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Conscious

4/14/2015

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The girl’s parents struggled her first few years taking the child to one specialist then another. Long months of unrest devolved to an exhausted schedule of trade offs between who could take which shift. Though her parents struggled, she was a happy baby. She didn’t cry or fuss. Her mother learned to carry the child into bed with her. There she would snuggle happily watching her parents make strange movements with their closed eyes. Partly due to a morbid sense of humor, her father gave her the name Conscious.

Kindergarten teachers flooded their home with phone calls expressing their outrage at no longer having their nap time breaks. The other children rested peacefully on their floor mats while Conscious required constant supervision running across the playground or climbing the jungle gym. They claimed insufficient pay for dealing with such a difficult child.


In elementary school Conscious could finish an entire semester’s worth of homework in the course of one month’s sleepless nights. Always the highest in class, the administrators skipped her ahead a grade every six weeks. Eventually she received her Masters Degree in Applied Mathematical Theory from Brown University at the age of eleven. Her PhD at MIT took a little bit longer. At fifteen she created a perpetual motion machine requiring nothing more than salt water and a drop of maple syrup for fuel. Realizing this would only be used by the powers that be as a weapon, she never shared the design with anyone other than her bulldog she called Bradbury.

Cold fusion caused breaking sweats through her early twenties. By then Conscious’ reputation loomed large enough that forces darker and larger than her small circle of friends, family and educators circled around. Drones silently hovered high above her parent’s house and followed the paths of her daily walks with Bradbury. The April afternoon she returned home and found the note forged in her mother’s writing, Conscious knew her time above ground was ending.

She called the telephone number left on her voice mail. She filled Bradbury’s bowl with his favorite kibble and topped off his water. Leaving the door open behind her, as instructed, she turned right to the park at the end of their block. The bulging form of muscle in the shape of a man climbed from the white Lincoln Continental. He frisked in places no weapon could possibly be hidden. He nodded to some invisible associate who then invited her politely in to the car.

For close to twenty three hours Conscious refused to help advance their project. None of their threats or intimidation tactics raised her blood pressure in the slightest. They dropped Bradbury’s torn off tail on the table in front of her. Of course, it broke her heart but she would not allow her intellect to be abused for death and suffering of other people. Her parents raised her better than that. Stronger than that… fully and completely conscious.

When they brought in her father’s body, she couldn’t stop the involuntary shakes and tears. Biting the inside of her cheek, she summoned enough courage to keep her cries silent. Locking eyes with the man shaped muscles, she held her breath when he pushed the bobby pins under her finger nails. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of blinking.

Conscious stared at the white wall listening to the hum of fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling. No sense of time’s passage entered the room with her. She counted seconds and minutes for a little while. Realizing it didn’t matter, she stopped and allowed herself to float above the throbs and strains in both her heart and body.

The sound of a struggle arrived behind her. No door opened or footfalls padded closer down a hallway. One moment no one was there. The next her mother was tied, bruised and bleeding to the chair across the table from her. Conscious reserved her speech. The sight of her mother brought the realization that things were drawing to a close.

No reaction came from the person she had once deeply loved across from her. Both eyes and ears were sewn shut with thick, black wire. Only one nostril remained open to allow her wheezing, halting breath. No threat of killing her would make Conscious reveal her secrets now. At this point, death would be a service to her.

A whispered voice from behind suggested it was time to finish the failed negotiations. The muscles nodded. Conscious felt the sting of a needle in her upper arm. Apparently these people didn’t fully know her resistance. She felt the room tilt in several directions, but the black sheets of slumber continued their absent role over her eyes.

Confining and breathless, the boxy hollow they pushed her headfirst into had less than enough space to allow her to wiggle her arms behind her back let alone her feet that remained tied together. Hard and at the same time slightly forgiving, an odd shape pushed against her feet. A man’s grunting followed the shape sliding roughly up her thighs. More groaning accompanied what she realized was her mother’s face pressing into her belly momentarily crushing the air from her lungs. Two more strong thrusts and Conscious found herself nose to nose with her crying mother.

A hammer pounded from below. With each strike they both trembled. Conscious pressed her cheek and rubbed gently in a small circle. Mother stopped breathing shortly after the sound of the outside world vanished. Conscious lay in the black pitch. No light able to penetrate the deep hollow. Eyes open to the vast infinity of emptiness in that tiny space. The universe flashing across the void in front of her. She lies conscious. Finally understanding what it is to dream.

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ängstlich

4/7/2015

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From every corner of the city they came. People stood in the aisles. No room to sit, they stood on the seats and in the rows between. The balcony groaned populated far beyond the posted safety limits at the door. The infirm were pushed in their rolling chairs to the front along with the children so they were able to see. No one pushed or fought each other for space. They pressed shoulder to shoulder and back to front, feet shuffling inches forward at a time. The hand printed advertisements were posted throughout the city. Brushes dipped in ancient glue, the photograph marked telephone poles, walls and storefront windows. Not a cough or sneeze disturbed the eerie silence of the crowd. Over time their breathing became as one. Dry air pulled in to the enormous collection of lungs. The theater motionless. Still as a windless summer midnight with no moon or stars. The breath out shivered the burgundy curtains from floor to ceiling. Lights did not dim, they blacked out. Immobile and invisible, the throng of lifelikes held their places patiently. Her dress thin and transparent white outlined an emaciated body of a malnourished adolescent. Her ribcage clearly visible through the ghostly fabric. She slipped front stage center, head facing directly ahead eyes half closed. The crowd inhaled pulling the dress from her body revealing murky skin an unnatural hue of mazarine outlined around the edges in fallow yellow. Small fingers pointed to the side, the throng blew. Venomous spittle raised blisters over her thin lips. Eyes retreated inward leaving deep pits of dark, hollowness. The people blew. Her skin ripped in shredding holes waving hideous flags in the wind. The gusts continued unabated. Skeletal arms lifted to shoulder height, skin pulling away from bone, useless tattered vellum. To begin, a small boy leaned forward, his dirty blond hair quivering in the torrent came away from his small scalp. As the first strand entered the woman’s open mouth, the boy’s head stretched. Oblong, it thinned. Reaching across the powerless floodlights he lengthened. Thin as his hair he became for the woman to swallow. An old man, hunched and decrepit in his wheelchair lifted to the air. He spun from head to foot winding to a yarn of man knitting down the woman’s throat. The wind blew one. The wind blew all. The woman stood the lone town occupant front center stage. Her ribcage pulsed. She inhaled herself. The lights crackled to life. An empty spotlight front center stage.

