Amanda Schoepflin

Apple Blossom

His fingers felt as stalactites in permafrost, as he impulsively insisted the truck along the dark stretch of a road, in what was known as “Night’s Prime”. The pinery dominated his mental comprehension, speech—he, self operated and removed in all figurative languages, his soul. Awakened by pain—his eyes link with its origin, his abdomen pierced in three places, bears no blood? Drive on, 55, 57, 62, 65, 70, 73, 76, 80, 85, 86, 91 miles per hours, miles per second. Why the fuck was he driving so fast? A box of stencils still fresh from paint, clocks with crosses—beside a dove. A democratic red, a disapproving black. Not a mad man, he had not taken any life, aside from bugs on the grill/ windshield. Andalin? Where’s she? Andalin, love of his death, may she still be in with the living? Oh shit. He did it, oh no way, not a fucking way, I, a narrator—am far from all knowing but, when your body refuses to bleed and your humanist of a love is misplaced. There is only one place you can be.
There’s a place in time unknown to most man, because its wonder was only retold through the language of those who cannot speak. The whales of the deep, carried on—tradition of information which seemed to create no logic unto them—only that the info, was to never be erased from their servers. A child of the beat generation—born whale—secretly within a night asked to become a human…
And then, he was.
Word of language then explained a change for whale-human translations. There became two sorts of people: Humanists and humanists infected by Raeracha. Raeracha—the unwanted forced enslavement of a humanist’s mind—the part in which is allowed to remember reason with short term, specifically attacking subjects of emotional logic. The concept of Raeracha reached human form over several thousand years. Before then, the concept was engaged and infecting all whale species. Although as time progressed Raeracha’s powerful force desired the domination of earth itself. Where not to expand greater—than of the human mind? This desire most gradually descended from the ocean to the land—the conversion from whalist to humanist was a great difference indeed.
Whale’s anatomy—their minds were significantly larger, covering 80% of their internal body mass, and swimming as giant storage banks or servers, holding the fate of their world which was at this time: completely covered in water. The earth then was covered by a sphere of ocean, along with the fate carriers of what today is recognized as a condensed version of the nautical whale.
You may come to question, ah well then what had happened to these fate carriers? The world had undergone magnificent transformation over a period of only nine thousand years. It is still unknown—the creation of our solar system, but what is sure through the tradition of Raeracha. The gradual movement of earth toward the sun correlated with the succession of Raeracha from fate carrier to humanistic culture. As the earth moved closer (flaw in gravitational pull) to the sun, the atmosphere was forced to evaporate the oceans supply of 25% in order to feed the suns closeness. Thus leaving many fate carriers to be lost forced into extinction due to excessive breaching.
Connections are yet to be made.

Aidan in the mean time—has been driving threw centuries, accompanied by a box of pre-used stencils.

Make sense of that?


Andalin


Directly in the most indirect way: when my body floats, it doesn’t breathe.

I almost feel high, the thought of there being no chemical to achieve this—frightens me. I can see myself like in an old picture, not black in white, but the sort you see on Sundance.  The sort you can only stand to watch because you wonder how the air on set could smell so stale, and how the grain of film feeds like water in your mind. I, at times wonder how I got so out of step with the simplicity of the world, and its recordings, and its merry go rounds.  I wonder how I let myself get so fucked, when the world knew how to keep it collected, I befriended disarray. We traveled the any of all things.

He breathed into me like the reciprocal of my last breath.

I, Andalin was born into an age of confusion—being alone was almost habitual.

I was 16 (the post graduation from the fields of rendition). I was sixteen. I was ten plus six, three plus three plus five plus five. For a year before then, I do not know who I was—but that I shared a facial canvas with that of hideousness, and a soul of despair. My mother was always on her own emotional sedan ride, my father always existing with our family without fully filling his purpose in desire. The condition of my face—became an outward reflection of the darker emotion. The reason I never was in love, was the reason I never wanted closeness, and the reason beneath that: is simply unsimplified. Insomnia was not a restriction of rejuvenation—it was a depletion of the spirit. I figured—hell I’ve seen my spirit float away before…if it doesn’t give two shits about me why should I give one?

The children of the high school mostly could not comprehend their place in the social hierarchy’s. They were only children, whose parents fed fresh meat on fishing lines to their faces.
But they never could bite.
They knew how to dance, drink alcohol, they could select victims, they could be victimized, they could smoke weed behind the 900 building during the California High School Exit exam—and still pass. Maybe it was about: how much can I get away with and not get caught. Maybe it was about: how much do I fucking hate my childhood, to where I must make your teenage year’s unbearable [statement completely subliminal.] Some read Catcher in the Rye and claimed they met God, and he was in the fingers of JD Salinger, that day when their grandmother was born. If Salinger is a literary prophet, all I have to say is, damn this is…Sparta.
When you’re still in school you always filter into a category, WILLINGLY OR NOT—you have no choice: if you exist you are filtered like coffee, hope you like it black. The more cream the more sugar, the better you taste to everyone’s sense of unreal realism. The thought of an abstract kink to be found in the audio static of a teenage life, most definitely intrigued me.
California never knew cold weather, but it knew frozen hearts. After they stopped beating they had a way of falling to the floor, people like me went around and collected em and threw em off buildings. Just to watch them shatter—the sound set it officially, that motherfucker…yeah she’s dead.

