“Manifest Destiny” by Larissa Thomas

"Manifest Destiny" Larissa Thomas

Debra’s figured out the keys to the Universe. She’s practically an expert. Basically a physicist. Where attention goes, energy flows. What you focus on expands. She’s pirated every book and workshop by Hicks Goddard Dispenza Zenkina Frances Hay Hill. Her trailer park comrades don’t realize it, but she’s a fuckin’ genius and doesn’t belong in a place like that. Not with people like them.

Debra’s got enviable pin legs and her C-cups are dynamite. Lady’s a dazzler. A pleasure to behold. She’s the vibration of her dream home. She’s a lilac jacuzzi and a four-poster waterbed. The energetic match to a 1970 cherry red Buick Skylark. Atomic mirror for a dusty rose velour jumpsuit, sapphire piñata, scorpion-shaped fountain that eternally flows with champagne and never needs to be cleaned.  

Leaning back in her plastic chair smoking a Pall Mall, she spies a storm on yonder. Debra intuits it’s not just a natural disaster. She conjured it. Been practicing the Law of Attraction for weeks. A cyclone of yearning hurtles towards Camelot Toe Trailer Park at 88 miles an hour. Just like she scripted. Visualized. 369’d. Defined and declared. Everything she desires is nearly upon her.

“I fuckin’ told ya!” she screams. Ciggie half-spent, dangling from her frosted lips as she stands up, the lawn chair near snapping from the enthusiastic thrust of her thirty-five-year-old hindquarters. The soundtrack of Debra’s Best Life is an arrangement of airborne metal torpedoing single-pane windows, screeching tires on gravel and sticker-covered guitars percussively slapping vinyl siding. 

“Debbay, you shitstain bimbo!” JibJab hollers, tossing beers, tobacco products and binders indiscreetly bursting with his favourite porno mags into the back of his rusty Chevy. “There’s a fuckin’ tornado headed straight for us!” 

A tornado of everything Debra desires.

JibJab shakes his greasy head and spits out a hunk of chaw, going back for one last box of phlegmorabilia. His brother, Biggy Bag, ropes his prized possessions - poorly taxidermied roadkill and a papier mache beer fridge sculpture of their mother - into his matching rust-bucket.

Small minds. They couldn’t possibly understand Debra’s vision; quantum shifting out of a bunkie, wedged between Jib Jab the jumbo jack-off’s trailer and Biggy Bag’s converted car-zebo, into an aspirational micro-mansion subdivision. Transcendental she-bologna in a negative energy manwich, no more. Their jealousy won’t stop her.

She glides into her shanty and gracefully removes her prized mermaid costume hanging on the collapsed clothes rack. Dress for the job you want. Dress for the life you desire. Be your future self now. 

She exquisitely experiences abundance and freedom as she stuffs herself into a shimmering emerald tail and pink plastic shell bra. Deliciously embodies orgasmic lightness as she accentuates the look with a stunning zirconia shrimp necklace, places shimmering pins in still-processing just-permed hair, which burns from the anticipatory sweat. Twelve hours until it’s safe to get wet or suffer the frizziness. Sometimes one is limited by three-dimensional reality. She wasn’t expecting today to be Manifestation Day. 

But

You

Must

Trust

Divine

Timing.

Debra leaves behind her old life, and heads towards the squall with open arms. The constrictive mermaid tail slows her roll, thwarts her rapidity. Hipping and hopping won’t get her anywhere. It’s always toughest right before you get what is meant for you. Darkest before dawn.

“What would you have me do, Cosmic Daddy?” she yodels into the deluge. She struggles for a moment, but the Universe always provides a solution.

“Rip it!”

She follows the signs and tears the mermaid tail seam with her bare hands. 

“I said rip it out of here! You dumb fuckin’ bitch!” Biggy Bag yells from across the way. “Get your pimply ass outta the park, that twister’s gonna eat you!”

Debra snorts. “You see fear, I see opportunity.” 

And opportunity is headed straight for 32 Nirvana Ave in Camel Toe Estates, her dream home; the one with the big pool and peach bricks. The owners are long gone, it’s Debra’s now. 

She runs straight into the superstorm. Her vision board’s coming to life. Sucked up in the interstellar swell. Spinning and twirling; a siren in a frothing sea. Her fantasy smells like grass and sulphur. She barely registers the gravel lacerating her frosty flesh or the microwave that smashes her hip bone or the nail sticking out of her thigh. Obstacles are simply tests. The injuries are a sign that Debra’s about to break through her upper limits.

Everything she yearns for is within reach. 

A brand new Macbook careens into her welcoming arms.

Shovel.

Deluxe lawnmower. 

Hotdog.

This is the moment before the moment she has it all.

Wind stops. Mid-air, everything freezes. 

Debra savors the milliseconds as the clouds part and the sun breaks through, kissing her skin like pieces of broken glass. 

And then she’s falling. 

Into the Universe’s bountiful breast. 

She strikes water, sinking to the bottom of 32 Nirvana Ave.’s impressive in-ground pool.

Debra’s perm is ruined!!!! 

She didn’t think this through. The chlorinated water fills her lungs and everything stings. For a moment she doubts the megacosm, but any manifestor worth their salt knows that’s the kiss of death. Never doubt or limit what comes through. Debra will attract a hairdresser later. She’ll co-create some oxygen now.

Mesmeric ribbons of red casually engulf her; a symphony of disembodied fish dancing for their Mermaid Queen.

The Universe isn’t done, though. More gifts fall from the sky. Just for Debra.

Her dream car. 

Titanium rake.

Spinning clothesline.

Imported trees.

Terra cotta roof tiles.

They’re all hers.

***

Larissa Thomas is a writer, artist, Enneagram aficionado and tarot reader toiling melodramatically in an endless pocket of tornado manifestations in Ontario. She's currently working on an illustrated collection of strange tales. Subscribe to her Substack for work-in-progress here.

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