Ruby LaPorta



excerpt from ongoing project, primary
a short story about coming to terms with yourself 


Every night before bed, my mind would pass through a ritualistic ceremony of thought-- a prayer manufactured by my young mind, but one so distant from ideas of a god. The words solely resonated with me as a superstitious knock-on-wood. Fearing that my unspoken thoughts would curse the life I lead, I was scared the world would burn and that I would be there to watch the melancholic downfall in oranges and greens. After hearing about the biblical armageddon and films anticipating the fall of man by moons unbound by their planet captors, my little head couldn’t bear the thought. Three (1. knock, 2. on, 3. wood) secure raps on my bunk bed and i would fall sound asleep.

I couldn’t help but be perpetually worried. Worried about the sun colliding with our planet, worried about my family falling ill and not being able to do anything about it.

I clearly recall one day in elementary, playing outside under the same sun I knew would blow us all up, and for once, I felt at ease. The wood chips snuck into my shoes and poked at my soles but I smiled and played tag with the same kids that would break my heart; a foreshadowing, perhaps, of the night a few years ago when we got too drunk and walked to the playground and played games with our eyes closed and arms outstretched as we held on to the primary-colored metal bars and plastic slides. And I bruised myself on my knees but it didn’t hurt until the next morning.

I bruise too easily.

The hyperconcious emerged from the preconcious ego.