The “I remember …” Writing Prompt

US Navy 020712-N-5471P-010 EOD teams detonate expired ordnance in the Kuwaiti desertI remember … a voice.  Soft and low, it beckoned me from my sleep.  My eyes were reluctant.  Soft and low, then a hint of discord – the voice reached, the beat of its language growing more insistent.  I reasoned with my eyes, my limbs … perhaps a little stretch.  “Mueller – wake the hell up.  Dammit, they’re here.”  Heat pricked my skin before I felt the concussion, and my eyes snapped open just as a shroud of dirt flashed over my body from the impact.

NaNoWriMo Best of the Daily (8)

. . . they advanced on the raging crowds as they surrounded them, protecting the allies as they allowed the enemy to flank their defenses.  When the first line of attack was within sight, they used optical links to form a single connection with each, used this as leverage to quickly form a deeper bond, and sought the next line to repeat the tactic.  The rebellious Spindellite dwellers had long since let their knowledge of the kindred connection fade; Participant-2014-Square-Buttonthey had dismissed it into a category they could explain away as superstition.  They did not know how to defend themselves, nor did they understand there was even a need for protection from the eyes of the Lorgose, and each new wave continued the attacked.  When linked with the largest number each could manage, the Lorgose used the volumes they had snared to magnify the bond’s effects.  I cannot describe the scene in great detail, except to say that entire nations, clans, and squads (as their chosen hierarchies had defined) were hit by the consuming voltage at once, and fell to the ground as if a switch had been turned.


Tune in for quick reads of the best (or least despicable) selections from the previous day’s word count, by virtue of my daily writing regimen for the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).

Stale Mate Pleading

You iron neck-clasper. 
You heart-thumping tasker.
Indifferent to yearning,
your constant page turning
gives no pause for rest - 
just unending test.

Tick off, Time! You bat out of hell;
You thoughtless vulgarity
trolling the bell!

Be gone, Time! And leave us to dwell
in transparent void fabric,
fondling the quell.

Cease fire, Time! The war to a close,
a permanent armistice, 
"little while" froze.

Yet now we are stalling
our possibles lulling.
This present now lasting
our longing now fasting.
This moment relates 
no past/future fates.

Noble Time, be our friend.
Slow your tock, physics bend.
Give us hum, Beating Drum.
Let us dance to your strum.
Change your race to a walk;
feel the sun; have a talk.

Whisper sweet nothings into our ears -
find adoration stroking your years.


I wanted to capture how we have such a love-hate relationship with time.  We stress over deadlines and regret how much it takes from us in the form of moments we wish we could spend cherishing a little longer.  Yet we need it to appreciate moments, to strive for better moments; and we wouldn’t seek to improve the quality of our time if we were trapped in a vacuum … even if that bubble was a “time-loop” that let us enjoy the best memory or most enjoyable time we’ve ever had.  Then there’s the traditional fear of “what am I missing, being caught up in this cycle of sleep, work, home, sleep, work, home.

Get this!  I went looking for a picture or a video that could symbolize this stream of thought and I found better!  Jazz is the perfect music to capture this thread.  And the artists that put Maurice Brown’s video together present this point perfectly!  Enjoy!

 

Maurice Brown “Time Tick Tock” from RESONANT PICTURES on Vimeo.

War with Me

Every night I wage a war.  The enemy crawls into the room and begins its familiar bombardment, first with feathers and then with rubber bullets.  In a matter of minutes I’m surrounded by fire breathing dragons screaming with urgency – I must enter their realm.  I refuse, at least for a few more hours.  It’s about the fight, yet I don’t even know where my objection starts in me.  This battle makes no sense and doesn’t do me any good.  But somehow, Sleep has become my enemy.

Its army comes at me as if I’m expecting it.  Like I’ll throw myself at their mercy once the grenades are thrown.  I shake my head and pop my lids open again, a yawn stretches me but I stay connected to the wakeful world … with my eyes.

Two days ago I went to the eye doctor and he tells me I have slight cataracts in my left eye and the onset of macular degeneration in my right.  What’s left to fight with if I don’t have my eyes?  The monster approaches tonight and my weapons start to ache.

All these years, for reasons I don’t comprehend, I fought sleep off.  It isn’t insomnia; it’s a conscientious, albeit an underground and seditiously layered response.  My mind wants to stay rapt with the happenings of the day or the fantasies I’ve missed while doing the responsible job thing.  It wants to read new depths and experience different worlds, scan new perspectives and flex different thoughts.  It’s crosshairs are a pair of blue peepers I’ve had since I was born.  Now the weapons of choice are losing their effectiveness yet the enemy is in no way breaking its stride.

It certainly occurs to me (on a regular basis, should you question my clarity on this matter) – sleep would assuredly heal my situation,  or at a minimum slow this eye-death process.  Would that I could allow myself to be taken prisoner.  To surrender.  The sheets and the pillow call my weary body.  Why can’t I give in?  Shell shock?  Post traumatic stress syndrome?

But I still fight.  I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop this madness.  No doubt if I could just figure out what started this war for me, I’d be able to agree to a cease-fire, draw up a peace plan.  Resolve to do what’s best for my sanity.

Alas, I fear that peace may never come.

Service

I roll out of colors,
the wind and the hush –
the setting familiar
so green and so lush.
The sunlight bears witness
to the grain in the wood.
I would come to you, Darling,
if only I could.

I would come to you,
tenderly placing my hand
in the small of your back –
that familiar, warm land.
And in whispers I’d write
one last love letter, Dear.
Do not linger in sadness,
that I am not here.

Give your tears, my Sweetheart,
as the wind blows consent
and the rifles all fire;
Count your grief fully spent.
Find a place in your memories
when joy was in flow;
pack your bag with those pictures
and pick up and go.

20120803 - Lowell's funeral - 06 - removing th...