amk
4.7.15


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dead drop

3/31/2015

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Sunrise spread light across the town, a thick golden syrup slicing between cracks in the old walls. Deserted, he spent most of the night with his flashlight peering through dust covered windows and opening doors shouting “Hello?” or “Anybody there?” He saw a shadow shift at the far end of an alley around three o’clock in the morning, more than likely coming more from hopes of discovery than an actual presence.

What he assumed passed for homes on the outskirts were spread strikingly far apart. Standing on the porch, only the vague, angular shape of a rooftop could be seen through the brush in the distance. The emptiness between the structures flourished in vibrant colored flora radiating hues of deep crimson and violent purple, easily distinguishable in the moonless night.

He followed the shadow line’s retreat from the rising sun. Through the wide suburban streets lined with lonely parked cars covered in timeless dust. A tire swing hung motionless from an oak tree’s thick branch criss-crossed with planks of wood nailed on as a makeshift ladder to the tree house above. It should have inspired a happy nostalgia.

Where were the people? The quiet overwhelmed. A tidal silence pressed against his ears. He longed for the buzz of bees or flock of geese overhead. A rusty lawn mower sputtering the cobwebs before finally catching life. Nothing lived other than the possibility of memories.

He reached the center of town shortly before the sun aimed its rays straight down. Every shop and restaurant held its doors open, welcoming only lonely ghosts. The signs all written in a language unfamiliar to me, He could only guess what the shops purposes were by peeking inside and looking around.

The first on his right appeared to be a hardware store of sorts. The metal and wooden object that hung on the walls had the aspect of tools. Some were sharp enough to make him think of weapons. A four foot pole painted blue supported an transparent cylinder on the top. Touching it sent a biting electric shock through his arm sending his brisk shouts reverberating through the town. He licked his finger and left the tools to their own devices.

Next door looked like a combined cafe and book shop. He glanced at the wall between the two businesses and stopped. A small rectangular piece of metal stuck at an angle from the rough concrete. Two small holes were on the top. The front opened to reveal a plastic strip running the width of the bottom. A USB connector?

He leaned in closer, tentative to touch it after his incident with the cylinder. The sun glinted off the top sparking clean and free of the dust covering everything else in sight. Nothing written anywhere to indicate the devices purpose, he continued on to the shop. Book spines lined the walls offering more unintelligible symbols. All the stacks color coordinated. A rainbow crossing the entire spectrum spread from one section of the store to the other.

An open kitchen took up the rear end. Pans and cooking utensils hung from hooks on the walls. Knives of various widths and lengths suspended by their blades along a thick magnetic strip. Everything cleaned, ready to work but passing their existence unused for what may have been decades.

Twelve circular tables with five chairs each spread in a long rectangle around the floor. Place settings and glasses half full of water waited patiently for diners who might never come. The bar displayed a full stock of bottles. Every one of them labeled in the strange, unreadable squiggle marks. Looking for a good scotch, he pulled the cork from a dark glassed bottle. The pungent sourness chased up his nose before he breathed in. Every hair on his body twinged in repulsiveness. Quickly he slapped the cork back in the neck with an open palm and put the bottle on its shelf while swallowing hard against the urge to throw up.

He took the chair nearest to sit until the waves of nausea passed. Goose flesh rose on the back of his neck. He spread his fingers wide on the tablecloth, taking deep cleansing breaths. He opened his eyes after his stomach finally unclenched. Passing notice earlier, he looked at the black rectangles laying in the center of each table. A small blue and silver sticker was placed in the lower right corner of the devices. Below that a orange light pulsed slowly. Possibly a power indicator.

He picked it up and felt an opening on the left side. Turning it, the small rectangular USB port beckoned for connection. The darkness pulsated with tangible energy. He placed his index finger over the hole. Subtle vibrations pushed against his skin through to the bone. His eyes glazed over. He weaved a counterclockwise semicircle. Colors faded in the room around him. The world gone sepia. The circle he twisted widened. The chair legs creaked under his shifting weight. His hand slipped knocking a fork to the concrete floor.

The high crack burst him to the present. The rush of colors back to his eyes were daggers of ice to the brain. He tightened his jaw until the ache simmered to a low roll. He slid his hand across the table finding nothing but the place setting next to him. The black rectangle lay on the floor in front of his feet. He nudged it forward with the toe of his boot. It bumped the fork beside it as it spun half way round leaving the USB port facing the open door.

A hint of movement passed by the window to the street. He looked to the left and right seeing nothing but the empty buildings and parked cars. The tables appeared to have grown larger in the last few moments. Their shape becoming more oval than circular. The glasses all emptied of their contents. Each filled with a layer of dust as if the water had never been there at all. The black rectangles were all missing from the table centers.