Falling upward,

I had fallen in love with someone after the year of autopilot.

And at the same time the other man of my life has another call of duty.

I knew my dad would leave.

Somehow I just knew. I’m really frustrated now—internally because things both beyond and in my control are all throwing themselves at me at once. My stomach hurts my attachment to pills—is lingering, and I can’t say much other than I've never been so lonely. I still love him. The idea of being stripped of him—Aiden is like being stripped of visual perspective. I met him in a coffee shop of the underground of Aquariute, a small town on the border of a dead urban district. My friend told me one of our favorite bands: Kaleidoscopic discourse was playing there. They were apart of the humanist generation—as were we, and have been for about two years. Aquariute has a strange underwater—heavy haze to its air. There isn’t much air. When you walk you have to walk fast take breaths in buildings trade human breaths those mixed with chemically enhanced ones…then those of your peers—and exit that building fast so your ready to dart to the next. Buildings were constructed in the mid 900’s—and since the city was only accessible through a brick through an alley from the first New York. The motel of which that brick laid and belonged too, was demolished in 1908. Bankruptcy? The bridging of the surreal fate and First Earth preference lay in a brick in a wall of a hotel where whores let the corpulence of law workers descend like deep sea divers between their legs. A whore house? It wasn’t bankruptcy the owner ran the girls too hard and most frequently a dictist would sadly erase their name from the server. Well anyway my friend and I liked to visit old New York City—to get a break from the rediculum of Brooklyn.
We stumbled upon a multicolored parrot with the voice of a computer in haiku it told:
“Purple skies of clouds.
Little girl you aren’t too young.
Be with us alone.”

Then as we scooted closer to the back and the bulk of the old dilapidated building—the parrot in a distressed state introverted himself, his composure a top of rubble. We inched toward him, and unlike a bird he lies down and begins napping. I looked to Addition, told her I couldn’t just leave him; the parrot was far too rare to leave. I cradled the limp and drugged parrot. Its eyes opened slowly—the one I could see straight into had a clear distinct image of squirming roach in flames.

The parrot then dilapidated itself, and most instantly turned to a liquid. I felt its wet on my limbs in a pure solid second. The sort of feeling when you’re filling up a water balloon and it keeps filling and filling—then it pops.

He is gone.

And as I crouch to the dirt ground to recover—I look up and am alarmed at the sight of an aerial crash or collision of which was solemnly audio. All that there was audio in a walking darkness of black. Differed shades of black, kept me thinking, I still had the ability to see.
I had a way of simultaneously killing myself—before school days and weekdays.
As I walked the distant light overtook the black. The composition of my sight was dramatically distorted. Saturation was on high—I was forced into a friendship with sepia, it’s when I knew I had finally broken the Xetrov. I was no longer an auto native citizen of first earth preference.
In one ear my hallucinations began. The mixing of aviation along with aquatic escape ruptured my drum--as a small drummer beats upon my left ear. I hear a scream, then silence. Faintly, steadily, someone as if they gradually turn the dial, the audio pulsated increasingly with each step forward into the light; it escapes the black. I know this: “purity” by KD. It echoed and became intensely personal, gaining complete one line attention to both ears. I was here and couldn’t believe it. Proof, I am now a humanist worthy of surreal fate.
I began to taste the feeling of excitement, and feel the color of amber. Feeling fully alive, I appear one of many in a crowd whisking at the intensity of kaleidoscope’s performance. Effortlessly, I am indulgent, screaming and dancing to everyone’s song. They leave the stage, and we want an encore.

That’s when I traded my feelings for gold; my mind had laid thought upon Aiden—before my eyes could even consider conformation.

He likes his coffee black.

Aiden

“Born unknown into identity, somehow it seems our toughest desire is one we have only thought of—one we’ve yet to physically control, on that we build up so highly in our REM stages, we are forced into living a world of mantras.”
--Documented anonymously lost server 1821

