September 22, 2023

The Moustache diaries a short story by Daniel Deamer

Funk then refresh, it’s all in the perspective… Chunks of spirit began to swirl into the abyss, but the colours were nothing less than vivid. Whilst gently cruising in a red convertible the insubordinates started to thrill with happiness, for their fate was finally theirs to keep in their pockets, among with their lighters and integrity.

Somehow, they didn’t care where they were going, because they knew they were heading for the golden fleece, the imperative mother, even the sands of time couldn’t resist dusting these awry travellers.

Even though she wasn’t there with him, he took solace in the love; it made him function. Without this secure thought, he was the ant on the bus and he would never relive that nightmare.

After the monumental suicide of well- being, his true form became evident.

The small, elderly man wore baggy slacks and a loose leather cap, just enough to cover his teary expression. His beard was the curtain that shadowed him. And without his jukebox, he became tired of the spouse that no longer wanted him: life. He hoped the cruel demeanour of the elderly man was just coincidence, he hoped.

After the beeps nothing was the same again, he saw this old man everyday, he couldn’t resist, so he hoped. Hope, there wasn’t any, only before this story began, was there a time where hope was glory, and glory was further from the truth.

One thing he did know is that if he stopped seeing this old man, his innocence would start to fight back against the devils, and hopefully they would win. Oh; the doors of perception are cruel. Call it the reflection, call it the dark shadow above your brow, call it whatever. It doesn’t matter.

‘’DUDE, WAKE THE FUCK UP’’, he sat up to the sweat of his friend kiss his cheeks. After the cruise, she, he or they didn’t exist anymore. And after his companion opened the trunk, and hugged him, laughter was had again. Three hours later, they had something to eat at the nearest diner, explanations were vague and so were their Denver omelettes.

The dreams, the lies and events believed to be truth; it was all in the perspective.

About Daniel Deamer: ‘I am certainly unsure about probable circumstances. Observing the slight coincident’s that destruct us from the inside. Every now and then you find a completely rounded and almost perfect combination of words, I appreciate the times you forget them because of an irrelevant happening. Something inside us all tells us we are different, however we are life in itself. Creation turns to discrimination which turns to war, which ends in humanity and absolution; no matter how raw. Call me the infinite regression, the recurring dreams of the trees and the wind’.

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