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Disconnection
(212): Last night I had a dream about you.
It was—dark, and we were in your room, watching dreamt up rainbow blobs float across what could have been a TV but maybe also a computer? And we were there, sharing that sort of comfortable stillness where we're not doing anything because we don't need to.
We speak in a hidden language of grunts and twitches, snickers and smiles, and before either of us know it we're in bed, fingers entwined, and you're telling me about how you used to collect stars, used to pluck them out of the sky like blueberries to throw onto your canvas, and I'm rambling about driving a jeep into my neighbor's pool, I dunno, it's a dream, but you laugh that same, beautiful snort laugh and I know that you are real.
I know that this is real, this is as real as it has ever been and ever will be—and then I wake up and I remember the first line of this text.
(504): I spent my day with you in my mind. Your fingers pressed against my brain and left fingerprints, as if my gray matter was clay for you to mold. And mold you did—five minutes into my first class and already I could hear the croon of your trumpet, a wolf in heat calling out into the night and sending a quiver through my legs.
I never told you how much I loved your playing. Christ above knows how many things I regret.
But still I take a deep breath and force the smile back onto my face. My students don't know you. They barely know me! How could any eleventh grade English class, no matter how wondrous they might be, understand the cravings I have for your dark skin? How could they understand the way I long for your fingers in my mouth, calloused tips against my tongue?
We read poems about love, won and lost, but my thoughts are elsewhere. My mind is off in the distance, laying in a field, mourning under the soulful cry of your trumpet.
(737): Sometimes I still smell you. Is that weird? I hope not. Once when I was staying over my aunt's house, she told me that she smelled burnt toast. Then she fell over and had a stroke.
But you don't smell like burnt toast—you never did. Not even when you, y'know, burnt toast. No, you always smelled of grease, like the frying oil you spent your days cooking with had seeped into your cells.
My favorite days were the ones we spent laying on the couch watching American Idol. I would bury my face into your shirt and bathe myself in your smell. And then you would laugh and jiggle my belly.
Mom told me that I have to get rid of all the stuff you left here, but I don't wanna. I'm keeping them, just in case you ever come back. And besides, it's only a couple of shirts and sports jerseys. They remind me of the football game you took me to when we first met. I like them.
(P.S.: Did you hear? La'Porsha made finals! I hope she wins!)
(406): We can make this work. I swear, I'll even give Simba back to the shelter. I don't care about him, I care about you. Please.
(253): I'm sitting in my living room and please come find me because I can't stop thinking about you. Every sound is you coming through the door to push me to the floor to tell me why I'm worthless and should stop breathing. Nausea has become my state of being.
And I deserve this. Trust me I know that I deserve this and so much worse. I deserve to be strung up by my hands and feet, to be crucified for what I've done. I feel like filth incarnate, a walking pillar of mud, a sin against all of creation and you, my love, you. You who holds the beauty of Aphrodite, the wisdom of the Buddha. You know everything there is to know. You remember every birthday, every anniversary, every second of every day because you are perfection.
The walls swirl into the shape of your eyes and I am pinned to my chair. Every twitch of my fingers is you dodging my last kiss. Every tick of my watch is you walking out while I'm sleeping.
You are my everything. I can't breathe without you here.
(480): Thank you.
It was—dark, and we were in your room, watching dreamt up rainbow blobs float across what could have been a TV but maybe also a computer? And we were there, sharing that sort of comfortable stillness where we're not doing anything because we don't need to.
We speak in a hidden language of grunts and twitches, snickers and smiles, and before either of us know it we're in bed, fingers entwined, and you're telling me about how you used to collect stars, used to pluck them out of the sky like blueberries to throw onto your canvas, and I'm rambling about driving a jeep into my neighbor's pool, I dunno, it's a dream, but you laugh that same, beautiful snort laugh and I know that you are real.
I know that this is real, this is as real as it has ever been and ever will be—and then I wake up and I remember the first line of this text.
(504): I spent my day with you in my mind. Your fingers pressed against my brain and left fingerprints, as if my gray matter was clay for you to mold. And mold you did—five minutes into my first class and already I could hear the croon of your trumpet, a wolf in heat calling out into the night and sending a quiver through my legs.
I never told you how much I loved your playing. Christ above knows how many things I regret.
