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Conscious

4/14/2015

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Picture
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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Picture
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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    i live. i breathe. i write.
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