Modern Vision Quest: Past, Present, and Future : Continued, Part 2.

Connor and Aiyanna sat on a rolled out blue and green, yellow striped fabric. Connor folded his legs indian-style to follow Aiyanna’s lead.

    Aiyanna placed her folded hands on her lap as she closed her eyes. As the wind flowed against her bangs and swayed her braids, Connor stared at her. She looked so beautiful, at peace, calm, relaxed.

   Meditating, right, Connor thought. He folded his hands on his legs and, after admiring her beauty for a while, closed his own eyes.

   Connor had had meditated a few times in his life, when he felt his life was off-balance and needed time to center himself to get back in focus on who he really was. It stopped the world. Nothing could ruin the moment. It was all his. The constant nagging of technology, the notifications of his turned off cell phone could not stop it. He no longer felt the compulsive need to browse the internet, watch t.v., or play video games: All he needed was himself. The constant attempts of life and everything in it clamoring for his attention—advertisements trying to convince him to buy their products; news stories informing him about every single bit of important information for that day; social media feeds, of people writing about their lives and companies and magazines trying to get his attention for their products and articles so he will share, like, and comment as if his one voice actually mattered and as if everyone actually cared about what he’d comment, all of it scrolling through his brightly lit screen; emails filling up his inbox desperately wanting read; his emotions signaling him how alone he is; his needing to go to the gym to get muscular so the women will become more attracted to him by loving his bod; his boss wanting him to take an extra shift because someone called off when he never called off; his YouTube fans begging for more videos or that one who complains how he messed his video up; his school homework and tests marking his wrongness eternally onto paper, letting him know how wrong he was and how much more right he could have been; his father telling him he was never good enough; his brother begging him to play with him; the rushing of traffic and cars hostilely cutting him off in a hurry; his ambitions burning at him to become a better and more famous YouTuber, never having enough likes, comments, views, or subscribers, and feeling the need to record parts of his life so life wouldn’t forget about him when he was dead like it did so many of the other billions of animals and humans; his feeling the intense, imperative need of improving his overall life, like climbing up the social ladder, acquiring more money so he could buy nicer things, earning that college degree certifying that he passed all of the necessary but arbitrary requirements, living up to the impossibly lofty but contradictory expectations of women; his knowing that he will never, ever be good enough for life and everything in it—all of it fell away and disappeared.

   Poof.

   Like magic.

   Best magic trick ever, he thought. Thank god, it feels nice. He felt his body relax instantly, his trapezius muscles and upperback loosening. Connor breathed in deeply, for one, two, three, four, five, six seconds, and then breathed out deeply, for one, two, three, four, five, six seconds—just as how he was taught by a mediating app on his smartphone. And he smiled. He didn’t mean to. But he did.

   Connor felt the weight of his body, scanning it from head to toe, becoming aware of it, becoming aware of how he felt, becoming aware of his breathing, becoming aware of his thoughts, becoming aware that he was in control of everything, becoming his own God.

   Man, he forgot how much he missed meditating. He liked to think that he was rewiring the brain the way he wanted, instead of life and everything in it taking control of his brain, as if he were an animal—specifically, a monkey—in a science experiment, scientists testing how they could get him to act a certain way, or seeing how he’d act under particular situations, or how they could achieve the desired outcome with the procedures they put him through.

    I’m no fucking monkey, he thought to himself. I’m an intelligent human-fucking being.

   Man, that really hit a nerve.

   Crap, Connor thought, unaware that his thoughts were already pulling at him. He brought himself back and cleared his mind. And he enjoyed silence.

   Then if a thought came, he let the mind think if it wanted to think. He thought if Aiyanna liked him or not. What a stupid thought, he thought to himself. Was he really going to let an intelligent human being like himself succumb to these stupid, petty human desires? he wondered. But he is human after all. There’s nothing he can do if he likes a girl or not. Because he is a human, he knew that emotions were his brain’s way of trying to tell him something. But because his brain felt it, because it triggered that emotion, does it mean it’s right? Would it be wrong to override it? Can he even override it? Emotions ruined his thinking. He hated that. But he knew they had a role in the intellect too.

   Stop, he thought, I’m thinking too much. He pulled his thoughts back once again, clearing his mind.

   And then he thought again, about going through life, it being like prey versus predator. And life having no rules—only power. Power represented the correct rule. Which meant he had little power, because rules pulled him this way and that each day.

   Grr, Connor thought in frustration, pulling himself back to peace and focusing on silence. His mind really liked to think.

   He took a frustrated breath and opened his eyes, and saw Aiyanna’s face composed, representing complete peace and beauty. It put him in a trance, and calmed him down. He stared at her a while longer. Gosh, he thought, he could stare at her all day. He smiled, and closed his eyes.

   I wonder what she’s been thinking the whole time, he thought, or not thinking.

   Aiyanna was happy to lead the meditation, noticing that Connor followed suit without word or complaint. She peeked at him by opening her eyes slightly, and saw him staring at her. She kept her face composed despite this. She peeked again later and saw his eyes closed.

    Good, she thought. At least he wouldn’t be staring at her the whole time while she meditated.