But still I take a deep breath and force the smile back onto my face. My students don't know you. They barely know me! How could any eleventh grade English class, no matter how wondrous they might be, understand the cravings I have for your dark skin? How could they understand the way I long for your fingers in my mouth, calloused tips against my tongue?
We read poems about love, won and lost, but my thoughts are elsewhere. My mind is off in the distance, laying in a field, mourning under the soulful cry of your trumpet.
(737): Sometimes I still smell you. Is that weird? I hope not. Once when I was staying over my aunt's house, she told me that she smelled burnt toast. Then she fell over and had a stroke.
But you don't smell like burnt toast—you never did. Not even when you, y'know, burnt toast. No, you always smelled of grease, like the frying oil you spent your days cooking with had seeped into your cells.
My favorite days were the ones we spent laying on the couch watching American Idol. I would bury my face into your shirt and bathe myself in your smell. And then you would laugh and jiggle my belly.
Mom told me that I have to get rid of all the stuff you left here, but I don't wanna. I'm keeping them, just in case you ever come back. And besides, it's only a couple of shirts and sports jerseys. They remind me of the football game you took me to when we first met. I like them.
(P.S.: Did you hear? La'Porsha made finals! I hope she wins!)
(406): We can make this work. I swear, I'll even give Simba back to the shelter. I don't care about him, I care about you. Please.
(253): I'm sitting in my living room and please come find me because I can't stop thinking about you. Every sound is you coming through the door to push me to the floor to tell me why I'm worthless and should stop breathing. Nausea has become my state of being.
And I deserve this. Trust me I know that I deserve this and so much worse. I deserve to be strung up by my hands and feet, to be crucified for what I've done. I feel like filth incarnate, a walking pillar of mud, a sin against all of creation and you, my love, you. You who holds the beauty of Aphrodite, the wisdom of the Buddha. You know everything there is to know. You remember every birthday, every anniversary, every second of every day because you are perfection.
The walls swirl into the shape of your eyes and I am pinned to my chair. Every twitch of my fingers is you dodging my last kiss. Every tick of my watch is you walking out while I'm sleeping.
You are my everything. I can't breathe without you here.
(480): Thank you.
I like the language here. The specific descriptions, little details like American Idol or blueberries into the canvas or whatever, make this story more vivid. I also like the stream-of-consciousness type narration. I think you do it well. Also, what do you call these things you're using, metaphors? I like the way you do words :v
I do have to complain about the plot, though, because I don't know what's going on >.> I mean, it sounds like this guy did something wrong that caused her to leave, so going off my experience watching movies with romance plots, I have to guess he cheated on her? I don't know if that's the case here. I have a feeling it's not, and that the plot is kinda buried or hidden, and I don't have the energy to play detective and piece together the clues. I don't get the end either, nor do I get what's in the ()s.
Great language, but a plot I couldn't quite decipher. Good work though :>
I do have to complain about the plot, though, because I don't know what's going on >.> I mean, it sounds like this guy did something wrong that caused her to leave, so going off my experience watching movies with romance plots, I have to guess he cheated on her? I don't know if that's the case here. I have a feeling it's not, and that the plot is kinda buried or hidden, and I don't have the energy to play detective and piece together the clues. I don't get the end either, nor do I get what's in the ()s.
Great language, but a plot I couldn't quite decipher. Good work though :>
I'm with >>FrontSevens on this one. The writing is very good, but the format is confusing. The P.S. that showed up in one of the messages suggests that they're letters, emails, or something along those lines. But I can't make any sense of the numbers.
As for the plot, like Front said, it seems to be someone longing for their ex after a breakup. But that's about all I'm getting from it.
P.S. I actually ended up paying attention to American Idol this year, so the reference to La'Porsha amused me.
As for the plot, like Front said, it seems to be someone longing for their ex after a breakup. But that's about all I'm getting from it.
P.S. I actually ended up paying attention to American Idol this year, so the reference to La'Porsha amused me.
There are tense shifts and I'm not sure if they are intentional or inadvertent, as well as 'laying' instead of 'lying' twice.
But okay.
I don't know what you try to convey with the parenthetical numbers. That remains a mystery, unless it's a hint at some software I'm not used to.
