and some from the rear of the counter, where the bartender shifted his vision towards the ones coming into the old restaurant. “Whose aim does belong, indeed,” said the bartender, his hand wrapped conclusively into a white towel with brands of hinted tan colored embrace consorted onto the fabrics.

“Look, there are some bad people coming in for a little while. How about we head to town and find ourselves some time with the mannerism of written literature? Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Don’t insult me,” the bartender answered. “I find literature to be quite dead as of this moment. I have failed, and shall fail more times than I can possibly count when it comes to the purpose of reading fictional worlds built on failures and dedications that do not posture meaning or companionship among love.”

“Yeah. But what about that of the mourning classics?” I asked. “I have an upper-hand on such details, and don’t want to waste time without motioning towards further investigation.”

“You do know that no-one reads classics, or should I say—dead literature.”

“Mark Twain said the same thing,” I drank from the beer beverage located before me, and I added, “he was also a drunken stupor for fascinations with the liquor holder.”

We both looked curious to one another for half-a-second, but became rerouted as the men and women started to enter onto the main corners of the bar, filling the tables up with their presence, cold and wet from the falling rain storming on the outside of the exterior. “What is the purpose of people playing with themselves when the hurricane is betting itself against us?”

“It’s what happens each time the storms come in. People seem to have an advanced instinct to party when the storm is coming, and already here. Allows them to cover their sins and judge the storm as something bothersome, which can be lost and forgotten among memories. In other words, friend, the storm of alcohol allows one to remember the feeling of disadvantage, and compels one to seek out peace, even for a small while. Even the chilling winters do the same.”

“You live in winter world in the past? I always thought you as a Canadian, but I wasn’t too sure. Are you?”

“Does it concern you so much that I would say, perhaps?” he asked.

“Don’t bother with it. I’m about to be done here.” With the conclusion of the conversation, I befuddled the nature around me, and drank the lost dropping of beer in the short cupped container of glass. “I’ll need to leave the bar, and head back to the island. I need more time.”

“Be it so,” the bartender said with shallow inheritance. “I’m quite fond of these storms.”
I removed myself from the bar stool, scooted the feet across the broad floor beneath us, and tucked the chair into the bar counter opposite of the directive. “I’ll find a reason to live again. You’ll see.”

“We all do,” the bartender said, thinking. He added with conclusive evidence of his sons experience with survival, “most of the time, anyways.”

“See you tomorrow, I’m going back to the island.”

As I left the bar, the humans inside became erratic, and music bagged the atmosphere with wild chill vibes, contained and ruthless with beats that embodied robotic enhancement, but to me it was a dissolved waste of good times pertaining to exist as a nature call into the bowels and the porcelain toilet. But, I did not remind oneself the meaning behind such words. Off wards I decided to remove the car from the parking lot, drive inwards onto the street, and, passing the main bridge connecting the inland formations and the island, I staunched to exist in palatable radio signals, which did not find me interested or deaf.

“What’s with this hunk of junk?” I slammed turned the dial, became to incline upwards towards the main directive of the tip of the bridge—darkness of night was prevalent this night, like most—-and I confined to exist onto matured music that soothed the intercourse of my imagination, creative and dedicated. But, as I entranced into the creative discovered memories, and the creative inclusion of animated individuals, I stumbled in thought, and before I understood the meaning behind the words, phasing in and out in conclusive evidence of matured parting, I had reached the empty crossroads, leading to two sides of the island.

Turning left would determine the rich side, and turning right, while still maintained, would be the main section of the village of Surfside, Texas. The darkness prevailed to exist without mature indescribable induction, famed with a beach to correspond with human interests.

I listened to the music, settled at the red-stop light hanging precariously from the moving winds, which instituted a sense of well-deserved understanding, and possibly escaped a movement of hate onto the world without dearest intentions. I turned inwards onto the right, and maintained direction towards home. “Whose aim, indeed,” I heard the monotone of the bartender, Bob, whom complained that people were quite adequate when the storm embraces the island during the Summer heats and passions guaranteed upon evaluation.

I smiled with graduate personalities applauding me. “You silly old man. What I wouldn’t do for another drink of the shared water, and perhaps the water of situated substance belonging to alcoholic beverages.” I passed several normal houses, all boarded-up and secured in the securities made known to those whom examined them. The electricity on the island was still active, which was a good thing for me, because I become displeased when the electric vibes and sounds are paused, or restart, and reboot onto displeasure.

We had had our electric wires refurbished, and removed, and then with desire intact, made several electricians take their time and money to rewire, and fill new lines into our ancient boned household of wooden marrow. That had been the previous year, deciding that I wouldn’t posture the idea, because of certain individual uptake for granting no purpose, I situated onto the parking lot—tires of the car crushing the pebbles of the drive-way with interests—and I left the drivers seat, and apprehended further upwards the stairs, and allowed the door to swing open with natural love for the calm retirement.

Snow, our small little Husk-husk, whom carried a tune with her as she slumbered, was stationed in settled position underneath the table, once again, because of the incoming storm. “No worries, dearest. I shall make an interesting tale tonight, paused in the mind, and available without constraints.” I returned to the bed-chamber, lifted the old laptop covering case, and structured downwards in the black rolling chair, which was as black as sin, and demanded the color of the computer the same texture and environment.

“Whatever comes to mind, allow me not medication to suffice love in emotional embrace,” I asked the Lord, our God with hesitation, but also within conformed dedication. The remainder of the night brisked out, and soothed among the winds battering the household with intense behavior. And I wrote within the night, making sure all devices were off, and unplugged from the circuits and sockets challenged in the walls. “Wouldn’t want to lose somethings over a simple measure of action, now wouldn’t we?” I turned my head to snow, attention besought, and I asked the small half Husk-Malamute, “You don’t mind anymore about these things, huh? You sly dog.” She awoke seven minutes approximately, and walked with slow gratitude towards me, and we sat down in the current darkness, and aimed thoughts at one another for the fun of entertainment.

“You doing okay, girl?” I asked, which she responded with a pink tongue motioned on the side of her triangular head. “Yeah. You doing good, aren’t ya, honey head.”

She created a sound of embraced collision. I watched as she fell into a deepened sleep as the storm became relevant to the situation before us. “All things are possible through the Lord Jesus Christ, One who gives me strength.” I examined Snow, and she widen her eyes, narrowed them, and fell into restless dreams.
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