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The Lost Generation

Novel By: Liam Strong
Literary fiction

The title, actually, is not referencing the Great group of expatriate writers--no, what I make of the title now is the world of music that appeared in the 60's, 70's and so on (not modern). I remark that the story starts strangely enough, but you'll understand what I mean. I place myself in those times. View table of contents...


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Submitted:Jun 15, 2013    Reads: 18    Comments: 4    Likes: 2   

The Lost Generation


My hands were aching to send rhythms in music; my hands were aching when I played not a single song for days. Could I live without being able to hear these colourful sounds in patterns so wonderful-could I live while knowing my world of music was turning to dust? If I compel you, if I send music through to you by way of these words on paper, if I can truly help you-you must let me know. All movement applied to my senses as what I perceived as truly beautiful, and all movement seemed to pass into remonstrance while listening to this beauty. There sang singers who expressed love and joy, there sang singers who expressed depression and sorrow, and there sang singers who expressed satire and conceptions. There played musicians of steel and string, of electricity, light and power, with a soul unbreakable in the solace of music. You saw posters upon walls, tickets for concerts, memorable pictures of vinyl and compact discs; you heard their songs, you remembered them and reminisced; you wished they would go on forever. Times spread far and wide; their music spread far and wide. As the youths grew into music, they grew into rendering their own editions of their songs, as the youths grew older, they created their own variety of sound. I reached out for a deeper rhythm I could call mine own; I reached out for all the angels to hear in the heavens. There I stood as the man lost in all wilderness, there I stood watching the world as no one stopped in the rhythm of their step. I watched the music turn to rust, I watched as all I loved was forgotten as a book on a shelf, a piece of rubbish left in a ditch. My heart sang out pouring my own crescendo of colour; my heart sang out, knowing unto that there was a beautiful difference in it-I cried out, "I'm Alive!"

Instruments of variety I held by my side; instruments I played to light up all round me: if anyone heard the music they were my hope personified; if anyone heard my hope it was my father who placed the origin of my style in these hands I was given-I learned by him the music and he by me.


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