  

   

The Black Death and The Vegetable of Life

 Kevin M. Scrima

Ethnic Fiction—Professor Murabito

4/2/15

A story I am writing for my ethnic fiction class. Enjoy!

The Black Death and The Vegetable of Life

   The town of Cork in Ireland was mostly comprised of poor farmers and low-class workers who were illiterate and went starving half of the time.  

    It was April, and the sun was shining brightly. Cullen put on his brown leather shoes and stepped outside in the warm, Summer-like air. The morning birds chirped in the nearby trees, and one flew over the potato field that Cullen was walking toward. He kneeled and inspected one of the potatoes. His hand cupped what appeared to be a black potato. When he held it up, it crumbled into black mush. “Huh?” Cullen exclaimed as the black mush crumpled out of his hand. “I’ve never seen that before…” he said as he stooped to look at another nearby potato. “This one is black, too,” he observed, picking it up. He gave a gentle squeeze, and it turned into a wet, black mush. “Is this like a disease? There’s no way these are edible without getting sick.” He dropped the mush and wiped what remained on his hand against his worn pants.

   Cullen stood up and walked around quickly, observing as many potatoes as he could. He felt a sudden sense of urgency. The next potato he saw was black. And another one. And another one. He was counting, then estimating. There were still groups of brown potatoes, not tainted by the black. But there were more black then brown. “Oh no…” he muttered, feeling shock go throughout his body. “This isn’t good. Pa is gonna be upset. We are gonna go hungry by the looks of it.”

   Cullen ran back to the mud cabin. Outside, a basket-shaped orifice acted as a chimney. The window had broken panes stuffed with a wisp of straw. And there were rags that were filthy and nasty around the unfitting door and acted as outside walls. He opened the wooden door which had a hole at the bottom. The pig must have broken it. Inside, the walls were tottering, crumbling mud. He saw a chicken on top of his Pa who was sleeping on tattered rags. When Cullen neared the chicken it fluttered its wings and jumped off. He kneeled and shook Pa. “Pa, wake up!”

   His Pa grunted and grumbled. “Cullen, what is it?” he asked.

   “The potatoes,” Cullen said. “Something happened to our potatoes!”

   Pa sat up and opened his green eyes. “What? That can’t be…” he tried standing up then grunted.

   “Pa, let me help,” Cullen said, placing his Pa’s arm over his shoulder as his Pa stood. “Your ankle is still swollen from falling.”

   “Show me,” Pa said.

   Cullen led Pa out the door as he limped along. “They are black,” Cullen said. “And mushy. Look.” He reached down and grabbed a pile of black mush and showed him.

   “My…” Pa said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. This is unheard of.” He took a piece of the black mush from Cullen and rubbed his fingers against it. Then he looked around their potato patch. “They aren’t even potatoes anymore… they’re just… mush.” He dropped the mush and as he started to tilt over, Cullen supported him by placing his shoulder under his arm again. “It’s like an… evil plague befell upon the potatoes.”

   “It would appear so, Pa,” Cullen said.

   Pa said, “It reminds me of the old stories about the Black Death. Except it’s the potatoes and not the humans this time.”

   “Yes, they are black and dead,” Cullen said. “I wonder if this has happened to other people’s potatoes or just ours?”

   “Go find out for us, Cullen. I am in no condition for travel. I will stay and attend to things here once I wake up more and salvage any potatoes I can.”

   Cullen led Pa back to the mud cabin. “Yes, rest a bit.”

  Pa sat down on the dirty rags. The chicken fluttered toward the doorway but Cullen gently kicked it. The chicken bawked as it retreated back inside.

   “Just be careful,” Pa said. “I don’t know if what plagues the potatoes can harm us too. Wash your hands in the river and don’t touch your face.”

   “I will, Pa,” Cullen said. “Be back soon,” he said as he shut the wooden door. He ran to the dirt path toward the river up ahead. What is going on? Cullen wondered.  

   When he got to the river, Cullen kneeled, placing his black hands in the cold water, and began rubbing his hands together, getting rid of all the black dirt and mush. He then washed his face. What if the water is tainted too? he wondered. Would it be safe to drink? Are other foods or crops affected? There were so many questions popping up in his head.

   Cullen stood and jogged toward the Clachans, the small communal cluster. He admired the rolling green hills of the countryside as he made his way toward one of the well-known farms in the community.

   

Sucked into Organizations and Activities

I'm thinking about my past, since I'm about to graduate college. I can't say I have any memorable college experiences. It was just college. I don't even know if it was the right place for me. Or if it's the right place for me at all. Tonight, it's made me depressed. It sucks the life out of me.

I'm thinking about how life,  or an organization, tries to suck you into anything it can. Schools suck students into their schools. Sport teams suck them into their teams. Colleges suck eager students into their campuses. Religious organizations suck people into their own religion. Many are sucked into their first job. What im getting at is, I wonder at times, when did I--ME--actually make the decision to do these things? It's like your best friend sucks you into an activity you dont want to do, and then you dont know why youre there. Was it his choice, or was it the friend's choice that influenced him?

The thought makes me depressed.