About a Girl

I’m beside myself right now. I keep thinking of this girl too. I met her once. It’s quite a rated R story. Many of mine are. She was beautiful. She had low self-esteem. I’d like to imagine myself that way. But I’m only certain about the low self-esteem part.

I don’t remember her name. Doubt she remembers mine. I remember her tattoos. Her belly. Smile, face, and what she said. She kept repeating it. “You’re gonna fucking hate me”.

We fooled around outside, by the beach at night. I wanted to go to her house, but she told me, no one ever goes to her house. I walked her home.

No one’s been to my house, where I live in The Sequoias. But I feel more like her – this mystery girl – than in that way. She was a mess. I’m a mess. I don’t wish to confess how much a mess, bc its tiring to be judged – and you may think that silly, given that I don’t know who you are. You could be one of my ex girlfriends: I’ve always liked to pretend you read my shit, but I don’t know which one you are or even if you are: I just know that yall fuckin hate me for not being what you thought I could; there’s always that mental doppelgaanger in the room – that imago we create of the person – and it usually takes a good number of years until you either outgrow that or find it was wrong all along: you’re perception of them was a gift to them, that they took for granted and pissed on. But knowing my ex-girlfriends will hate me until their dying breath is not what makes judgement tiring. It’s something deeper. And here’s where I’m starting to get annoyed, bc my perception of reality is such that to explain things the way I am able to see them, just leaves other people calling me fucking crazy. Lonely. Very.

Now I get what Jung leaner meant, when he said, “Loneliness does not come from having no people about oneself but from holding views which others find inadmissible”. Only, I would say, my loneliness does not come from being alone, but from my truths being inadmissible. I get why the Daniel Craig Bond drinks and smokes: it’s not from killing people – it’s from not being able to share the truth about your life, about what you know, what you know.

There’s a very dystopian future that’s already here. I’ve lived it. Do. It’s something like Departed. Only, they don’t threaten to erase your file bc there is no file. Nor is there the Jason Bourne safe deposit nor Swiss account belonging to you. Because you volunteered. But it’s akin to volunteering to forget, something like hypnosis. And if you think this hypnosis is some stage trick, then I would tell you that there is a lot of knowledge that has been made proprietary, aggregated within compartmentalized levels that are impossible to penetrate; for in this dystopia, they also know the personality: beyond the 16 types. So, if there is information that is a liability, it is only entrusted within networks of non-liable entities. Persons. Sure. Same thing – only, not quite. Too hard to explain. Impossible. For, these truths guarantee nothing but you made to sound crazy. No matter what you believe to be true. It’s as if the DSM is made especially as an insular model to guarantee that those who fail to conform to consensus reality will face complete ostracization at best – and institutionalization at worse. Chances are, you will be, have been institutionalized. This guarantees your invalidity. Nullifies your truth. Only, in this dystopia, you don’t go get locked up, knowing it’s part of your cover, you get locked up fearing for your goddamn life – even if only from your own depths of despair. I’ve taken myself in to be monitored so I would not hurt myself. I know something of this dynamic. It keeps you full of doubt. But eventually, you’ve seen enough firsthand to know something. You did more than connect dots – but you didn’t quite remember, for this is an impossibility. And memory is a funny thing besides.

Back to this girl. She was like me. And no one came to her place. The security at her building was bananas. I felt she was important, like I do of my exes now. 2020 vision – hindsight – hurts, can break you. I’m broken like this. And on the surface, you think this girl is just some bartender. But you know she’s on your level. And she knows you’re going to hate her, bc you will never see her again. Like fucking a Westworld robot, and she’s a robot, there to extract your DNA. And she knows she is. And you don’t. And maybe you do. But you still love her. Only, she’s not meant to love you. That would be a liability. And those have been eliminated in the time of this dystopia. But no matter the nature of your being, you’re both no more than useful idiots. Like the highschool kids the CIA recruits. Of course, if she was recruited, and remembers it, it was only bc they had typed her well enough – or programmed her well enough – to know she was never going to reveal this to anyone they didn’t want to know.

And like all crazy poor SOBs, you say ‘they’. And the societal presence in your head goes: who exactly is they? But you cannot answer, bc you do not know, so you pick the bottle up again.

Only, soon, you’re fading. And you want to type more, but the potion is strong. And you know the lights are being turned out on you; and there isn’t much time left. So you press publish, knowing that if someone out there knows what you are talking about, they will never acknowledge your truth: you don’t even know what you are talking about as much as they know what you are talking about. And it’s all very maddening, very lonely, very hard. And you’ve been through a lot. So death sounds nice. Only, you volunteered for a reason: you wanted to help. But you’re dying on the cross for it, and no one cares.

As you’re fading you feel sad rko43irjijr============================================================================================================================================================================================

Short Fiction: The Exhumation (6 Min Read)

He stood upon the beach beside the seawall, bent over in the cold, gray light of dawn, laboriously digging that endless pit again. 

His hairless, sinewy fingers were painfully fixed around the smooth, well-worn handle of the old wooden shovel, which felt burdensome and awkward in his grip; each scoop of the dark, wet sand straining his tired, underdeveloped shoulders. 

