Comatose

Comatose

Poetry and prose interwoven to create a tapestry of the written word, prepared for the cutting words of reviewers and awaiting the presentations of awards; golden stickers that would mar the cover of shannon's work. Appreciation and criticism based on subjectivity, individual truth, the absence of absolute. She wished for a diving being to give her their opinion, unmarred by the faults of humanity. To see what her work truly rated as.

Ground persimmon coated her tongue. A futile effort to prolong what could not be helped. Her body's metabolism was too quick. She couldn't intake food fast enough to satiate her stomach. Her spouts of psycho-analyzation of her words inked on paper by a known printing press, available to the public. The vortex of her mind, translated and unleashed on the unsuspecting frightened her. Here she was, in all of her flawed humanity, acquescing to a continual flaying by the insipid public society that she had despised for ten years.

Her work didn't seem that complex. She had taken the excruciating pain to delete each word of excess, leaving the piece tight and compacted. Simplified to the state that even a literary fool could understand her points. But she had made sure that the words that flowed between the lines would be amazingly complex, and those closest to her caliber would understand every letter she had left unwritten; maybe someone like herself would find the contrast between what she'd written and what she'd implied amusing enough to laugh aloud at.

The grounded seed slowly began its seeping descent from her tongue to the vertical drop of her throat, coating the surface with an almost painful slide from mucous membrane against sharp grains of grated seed. This slow descent of painful delight made her think of her contrast as a superb child prodigy to a dysfunctional human being who could only sustain consciousness so long as her system was processing physical nutrition.

As the tingle of spice scraping her throat began to hurt, Shannon accused each granule of an offense she had suffered. When she had formulated about two hundred accusations and her head had become sore from maintaining such anger, and taking such vigorous logic streams, consciousness slipped from her.

The fleshy pink of her liver processed the rapid decomposition of the persimmon, and receiving nothing more, informed the brain to not let Shannon regain consciousness until the situation had been rectified. The brain agreed, and sent a relay to the heart to stop working so hard.

Sprawled on the kitchen floor, arrayed like an S, Shannon's hair slowly cascaded to the position it would maintain until someone found her.