Alan fled New Brunswick and his people there early last spring, fled their venomous cuisine and their aimless humping, their fiddleheads and their homemade maple rum that inflamed even the oldest of turds to fits of priapic square-dancing and, later, rutting against the corner of the bar ; he fled his mother, who had convinced herself it was her shyness and crippling passivity that drove Alan’s father to walk into the sea, and who, after having found the need to “ideate” a new life for herself, sat down one evening in February, shut her eyes, and imagined a darling baby, “a beautiful baby all my own” (Alan found that particularly galling), a baby not made of skin and bone but of fear and anxiety, bundled and swaddled just like a real baby, tender and needy just like a real baby, the idea being that caring for her fear baby would help her come to terms with her weakness rather than let it shame her as it had all her life, which seemed to make sense to Alan, except after a few nights of this, he found his mother in her chair, red-faced and groaning, her hands crushing each other in her lap, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out she was choking the ever loving shit out of her fear baby, which now she was calling Alan ; but most of all, he left Moncton because Veronique wasn’t ever going to come back.
I like this a lot. It’s all one sentence, right ? It feels like the beginning of something larger.
Thank you ! Yes, and maybe it should be…