He kicked forward hitting nothing but empty space. What was inches away only moments before now lay half out of the door. The USB port angled in the direction of the wall outside. He stood with no feeling in his extremities. The walk across the room more swimming through a thick cottony fog.

Outside he held the device in his hands. Turning to the left he lined up the USB port jutting from the wall. They fit together with little resistance. Holding the black rectangle against the wall, a low hum trembled upward from the ground beneath his feet. Windows rattled in their frames. Cars parked along the road wiggled on ancient, rusty squealing shock absorbers. Light posts bowed over the street whipping back to collide with the sides of buildings. Dogs barked. Birds sang. Radio chatter overlapped cash registers and footfalls on sidewalk. Conversation. Singing. Laughter. Screaming.

“Mommy, what’s this?” The little boy pointed at the strange black box suspended on the side of the wall. He wiped his runny nose with his arm.

“Honey, don’t do that. You’re going to ruin your sweater.” The tall brunette reached in her purse and pulled out a tissue. “Hold still.” She grabbed the boys face pinching his nose with the cloth.

“Ow.”

“Did I do that too hard?” She kissed him gently on the cheek smoothing out his hair. “I’m sorry boo bear.” She took his hand pulling him briskly through the crowd walking along the road. The boy looked away from the black box and didn’t think about it again.

amk
3.31.15



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empty infinity

3/24/2015

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Robert Fludd’s 1617 Utriusque Cosmi Maioris scilicet et Minoris Metaphysica, Physica, atque Technica Historia
Not much daylight left. I’m still sweating mid day sun rivulets. The wind stopped. It’s hiding from what comes after the sky goes dark like everything else is. Everything but me of course. I’ve never been afraid of the dark. More rational that most little kids, I knew the only things hiding in the blackness were created by my imagination. The scraping noises under my bed? My cat Taffy chasing after dust bunnies or cleaning herself after a long day of napping on the couch arm by the living room window. My brother Ben wore headphones after nine o’clock. The buzz of distorted guitars and thud thud thudding of speed metal drums found a way through cracks in the walls into my room anyway. Brittle and sharp as tacks, all low end stripped away they imitated the sound of miniature demons knocking against the wall demanding entrance into my dreams and a finger hold on my young soul. Fortunately for me I knew the songs. I dreamed of playing along with the bands on stage in front of thronging crowds of hellions unable to breach the security gates manned by flaming sword wielding protection angels. Out here the gates are overwhelmed. The songs are unfamiliar allowing more than shreds of doubt to enter my panicked mind. If there were anyone or anything else nearby to hold for comfort, I couldn’t see them through the emptiness on all sides. One step leads to another. With each footfall I anticipate landing on nothingness. Falling into some vacant space with an infinity of empty. “Get it over with.” I whisper through chattering teeth. I’d much rather feel the razor edged teeth than reside in this anticipation of unknown until the sky illuminates into morning. There are no stars. The moon is in hiding too. Time refuses measurement here. Who knows when dawn might come, or if it will come again at all? One step leads before another. I have yet to fall. Or am I falling now?


a.m.k.
3.24.15
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slow motion riot

3/17/2015

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“Please.” Mitchell fell to his knees hands up between his face and the large angry man towering above him. “Please don’t. Don’t hit me.”

“You shoulda thought of that before sticking your dick between me and my girl.” The man pulled the end of his long beard to a point and dropped his empty beer bottle to the floor with his other hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Leave him be Charlie.” The woman with stringy back hair and sullen eyes grabbed him by the shoulder. “He didn’t mean no harm.”

“Shut up Nina.” Charlie whipped his arm behind him smacking her in the neck. She fell against the bar gasping for breath. “You don’t tell me what to do. Flirtin' ass slut.”

Charlie’s colossal fist launched through the smoky air at Mitchell’s trembling face. Suction created by the inhalation of every bar patron’s collected breath birthed a momentary vacuum. For a brief instant each hair on their bodies, every thread stitched into clothing tugged in the direction of Charlie’s terrified eyes. Ripples formed on the surface of each beverage. Tiny waves on boozy oceans.

The moment froze.

Mitchell retreated into memory.

Van Gogh Street Elementary School playground in 1978. Toughskin jeans and Star Wars iron on t-shirts. Barry Osten punching Mitchell in the cheek and chin over and over while other faceless children held him by the arms.

Blink.

Robert Frost Junior High quad 1983. Hair spiked with oily gel and Adam and the Ants t-shirts, torn holes and safety pins in a row from shoulder to belly. Doug McShane jumping from the hallway corner near Mitchell’s locker. Mitchell yelps in surprise dropping his books. Bending over to pick them up Doug slams a swift knee into his chest, grabs his belt throwing him headfirst into the wall.  Concussion and a neck brace for a month.

Blink.

Kennedy High School bleachers 1987. Parachute pants and hip hop mix cassettes blasting from boombox speakers. Ty Dannings pushing Mitchell off the second bleacher into a row of nearby trash cans during lunch. Ty kneels on Mitchell’s back lifting his head from the ground with a handful of his shoulder length hair. He gently removes the already cracked glasses depositing them into a muddy puddle. With no previous sign of animus or argument between the two, Ty begins pummeling Mitchell about the head and face eventually cracking the right nostril requiring seven stitches, splitting the upper lip and breaking the right eye socket in three places.

Blink.

Mitchell peers deep between the callused knuckles and cracked joints of Charlie’s fist. In the fraction of a second it takes to throw the punch, he watches blood pulse through the thin veins just below the skins surface. The rattle of bones embraces his ear drums. Teeth wriggle loosely in the gums. Before the hand leaves his face, Mitchell feels the bruise begin to form.