As he dug, the waves crashed softly upon the shore, rolling and receding fifty paces before him, their sound dampened in the thick salt-laden fog. 

The pace at which he dug the wet sand brought forth large beads of sweat on his forehead that rolled down his temples, onto his cheeks, tickling his tanned face. 

He paused briefly to wipe his brow, anxiously aware that some awful, terrible doom had led him there, to a destiny from which he could not escape; although, from which he could awake – as he did every day following the same dream. 

It was only by coincidence, however, that he began to ponder the dream during his waking hours; for, like most people, he never considered dreams to be anything more than a mystery – a strange phantasm of the mind that required no more probing than ones own inner spirituality; his dreams merely were

That was, until he read about the body of a drowned swimmer found by a jogger in the early morning on a remote stretch of Maine coastline.

He came across the story while reading news at his desk one morning, a habit that ineffectually served to distract him from his work as a systems administrator in a large data center – a job he loathed, for he wanted nothing else but to be a writer. 

Only, he hadn’t any real ideas for stories, as nothing had heretofore captured his mind and compelled him to begin writing – until he came across the news story of the jogger discovering a body on the beach; that day, he decided: he would begin writing his first story. 

Driving home that night, he thought about the plot:

A man dreams repeatedly of digging on the beach in the early morning hours, and thinks nothing of it. Then, years later, he comes across a news story of a body that has just been exhumed from the beach near his house, and, while reading the story, his memories and his guilt return to him. 

What does he do? 

Does he turn himself in? 

Is his DNA found? 

He didn’t have answers but he felt the story burning inside him, demanding to be told. 

And so, that night, he announced to his wife Tara, that he would begin writing at once; his mornings were to be spent alone in his study, looking out his bay windows upon the bright, blue Pacific. 

This routine took. Soon, he had written about the dream, he had written about the news story, but the words stopped there. He was unable to pick the story up where his dream and the news story left off. And yet, he was still consumed with finishing what he started – more than ever. 

So, unable to write for lack of palpable inspiration, he began taking long morning walks along the shore near his home, where, barefoot, he would scout-out remote spots, where he would sit and imagine his character digging on the beach. 

Only, it wasn’t like his dreams: he was not digging, there was no fog. 

He imagined his story a film, needing the scene to be just so, in order that he might get into his character’s head; for the story needed to be understood to be finished – yet the dream had always simply left him digging, listening to the hush of the waves, peering through the fog.

Thus he began checking the NOAA website, keeping abreast of any shift in weather that might give him the right morning conditions.

Two months later, he saw a heavy coastal fog forecast. His shovel lay against the front gate, at the ready. 

He set his alarm for early the next morning; however, due to his excitement, he was unable to sleep – not a wink. All night he lay in bed thinking of the dream, deliciously, excitedly. 

As 5:45 rolled around, he quietly dressed, his wife still asleep when he left home and found himself enveloped in a thick April morning fog. 

The grey misty morning was a comfort to him. In it he felt serene, full of the peace of a man who knowingly follows his destiny. 

Grabbing the shovel on the way out, he trotted gaily toward the shore, like a fisherman headed for high tide. 

Walking quickly along the beach nearest the seawall, he arrived in fifteen minutes and stuck his shovel in the sand, where he was to perform his artistic ritual. Pausing for a moment, he surveyed his dig site, amazed that the foggy, gray dawn matched perfect his dream. 

Then he dug passionately, excitedly, clumsily. 

His progress was at first slow, but his pace increased as he continued. Each shovel-full of sand seemed to invigorate him, and his grip tightened on the smooth wood handle as his unpracticed-heaving grew more burdensome the deeper he dug; the weight of the heavy, wet sand now making his shoulders burn. 

He began to sweat, his clip matching the cadence of the rolling waves, his shovel, – the digging itself – now seeming to make the soft crashing sound he heard emanating from the shoreline ahead of him. 

His head began to itch. He kept shoveling. Sweat beaded and gathered at his hairline; however, he could not stop digging to wipe his brow, as he had in the dream; it was as if he feared waking up now; it was as if he needed to see it through to finish the story. His shoulders burned. His sweat itched. The waves rolled. The fog hung. 

He kept digging, madly now, and did not hear her approach. His bent figure, standing in the large hole he had dug, operated violently yet rhythmically, like an oil derrick pumping for ore. 

When she addressed him, he heard perhaps nothing at first, then his wife’s voice trying to wake him from his foggy dream, trying to steal him away from his destiny. 

Then she yelled, screamed, “Michael!”

He immediately twisted around, the momentum of the shovel driving his body toward her, its blunt steel edge striking her across the head with a dull thwack. 

His eyes widened and he dropped the shovel near in-sync with her body, which had gone limp and fallen to the sand without a sound.

He stretched his aching arms beside him and looked distantly upon his wife’s distorted face, as if in a dream. 


Author’s note: 

I am going to be publishing more short stories here, which I could not be happier to do. If you enjoy, please subscribe and share. Thank You – LB