-may, oui- (3 forms)

consolidation 01052017
check edit functions for possible reformat
05102016/2083939 -blink3- 0.0 00 23 triptych tale(s) E anthology
experimental fusion, triptych, blink
05102016/2083936 -well, come- 27 lines 4.0 01 27 empowerment E anthology
poetic prose
05102016/2083931 -Tan Gent.le- 2176 words 0.0 00 25 concurrency of life(s) 13+ anthology
experimental, fusion, micro

...................................................................... -blink³-


-oy, stir pearl- 50 words................. -so, lad hur.ry- 50 words .......................-fah.ling- 50 words

One step below the.................... Georgie Porgie, Puddin' and Pie,..................She knew it was no
frozen flames of Krono's............. Kissed the girls and made them cry.............ocean, but the blue
arc and one step above.................................................................................stretched far enough no
Poisidon's pulsing shore,.............Words gave way to humming, while..............coast was visible. The
hood freed fiery...........................deft hands skimmed skeins tangled...............incoming breeze teased
highlights flashed as...................twisted, worsted and wasted. Colors..............auburn locks into loosed,
skillful fingers moved..................phased: bright, shaded, faded; solid,...............sun-kissed feathers
quiver arrow to bow....................spun, braided. Patiently, fingertips...................dancing above ripples
Draconid pierced, gone...............sorted, seeking a solitary strand.......................glinting. The island was
red, tail swept third of..................Atropos closed her eyes, glinting....................as the freedom of her
stars fell from the sky;.................scissors in hand............................................spirit in the best of times.
emerald flashes at...........................................................................................She stepped resolutely
horizon. Tumbled tome.....................................................................................through the window.
to toe.

experimental fusion, triptych, blink

..............................................
-well, come- 27 lines

i broadcast
from telescoping towers
reinforced
by calvaries
as invisible
as indivisible
as the focus of my intent
image sent, but not innocent
i am not haphazard

from any height
crested as if
an archer's pierce
or crowning curl
upon obstacles
or as if cocoon
expanding

i broadcast
with the whole of myself
my resolution process
as the very rna which
hosts me oscillates,
the fury of potentials
exchange,
as invisible
as indivisible
as the focus of my intent
i am not haphazard

poetic prose

............................................................................
-Tan Gent.le- 2176 words


-bah+ack=store: e-

Kimmee bounded into the kitchen; a stack of envelopes and ads in one hand and a single peach envelope thrust forward with the other. Rose held a picture of Kimmie in her mind, forever fourteen, despite the reality she was fifty-two now.

"Look what came in the mail." Kimmee traded the envelope for a toasted bagel. "No name; secret admirer in the wings? Look at all the postmarks."

Rose smiled broadly, eyes twinkling, "Hush now. We'll talk after your appointment." Nostalgia thickened in the room, muffling the closing door and departing Buick.

Make no important decisions for a year after a major life event. Rose heard the guiding words of her Grandmother. "Wise beyond years," came her wistful acknowledgement.

Clearly, the fingers of a youthful Rose turning the key, securing the Vermont acreage barn filled with everything precious to her, flooded back.

That young girl bustled for a full week. Placing albums in boxes, handmade lace into sealed bags, cleaning the sledge hammer and returning it to its proper place on the wall; trying to finish before the dammed emotions overflowed and swept her away, turned looking fondly around her. The key slid into the peach envelope, which she sealed and placed into the mailbox.

How quickly forty years can pass, thought Rose. She traced the dirty outline on the faded paper with her finger, remembering how many change of address cards she’d signed-some mere months apart- before finding this cottage, and wonder filled Kimmee. Yes. Now she was ready.

Kimmee plugged the meter to the right of the trusty Buick and ran from the student lot into the University's community engagement building: late by ten minutes. So many doors between here and there, she thought, caught for half of a heartbeat in the emotion which permeated one.

-Kinder Tendered Tinder-

Somewhere around his sixteenth year, frustration began to drill a desperate depression into his reality, alternating with an explosion of fury that took all of his conscious effort to control and redirect. By age twenty two, he believed he had really gone crazy.

“Neurotic.”

"Tell him. Tell him to..." came the stuttered command, "...get out of my way!"

She heard the words exit his mouth despite the obvious strain of articulation.

"You could be dead! You and all the other pampered losers in your generation! Degenerates! Every blasted one of you! Whiners, that’s what you are!"

Auditory memory glazed his eyes, moved his lips, bringing his head to desktop, leaving a wake of migraines.

