A peripatetic sylvan recluse, bookseller, and storyteller.
I write mostly about addiction, self-dis(re)covery, and that magical door existing between the two.
Allow me to guide you through?
The Importance of Not Seeing, pt. 1
The darkest forest in the world has no name. To give a place a name creates a space for it: a nomenclature that merges with its imaginary identity and becomes too aware of itself, drawing people in for all the wrong reasons. Without a name, the forest is difficult to pin on a map—the large expanse of it vastly unmarked—even from a terrestrial standpoint. At best, this was damage control, at worst it sparked a curiosity even the threat of death could not dampen. Sure, fewer people went missing, but the ones who did became a very real statistic: anyone who goes in does not come out.
CTRL ALT DELETE, pt. 2
Present Day Frankie comes-to in her new underground lair. All the monitors have gone to sleep. In the dark, mirrored reflection she sees an aesthetically perfect face staring back at her. Enough memory is left behind to not be shocked by her new appearance.
CTRL ALT DELETE, pt. 1
The buckles on Frankie’s combat boots rattle as she thunders down several flights of stairs and out the apartment building. Her disorientation suggests she just did a wiping—a scary, yet a necessary component of keeping her mind from imploding. That was part of her gift—gift as they called it. Gift? Is it a gift? Frankie can’t be sure. The desire to be ordinary both repels and attracts her at the same time.
The library is perpetually gray and somber with a ceiling of glass tiles discolored by the tinge of pollution and disorder. Written notes scatter the tables, informing the public that anyone caught reading by candlelight will be indefinitely banned. A second notice advertises how flashlights are available at the front desk in exchange for a passport. Since renting books is no longer allowed (people were burning them to stay warm) hardly anyone visits. At the end of the stacks, yet another sign (undoubtedly the most dismal and final of all) reads:
Scraps of my broken memory resurface sporadically, forming the shattered image of a once whole life. When the migraines take me out, I curl up in bed and massage my temples, remembering where wax crayons once measured for electrodes. In the shower, I feel the coldness of conductive gel permeating my scalp and watch as rivulets of water slither behind my neck like inches of clear wire and carefully measured illusions. When I blink, I remember the heaviness of stony eyelids sealing the cave of my eternal rest, and darkness explodes like a slow-motion gunshot into the far-flung corners of my mind.