His heart slows.

His breathing mellows smoothly.

Dizziness fades.

Eyesight sharpens.

He laughs.

Charlie grunts in confusion.

Mitchell’s stomach clenches. Not in terror, but with gulps of air to keep up with the hysterics. His throat burns from the sheer volume tearing it’s way upward from his gut.

The bar is still. No one speaks. No one drinks.The DJ stops the music.

Mitchell’s amusement is pure maddening joy. The laughter of a fool unafraid of death. Or pain.

Mitchell takes Charlie’s fist in his hands. Caresses between sausage fingers with the ends of his nails. A lover in courting. Charlie pulls away taking a step back. Mitchell turns his eyes up inside the lids.

“Again.”

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glue

3/10/2015

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First, a pinpoint of intense pale white…slowly unraveling like ball of yarn rolled too many times.  The ragged edge stretching outward until it jerked back, burying her under the blackness once again.  Gradually her sight adjusted enough to make out shapes in the otherwise blank landscape.  She saw a straight vertical line to the left.  Her eye flashed far to the right at a flicker of movement that could have simply been her eyelash shaking.

The girl tried to blink.  She couldn’t.  Her eyelid struggled and pulled to close, but there was only so far it could go.  The tear duct ballooned. Her left eye wouldn’t open at all.  Something cold and hard pressed flat against it, forcing it closed.  She pulled, the entire left side of her face from forehead to chin wouldn’t move.  Through her open eye, she saw the straight edge of something hard, maybe concrete pressing against the tip of her nose. 

Things were revealing themselves through the thick fog in her mind at a quickening pace.  A muffled cry clawed and scraped to make its way out of her lungs. The border of sealed lips allowed no crossing. Muscles pulled and skin stretched.  Right hand brought to mouth she pulled at her lip.  The girl’s eye, dry and painful from exposure looked down at a strange, greyish hand attached to her own. 

Stuck together in an air tight seal from fingertip to the base of her palm, dirt clumped around its nails. Freshly scabbed scratches blotted around the knuckles.  At some point the nails had been painted a deep shade of red, but that was a long time ago.  Hints of a tan line where a wedding ring used to be were faded beneath layers of dust and blackened, dried blood.  The cold hand offered no resistance to her movements.  She grunted, hoping some noise would rouse the person attached to the hand’s attention.  Shifting weight revealed the chill of her bare feet sticking firmly to the concrete floor.   

Her left arm numb and tingling pulled the strange hand to the right.  Letting the arm swing back it dropped limply in the opposite direction.  Pictures appeared in her head of spinning around a maypole and holding hands with her brother when they were kids.   A painful sharpness jabbed at her shoulder blade as she writhed back and forth.  She looked around to find out what it was, but couldn’t see that far. 

The light disappeared. 

A cold, smooth piece of metal slid into her right nostril. In her mind’s eye, a memory of her doctor breathing on his stethoscope before touching it to her breast.  Even in the darkness her open eye burned and darted around to find some source of hope.  She smelled sour mint as liquid coated the insides of her nasal cavity.  The strangers hand still attached to hers, pressed against the outside of her nose sealing it completely.  When finished, it dropped swaying back and forth gently. 

The girl pulled for air through a small crack left open in the other side of her nose glued against the wall.  A faint whistle, like squeezing air out of a balloon tweeted with each inhalation.  She didn’t question why this was happening to her, or who would want to hurt her like this.  Her only thoughts were “air”. 

Her knees writhed. She pulled her head so hard the skin on the side of her face began to tear. Blood slowly pooled into the crevice of her collarbone.  She didn’t care about a mark or a scar.  She didn’t care if it tore half her face off.  She pulled for more air. 

A scraping sound… hints of smoke and sulfur. Red-yellow light burst to life millimeters in front of her eye.  The stranger’s hand came up slowly and pushed against her ear forcing her harder into the wall. The metal tube filled any remaining open spaces with the thick cold liquid. 

Lungs screamed against the emptiness, fighting for one last breath that would never come. 

The match went out.

---

The ground warm and dry, aside from a few cars passing the end of the block, everything remained silent.  No dogs thank goodness.  No baying at the moon or leaping at fences to heckle strangers while walking by their land in oh so predictable attempts to protect their masters from every interloper’s intent of wrong doings. 

A deep breath in brings clean spring air.  Arms stretch out and reach those fingertips far as they go. Naked beneath the robe, there hasn’t been anybody around to see for a few months.  No one left to watch his body as he stands fully exposing his skin from head to toe.  Leave it open and let the sun tickle every inch.  It feels good. 

Squint and hold a thumb up to get a sense of scale.  Head angles to the side a bit for a change of perspective.  It might almost work.  Very close now, the picture being formed inside. A few more touches, something here and there.  Already have an appointment with the next model, later this afternoon in fact. 

Pick up the paper, stretch again for a moment and then head back to the door.  It’s going to be another busy day. 

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1 2 3 men (two of them thin one of them thick) overheard in conversation at the beginning of the end of the world 

3/3/2015

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1 - “I am the most selfless person you know. Wait until the apocalypse, you’ll see.”

2 - “Apparently you’re the most modest too.”

3 - “Whatever man.”

1 - “You guys are the selfish ones. Seriously, look at this society. Soccer moms in yoga pants and belly cut tank tops. Roided lunks wearing their mesh t-shirts showing off six pack abs and spandex shorts so tight they leave no mystery if they’re Jewish or not. Going to the gym…” He held up quotation fingers. “‘to work on yourselves.’ Go ahead and chisel and sculpt your perfect body. Not me. No way. I’m already in shape.”

