ticketjohnson

[ticketjohnson]

Brain damage was never a big deal for me. A blow to the back of my head essentially knocked out my color vision. My eyes are perfect, 20/20 with all three cones, but my brain refuses to acknowledge the light spectrum.

At least the arcane happily slid its way between my ears. I see colors now, though not as colors once were. They move and breathe and reach out to touch the world around them. The red of the apple morphs to a deep purple that bleeds into the air around it. And before I even reach for it, it's reaching for me. A whisp, a light lick in the air, the color beacons me forward and sure enough, my fingers come to wrap around the apple.

The sky is alive. My old memories make it seem dead. Flat and blue. But now, oh now it's singing. It swirls and diverges across the planes of time and space. I see the reflection of the universe in its technicolor patterns.

And while my reflection causes me to startle and the people around me look more akin to a child's drawings, I would be a fool to not be grateful for what the arcane has gifted me. New sight that lives, breathes, and dies with me.

When a mage is badly injured, magic sometimes "fills in the gaps"—growing an arcane hand or leg. You suffered brain damage that would have killed most. Magic filled in your mind.

[ticketjohnson]

"write it out" my therapist had said. So every night, page after page, I scratched my grievances into the paper before crushing it between my hands and tossing it over the side of my bed. Out of sight, out of mind.

As I allowed myself to relax into the pull of deep sleep, the gnarled purple fingers of the beast beneath my bed stretched out, sinking its claws into the discarded wad. It drew each note into the depths of its dark retreat. The collection grew along with the vivid imagination of the beast.

With each story it read, each negative recount of my life, it came to know evil from my eyes. The hunger for justice was naturally a consequence. It slunk out in the night, leapt between shadows, and slithered beneath the crack of the neighbors door.

I woke to hear the terrible tragedy. A carbon monoxide leak, a freak accident, choking the cranky man out in his sleep. That night's crumpled note was different, written in pink rather than red, flung high into the air rather than slammed into the floor.

The following week, another horrible accident. The coworker whose breath was always working down my neck careened through a major intersection. Full speed, no brakes. They had swerved away from oncoming traffic, straight into the light pole on the corner. Tore the vehicle nearly in half.

As I kicked the written confession of my delight under my bed, the beast gripped tightly around the oil-slicked brake line and devoured the scribbled words of praise with a grin.

Your harassing neighbor dies. Then a bullying coworker dies in a crash. Within a month, people you’ve had bad blood with start dying. The police are watching you closely—but you haven’t done anything… at least, not that you know of.

[ticketjohnson]

Humans hate to remember we are animals.

Our existence is no different than other wildlife. For centuries we were animals. We still are and always will be. We are not special.

[ticketjohnson]

I've had dreams in which I experience the end of a life.

As a young girl, barefoot and gleeful, I raced down the dirt path towards the tin-sided trailer shining in the sun.

The leader, the savior, our bridge to divinity sat inside perched on the sink counter. He was messy, hair tangled as always, but dressed in clothes I had never seen before. And across from him

A woman

Tall, dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothes, sharp piercings, brooding energy. She didn't belong here there.

I turned to him. He refused to look at me. Why? Because of her? She didn't belong. Had he let her in? Why? For the small paper she was rolling between her fingers, sealing shut with a lick of her lips? For the crumbled green on the table?

I reached for him, refusing to let the oppressive energy of the trailer dampen my faith. He rolled his eyes. A flash or movement and a snarl of his lips, and my stomach burned.

I gripped my side. My shirt grows warm and saturated. I couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, could only stare at him.

Why? After all that I had done for him? After all of the love I had given and blind faith I had devoted? I had given my life for him; I put up with his favoritism for other members and fought my way into his spotlight and he hurt me?

My chest hurt more than the fatal wound he had put my stomach. As I cried out, as my face crumbled into an ugly contortion of betrayal, the woman watched unaffected.

I stumbled out of the door without a glance from the man I had loved with my soul. I could only make it a few feet before collapsing in the dirt, blood mixing with the earth to create a clay that stuck to my clothes and hands.

Why, why, why, why, why, why, why

[ticketjohnson]

Why did I wait

Now I'm stressed

And stressing over every possible opportunity I might be missing again

I don't want to fail again

How much do invest into this

Fuck don't laugh like that

It makes me ache and I hate yearning

I hate wanting and I hate feeling lost

I hate how I'm constantly looking for confirmation outside of my own thoughts

Always asking for a sign or a push or a shove or a stab of reality

Like a cold wash of ice across my feverish anxious skin I realize behind my haze I've created more distance

That desert I dreamed of crossing has grown through my hesitation

The fear of a few feet has morphed into miles

And I've never been a good runner

I've never been good at running

[ticketjohnson]

Is Garbage Beautiful?

