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Awake All Night. Teaser

Awake All Night. Teaser

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Published by Tom Scilipoti
Appetizer for my latest work of creative non-fiction, "Awake All Night".
Appetizer for my latest work of creative non-fiction, "Awake All Night".

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Published by: Tom Scilipoti on Oct 30, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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 Awake All Night: Teaser
For copies: Email me at tomscilipoti@gmail.com 
On the slick, mellow road to the 16 39th Street, light, salty rain began to drop gently from theheavens like the tears of joy concurrently streaming down my face. The early rising workers starting clocking out in masses. Ruffians we knew from all around the city began to flock to our Oceansidepalace. The lifeguards cleared out the surf and we gathered a couple cold cases of Natty Light for an
improvised but ritualistic session of “Beer Wars”— 
a drinking game I had invented in 2002 afterKroos gave me the challenge of dreaming up one.
“Beeeeeer Wars, da
-da-daa-daaaa-da, da, daaada-da, duh-dada-
daa” into natural light stomachs andsoaking wet shoulders right before “USA, USA, USA” we all shouted like we were imitating ourchildhood GI Joe’s. We were grate
fully alive to, appreciative of our residency 
 we currently livednot only in the greatest country in the world but also within a
governmentally sanctioned “All
 American City” on Oceanside property. And I truly relished the moment like a juicy Porterhouse
steak with sautéed portabella mushrooms because I had waited so long to finally re-sample this tasty lifestyle of a nineteen year-old American boy 
 —a boy fortunate enough to be living Gatsby’s dream
on the beach sands before the onset of the ashy, monotonou
s “real world”. The scattered drops permanently subsided after we returned from an early session of “Beer Wars”,
the weather became a post-storm celestial shade and we all peace rolled downtown to hang out withbeautiful eighteen and nineteen year old beach girls in dreamy mid-summer skies
by the bay. Thetwilight breeze felt balmy, temperate; the delicate trees swayed slowly, like guardian angels grooving in sync with a timeless lullaby and, as my brain reached its eightieth uninterrupted hour of hard labor without so much as a cig break, my mood ironically, felt relatively even-keeled.
 The tranquil, tangerine sunset just soothed my soul with its calm, coral rays and brought me to anoverwhelming and equally radiant sense of the sublime quality of mercy,
a sensus divinatatus 
thatNature always forgives after unleashing her fury. Such a profound discovery led me to believe it would be my last and so, I started to tell magical stories of reconciliation, rain and revelation at a 14
 street keg party as if they were tales from a whole new Genesis.My improbable voyage of day-scovery had all the key plot points of an early Biblical narrative. The
“Legend of the Sandstorm” began with moments of awakening, hints at the traditionally esoteric
then was followed by trials of an elusive, passionate faith tested through fierce tactics of deceptionbefore climaxing in a customized revelation which served as a gentle reminder that forgiveness
always follows the Creator’s fury. Therefore it had the power to enchant gre
at imaginations, despite
being narrated at an underage “failed BAC
test” fest.
My old but mutually polarizing friend and current next floor neighbor, Jack West, was spellbound by the narrative. His demeanor quickly matured to one of profound attentiveness, pious posture and
authentic inquisitiveness, following the carefully worded preface. Jack’s respect for the Legend and
open ears never wavered in the sequence.
“That’s the kind of story you could pass down to your kids.” Spoke Jack with genuine con
fidencefollowing the closing lines and the symbol of the subtle, unsung rainbow. Jack was a convert along with a variety of late teens who had scattered from the ruit and flip cuptables to catch a quick listen to my tale, whether voluntary or overheard. Most tuned in with politereassurance and perhaps, peaking curiosity. Mary was mesmerized by the mystical power, divine
intervention elements of the “Sand Storm” and my graceful, quiet confidence with the language.
“Your stories sound very inspired, Tom.” Mary told me with faithful, Aqua
-fresh breath.
“Thanks, Mary. They've definitely woken me up.”
“I trust that God chose to reveal this to you for a
“I do too. I feel like he has a
mission for me. Just not sure what it is yet.”
 My oldest friend and current housemate Dave Wiley 
however, wasn’t such a natural convert. The
Hemingway disciple was very skeptical of the idea that his slovenly friend of twelve years had justunlocked the secrets of the world during a marathon streak of insomnia.
“Yeah God does have a special mission for you…he said to get some sleep and stop tweaking!”
“Well why did I clock in a 4:01 for four straight days, then at four o’clock exactly today if there wereno Dues Ex Machina elements involved?”
“Fish, you’re freaking me out man. Go hop on the ruit table, I’ll meet you there.” Spoke Dave tilting 
his head toward the vacant, seven foot, mini-table.
“Apparently Tommy had a revelation, where he doesn’t care about money anymore.” He told
hisbreathtakingly beautiful girlfriend Kara in a dangerously sarcastic tone when I threw forty bucks on
the ruit table and said, "something baaaad’s gonna happen to whoever takes this!"Dave was a perennial skeptic but I didn’t hate on his sweeping, scientifically 
-biased disbelief. Doubt
is vital, necessary and, journeying through Catholic School with a name like “Thomas”, I’d spent so
many nights trying to fertilize every single one of my beliefs with every apple seed of doubt I couldimagine. Complimented with a very rigorous freshmen year of Humanities-intensive coursework anda few wondrous, transcendental experiences, I understood that not every truth of the infinite
universe could be fully grasped by Reason. Reason is the human ego’s extension of its desire to
know everything about everything and thus, by design, cannot hold a legitimate monopoly over life's
most profound, perennial mysteries. So despite Wiley’s pervading pessimism, I made it an absolute
necessity to vocalize my odd, eerie but completely serious warning as a plastic skuzzer in a short,polka skirt and slah Uht boots tried to jack the two Jacksons I had planted in the epicenter of theruit table.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Is it
“It's money that belongs to no one but its rightful place is in middle of the ruit table. Leave it there.”
“Ok you freakin’ weirdo.” Spoke Remy right before she took the moolah and quickly motioned her
fellow skuzzers to bounce with her.
“You’re gonna regret this.” I spoke.I didn’t will it. The words flowed
straight through me. Remy took a pull of Bacardi O, flashed herkeys and vanished.***I continued to rant as my friends raged. Forty second kegstands, throwing hours of high stakes ruit while shirtless, picking random spots to spit unorthodox game mostly for entertainment value andphilosophical curiosity 
all staples of my early summer experience seemed like blush, blotchy skin Istarted to shed since I first heard the late night phone call to awaken and dial-in to my Big Self 
“So then it stopped r
aining and the mists cleared and the skies brightened and the arc of the
covenant was revealed, gently…” “Oh my
in G. The craziest thing just happened. Y’all bettalisten up! It’s
redonkulous.” Remy, the prodigal skuzzer proclaimed, stumbling 
through theopen, sour-milky white door with a couple handles of spiced rail rum and a twelve pack of girly drinks wobbling.
 With two percent house party approval, Remy muted Juvenile’s “Slow Motion” and directed all
glossy, crimson eyes toward her inebriated majesty.

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