Category Archives: Isolation

a twinkling defense

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Icarus 2

a twinkling defense

schiller park illinois april 29 1930 may 2 1930

ǂ transliterate cosmostatic diffusion̚

‘tuesday’

promulgation ∞ entities on planet categorized earth

entire system commands met waiting full analysis observed events massive – mote largest sea floodgate earth holds no importance worldview□ⱷꭀ entities happy drunk undulating happens sound waves distortion connection island australian from britan no big woop entity colloquialism gurgle noise worth report crucial discovery new sustenance object observed ingestion most entities consumption accompanied wanting sound waves entities ‘face’ opens object inserted ‘chewing’ ensues object entirely consumed ‘smiles’ happen most consume second object wrapping left behind receptacle-stratum obtaining sample accomplished shell elastic absorbent probe inserted analysis incomplete mix chemical natural elements split object white substance found analysis ‘banana’ found firm liquid state substance absence adverse effects directive clear sample must undergo further analysis individual consumption commence order pressure seating activated appendage free pressure restraint commence individual consumption promptly

‘saturday’

observation unwise consuming twelve objects obtained earth ‘wednesday’ individual no knowledge next two earth ‘days’ individual came aware ‘saturday’ lifted off-ship entresol leakage unpleasant cleaning commences orders received return procedure engaged repository section full stasis field activated mission rated ﻌﻌﻌﻌ incident object consumption highly suggested leave behind individual rejects factory breached transferred entire factory repository ship full strong discipline expected individual justifies disregard tribunal consumes object two maximum deferring effects individual anticipates exaltations submitting object cosmos entities individual convinced object earth name ‘twinkie’ prove individual correct course pressure seating activated ship sets course engaged ‘twinkie’ consumption commences individual indulges

⸙‘earth’ phraseology glossary follows

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Author’s note:

I’ve tried this style a number of years ago. I got some good feedback/comments, then I dropped it like a  led zeppelin.

Then came I took a prompt challenge from Writer’s Digest:

Describe a normal, everyday object or activity from the perspective of a character who perceives it as a strange phenomenon they are struggling to understand. For example, your character might be an alien or a person from a different historical era trying to explain a smartphone. 500 words or less. 

Decoding the story above is both challenging and fun. Not just in my opinion.  A fellow challenge taker was joyful with breaking it all down.

Question(s) for you:

What grammar elements did I remove in the story?

Could YOU parse it at all? Somewhat? Piece of cake?

mmmmmm. Cake.

Comments and feedback are always welcome.

Thanks

 

Mind Full Dismantled

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MIND FULL DISMANTLED

 

 

 

A lifetime of perceived perseverance is draining

Far too many called it stubbornness

Negative and judgmental in any context

Sending one on a downward spiral

Until germination of persevering takes root again

Dismissal of

Having one’s voice heard

Acceptance of differing viewpoints

Acknowledgment that the now of you

Has surpassed the images of your past self

That others have held onto

It is a Sisyphusian task you live

Beginning anew, evermore

Almost reaching the goal

Believing that this is your path

Your purpose exposed

Yet derision erodes the journey

Brings you to your knees

Eternal punishment

Or so it seems

Cursed to continue evermore

Perseverance

Translated as stubbornness

Which sets off dismissal

The you that is now.

Persevere.

Stay stubborn.

 

Time, Particles

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A star

Time, Particles

Time.

Time is.

Time is a concept.

Time is a concept created by and for us.

There was light or darkness.

Labels made to fit.

Labels to fracture light and darkness.

Labels created—our concepts.

Our concept of what Time is, is meaningless.

We have taken Time and let it control.

Schedules. Start times.

End times.

When to show up. When to leave.

When to take the train.

When Time runs out, the train is gone.

 

What has Time done to us?

Being free of Time would be a blessing.

 

Time is our illusion.

We’ve dusted our eyes to the instability of such a structured thing.

Our structure.

Our Time.

The giant Metropolis clock needs winding.

We strive not to have Time run out.

Is it Time to let Time decompose?

Can we exist without the burden of Time?

 

Being free of Time,

We wait.

 

Supernovae.

All the stars reach critical points

Obliterating everything

Everything

Gone in a blaze

Is there passing of Time?