“Let’s see if you make Dean’s List after a semester of working two jobs like real people!”

"I'm sorry." He said distractedly. "I didn't hear what you said."

"I said I'm very proud of you, Jazz. Do those statements have the sound of the two people that originally said them, or has the internal sound of them begun to change?"

"I don't even know anymore." His eyes made momentary contact with Lisa's; long enough for her to see how weary he was.

"Continue to use the three by five cards. Make one mark as soon as you are aware that the loop has started. Speak out loud when you are somewhere private enough. You have responses and the power of you will take the power from those words."

"I'll try."

"You always do. You’ll win this."

Lisa, absorbed in the mental work of diffusing labels, walked the hallway to her office, oblivious to a cleared labeled Classroom 105E and the labels required within.

-sta(tis)tics-

There were days when she woke up embarrassed to be human. She sighed realizing that today was one of those days. Bree grabbed a quick cup, took the shortcut and flipped the light switch with half an hour to spare.

There were certain things unacceptable to say outright. She thought about what had happened so far. She grabbed the marker and began a diagram on the whiteboard. She left the light on and exited the room.

"Alrighty then," entered Bree in her casual way, "sheets up by everyone completing the tour of a company of interest." Maybe ninety-five percent, she thought. Every face echoed the same sentiment: You owe me an explanation.

"Any journals or references that were identified should be moved to your priority reading list - do not waste the key your department rep gave you."

"Wages. Anyone too angry to listen is free to leave. You can visit with a classmate when you are able to hear. Leave your assignment." Landis rose, slinging his backpack wide. That was the best she could hope for in his case. He had done high end custom design before the student loan sweet talk.

She began to label the diagram: June 2019.
High School Graduates.
Work, 2 year, 4 year.

Total graduates (this program) 2018: 144
Other (field) program graduates 2018: 680
Total (field) jobs 2018: 2200
Openings 2018: 5
New (field) job creation 2018: -16

“Is there anyone that does not understand the importance of the assignment from last week?”

Landis couldn't be rid of the building fast enough, taking the shortcut to the courtyard that passed the Special Projects staff lounge. Subjects in that room swung much wider than Landis, or his backpack.

-Gee, gnome: marl borrough-

If thirty years described a generation, then it hadn't taken one. Culture shock fell short as a descriptor. She had learned long ago to listen to the opinions of those around her and to be mindful of surrounding attitudes and behaviors; a side effect of nontraditional employment.

"Anybody been watching California?" she asked as she rotated in the door, around the end to end tables in the oddly shaped break room with external ventilation.

"I've got a crew or two out there right now. Trendsetters, that's for sure." Steve replied. "You mean that no smoking stuff?"

She smiled, lit her cigarette and nodded. "You gonna quit?"

"Don't make me laugh. This country is built on protecting individual rights. It'll never happen." Steve reached for the closest ashtray, looked at his watch and grabbed the folder for his first afternoon meeting.

Dan watched him, waved two fingers and stayed to finish his off. "This state makes too much off of the taxes that get rerouted to local programs. I figure when they hit $5 per pack, I'll go cold turkey," he said on his way to the door.

"I'm with Steve on this one. America is synonymous with civil rights," Dallas stood. "Heck, everybody in my family smokes and has for...my Gramps will be 90 in May. He says it's his secret to longevity. That and one beer before bed." His chuckle could still be heard as he walked down the hall.

Less than a generation; Nesbitt’s paradox and Delta FosB.

Dallas stopped at the vending machine, excused himself to the two people eyeing the machines and fed a bill in.

-Joe, Harry, Win Dow-

She heard the words. Bo struggled with how often they were spoken. Adults well past the invulnerable teenage mindset insisting that what happened in places fifty miles away-much less two thousand-had no bearing on local anything.

Entire countries toppled under great street sweepers of time.

"Pshaw." came Tom's response. "Those people made their own choices. It's time to pay the piper."

"Remember the gentrification of the islands? The rush of foreign professionals purchasing inherited land, capped at low tax prices, forcing the local families out?" Bo stared out the window of the downtown loft; public housing space revitalized.

"That could never happen here." Tom's body, a relaxed sort of defense.

"Top bankruptcy in this state is medical bills, not consumer excess; three times the national average of joint replacements." She met his gaze directly. "How long could you pay just your insurance premium if your knee or hip went out?"

