by Jen Larsen
I’ve almost got it. There’s a headache at the back of my head, right above my neck, and I know that’s how it starts. The primitive part of my brain flaring into life, burning up all the useless parts of the inside of my head, turning everything into ash except for the strongest parts of my mind, the parts made of steel and stone.
It’s too bright in the parking lot, and I’m almost out of cigarettes, but that hardly matters.
If I keep concentrating, I can feel it inside. If I concentrate hard enough, I can see it outside. I see the world vibrating like the string of a violin. I have plucked it. I can see things shimmer; I can see the moment before everything begins, shivering there. No one else can see that potential, but I do.
The secretary, who should go find her own place to smoke, looks at me sideways and I wonder how much she knows.
Once it happens, everyone will see it, though. Everyone will see what I can do. I will change the world, move the mountains and burn down the sea without ever lifting a finger. I will concentrate, I will harness the power of my mind.
On my next break, I’ll make a list of heads that I need to explode.