Or is it just an end.

Time will have no meaning then.

Time has no meaning now.

Tick Tock.

RevitalWriters: Critique. Done. Write.

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REVITALWRITERS

A WEEKLY COHORT FOR WRITERS

This is what has kept me very busy over the last couple of weeks. Michael Grant, Artie Ohanian, and I have put together a Virtual Writer’s Group. RevitalWriters is for writers of any style or genre (poetry; fiction; non-fiction; memoir/biography; etc.) who want/need support for their WIP (Work(s) In Progress). All this leading to achieving a finished manuscript to send off to agents and/or publishers.

The sessions will run every Friday night, from 7:00 pm to 9:00 pm, EST. If you are in any other time zone, if you’d like to become part of the cohort, let us know.

Our Goal: To offer support, encouragement, and constructive critique in a safe space.

We are not a prompt/generative writing group that you join when the planets align. Our intention is that writers serious about their craft get what they need to to finish and submit.

For full details of how each session will be run, visit RevitalWriters.  You’ll find our guidelines, About page, contact information, and upcoming Resource For Writers and Blog pages.

I hope you can join us in our first group meeting at RevitalWriters Session.  Friday, July 10, 2020, from 7:00 pm to 9:00 pm, EST.

PLEASE DO NOT HESITATE TO CONTACT US FOR MORE INFORMATION:

RevitalWriters@gmail.com

I hope to see you there.

 

Holding On

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a night window

HOLDING ON

by Stuart Nager©

 

 

“Wendy. Close the window. It is freezing in here.”

John was flat on his back, under his sheets and quilt. He had his right arm draped over his eyes. Truth be told, it was his nightshirt that did the draping. John’s arm was across his brow. He had to remind himself to relax, for he was leaving an indent in the lower forehead.

Wendy sat on the padded window bench; knees tucked up tight against her chest. Her arms encircled her legs. The window was ajar, allowing the night winds free entry into the bedroom. Wendy searched the clouds, looking. Praying. Hoping.

The wind whipped up, bursting past the lead paned glass. It sends Wendy’s nightshirt fluttering. Her shoulders lifted, her immaculate posture in place. Wendy tilted her head just so. She knew what he liked.

As did she.

“Arrrrrr, matey!” John used his pirate voice, doing his best to make her laugh. Wendy did not laugh nor smile. Jumping out of bed, John had to untangle himself from the bedsheets. All of the bed coverings wound up on the floor.

“Wendy, it is freezing in here. Shut the window, please.” He looked over at Michael, deep in slumber. His consistent snoring was the proof he was asleep. He could never duplicate that sound when he was faking to stay in bed. Mother saw right through him.

Wendy shushed him.

“You know he won’t wake up. He’s dead to the world right now.”

She shushed him again. John grabbed his quilt from the floor, whipping it over his head and onto his shoulders. So encased, John approached his sister. Wendy was still eyeing the night sky.

John plopped down on the other side of the bench, pulling the blanket even tighter around him. Just as his teeth started to chatter, he realized Wendy was only in her night clothing. Reversing the quilt, he laid one end over his sister.

“Thank you, John,” she whispered, far away from the room. John followed where she was looking. She’d change an angle; he would mirror it. “Darling bookends,” Liza would say if the housemaid was in the room. He smiled at that thought. Wendy noticed him as his smile slowly crept back inside him.

“Wendy. He’s not coming back. He isn’t. Shh. Please hear me out. We’ve had this…this…talk far too often. Fourteen months have passed. No pirates. No Indians. No Tink. No Pe…”

Reaching over, Wendy placed the four fingers of her left hand gently over his mouth.

“Enough, John. Please. I know. I still hope. I still have hope. Every blessed night I have hope. It just,” Wendy stopped, turning her head back to gazing the now unclouded sparkling heavens. “It just hurts, John.”

He nodded his head. What was left to say? They had had this conversation far too many times. It always ended in tears. There were many nights where John tried his best to distract her. The successful evenings were spent making up stories of what battle or mischief he would be embroiled in, smack in the center of it all. She’d laugh at many of his tales. The more outlandish he made them, the more Wendy relaxed. And she’d stop looking out the window.

