Rachel Haywire

Jan 24, 2024

It’s a guest post! How exactly would one describe Noah Rymer to the uninitiated? He’s sort of like if Bukowski and Burgess were to meet in a dark alley of the future and try picking up some BPD art ho’s online, meanwhile hating his very own generation of zoomers for being “vacuous, hedonistic assholes.” He’ll be reading from his chapbook Invocation of the Bruised at Cultural Futurist Salon II – Cabaret of Secrets on 2/3/24, and has penned some Suburban Gothic fiction for our perverse entertainment here at The Cultural Futurist. Today, I present you with something genuinely creepy. Today, I present you with Drift.

The stereo blared with dull constancy, artificiality of the butchered/butchering electronica rendering greasy traffic lights and blinkers nigh-trancelike like a rave for the disenfranchised; this was the death disco of a nation shuddering on collapse, but the suburbs had been ground zero. I felt the loam of isolation and anxiety break over me like bleak waves as I glanced surreptitiously at the tortured arabesque of woman nodding off in the passenger’s seat, bleach-blonde ratty buzzcut like some beautiful dyke with eyes that could cut you up like fragments of stained glass or old Coke bottles sea-green with a dull, damning shine. The breathless melange of overhead streetlamp merged with my sight flickering like dying fireflies, my eyes themselves feeling like two empty ashtrays. And the highway stretched off infinitely, absurdly, into the peerless night but she came to soon enough, and I could feel her strange gaze begin to pierce me once more.

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