Dallas made haste toward his truck with his high fructose corn syrup carbonated beverage of choice. Pie there on Friday, he promised himself for good work soon-to-be-done, glancing at the diner across the street as he passed the assembly of students on the grass berm.

-look up, t.able-

He sat in the grass. He was accustomed to being the last person chosen for teams: sports, academic, social. The function never mattered. No one knew who he was: Melvin Murvel from some mud road out there. He watched the fifteen somebodys with interest.

She had sent the lot of them to this place, spoken and left. Left them to sort it out themselves. Ms. B had looked right at him, nodded toward Charles, smiled and disappeared.

We're not getting anywhere like this. His father's voice had pronounced over the dim table some fifteen years before. Those words were not intended for his ears, but had changed the course of his life, nonetheless.

He built the shed. He built the benches. He ran the lighting. He assembled equipment from scrounged piece parts. The matrix of contact names and physical addresses evolved to include email addresses.

Melvin didn't remember when he had begun exchanging correspondences with Bell Labs, Los Alamos and RAND. It seemed like they had always been part of his life, like this seemed to be the project he had been working toward.

He looked at his watch and the incredulous faces around him. Eight hours of class time were ticking away under hems and haws. He rose and shouldered his backpack. He turned and inhaled.

“Charles? I’m Melvin Murvel. I’m pretty sure Ms. B will waive the four person requirement upon request. You like fluid dynamics, right? Let’s go change the way people live.”

Charles grabbed his bag.

The diner door clanged behind Charles, as Melvin hurried to the corner booth with the largest table and least glare from the windows.

-corn yer, dinah-

"Order up: two over easy, white." The bell slammed above the stir of conversation.

"Add bacon," Chrissy yelled at the white laminated slot, en route.

Four strips of bacon slid into place from a toast plate as the puppetshow of fingers withdrew.

Sizzle escaped before Tanya placed the grill weight on a smoky thickcut replacement.

"OMG!!!" Chrissy leaned on the lofty counter. "I'd have you start some for me, but rent's due." She headed out, coffee pot in hand. She flipped the sign in the front door to Sorry We Missed You, Please Stop Again, deposited the plate, topped off the existing cups and headed back.

Tanya floated a saucer of crumbled bacon within reach, but below view of the tables.

"I'll box hash browns and... sausage gravy. That hold ya'?"

"Thank you, thank you. You'd think everyone got a raise when that living-wage-minimum thing passed. My rent went up sixty percent. I told him waitresses weren't covered...he told me to get a real job." She stared at her book bag and sighed.

"No worries, you. We'll come up with a way to pull you better tips for a year; keep ya' fed." The grease splattered white hat bobbed. "Here."

Through the window came a frosty juice glass filled with orange, ruby red, frozen apple juice and a skewer of maraschinos.

Chrissy slid the cherries into her mouth, slurped the juicy refreshment and turned back toward the tables.

"Oh," remembered the cook, "that's the last straw."

Breakfast for dinner, thought Chrissy smiling, a perpetual day wrapping in on itself. She minded each step to the basement apartment, only vaguely aware that the building across the street was different. "Thank goodness the semester is almost over. I'm exhausted," she told the backpack zipper birthing textbook triplets sure to cry until dawn.

-wince a ponna thyme, us-

About once a month, she would look toward the inside from the outside. It wasn’t every day that invisible became the new black. Zann Oni put on her best girl-next-door look and tried not to stand out in a crowd. Yep, still looked like an old bowling alley, she sighed in relief.

The four of them had made quite a go of things after she had extracted the spikes that once anchored her painfully in place. Harpoons were not her favorite shafted items; sky tubes were. She looked at the roofline, windows, main and secondary access areas. She beamed.

“You’ll never pull this off! Not while I’m alive!” The memory made her shudder.

How many applications had she submitted in that first year? Five per week? Seven? She had done the impossible with nothing long enough to smell the slightest simmer with appreciation.

First came the grant for the facility, then for energy generation, then the green house, aquarium and water purification. Then, finally, the repurposing training program. “Repurposing training program”, escaped her mind and joined the great blue sky. Four surrounded by etymology, etiology and a command center dream. Amazing!

The sun began to rise and she knew nothing could obscure her to coffee seeking commuters. She found the culvert and waddled under the four lane. Zann understood local segregation and the forces which drove it. No one would be calling in a penguin sighting today.

et semper postquam feliciter vixerunt, proclaimed the hearth: they lived happily ever after.

experimental, fusion, micro