John Bird Ray’s harmless desire to write a book turns into a fantastic psychological odyssey as he documents a turbulent journey through unknown dimensions, his imagination, and realities of the city after he checks into a bed and breakfast where a writer vanished years before—
As we grow older there are more questions than answers. Are dreams, memory, and DNA linked? Do we live in an endless cycle of human history that twists, turns, and rearranges into our reality? Is our fate, accidental, random, or controlled?
Memories never die, and dreams never end!
“ExPRESSION” begins when John Bird Ray catches a taxi to a bed and breakfast. After registering, and telling the old woman who runs it that he’s writing a book, she takes him to the room. Walking up the stairs she talks about a writer/painter who lived there years before, and how he disappeared without a trace. As he unpacks, stops a moment watching her stare at a spot on the wall where a picture once hung.
Curious, he looks at the space on the wall after she leaves, and is mesmerized by images that appear as he stares at the wall paper patterns in the framed outline. He opens his laptop, and wildly types the story of an enigmatic plot of world domination using a DNA control device.
The imagery takes him on a psychological journey linking fantasy with reality as the main character of his book catapults further through unknown dimensions, imagination of the mind, and the realities of the city, twisting and turning on a roller coaster ride of time in a reflection of the world we all search for, to find answers to the questions that we all ask.
A midnight blue banged-up cab pulled over and
stopped warping the lingering shadows painted on the
pavement by the early morning sun. I cast my attention to
the passenger side window, watched it sink down into the
door, then poked my head into the car and handed the driver
a piece of paper. “Can you take me to this place?”
The driver looked at the paper for a moment with a
contorted face deciphering the address, raising an eyebrow,
tightening his lips, scratching his chin.
“1120 West Dickens Avenue,” he whispered in a low,
taunting tone, then looked at me. “Sure, hop in,” he said
and motioned to the back of the cab. “Want to put your
bag—in the trunk?”
“Okay,” I said, suspicion tight in my voice, “thanks.”
I watched him pull a handle under the dash, and
turned to see the trunk slowly creak open—and rise, then
the murky image of a dead body developed in my mind.