2 - “Yeah. Round.”

1 - “Round is a shape motherfucker.”

2 and 3 laughed at 1.

3 - “You’re insane.”

1 - “Not gonna get any argument about that my friend.” He shoved a large handful of nachos into his mouth, spitting half chewed shards of chips and cheese while he talked. “If something is crazy doesn’t mean it ain’t true though.”

1 took his time staring fiercely 2 and 3 in the eye.

1 - “What’s more crazy, sacrificing yourself to save friends and family or doing a forty five minute steam-spin class and a thousand crunches?”

2 - “I think it’s crazy to really believe the apocalypse is going to happen. Besides, do really think that there’s something wrong with staying healthy?”

1 - “I never said that. What I said was it’s selfish.”

3 - “Get off it man. You’re judging on appearances because of…”

1 - “Because of what?”

3 - “Nothing. Forget it.”

1 - “Because I’m fat? Like it’s a surprise to me. I’m not an idiot. I have seen myself in a mirror and shopped for clothes you know.”

3 - “I just don’t see what the big deal is man.”

1 - “Ever tried finding size forty-four pants at American Apparel?”

2 - “So shop somewhere else. I don’t go there either.”

1 - “Because everything at the Big & Large store is so Vogue cover worthy.” 1 pulled the shirt away from his belly. “Fat people are the last members of society that it’s okay to discriminate against.”

2 - “You watch way to many movies dude.”

3 - “Nobody’s discriminating against fat people.”

1 - “No?” He wipes his mouth and gently folds the corners of his napkin before placing it daintily on the table beside his plate. “Hollywood, magazines, high school, college, elementary and kindergarten.”

3 - “Waiting for a point.”

1 - “What’s the one thing in common with all of these institutions?” 1 points a finger at 3. “Every single 1 of them hates fat people. The instant someone appears who is even slightly larger than some randomly decided upon acceptable size, everyone else in society has a green light to pounce on them. They are made fun of, beat up and discarded. Doesn’t matter how intelligent they are, their ideas will either be dismissed or stolen by some1 attractive enough to be worthy of contributing.”

2 - “You have got some serious issues my friend.” 2 shook his head. “No attractive people are ever made fun of, humiliated or have their ideas ripped off? It’s not even worth arguing about man. Your head ain't right.”

1 - “My head is just fine thank you very much.”

3 - “Sure.” 3 shook his head dismissively.

1 - “You guys ever wonder why I never have a girlfriend?”

2 - “No. I don’t have to wonder.” 2 laughed.

1 - “Why not?”

2 - “Well, first off you’re rude.” 2 counted on his fingers. “You’re also a slob, you have a shit job, you live with your parents, you refuse to cut off that ugly ass pony tail…”

1 - 1 breaks in before he can list any more. “And I’m huge.”

3 - “He didn’t say that.” 3 interrupts.

1 - “He was going to.”

2 - “No.” 2 frowns. “I wasn’t going to.”

1 - “Right.” 1 folds his arms defensively across his chest. “I’m sure you weren’t”

The 3 sat in silence for a long while. The only sounds coming from other tables conversations and the scraping of silverware across plates.

1 - “We have a triple standard in our society.” 1 spoke silently to his empty plate. “We objectify women and hold them to impossibilities of how they are supposed to look and behave.” A tear slipped to the end of his large nose, hung from the spot and wobbled as he talked. “But men? Nobody ever seems to notice that unless we’re wealthy or aggressively successful in business or sports, we big guys are treated as less than human. I get laughed at every day. Kids on the street make pig noises at me when I walk by. Have you ever had some1 throw food at you from a moving car?” 1 looked from his plate to 2 and 3 sitting in stunned silence. “I didn’t think so. I’ve been pushed and punched and kicked and treated like an animal since preschool.” 1 held up a hand to stop his friends from speaking. “I’ve tried to lose weight. I’ve thought abut surgery. It took me until I hit thirty to realize that this is the way I am. I don’t pig out or binge eat. I’m fat.” 1 patted himself on the belly. “So I await the inevitable. When the end comes, I will sacrifice myself. For you.”

As if on cue, there was screaming heard from the street outside. A crowd of terrified people stumbled past to the east. Some with torn shirts. Others noses bloodied and skin of hands covered in dripping black ooze.

1 - “Get behind me.” 1 grinned. Satisfied and ready for his moment. “Now!”

1 strode to the door with confident steps. He gripped the handle with both hands and pushed. The screams from outside rushed into the restaurant piercing their nightmare blades into the ears of 2, 3 and the other table’s full of patrons. 1 shifted his face slightly over his shoulder to his friends for the final time.

1 - “I got this now. Run!”

1 left the door open and pushed his way to the center of the raging throng. 2 and 3 ran to the end of the street looking back and for between exchanging horrified glances. Before turning left at the corner, each looked back at 1. His fists pounding into expressionless faces of indescribable nature. Talons dug through his skin. Tentacles overlapping around his body, squeezing. 1 ripped at the green flesh throwing ragged tears into the air. An enormous mouth rowed with bladed teeth opened above him. A spray of gray liquid rained down turning 1 to a person shaped blaze of green flames. Still, his hands punched, grabbed, ripped, smacked. One leg thrust forward to kick before being removes by the beast’s jaw clamping shut above the knee. 1 laughed. 2 and 3 turned the corner and fled toward safety.


a.m.k.
3.3.15

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the asem

2/24/2015

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Jennifer Cantwell - Letter home (2011)
When the studio called to offer me an internship, I literally jumped out of my shoes. I liked to wear them two sizes too big and hadn’t tied them yet, so it was easier than it sounds. My bare feet landed flat on the floor smacking echoes that nearly reached the volume of my surprised cheering.