The less beneficial nights would come, ones where John felt powerless. Wendy, questioning, always the same. “Why doesn’t he return?” John knew there were two unspoken words to that query: “For her.”

Wendy did turn her head back to John. “No stories tonight, please. My insides are so knotted, so heavy. Not tonight, dear John. Not tonight.”

He nodded his head, and the two sat quietly by the window. No one spoke. Michael snored. They both yawned, Wendy insisting John started it. John, naturally, accused Wendy.

“We better get to bed. I don’t wish Mother to be cross with us in the morning.” She stood up, patting her nightwear down into a proper shape. John noticed Wendy’s hesitation before she reached over and closed the window. The sound of the latch fitting in place brought a feathery gasp from her lips. Her arms, as always, crossed over her heart.

John returned to bed. He tossed all the linen quilt back on the bed, diving under it all for warmth. John’s face was warm. He felt an unpleasant tightening in his chest. He should have hugged her, said he’ll always be there for her, that she was the best sister anyone ever had. John only said: “Good night, Wendy,” as she closed the door, tiptoeing down the hallway to her room.

As Wendy made it to her bed, her thoughts swallowed her whole. She thought of the unfairness of growing up. How much Wendy wanted to share the same bedroom with her brothers again. How much she wished she had stayed and not returned home. All swept away by the burning question she held tight: “Why hasn’t Peter returned for me?”

It was just over a month that Wendy overheard “The” conversation. Wendy, supposedly in bed, was walking by Mother’s bedroom. The door was partially open. Peeking in, Mother was sitting at her vanity, Liza behind her, counting out the number of times she ran the brush through Mother’s hair.

Wendy was not pleased that Mother was now calling her “a proper young lady.” She had experienced her first flow, a most embarrassing event. Her bones were achy almost all the time. She started maturing. Wendy’s new clothing, the changes in her body, all of it left her feeling embarrassed and humiliated. Wendy’s deep sadness permeated throughout her.

She knew why Peter did not come for her.

Why he would not come for her, ever again.

Wendy wished she had never eavesdropped.

“100,” Lisa stated, putting the hairbrush down on the table. “Miss Wendy is starting to fill out, mum. She’ll be as beautiful as you. Not that she isn’t a pretty young thing now.”

Mother was silent, staring into the mirror. Wendy was sure Mother would not answer Liza. Just as she began to walk away, Wendy heard Mother say, “I know it is the right thing to do, Liza. It is time that Wendy a room to herself. She is blossoming. It is time for her to grow into being a proper young lady. But.” Mother left that word dangling on its own.

“Yes, but,” Liza agreed. “It will be for the best.”

Mother nodded. “I do pray that this will ease the burden she carries. Wendy needs to let this fantastical story of flying, pirates, faeries…” Mother sighed. “She needs to let it go.”

Wendy moved away from the door.

The next day Wendy was given her room. She sulked alone for the next two days, only leaving her confines for meals that she picked at. The third night, though, she had had enough.

Wendy immediately ran to the bedroom she had shared with her brothers. She threw the door wide open. Her feet glided across the nursery floor until she got up on the window. Kneeling, Wendy opened the windows. She crept to the window frame, her eyes fixated on the dark, laden clouds above. No stars were visible.  Rain, though: rain fell ferociously. Wendy became a soaking wet sponge instantly. She kneeled on the pane for a long while.

A noise coming from the doorway startled Wendy out of her fugue. Wendy slightly turned and saw Liza standing in the hallway.

“Wendy Darling,” Liza trumpeted. She stamped her feet as she approached the window seat, not thinking of the boys at all. Upon arrival, Liza shooed Wendy to move away.  “Young lady, what has gotten into you? You were not in your room. I knew you would be here. You, young lady, are heading straight to your room: a hot bath and fresh nightshirt. Go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

Wendy, shivering, glanced at her brothers, warmly tucked in. She smiled although her heart was shattering.

When she heard the latch fall into place, she sat on the floor and cried.

 

 

City Song, My

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Fuck the city

Overblown, hyperactive concrete and stone

Greasy street food; greasier people

Racing around, step on or over

Searching for the bright lights

Eclipsed by the shadows




To hell with the city

Nearly everyone’s oppressed

In some misguided way

Bend your neck, never knees,

As the fight to make it

Truth ends in buckets of the kill.