I don't mean the garbage we salvage, spray paint, and glue together. I don't mean the discarded material we transform. I mean the heaps of waste in a landfill, the overflowing trash can on city sidewalks, and the cigarettes littering the gutters. Is there beauty there?

Is there beauty in our garbage because it symbolizes our existence through consumption? Is there beauty in the candy wrapper in the flowers because it shows a child has been there?

Maybe we can answer this by thinking about what makes garbage ugly. It rots and smells.

It attracts bugs and bacteria. It contaminates our natural resources and will remain in the soil for centuries. It strangles the turtles, the whales, and the birds. It encroaches on our idyllic suburbs and industrial complexes. It stands as a reminder of our existence through consumption. It stands as a reminder of our own waste.

Is there beauty in that? Is there beauty in things unsightly and grotesque? In things that make us pinch our noses and turn away?

Maybe there is beauty in garbage. Maybe there is something beautiful about seeing the impact our lives make. And beauty in being uncomfortable with that impact.

Perhaps garbage holds an undiscovered beauty. One that we can't see because we refuse to face the reality of our wastefulness.

[ticketjohnson]

As I stood alone surrounded by vegetables frozen and sealed, I found myself restless, itching for an answer.

My sister had left me moments before in search of an answer to her own question. Her intended destination had been spoken to me, and yet slipped from my mind.

Rather than venturing off to wander in circles, I remained where I stood in hopes she would return. One hundred thoughts bubbled in my brain.

Where is she? She's taking so long. Should I go find her? Is she waiting for me? Maybe she's lost. God, why is this taking so long? Why is this taking

Seconds.

Only seconds had passed. Mere seconds were "too long" for me to wait. Since when have I become so impatient? Since when have I come to believe myself better than a few seconds of waiting?

And I felt fear. Fear for my sanity and for my consciousness. I feared all of the changes I have yet discovered and all of the ones that have been planted by someone else. By something else.

And as the seconds passed, I came to realize I could see them. They were in the steps of a bearded man, the spinning of a cart's wheels, the movement of my own lungs breathing for me. The seconds I had so despised were no longer invisible markers of time, but the physical movement of the world. How could I hate such a thing? How could I hate such a thing to the point where I wished for anything but to experience it?

A familiar face rounds the corner. My sister speaks:

"I thought you were going to come find me."

Had she too waited? Had she felt the same itch to run from time? The same nagging impatience that I had?

Maybe.

Maybe I am not the only one to fall victim to instant stimulus. Maybe I am not the only one who has grown to despise a single moment without purpose.

I know that I am not the only thing moving through time. And I know I am not the only one experiencing its changes.

[ticketjohnson]

there are calcified layers of shame in my soul that you could carbon date like rock strata

[ticketjohnson]

Source: amberwithan_a

[ticketjohnson]

Written June 1st, 2021

Prompt from Reedsy: You thought he was dead, but there he is, right in front of you on the street, smiling.

I thought he was dead. No, I knew he was dead. I saw him in the casket. I watched as it was eased into the ground. Yet there he was, standing under a street lamp, smiling at me. Wicked shadows stretched across his face, making his presence all the more terrifying. The thought of running away went through my head, but I was frozen. It was like my feet had been glued to the sidewalk. I watched in horror as he started to mouth something to me. I couldn’t make out the words in the poor lighting of the night. My heart was racing and the bag of groceries in my hand began to feel light as a feather. Nothing around me mattered anymore. Not when he began to step towards me. I let out a strained huff of air that clouded in front of me. Each step he took echoed in my ears.

“Please,” I whispered. “Don’t.”

His smile grew wider as he got closer. A tone began to ring in my head. The closer he got, the more electric the air became. I managed to take a single step backwards and reminded myself to breathe. He’s dead, I repeated in my head. He’s dead and he’s not coming back. My thoughts did nothing to quell the fear building inside of me.

“Stop!”

“Already?” His voice whispered in my head. “But we’ve only just started.”

My vision blurred. The only thing I could see was his figure, stepping towards me but never getting any closer. His footsteps picked up pace, as did my heart. He started to run. I watched as his hand seemingly stretched cross dimensional boundaries right in front of my face. His fingers stretched, reaching for something inside my head. I felt a nauseating pull within my consciousness and tried grabbing his hand.

Suddenly, a car whizzed past me on the street. In the blink of an eye, he was gone. The feeling, the vision... It was all gone. Not a trace of his presence was left in front of me. I stared after the car that had passed. Though it was too dark to make out any details of the car, I did see one thing:

A string of rosary beads and a cross hanging from the rear view mirror.