I knew it meant long, thankless hours and coming home smelling like water at the bottom of a three week old forgotten bong. The experience meant a lot to any future prospects of making my career as a producer. Joe asked me to start on the weekend. I don’t recall breathing outside air for the next seventy two hours. After that, my universe became nothing but a blur of distortion, off pitch vocals and the occasional string section complaining about unbalanced headphone mixes.

Most of my friends disappeared over the next three years. The phone slowly stopped ringing with invites to see the new Tarrantino flick, birthday parties or when my buddy had floor tickets to The Pixies. So buried in routing cables, finding the perfect mic placement and making sure everything sounded in phase, I didn’t notice my life drifting out of phase.

It might have been gullibility and need for acceptance more than actual skill, but when the head engineer asked me to run a session with a major new client I just knew I was on my way. All of my sacrificed friendships and missed chances with willing women now seemed all worth while. It made no difference to me that Joe wanted to watch the series finale of Two and a Half Men more than deal with this particular high maintenance teenage diva and her entourage of spoiled paparazzi teasing brats.

Rather than doing any actual recording, Celiste spent the first day glued to her cell phone (lovingly named “Celly”). Her “Momager” berated my assistant Reg and me for a couple hours about the sub par furniture and the necessity to keep the vocal booth temperature at exactly 73.6 degrees. She refused to let her “Star Baby” sing until we’d equipped the room with the correct brand of humidifier.

I put in a call to the home supply store, placed a Crucial Mist Ultrasonic Aroma Ceramosphere Humidifier BTCH3006.4 on hold. Fortunately they had a couple in stock. Reg squealed his tires out of the parking lot to go pick it up.

“Was that really necessary?” She shouted at the the truck’s rear bumper. “Order some sushi. None of that local wannabe crap either. We only eat spicy tuna rolls from Masaguchi in Venice.”

“I’ll see if we have a menu at the front desk.” Before I turned the corner, she pressed the speed dial on her phone and held up a sharp nailed finger to stop me. “Oui Monsieur. We are here for the next week. Come. Please Minister. You are indeed welcome.”

My spine ached with imaginary nails digging between each lumbar space. Her finger twirled in absent minded, ever widening ovals outlined by the bright yellow color of whatever fancy polish she’d paid for at her latest manicure. She obviously dialed the wrong number for sushi.

“The Asem will be here within the hour.” She spoke cleanly to Celeste. Immediately, all four of the girls on the couch stood as one. They turned at stiff, martial angles and marched in unison out of the building. I heard to car doors close, but no engine started.

“Is he coming to listen to me?” Celeste wrung her hands nervously. “Should I change? I need to warm up. Are the tracks loaded in the computer yet? I can’t breathe. Mommy?” She sprinted across the room burying her face into her mother’s chest.

“Calm down Baby Star.” She patted the back of the hyperventilating girl’s head. “Minister will provide a blessing on you. No need to be nervous.”

Recording sessions are notorious for their constant flow of busy work. The engineer and his assistants are constantly barraged with routing cables between devices or making sure the digital effects are running smoothly with the recording software. I had numerous ways to keep myself occupied and out of their way while Celeste sat on the couch with flapping hands attempting to fan more air to her face.

Forty five minutes later my nose hurt. A sneeze crept beside the edge of triggering an explosion. It peered down there unwilling to push any further into the canyon of release. I blew my nose loudly which brought more attention from Celeste and her mother than I wanted.

“Excuse me?” Momager stabbed fists into her sides crooking her head at an angry angle. “Can you please do that somewhere else? We are having a stressful moment in here if you would care to notice.”

I tossed the tissue into the small metal trash can in the hallway. The coffee maker sat empty and waiting for me in the kitchen. Loading the filter, I heard the mellow hum of a fine tuned engine cruise into the lot. The Audi stopped by the front door and a well dressed bodyguard stepped around the front to the rear passenger side door. The seams of his gray sport coat stretched to their limit in what must have been an intentional show of size.

His shaved head bowed reverently as the older gentleman pulled himself from the car. Average height and thin, he appeared shrunken next to the enormous guard. He walked with a slight limp on his left side, but did not use a cane. He moved with casual easiness that might easily have come off as happiness. I couldn’t tell if he smiled since his face turned away from my view when he walked beyond the building’s shadows.

Steaming mug of cheap coffee in hand, what I saw stopped me from going any further into the studio. Celeste and her mother both lay face up on the floor with their arms and legs spread wide. Fingers stretched open turning the small vestigial webs at their base to white. Toes curled inward on their bare feet, ankles raised two inches above the carpet.

“Nothing will raise you higher than song my lovelies.” The Asem reached down tracing the outline of each toe with his middle fingers. Once finished, he licked his fingernails while moaning some unintelligible phrase under his breath. “Breathe deeply of my love for you.” He puffed a burst of breath at each of them while they gulped the air like drowning goldfish tossed from their bowl.

“She should probably stop that.” I said. The Asem turned to me raising an eyebrow high on his forehead. “Swallowing air like that isn’t very good for singing.”

“Ah.” The Asem chuckled. “You must be the engineer?”

“Yes sir.” I raised my mug in a salute of sorts.

“I do not mean to intrude on your work place.” His voice deep and resonant. “Despite what you may have heard, our religion is not as strange as it seems.”

“I haven’t heard anything.”

“Please my lovelies, stand.” Celeste wore a wide eyed smile that looked to me equally full of happiness and fear. The Asem looked in a slow circle around the room. “So much technology to make something so... human.”