Screw the city

As it screws with you

Power, status, held in slimy claws

There’s heartache in the streets

Trod upon with running shoes.

You deserve what you get




Obliterate the city

Turn off the lights

You can’t see the stars shine

Blinded eyes obfuscate

Nothing to see here; move along

Dwindle yourself; something is wrong.




Fuck the city

Obsessiveness and greed

Hatred and fear

Isolated in ignorance

Shriek your outrage

Bellow your unscripted song.

 

Promises of People

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Do I think living is a waste of time?

Depending on the day, I usually do

What stays with me in a world of No’s

Doesn’t make the future really glow. 

 

There’s sadness on a constant basis

There is no day that I don’t hurt

Even isolated from the isolated

The noises outside breaks into the room

 

Look at all you’ve got to live for

Imagine all the people who’d hurt

It is easy to get so distracted

By promises of people who say

 

Each day there’s awakening

Going through routines

Then you fall into that circle

Of repeating the same old things

 

What makes joy bleed away?

Why does nothing stick

Push away the best you can

But the pain is always there

The pain is always here

 

Look at all you’ve got to live for

Imagine all the people who’d hurt

It is easy to get so distracted

By promises of people who say

 

By the emotions they express

Or hide away in their own ways

When reaching out is near impossible

When no one wants to cope with you

 

So, scream your essence to pieces

Locked in your muddy head

Stop playing that you want to go on

I’m fine, I’m fine, fine.

 

Look at all you’ve got to live for

Imagine all the people who’d hurt

It is easy to get so distracted

By promises of people who say

 

I’m tired

I’m so tired

I wish I wasn’t here

Why am I wasting time?

 

Sonnet: For

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It suits you, the radiance that you glow

More comfortable in being alive

Overcoming hurdles released in rows

Each day will move surpassed helping you to grow.

 

Each year, every passing one you may dread

Detach those thoughts! Appreciate your self

For who you are; soul has been lifted, fed

Love blooms all around; take into thyself.

 

Yet, the mind does a terrible misdeed

Challenges of past can still rule your head

Doubt comes charging, inside the heart does bleed

Fighting inner wars, fears you may concede.

 

Gladly forward, face every single day

Strength you have always had will lead the way.

Screeching Fury

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(Credit: Pavelk/Shutterstock)

Screeching Fury

 

Everything is darkness.

Raging fires, flaring high above our heads

Distant light snuffed out by the night.

Wounds never heal; we ooze out of ourselves

Stuffing gauze pads, cover with bandages

Not closing, not lessening, never clotting

Infectious nature saturate places uncrossed

There is beauty in moments

When the glare inside is strong

But it fades, it fades

As more darkness surrounds.

 

For some, existence changes

Opening senses, letting them coexist

Abstract perceiving demands explanations

Or relief.

What should and what should not be

Or, hide from it all

Behind flickering words

On flickering screens

On flickering pen on paper

Being part, while apart

Everything is darkness.

Still, for some

Brightness endures.

 

 

 

What It Is

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Crumbled mass of memories

Beating to remain

Drift away in pieces

Day by week

Week by month

Our chorus has refrained.

 

Let the days go by

Time is translucent

Affixed by artificial means

Seconds are meaningless

Hours, years, what do they share?

Try to keep track of this dark despair.

 

Say: “It’ll be over soon. We’ll return to normal.”

Hope that’s true, but, it’s written in the wind

Carved deep by our wants

Fashioned by others invested greed

It’ll all be over soon.

Hah! Don’t hold your breath.

 

Don’t cross my boundaries

While I obliterate yours

My space is limitless

Go back to other shores

I am eternally right

You know you’re always wrong.

 

Don’t come closer

Don’t you fucking dare.

Hide behind a wall of hate

Imagine I don’t give a shit

This world is for the taking

One breath will never come.

 

History becomes what we think

Nothing learned; ours to repeat

Our earth creeks and shakes

As it senses and retaliates

In the beginning, one

So at the end. None.

 

Crumbled mass of what we were

Bleeding to remain

Feeling wasted, dried to dust

Yet we wait behind closed doors

Time isn’t after us

Nothing is holding us.

 

**Apologies and credit to The Talking Heads.