The first time I fell in love, she was nameless, faceless, as I swung a tight turn in the vastness of Callet’s open taiga—my coffee paraded from my cup holder to my lap. Its funny how time works, its so funny…it hurts.
You see what led me on a road of curvature…was absolutely nothing.
Nothing eh? Nothing to the world of science, nothing to a world of reason, this surreal fate is nothing without a medicine to feel a spastic mind. Some friends are born into surreal fate—others knowledge their fate into our triangular space. We’re much more complicated than we know. 18 years ago today I was born, two years ago—I started living. It was then I knew she was lost in first earth.
My grandparents have always told me about the humanist’s generation and its possibility of passing into first earth. Such clarifications were never established. Although our worlds are of one world, they share space in different time. One thing and one thing only connect realities: The under developed/ naturally selected/ theory of romanticism. In both times we were move forward with a single connection of emotion through telepathy (an underdeveloped impulse of all people.) It allows us to experience an unfamiliar feeling, always of which is a person who fulfills the manifest destiny of the humanists inclusive 7th sense.
And when I watched the eastern lights—my tongue tasted Andalin, her name came to me a year after I knew she was lost. That’s the thing since the mindlanches, our programmed emotions have been construed, repair has only till today shown efforts toward results. We’re all confused. It comes back to us in the documented servers, the fate carriers of Raeracha. All things of a human function were replaced—but emotion must be developed. A stage where this current generation is breaking through, now that I know Adaline’s alive with out me; I know how it feels to live dead.
In the most reluctant of times, I find myself generally alone; I love her mindful essence almost to the point where I find myself in situations I shouldn’t be. When she laughs, I want to make her laugh again—so I can picture what her smile really does look like.

Last week, I came alive.

“The generality of humans are their impulses to repeat their successor’s greatest creations. The complex side of the brain humans uphold is the ability to create their own. “
--Mindlanch server 707 (1783)


What seemed to be an unexplainable stitch in time, turned to be an exact measure of the condition of these chosen victims of love.

The meeting of their bodies was untamed; the eloquence of their physical redemption came into being 4 years after. Their breath first breathed, in an existence of one time frame—held its crisp after wake for the rest of their small lives. It was one hour they were given to reveal each other’s blessed needs, and that one hour seemingly felt worth all the hours ever given in the time from birth unto death.

It begins…now.
59mins/60secs.

Past the mindlanches, recovery began. Andalin broke threw again into a conscious blackout—discovering how to hone her blackouts—which were what she recognized as portals connecting first earth into surreal fate, she decides after months of flipping back and forth months of blackouts time after time each day, to pick one location.
One location?
A true humanist’s life expectancy is to be spent in surreal fate among others of its kind, thus fulfilling the process of Raeracha. How does she know, how is she even sure she’s really cut out to live a life fitting. Her love, of which she only has mental connentivties with— Aiden, is indeed worth leaving first earth for entirely. Why were there apparent strings tying her to first earth. Andalin, detached emotion from her “family” at age 8, when she witnessed her mothers misery.

First earth:

In a rage of relentlessness mother stormed from the master bedroom of the trailer, down the hall with a knife fitting to cut a cooked bird at the rim of her neck. The pounding of her six foot frame left audio notches in the degradable flooring—not really tile, but not hardwood.
“WHY’D YOU HAVE TO, WHY THE FUCK DID YOU..THIS IS OVER, I AM DONE, AND I AM FUCKING DONE. I AM DONE.”
The hallway seemed narrower as she reached its end, Phillip on an act of impulse runs to restrain his wife. The strain in her resistance, the strain in his efforts to free her of the instrument, could be sensed from the heart and mind of a 11 month old child. The tenseness of the stale and once nicotine covered walls began caving inward enhancing the situation.
“STOP, STOP JUST LET ME, JUST FUCKIGN LET ME!!!!”
Grunts of fighting body to body seemed as opposing forces, two magnets waiting for the other to flip first.
“CALL THE POLICE, CALL THEM!”
8 years old, and unfamiliar, she turns to the phone hanging on the wall, its twisting chord connecting the receiver to the wall. She dials:
“hello? 911 response, how can I help you?” a feminine tone answers.
“My mom and dad are fighting on the floor…they’re fighting on the floor, and she has a knife…” her innocence whimpers into the phone.

The struggle subsided, as her mothers force and will grew tired quickly
She flipped first, like the true magnets they are—the broken always flips faster. Her mother loaded into an ambulance, as she held her brother to her chest—peeking out through the window held open with a pencil. The red pleather couch was cold, but still stuck to her skin. Andalin knew not much about the world, but she knew it was hard, and she knew she could not fall subject to its punches. The ambulance slowly pulled away from space 125, of the Palms Mobil Estates Park. Following the exit a cop car, and the exiting of her innocence, what seemed to be the beginning of a puzzling mystery novel of which Andalin was the main character of…

How’s that for an attention grabber. Are you hooked?

She had enough of First Earth, she had enough…would she be closing a chapter of her pre existing novella, or is this the end of her book? Does Surreal Fate hold a new story, or is it the humanists dream.

She lies on her blue comforter—door locked in what now was her apartment. Closed her eyes…and slices.
Her neck stood imperfect for once in her short term.
Halfway through her pain—stood Aiden on a bow of a boat, skies purple light with thick alive positive clouds. Full speed ahead the boat sailed into the greens of the water…he approaches her with the thought of romanticism in his eyes. On his shoulder the parrot from the rubble. Cleaned up eyes gleaming crawls onto her finger and she holds him to her heart. The wind overtakes the moment. And the sun erased into several million apple blossoms, a float in the weather.

It’s pretty close to perfect.







Credo Mentis.
[Trust in the mind.]