“I know right?” I sat in my chair and leaned back. “I have to make a living somehow I guess.”

The Asem chuckled. He pointed from his bodyguard to me. “I like this one.” The guard reached slowly into his coat. For a brief moment my heart choked with panic at the thought of a gun or knife. He handed me a long white envelope with Celeste printed on it in neat, clean black handwriting.

“You will find all of the song files for Celeste on this drive.” The Asem sat on the glass table in front of the couch placing his hands on his knees. “Remember this, there are six songs and six songs only. Each song contains precisely twelve words. Each of the words will be repeated sixteen times. Not necessarily in the same order, but they may not appear on this record more that sixteen times. What that order is I leave to your discretion.”

“Excuse me?” I reached for the numbers bouncing through the insides of my brain. Math was never my strong suit. “What do you mean my discretion… Aren’t the songs written already?”

“I leave the artisans to their craft.” The Asem stood nodding his head swiftly at Celeste. “Far be it for me to tell you how to do your job my son.”

“I’m not sure I understand.” I swiveled my chair to face him as he walked from the room followed closely by the mountain in a gray suit.

“Everything you need is on the flash drive.” His voice retreated down the hall. “Let me know when I can come back for a listen.”

Celeste held her hands palm up with her head turned to the ceiling. Her eyes closed and mouth wide open licking her tongue in sharp swaths at the air above. Her mother making the same coordinated oral movements sent a quiver in the pits of my skull and stomach.

“Here it is.” Reg pushed the dolly carrying the Crucial Mist Ultrasonic Aroma Ceramosphere Humidifier BTCH3006.4. “Open the vocal booth for me will ya?”

I stared at the envelope in my hand. Unable to hear Reg’s voice as more than a mumble from deep under water where I drowned.

“Dude. Hello?” Reg kicked my shin snapping me back to the present. “A little help here?”

“Sorry Reg.” I opened the door for him, holding it as he rolled the humidifier in. I followed closing the door behind us.

“What’s up with the freak twins out there?” He set the machine on the floor pointing over his shoulder with an extended thumb.

“Some weird Asem thing.” I blinked over and over fighting for focus.

“Oh.” Reg plugged in the humidifier and switched it on. It burst to life with a low hum. “Think this thing will quiet down by the time we hit record? Otherwise it’s gonna be a pain in the ass when we mix.”

“It should.” I leaned over the spherical machine examining the lights and vents. “That’s why I ordered this model. It’s supposed to run silent once it warms up.”

“Who was in that nice ride I passed on my way in?”

“The Asem.” The envelope felt warm in my hand.

“No shit?” Reg leaned on the red handled dolly. “The Asem? I’ve heard about The Asems. Some serious witchcraft type crap.”

“They can believe whatever they want.” I stuffed the envelope in my back pocket. The rectangle of the flash drive pressed hot through my jeans against my flesh.

“Creeps me out man. I watched this movie on…”

“Reg, all we need to do is record a few songs with this girl.” The humidifier let out a quiet buzz and fell silent. “They’ll be out of here in a few days.”

“Figures Joe splits out on this one.”

“I’ll take it man.” Momager stared at me through the glass. I opened the door. I didn’t notice until that moment, but the pressure in my sinuses relaxed. My eyes were once again able to focus and the unfamiliar scent of strange meat burning was gone.

“Let me load these files into the system, get them lined up and we should be ready to roll soon.” I opened the envelope and removed the flash drive. Momager’s eyes brightened at the sight of the logo printed on it’s side. In mirrored silver script, MINISTRY MUSIC flickered in the flashing lights of the console.

My fingertips sensed a subtle vibration of the small plastic device. I opened the black cap revealing a matte white USB port. The computer recognized it as “MINISTRY MUSIC: Celeste”. I double clicked the icon and the new window opened on the screen.

A white folder named “Celeste Tracks” sat in the upper left corner. Inside were six audio files. Listed alphabetically they were called:

  1. Introduces
  2. Holy Holly
  3. Thus Sprake Zara and Thustra
  4. Needles Haystacks Findings
  5. Ponderings
  6. Conclusioning

I created six song templates, named them each and started the process of importing the audio files. Reg set up the microphone and baffling in the vocal booth. Momager stood behind him, letting him know in no uncertain terms that he did everything incorrectly for her little girl.

Celeste sat on the couch with bright pink headphones on singing along with music I could not hear. Judging by her screeching caterwaul, I was lucky for that. Double checking that I’d used all of the files on the drive, I notice a document also included in the folder that I didn’t remember seeing before. Other than its .doc extension, it sat unnamed on the screen.

When I opened the file, all of the lights in the studio flickered. We had backup surge protectors on everything, so my heart jumped. Reg looked at me through the window and we both exchanged shrugged shoulders.

The file was formatted as if it were a letter. It had the address area in the top right. The greeting line on the top left sat just above the paragraph shape. At the bottom the signature was centered below what could be considered a “Thank You” or “Sincerely Yours”.

As recognizable as all of this was, I could read none of it. Rather than words and letters, everything on the page was written out in images of audio files. The peaks and valleys of black on the gray page brought to mind seismic distortion more than music.

I stared at the document. My mind fought to make sense of what it meant. After a while the patterns pulsed in place, rippling into three dimensions. Sounds grew from the pixels on the screen forming vowels and consonants. A small throb at the paragraph’s top howled in high falsetto…

“Are we ready yet?” Momager barked from the couch behind me. “We’ve been here all afternoon. I’ve lost all patience. We are leaving.”

In a huff, she grabbed Celeste by the hand dragging her from the studio. My eyes remained fixed on the screen. Reg chuckled at the car driving off under the sound of girls chattering on their cell phones.