The metaphors are not particularly impressive, but they are not overwrought neither, so they adequately convey what a teenager or a guy in his early twenties could pull off. I say that because the guy seems to teach and at the same time still live at his parents'.
Otherwise well it's a classical story of a guy being dumped by – we don't know if it's a guy or a girl, by the way. Probably the former. A black guy, trumpet player Which is where the prompt kicks in.
Fairly written, but not really outstanding.
But okay.
I don't know what you try to convey with the parenthetical numbers. That remains a mystery, unless it's a hint at some software I'm not used to.
The metaphors are not particularly impressive, but they are not overwrought neither, so they adequately convey what a teenager or a guy in his early twenties could pull off. I say that because the guy seems to teach and at the same time still live at his parents'.
Otherwise well it's a classical story of a guy being dumped by – we don't know if it's a guy or a girl, by the way. Probably the former. A black guy, trumpet player Which is where the prompt kicks in.
Fairly written, but not really outstanding.
Hmmm, I read it a second time and I still feel I missed something. It is a point in favour of the story the I feel too dumb to get it and not that it is written badly.
What I gather from the text is a break-up, and from the feeling I get (no real clue to point to here) it wasn't because of cheating or some other obvious reason, but because something more subtle happened.
I'm not really sure what to make of it. The writing seemed alright and the narrator felt alive, but there is something missing here, something that will give me context beyond the longing for a lost love.
What I gather from the text is a break-up, and from the feeling I get (no real clue to point to here) it wasn't because of cheating or some other obvious reason, but because something more subtle happened.
I'm not really sure what to make of it. The writing seemed alright and the narrator felt alive, but there is something missing here, something that will give me context beyond the longing for a lost love.
I really like this for its prose, and what its trying to accomplish, though I don't feel it quite succeeds. You have a great use of imagery and metaphor, and the colorful language flows easily. Lines like "the croon of your trumpet" have stuck with me after reading (I read this yesterday). Because of this the narrator feels like they have a definite personality. There's dimension to them, when often in first person stories there isn't any (it's not always easy to do).
The narrator is, I think, a woman, and her lover is either a man or woman--I can't tell which. Perhaps that was intentional. Also, I am mostly sure it's the same narrator throughout. This is important, because just like not being able to take a deep breath, the emotion is prevented from fully developing for me.
Creating a clear context is integral to evoking emotion. If you can't understand what's going on, how do you know what to feel, right? Subtlety is good, but not if it muddles important details too much. So, in this instance, I don't know at what stage in the relationship most of the texts occur. They could easily be before breakup or afterwards. This colors them very differently. Before breakup, they're loving and flirty and romantic; after breakup, they're obsessive and reveal a deep hurt and inability to move on or let go. But see, I don't know which it is.
Also, because we only see one side of the conversation, it feels, well, very one sided. There's clearly another person implicated in the conversation, but they are silent, and so it comes across as one person doing all the talking. It adds to the obsessive appearance of the narrator. Now you might very well have intended this to illicit sadness by alluding to the fact the narrator is reaching out but is ignored. Like someone knocking endlessly on a door that will never be opened, we feel bad for them.
However, the time skips prevent this from happening for me. We jump forward and backward in time, instead of moving farther and farther into the future, which I think would more clearly convey the narrator is being ignored. Coupled with not knowing whether most texts are pre or post-breakup, I don't know whether this was a text that was likely ignored by the partner or not.
Does this make sense? I don't mean to ramble. I really did enjoy this story. I would suggest clarifying what stage in the relationship each texts occurs in--that's most important. Adding some information as to why the breakup occurred would also really help. As is, I don't know whether it's the narrators fault, or they simply have a misplaced sense of guilt in an attempt to regain the relationship.
So overall really great prose, and some not-difficult-to-fix structure and plotting issues.
>>The_Letter_J
Each passage is a text message (it says this at the end of the first one), and so the numbers represent which text in the conversation it is, and so act like a time stamp. ^.^
The narrator is, I think, a woman, and her lover is either a man or woman--I can't tell which. Perhaps that was intentional. Also, I am mostly sure it's the same narrator throughout. This is important, because just like not being able to take a deep breath, the emotion is prevented from fully developing for me.
