Snowflakes Anonymous

By Dean Moriarty

They tell me it’s Tuesday and that I have to believe them; that it’s important for my sanity that their version of sanity is upheld and followed, that the traditions and beliefs that keep society on track and a productive collective is the norm regardless of what I may feel otherwise.
They tell me creativity is defined as a mental illness and should be treated to keep it under control.
Every day their machines tell me what to believe and how to behave and that if I don’t succumb to their propaganda I am not normal.
Meanwhile the machine works overtime to make the drugs to dumb down the many that are awakening.
Over in the artificial plastic of snowflakes anonymous many scream to be heard.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Moriarty
• Release date: Jun 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370811601

Dean Moriarty

What do you do when nothing seems to be working out? Most of my books are about that place you come to when you’ve reached the desert of all you know. When nothing seems to be working out and you find there’s nowhere left to go. When all you’ve tried has come to nothing and no amount of effort brings your goals any closer and where the questions you ask appear to drop dead at your feet. When all has become a grey mist about you populated by the ghosts of all you once loved; where do you turn? I turned to writing books.

Book preview

Snowflakes Anonymous

By Dean Moriarty

Copyright 2017

Produced by the sleepy hand

Distributed by a man on his bike

Directed by Zombies united

Dedicated to the chained owl

Short stories diluted from the edge of reality

From the Black Books Shelf

And the dreamer came too, and the dreamer was me.

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For those that have been broken humour is a precious thing to be taken any way it comes

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SNOWFLAKES ANONYMOUS

By Dean Moriarty

A comedy

FORWORD

What do the dead know? Only the dead really know what happens in the grave. Of course, there are some who say that the dead don’t know anything; and then there are those who say the dead know everything.

What happens after we die is a question that most will ask at some point or another; do we dream our death when we die? Or are we: no more, forever?

The graveyard is a very noisy place at times, full of the moans of the dead and the babble of the ghosts that won’t stay silent; yes, the graveyard is a place you can hear the dead whispering for eternity.

One of the noisiest is miserable Mona who never stops complaining about her lot and says so every day that she deserves better and that after a lifetime of hard work: this is where I’ve ended up, it just isn’t fair. I worked my fingers to the bone, and look where it got me.

But if we were to listen to everyone moan we’d be listening for a very long time, so mainly we’ll be listening in on two who seem to know their way around: Kafka and Dante; but first an introduction to ‘the girl.’

THE LONG ROAD

When is it? Well it’s today of course, not tomorrow, not yesterday; just today. And the time is midday because the sun’s directly overhead and shining hotly down on the girl walking along that long road to nowhere.

She’s pulling a cart loaded with water and all her things and has been pulling it for some time; behind her the road disappears back as far as the eye can see, and in front of her the road stretches to the horizon.

It’s a road that runs through the desert and once would have been black asphalt, steaming in the hot sun, but over time became grey and hard as stone so that walking on it felt like stepping on rock with no bounce, where your shadow keeps pace in the emptiness that surrounds as far as can be seen.

The road stretches ahead to nowhere, and back to where she’s been with nothing on one side of it but the desert scrub and haze so that if you got turned around you might walk right back to where you started from and not know it until you arrived there, and thinking all the time you’re still walking away, but really you got turned around somehow and now are walking back along the road you’ve already walked.

Way over to the south of the road was the wall that stretched away to forever, erected to keep the barbarians out and served as a reminder that what divides us separates us.

Maybe you went to sleep beside a little fire and in the morning you woke and forgot which way you were headed. You could be on that road for a long time pulling your life behind you for all it’s worth and never know where you are, except on that road, under the hot heat of the sun, and no one to talk to but your own thoughts that might tell you anything, if you were to listen, and even if you didn’t listen they might keep on saying things; like: didn’t I go past that piece of dirt yesterday? I sure do wish someone would come along and offer me a ride to the end of this road. If the water runs out, that’s it, I’ll fall down and won’t get up, and one day all that will be left of me will be my bones bleaching in the sun.

You can hear yourself thinking in the endlessness and nothing to detract you in the thinking of it all.

And maybe you don’t know which way is which anymore so that all you can do is put one foot in front of the other and keep moving; for what other option is there really, but to keep on going. If you give up and lie down then you’ll turn into dust, and that’s not something to do after coming so far; not yet.

But the road is too long, and you’re so tired; why not take a little nap? Yes, too weary to carry on, but, just one more step, and another.

So, is this what she is thinking?

No one knows she’s there. No one has for a long time; and perhaps it’s a choice, to just disappear and never be found again.

Who is she? She could be anyone; she could be called Rebecca Rose for all anyone knows as she walks along that long road nowhere.

IN HER MIND

The shadow was in her mind, like the echoes she was listening to of her life, that haunted her more than she could say, and so she asked: what is this that is so vexatious that it brings me down? Can the dark side of my being be learned so that the limitless part of me can be accepted? Am