Conversations with My Conscious

Reads: 183  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is an extension to This is how the world ends. It's a same universe, Same people, different time, kind of scenario. I hope this gives just enough insight into the previous story to peek interests, but still leave a tiny bit of mystery in the main character.

Submitted: November 26, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 26, 2013



“Why do you write death?” he asked me. I bit my tongue. I had never really thought about it. It had one of my favorite topics along with disease, depression, and suicide. I guess my mind is a lot like pestilence. Famine is nice too. I can imagine grasshoppers that sit and eat what’s left of a dry year’s wheat. They are a baked color, golden in the sweltering afternoon. In masses and masses they arrive; one for every wish undone. They are the things that separate children from adults. Adults know nothing is indestructible. That’s why I would guess over three-fourths the population are still children until the day they die. That is not necessarily a bad thing. It means someone out there still has hope. Hop on little grasshoppers.

“I don’t know.” I admit. His eyebrows rise in frustration as he breathes in deeply and shifts the side he is leaning on in the chair. He sure is easy to read for someone in psychology. I get the message loud and clear.

“Now, Clare.”

“I’m not lying to you.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Yes you did. In the way you moved.” I’m testing his patience. I know this won’t go over for me, but to watch him formulate his words is well worth it. I can almost see him fading back to college. He is trying to think of a word for me. He wants a label, something to classify me.

“Clare we’ve talked about this.”

“Yeah I know.” I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling. At least he is not satisfied. There is a pause between us, and if it were a gap you couldn’t jump it. I am unreachable. He speaks in a defeated tone.

“When did you begin writing?” He writes little notes on his papers. Is it situational irony to watch someone write about someone writing about someone writing? The correct answer is it’s a headache, and so I stop thinking about it.

“About five, of course, you can’t read it.”

“Why can’t I read it?”

“Not just you, no one can. My hand writing was as shitty then as it is now. If you really want to read the babblings of a little baby you can try.”

“I get the point.” He defers “what did you write about then?” this question makes me think. Admittedly I’ve slept a few times since then.

“War I guess. I wrote a lot of science fiction with aliens and all that jazz.”

“You liked the other worlds?”


“And the power?”

“Yes.” That’s right, and I’m sure he feels like he has me all figured out. “I have a question.”

“Hmm.” He answers all smug and the like.

“Do you not ever wish you could live in a world made just for you, with everything just so? Don’t you wish you had enough power just to be important? My parents left each other that year. I wanted a little attention. I don’t think that is so abnormal. I don’t write power stories now, just death stories. Why don’t you take some notes over that?” I’ve insulted him. I took his little bubble and popped it right off. He is left on the other side of that gap again.  It really is sick how much I enjoy this. It’s the only amusing thing to do in this place.

“Let’s change the subject.” He suggests as he runs his dry cracking hands across his forehead soothing his pulsating temples.

“Okay.” Honestly I’m welcome to this idea. It’s probably the best thing he could do at this point. I’m not feeling very understanding, and I don’t think I’ll be giving him any answers.

“How have you been sleeping?”

“Fine. Yeah it’s fine, like I sleep and stuff.”

“Are you still taking sleeping pills?” The back of my neck is sent into prickles. I can’t talk my way out of this one.

“Yeah, if I don’t I have nightmares.” He just simply nods and writes down a few words on his notepad. The gap is forming again only this time I did not cause it. It has become a natural thing. One that both he and I have come to expect, and just as I am about to say something so out of my character I surprise myself, he speaks.

“I guess it’s time for you to go.”

“Yeah.” I agree, and swiftly gather myself and prepare for a long cold walk back to my car.

© Copyright 2019 NatelinJean. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:




More Literary Fiction Short Stories