After the Gun - II
Bryan Byrd on Smashwords
After the Gun
Copyright © 2013 b2 publishing
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This is a work of creative non-fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are most likely convenient hallucinations, but also could very well be the products of the author’s warped imagination. In either case, all information is used in a fictitious manner and not intended to replace history books, encyclopaedias, or one’s individual responsibility to use their head for more than a hat rack. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events could be coincidental, but I doubt it.
**The thoughts, words, and ideas contained in this work have not been homogenized for the masses. While it is not my intention to be labeled as a writer of ‘Adult Content’, nor do I feel that anything you are about to read is harmful or profane. However, I do come from a long line of sailors. The bottom line / bottom line is that if your children are required to use the word bottom when referring to their backside (as is mandated in my house) then you may want to consider reading your child a Dr. Seuss book and putting them to bed prior to scrolling to the next page**
This serial anthology gets its root from a sister series, ‘Under the Gun’ which originally appeared on the blog b2publishing. Both ‘UTG’ and ‘ATG’ are extreme forms of experimental literature where the content is published immediately after creation. One quick run of spell check is the only thing between the pontificator’s thoughts and the reader’s mind. There is little editing, absolutely no safety net, and no lawyers have been harmed in the process (to date). You are about to read the first installment of ‘ATG’ which will surely spur you to become a follower of b2, or the member of a 12 step process.
After the Gun
‘Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run,
there's still time to change the road you're on. (I sure hope so..)’
– Robert Anthony Plant
Ralph Waldo Emerson felt that wisdom could be found from ‘liv(ing) the greatest number of good hours’. While on paper this can certainly show merit, stacking the search of good hours up against the rushing hot magma that is our 21st Century lives can exacerbate any, and all, existing symptoms of hypertension. Unfortunately, I do not suffer from high blood pressure, and may very well be the only person living that wishes he did. My ailment poussée évolutive is something quite a bit less desirable, yet ironically has allowed me more than my fair share of success.
Blood runs through my veins and much faster than normal rate, yet the combination of a naturally thinning blood and an oversized heart have resulted in a rather impatient patient that often must endure many specialists, who often insist on hearing the whole damn story again, and again. Yes, it is good to be alive. Yes, I do my part to exploit the fringe benefits of my ‘condition’. No, I don’t know (no one does) how long until this delicate balancing act of opposing medicinal priorities will collide in just the right manner prior to violently snapping out of sync ending with my heart exploding like a pumpkin in a microwave.
But that’s not the fun part. Two to three times a week on average I am thrust into a frantic rocket of activity which can provide what can be an incredibly productive day or an unplanned visit to a local cardiac unit. Just depends on the choices I make, and the number of coffee pots I drain before noon.
I used to enjoy our morning cups of Joe. Really did. Back then. Not now. Not since I got back from the street. Not since I got off the medications.
Sure, I feel better. Much better. Got the whole bloody mind, body, and spirit thing going full tilt. Now I just have to figure out how to parlay the momentum into something that doesn’t suck.
Walking back to house tonight following a quick after dinner stroll I started to obsess over the puddle filled pot holes that pock the gravel road winding down the mountain. They would be filled soon. The spring scraping would pull a thin layer of rock and mud over each blemish, unearthing ancient treasures along the way.
My psyche is long overdue for grading, my judgement writing sheafs of bad checks that fall aimlessly into brown rainwater, sticking to my boots. Shaking my fragile resolve.
Tomorrow will be different. Tides will turn. Anxieties will mellow.
But today we drink coffee. Alone.
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