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There is a small, black spot on my left eye. Well, not on it per se. You can’t see it from the outside. My eye doctor says it’s neurological, yet another complication of my accident, of post-concussion syndrome and post-traumatic vision disorder. If I ever recover, the spot will disappear. Its going will be a sign.

Light triggers the spot, mostly. Sudden changes. Moving light. Bright light. Today I look out the window just as the clouds shift, and, when the sun peeks out, so does the spot, moving irregularly across my vision. It likes the chase.

But then the spot doubles itself. Bumps my nose. For a moment, I fear the ghost in my brain has manifested itself into the world.

And I suppose it has.

My husband and I can never seem to finish a bag of nectarines before one goes bad, turns to mush beyond edible, turns brown, then white, turns into a refrigerator magnet for fruit flies.

My eyes struggle to focus between the neurological spot and its stunt double. Like a digital camera navigating the blurry to find the central image.

I sit down on the edge of my bed. Watch the spot and the fruit fly dance in my view, tangled in each other’s arms. Both direct results of unpaid attention.


Anissa Lynne Johnson is a disabled writer and speaker from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Her work has appeared/is forthcoming in The Daily Drunk, Press Pause, Wig-Wag, and elsewhere. More often than not, Anissa can be found walking in the woods or watching the sort of movies that *sigh* never win awards. Say hello on Twitter @anissaljohnson.

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