Fringe Dweller

By Gorky’s Zygotic Glove Puppet

Fringe Dweller is a story of a young man who understands he is living in a world that is headed for self-destruction. On this particular night, in a state of REM sleep, he experiences a vivid encounter with his subconscious that uses characters from his life to help him face his fears and anxieties and show his hearts desires to give him a sense of direction for his life

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504940863

Gorky’s Zygotic Glove Puppet

Simon Karanja is a psychology graduate with a passion for creative writing. He uses his writing to shed light on different aspects of reality and open new dimensions of thought for his readers to enjoy. His first book, “Casanova: A College Tale,” was a memorable work of wordplay that told a story of college life and was a thrill to read. He is a young African writer of fiction with a fascinating way of creating thought-provoking imagery with his words.

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AuthorHouse™ UK

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© 2015 Gorky’s Zygotic Glove Puppet. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/14/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-4085-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-4086-3 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Sean’s breathing was heavy as he stared down at the bleeding young man under him. His fist, though tough, was throbbing, slightly bruised and dripping blood from smashing the guy’s face in. The young man seemed to barely be conscious, his mouth leaking thick red liquid and his face swollen from the fight. Sean watched, thinking maybe he had gone too far. He picked the fellow up by the collar with both hands and spoke into the ear of his dangling head.

You asked for this! Next time you see me, you keep your mouth shut, he said in a cold, satisfied tone. He let the young man’s head drop from his hands and got off his chest. The noonday sun was scorching, and as he walked back to his seat – a bench placed up against a kiosk wall – everyone who had been watching slowly went back to what they were doing. The old men seated outside the neighboring kiosks carried on chewing khat and smoking their hookah pipes, purposefully oblivious to what had just occurred; the shop owners went back to their business; and even the women in this noisy business place didn’t seem to be moved much by what had just happened. Once back in his seat, Sean pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one up as he watched the young man struggle back to his feet.

Damn, bro, don’t you know who that is? You might as well have picked a fight with the private banks. Mark, who was at the table with Sean, watched the beat up fellow spit out a chunk of blood and tilt from side to side as his battered head tried to find its place in space, his eyes barely able to open. Finally, the fellow shouted, Fuck you, Sean! with a lisp from swollen lips. You’re a dead man walking! He slowly got up and staggered back to his car.

Sean watched quietly, unmoved, as he exhaled the smoke from his lungs. I don’t care, he said to Mark, looking him straight in the eye for effect.

A friend of Sean and Mark came out and walked through the middle of their stare-down. Kijana, haya maneno ya kupigana na hawa watoto kila wakati, siku moja utakiona cha mtema kuni, Bob said to Sean in Swahili as he sat in the chair across them.

What does that mean? Mark asked. He was only able to speak one language.

Why don’t you just learn the language and stop asking for interpretations? This is what we speak, Bob said.

Sean sighed. He said I’ll get into trouble if I keep fighting.

You don’t say, Mark replied.

You were born here, Mark. Learn the language, Bob muttered.

Sean poured himself a glass of cheap whiskey and took a sip. It was warm and strong, and it sent a surge through his body, loosening him up as he leaned back in his seat, his eyes half-closed. Slowly the noise around him subsided, his mind blocking out all the sounds as everything that moved around him slowed down by a split second.

From the corner of his eye he watched as a grey four-by-four slowly drove by. Why do I care? he thought to himself, paying close attention to the car as it passed. The driver rolled down his window: it was the young man he had just finished ironing out. Sean watched as the man pulled out a shiny metallic object, and before he could react to the obvious threat, there was a flash of light.

Silence and darkness flooded all around as he opened his eyes, his conscious mind taking note of where he was. He heard the sound of ticking as he watched the glow-in-the-dark seconds arm on his bedside clock hop. It was just a dream. A sense of peace came over him as his mind focused on his breathing while he floated back into the void, into the dark matter between planets and stars, the empty space that holds the forgotten. The void: between dreams and the leap between dimensions, where entire worlds are just specs of dust; the soundless quiet in which the mind jumps from one subconscious narrative to the next