A Brief Aneurysm
by Holly Vale
© 1995

In from the virus, the protocol continued charting its own consumption pattern and scanned for exceptional news-bite infotainment. One headline claimed that the Political Apparatus was processing the dominant syntax in a way that read nontraditional and was somehow opening itself up to the new citizenry. Another headline spoke of the rise of youth violence. Still one more headline used the term "false consciousness" to describe retail sales over the last three months.

The protocol flashbacked into a conversation where there was something about his voice calling her and sounding so self-assured and ready to take in her every muscle that she felt feint and her heart dropped into her intestinal tract where the love regurgitated into a slew of stewing options.

Page two of the electronic ink-spread said Bad Drugs had put the metaforecaster in a strange position. She had never thought that being a preprogrammed MTV sex-goddess would lead to this. Many opaque reading skills were causing her to rethink the takeover. She was quoted as saying "So why this? And why now?" The protocol hadn't a clue.

The protocol was ready to expend some credit and make a purchase. First and foremost on her mind was this university bookstore where he worked. He was a musician-junky who embezzled funds so as to support his habit. This was not the perfect parent she was after. It was something worse. It was a kind of morbid temporality.

He asked her if she wanted to keep the receipt. She placed her fingers on the freshly printed paper without taking it out of his hand. She was looking him in the eyes like she wanted to melt into his eyes. He repeated himself:

"Do you want to keep the receipt?"

She couldn't answer. Everything was getting worse. Worse than everything put together in its ultimate state of worseness. Worse than that.