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The American Executive on the Holocaust Landscape (PART THREE)

Book By: Patricia McGurk Martin
Literary fiction



That train horn sounded like someone I knew once, a man years ago lost in my childhood. Did I ever know a woman who wasn’t a loving person when I was a child? An isolated terrifying sound like a demented church organ blasting, the sound is angry and big at night in Texas, big and hollow Sforzando with force, and pushed into my sleeping consciousness – waking me, the American Executive with a start in Arlington, Texas in the United States, once America.


Submitted:Apr 27, 2013    Reads: 4    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


THE AMERICAN EXECUTIVE ON THE HOLOCAUST LANDSCAPE, PART THREE (AN EXCERPT)
OR THE HORROR MAN IN THE HOLOLAND
© 2013 PATRICIA L. MCGURK MARTIN
That train horn sounded like someone I knew once, a man years ago lost in my childhood. Did I ever know a woman who wasn't a loving person when I was a child? An isolated terrifying sound like a demented church organ blasting, the sound is angry and big at night in Texas, big and hollow Sforzando with force, and pushed into my sleeping consciousness - waking me, the American Executive with a start in Arlington, Texas, the United States (once of America).
The angry train locomotive horn sometimes blasts repeatedly like a man's horn, at least - a horror horn blowing in the Hollow Land, the Hololand as it is called now, not the Legend of Sleepy Hollow, a Virginia folk tale once written down. It must be the sound of the State here, the Unseen State visible through disturbing sound only at night, late at night almost daylight but still dark - when you have your potentially satisfying REM sleep - rapid eye movement sleep and are concluding some dreams of yours, or dreaming of concluding your dreams.
She had spoken in a pretend fashion just that day to the TV screen in the public fast food restaurant in Central Texas, "Go ahead and look at me. Look at me because here I am - waiting for you to confront me" she spoke to The Editor, the authority, to herself accusing the unseen, invisible but very real critic of her literary life, the unseen critic or critics that she assumed existed somewhere on the television screen in TV land, called "La La Land"
by the American people.
That must have been it, what was "termed" as the newer administration's employees, probably government workers, spoke in slang in the nation's outlying capital areas now (apparently decentralized with more emphasis on "State's Rights"). They named the term a "residue of fear" only - something left over from previous, unsettled feelings - causing her to worry about the train horn as being a source of her personal fear here in Arlington, Texas, and waking her up from sleep.
In her brief stay here in this Texas region, no one had ever mentioned to her, none of the local residents or the police or even the librarians at the library, mentioned that anything was wrong here in Arlington or nearby, so maybe she was worrying for no reason. Her heart raced fast as she sat in her motel bed in the darkness, the bathed darkness from the bathroom light bulb or white globe-shaped fixture in the small room with the biggest light in her dark, dingy motel room (all she could afford), but still the only warm light available.
She had just eliminated all the odd trash-like objects on the floor under the bed inside an open wooden platform frame on the floor under the box springs - picking up black lint, small weird white plastic shape like a hanger and other items, throwing them away as they made her think of the occult which she heard is occasionally active in the United States, but not her point of view. As she cleaned the motel room to her satisfaction, though not a maid, she felt like an exorcist and wished she were paid for eliminating the terror around her through her principles (anywhere) and cleanliness. Her house cleaning (or motel) is not really Puritan but contains an underlying foundation of rational order, with some comfort for her as a person.
Even so, she could hear (really feel) that plane overhead someone told her is a surveillance plane, breathing over her and making her heart race again. She had always had a steady heart and people commented for years how steady her heart is.
She rose early but went back to her bed, still tired from packing her clothes again as a traveler without a home - or any anchors at all in the forbidding land that had been once familiar to her. Did she ever know a man in the United States of America, the country it once was? She knew no one in Central Texas. Not ever did she live here and the vegetation was foreign, not the familiar desert of Western Texas. A hostage in the darkness, she remembered that "Group Think" will never happen again to the American Writer, someone had told her.
Separated from her home by half a continent geographically, several days' journey in a bus and on foot for the lack of public transportation with no buses at all in Arlington, Texas, she had walked a long distance from Fort Worth.
The whole country felt like a jail now, and she can't shake the feeling anymore as she watches people hide as soon as they smile at her, nice people who disappear. She plans to leave, the American Executive with little money, for somewhere to hide, as well herself - somewhere as her Virginia robin sings outside in the darkness what she had once called an American Carol, singing in a shaky young or old voice in the near-light of dawn.
This must be what happened to the real American people with a conscience. Local police had made her feel just that day that her nakenedness is vulnerable because she still feels, as an older woman, beautiful and confident. Car jails seemed to surround her like a lariat of cars, and her dollar store Sharpie pens ran out of ink.




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