When I blinked, the studio surrounded me empty, and silent. The computer’s clock read 3:12 AM. I took in a shuddering breath. An oppressive thickness filled every inch of the studio around me. The silence drove into my ears and I felt every drop of blood flowing from hairline to toenail.

The folder now contained twelve image files. Right clicking on the first, I selected preview. A small picture of a WAV file opened. Looking closely, it was the same pattern as the address line of the letter. I quickly opened images at random finding more of the letter’s “text” selected and cut into individual files.

With no memory of how or when I did this, I felt a powerful urge to insert each one into the song files for Celeste’s record. Normally our audio software is incompatible with image files. Something encoded in these particular files bypassed that issue allowing each picture to load into the new audio tracks I created.

The song files pulsed brighter and dimmer along with the heartbeat pounding my ears in the quiet, soundproofed room. My palms sweaty and shaking dripped over the faders. The sneeze built again in my nose, still refusing to launch a relief to the pressure.

The Asem stood in the vocal booth smiling into the microphone. His pale skin, near transparent. Long hair reached near hairless, naked knees. His eyes black, empty of vein, pupil or life at all, turned to me. A tongue crawled from between his cracked lips and embraced the microphone. Thin tendrils spread from the larger root of the thing sinking in between the holes in the metal grate surrounding the diaphragm.

My shoulders hunched. My mouth dry and aching. Eyes darting in all directions at once I no longer had control over my senses. I wanted to sneeze. I needed to sneeze. “Please let me sneeze.” I heard a voice that might have been mine beg.

I pressed play.

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the Key speaks

2/17/2015

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for this #TerrorTuesday ,in honor of the end of my $.99 sale of "the Key to everything" on amazon, here is my voice reading "Abram: A Man of His Words" for your listening displeasure...
Abram
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ice, the wife (or: fourteen knuckles)

2/10/2015

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The district supervisor called to cancel school for the fourth day in a row. Of course the sound of unglued children’s rapture bounded across the neighborhood. Even winterized windows and insulated walls couldn’t hold in the excitement.

In the morning while The Kids ran down the street to go sledding, I dug through every drawer and shelf two and three times over looking for that damn left glove.

“Every rat finking winter.” I mumbled at the socks and underwear.

“That’s because The Husband never listens to me.” The Wife said with not a small amount of gleeful I told you so hidden in the undertones.

“Right.” I slammed the drawer shut. “Kick me when I’m down why don’t you?”

“I tell The Husband every time we pack up the winter clothes.” The Wife took two steps into the room and sat on the edge of our bed. “Shove your gloves into your jacket pockets. That way The Husband will know where to find them when it gets cold again.”

“I thought I did.” I shut the last of the dresser drawers throwing my hands up in defeat. “I’ll make a trip to Jimmy Jobs tomorrow and pick up another pair.”

“Fine.” The Wife chuckled. Her head turned to the window before I heard the noise. Everything in the room vibrated along with the cracking rumble.

“Well that sounded un-good.” We went to the window. Outside, both of The Kids were running away from the house. Laughing and jumping through the snow, their bodies shimmered in the bright sunshine bouncing as they ran over the layer of frozen white spreading across the neighborhood.

The Kids raised up hands filled with long gleams of light. Icicles pulled from where they hung from the roof on the side of the house. One end flat from its cracking spot. The other end where the drops of water dribbled down to a thin point before freezing. They stabbed through the light ahead of them vanishing for a moment into a space The Wife and I could not see.

“Look The Father and The Mother.” The Kids shouted gleefully. “Look at our wonderful swords!”

The Wife and I nodded while we waved and smiled.

“Beautiful.” The Wife mouthed through the glass.

“Very nice.” I clapped my hands together and squeezed.

“Shall we play at war with them The Mother?” The Kids pointed the icicles to the sky. “Shall we show you what we can do with them?”

“Oh yes, please.” The Wife bounced up and down on her stockinged toes.

I opened the window poking my head into the chilly day. “Why don’t you go and see if the neighbors are home? They might want to play at the war with you.”

“Yes The Father.” The Boy Kid said bowing his head obediently.

“Oh The Father. What an absolutely wonderful idea.” The Girl Kid smiled with her sing song voice. She followed The Boy Kid across the yard leaving soft prints in the snow. Hiding the icicles behind their backs, The Kids knocked on our neighbor’s door.

The Kids stood so calm and so still. Their shadows short on the mid day sunlight snow. The Boy grabbed the doorknob. Pushing through, The Kids entered the house vanishing into the darkness of the neighbor's front hallway.

I looked on impatiently with The Wife. My skin ached against the icy wind coming through our open bedroom window. The Wife took my hand and squeezed. I lifted her fingers to my mouth kissing each of the fourteen knuckles gently.

“Do you hear anything?” The Wife asked caressing her mouth through the thinning hair on the back of my head.

“They’ll be home soon.” I whispered. “Be still and allow The Kids their fun.”

“We’ll have to move again.” She sighed. “Too bad. I like it here.”

“That’s the wonderful thing The Kids discovered.”

“What is that The Husband?” She asked. “What have The Kids found?

“Ice, The Wife.” My chest puffed with pride.

The Kids emerged from the darkened door glittering smiles across their faces. The Girl dropped her icicle on the front steps where it shattered into a handful of pinkish wet slabs.

The Boy followed shortly after holding half of his frozen sword. The point broken off leaving a flat circle of dripping red on the end. Throwing it high into the air, The Boy screamed. His voice cracked breaking the shout from a high pitched boy cry to a slightly deeper grunt.

“Ice.” I squeezed The Wife’s hand and closed the window.

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