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John Holbrook
Hell

Words would leap from the paper if I were to describe the reality of this experience. Hell was not beneath the ground; Hell was found in the hot and humid climate of a modern-day meeting of two people. The meeting consisted not of two infamous beings, no jerky between Jeff and Albert, no tea between Hitler and Stalin, no jokes between The Joker and Loki, . . . but instead a casual day between two people whose names have no significance in history. Hell arose in the disconnection of the words espoused. We both heard the sound of a tree falling, but no tree was ever seen. Although words were said, they were said in an empty way: The words were but empty representations unstable and inappropriate for the construction of even a facsimile of meaning. The air might as well have been mostly carbon dioxide; we weren’t using our oxygen for anything other than self-preservation. It was mental rape. Comical common sense communicated, “It’s not me. It’s you.”

John Holbrook participates in the Floyd County Early College Academy. “Thankfully,” he writes, “that does not define me. I am a poignant polymath with multiple moods and fantastically fond façades.”

 

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