"I start to write diary again" by Helen Yao (a response to Writing Prompt #3)

I start to write diary again when this all begins. If I die, at least they will know my last thoughts, or it’s just because I simply have the time.

I try to call my mother once every two days, once a day if I can remember. I used to call her when I could remember, and that’s usually over two months until she texted me the sixth time. I know she is at higher risk because of her age, or I simply just have the time.

My kids start to spend 24 hours at home, which never happened after they got into kindergarten. After 3 days of my wife yelling at them to get out of the bed and stay away from computers, they eventually found those things undesirable. They actually show up in living room and dig up the board games they haven’t played in three years and then a toy ball I haven’t seen in seven years. The ball flies into my room during my virtual meeting with my boss. I don’t actually get angry now. Maybe I enjoy seeing they become close again, or I simply have too much time.

We Know the Rule by Helen Jingshu Yao. [A response to the There's No Place Like Rhizome Writing Prompt.]

Calculating the distance.

We know the rule. The rule is that every one of us have to maintain a distance, otherwise nothing makes sense. You will absolutely be confused by thissenetencewherenospaceisplacedbetweeneachwords. Us, the words, the fundamental elements of communication were not allow to communicate with each other. Of course, I know my distant relatives' Chinese scripts and Inuit orthography were less isolated like each one of us but there’s still distance between syllables, morphemes, words, phases, sentences, paragraphs. Each stream of thoughts, every moment of articulation set their boundaries from one another. We know, through the nature of ourselves, that communication will always fail because you are mean to create distance when you talk. We are in isolation, so are you.

THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE RHIZOME (writing prompt response) by Noah Farberman

     

    "That bear is not wearing any pants" said the tree that never made a sound. The tree had fallen three months earlier, cracked by its own weight and thrust aside by a root hidden six feet below. From under its belly it could feel all it crushed. From under its belly it could feel all it crushed start to rise, digging not out but up, tearing open the tree’s underbelly or back with slow mite. Termite. The tree that no one heard make a sound no one heard wail. No one heard it scream or yell. No one heard it fade to sleep through whimpers like a six-year-old with migraines who needs to stop eating so many Tylenols. The tree that never made a sound spoke thus “thanks for nothing, grass. Thanks for nothing, sky. Thanks for nothing, birds, and you’re welcome by the way. Thanks for nothing, carbon monoxide. Thanks for nothing, rocks and fungus. Thanks for nothing, Nature and all of its mothers.” The bear took a squat on the mouth of the tree and shat until the hole was full. The silent tree gurgled and drowned.
     “Oh bother” the bear spoke, “the lesson here is that ignoring is never the answer.”

*

for the writing prompt, see the Writing Prompt page.

Shell Becomes a Wing: Introduction to Scarborough Fair 2020

I thought I'd post my introduction to Scarborough Fair since its publication is delayed. I write about the process of writing and reading and include some harebrained diagrams.

Blankets made of ghost

A first post just to get things going. Here's a prose poem that I wrote based on a prompt for the COW workshop a few weeks ago when we all could still do things like meet face-to-face in a small office.

Blankets made of ghost smother dusk to minimize infection or prevent twilight from spreading, keep night from outside, absorb dark to protect. Ghost blankets suitable for use in kitchens, cars, ships, warehouses, bedrooms, gas stations and libraries to reduce infection. Wrap a child or baby when escaping. No expiration date. Hang on a nail. I wrap my brother in smoke which is a ghost. I wrap my sister in smoke which is twilight. I wrap my children in fire which is a ghost. I wrap myself in ghost as we escape. The lawn around us on fire, the roads on fire. Ghosts everywhere on fire.

Click on HERE for the welcoming "Welcome Message"

Hey UTSC creative writhers,

It'd be really great to make this a space to share work. And to be able to have some reactions in the "comments" section.

What can you send? Fiction, poetry, non-fiction, non-poetry, creative non-fiction, creative non-poetry, videos, visuals, audios, invented alphabets, novel formations of pre-existing alphabets, manifestos, nonbinaryfestos, reviews—any kind of creative writing related writing that you choose.

We wait with baited eyeballs to see what you come up with.

Gary Barwin
gary.barwin@utoronto.ca