/lit/ - Literature

Excerpt from a project I'm abandoning:

The young, handsome Dr. Jersey Mont Di Oni wakes from a nightmare, his forehead beaded with sweat, righting himself up on his humble bunk. He witnessed over and over his ex-gf and L’French sex symbol Brigitte Bardot stabbing him with sharp pins—along his muscular arms, broad torso, then his courageous face. The gruesome vision carried an eerie silence, reminding Mont Di Oni of his conversations with BB, too often one-sided, one party feeling romantic while the other was not, this all-too-played out dynamic fluctuating between them, never “clicking,” as so many romantic comedies had put before. BB worried over Mont Di Oni’s level of concern, and likewise Mont Di Oni stressed himself with the chance that she would leave, but he muted his feelings to the point that he caused an equivalent ill upon their relationship, appearing unfazed by her presence and affections.

At last he called it off. He was summoned to head a dig near the L’French Alps and left from Paris the following day, the perfect opportunity to politely excuse himself, as his travels would continue conflicting with BB’s hectic lifestyle in the city.
Mont Di Oni stays awake until the morning, then he leaves his tent and looks over the excavation site in the sunrise, the impressive Alps and the underlying farms cloaked in fog.

Here’s the truth: Mont Di Oni is nothing more than a Yankee from the rolling hubcaps and hopscotch of Brooklyn; a forreal whizkid though, he graduated with honors and the highest recommendations—something impossible at PS 77—superior enough to his earlier peers that he was, in some certain way, alone. The tastes of isolation allowed Mont Di Oni time to mount a passion for archaeology, scouring dusty maps and perusing entries of medieval kingdoms and accounts of mysterious ruins. It all fascinated the young Mont Di Oni, motivating his academic excellence, sending him across the ocean where he studied at Oxbridge, living to what he thought was his greatest potential, meeting with and establishing himself among the truest elites of Evropa.
Now, over his waking view of the Alps, he feels etched onto the metamorphic surface of the Hypersphere, mad that life has fooled him, that time is not a line, nor a flat circle, but rather an erect middle-finger, banging into the dark recess of a self-willing, ever-hungering consciousness: a consciousness that much later will recuse itself from having consented.

The dig bores him. There are only a few artifacts left. His team worked the past few days uncovering a fossilized carriage—having belonged most probably to an aristocrat during the Neapolitan Age, when a noted L’French autocrat waged his dominion over the continent. Similar to Bombay in Greco-L’Roma, the poor aristocrats were trapped in a sudden magma surge, encased in awkward or unsavory positions. But, to their benefit, embarrassment becomes pedestrian after a while. Mont Di Oni yawns.

>>10769685
>>10769689
>>10769694
>>10769702
>>10769711
>>>>>>>>>>>>"r" spacing