This is a story about a girl. She sent it to me one day, with a little note. Thump. That was all it said. I send you this story because I think she would want it, to help you thump, just a little more.

The first sound was a thump. At the very start of this very long Earth was a thump. It went like this: thump. It was a heart. The heart moved. It pumped. It ran on electricity. It thumped.

She could feel thumps. Thump thump. Pause. Thump thump. She lay on the pavement and felt the thumps within her rattle her ribs.

The thumps told a story. They rose and fell like her voice as she sang. Fast. Thump thump thump. Slow. Thump. Thump. They kept time to her mind as it spoke.

When her mind sang, it was pretty. It was loud; like someone mixing green and red paint on a canvas. It was crowded; like spinning until her eyes could see only colors. It was pretty.

When her mind sang, it was pretty; but it wasn't true. Nothing beautiful is ever true. The thumps told her that. They talked sometimes, but her mind wouldn't listen.

When the thumps told her to sing, her mind closed her mouth; when the thumps told her to dance, her mind stopped her feet.

Her mind was very angry with the thumps. “Stop!” it would cry. But the thumps kept on thumping and her mind kept right along. It ignored the thumps. Mostly.

Her mind forgot a lot. Her mind forgot that the thumps came first. Her mind thought it was big and strong. The thumps laughed. They had endured a thousand life times.

Thump. Thump. She met a lot of people with thumps. There were fast thumps, slow thumps, big thumps, small thumps. They beat at different times- they crashed and collided mid-thump.

She went away, once, because she thought she could leave behind the thumps. They were to noisy, she said. They weren't “logical”. The thumps followed her anyways. She gave in.

The pounding of her feet matched the thump thump of her heart. She was running away, running away from her mind. The thumps urged her on. “Go,” they repeated. Over and over.

She met a boy then, with the same thumps. They pressed themselves together and the thumps sang louder for joy. Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump.

The thumps grew louder and louder as she saw the boy more and more. Fingers intertwined. Thump. Lips locked. Thump. Bodies encircled. Thump.

There were too many thumps. They crowded her heart, yelling, pulling, twisting, begging. So many thumps. They grew and grew into monsters that swarmed through her blood.

So many thumps can be bad for a person. Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump

The boy knew about thumps, he said. He told her about their thumps, said they weren’t “real” thumps. He wanted to find more, more thumps, more.

Thump?

t h u m p. t h u m p. t h u m p.
t h u m p.
t
h
u m
p.
t
h
u
m
p .
t
h
u
m
p.
t
h
u
m
p.

(The editor is sorry to note that the words have fallen off this page and cannot be recovered.)

There were no more thumps. No more sound besides screaming. When thumps stop, the rest of the organs get very angry. They like to make themselves heard. Who knew that the thumps could be important? The girl didn’t. She had thought they were little toys, to wind up and recharge. Always another battery to add, always another way. Until they were gone.

Then there was screaming. And screaming. And screaming.

Her mind was screaming. All the times it spent hating the thumps, all the years spent ignoring them- and then they were gone. Finally. At last. The mind should have been happy.

Her mind learned. It learned what the girl had. Thumps. She needed them. Needed them everywhere she went. They were her. They were her music.

You never know, it seems, when the music will stop. Will it stop mid song? Will the final cadence ring out? Will the first note be the last?

Only the thumps know, and they might tell you. They might, if you listen carefully. They’ll tell you stories too, wonderful stories about magic and electricity.

Thumps. Who knew?