Creating a clear context is integral to evoking emotion. If you can't understand what's going on, how do you know what to feel, right? Subtlety is good, but not if it muddles important details too much. So, in this instance, I don't know at what stage in the relationship most of the texts occur. They could easily be before breakup or afterwards. This colors them very differently. Before breakup, they're loving and flirty and romantic; after breakup, they're obsessive and reveal a deep hurt and inability to move on or let go. But see, I don't know which it is.
Also, because we only see one side of the conversation, it feels, well, very one sided. There's clearly another person implicated in the conversation, but they are silent, and so it comes across as one person doing all the talking. It adds to the obsessive appearance of the narrator. Now you might very well have intended this to illicit sadness by alluding to the fact the narrator is reaching out but is ignored. Like someone knocking endlessly on a door that will never be opened, we feel bad for them.
However, the time skips prevent this from happening for me. We jump forward and backward in time, instead of moving farther and farther into the future, which I think would more clearly convey the narrator is being ignored. Coupled with not knowing whether most texts are pre or post-breakup, I don't know whether this was a text that was likely ignored by the partner or not.
Does this make sense? I don't mean to ramble. I really did enjoy this story. I would suggest clarifying what stage in the relationship each texts occurs in--that's most important. Adding some information as to why the breakup occurred would also really help. As is, I don't know whether it's the narrators fault, or they simply have a misplaced sense of guilt in an attempt to regain the relationship.
So overall really great prose, and some not-difficult-to-fix structure and plotting issues.
>>The_Letter_J
Each passage is a text message (it says this at the end of the first one), and so the numbers represent which text in the conversation it is, and so act like a time stamp. ^.^
>>axis_of_rotation
I was interpreting "text" as "a piece of writing," because these are definitely not text message. Maybe they're supposed to be, but they look nothing like real text messages. First of all, I have never seen a phone number texts like that. Second, almost all of these are way too long to fit into individual texts. But okay, maybe these use a system I'm not familiar with and/or some liberties were taken in the compilation of these texts.
But the bigger issue is that I don't think anyone texts like this. I'm one of those weird people who uses full, grammatically correct sentences while texting, but texting entire paragraphs and multiple paragraphs just seems excessive. There are even em dashes! How many people even know how to type an em dash on their phone?
So I have a hard time believing that these are text messages, or at least realistic text messages. 406 and 480 are the only ones that look even remotely like texts to me. So if that's what they are supposed to be, then I think the author made a mistake.
I agree that the numbers do most likely convey some sort of order to these messages, but that just makes me wonder why they're all scrambled up like this. I'm not much of a fan of nonlinear storytelling in general, so I am a bit biased, but I don't see what scrambling the order up adds to the story.
I was interpreting "text" as "a piece of writing," because these are definitely not text message. Maybe they're supposed to be, but they look nothing like real text messages. First of all, I have never seen a phone number texts like that. Second, almost all of these are way too long to fit into individual texts. But okay, maybe these use a system I'm not familiar with and/or some liberties were taken in the compilation of these texts.
But the bigger issue is that I don't think anyone texts like this. I'm one of those weird people who uses full, grammatically correct sentences while texting, but texting entire paragraphs and multiple paragraphs just seems excessive. There are even em dashes! How many people even know how to type an em dash on their phone?
So I have a hard time believing that these are text messages, or at least realistic text messages. 406 and 480 are the only ones that look even remotely like texts to me. So if that's what they are supposed to be, then I think the author made a mistake.
I agree that the numbers do most likely convey some sort of order to these messages, but that just makes me wonder why they're all scrambled up like this. I'm not much of a fan of nonlinear storytelling in general, so I am a bit biased, but I don't see what scrambling the order up adds to the story.
I'll agree:
With the "nicely written but what that heck is happening" consensus that seems to be forming. Even reading the sections in numerical order doesn't make it come together for me--my best guess is that the trumpet player left our narrator, the teacher, then came back, then died. But that could very well just be the pattern-seeking part of my brain grasping and flailing to find something.
Mike
With the "nicely written but what that heck is happening" consensus that seems to be forming. Even reading the sections in numerical order doesn't make it come together for me--my best guess is that the trumpet player left our narrator, the teacher, then came back, then died. But that could very well just be the pattern-seeking part of my brain grasping and flailing to find something.
Mike
Disconnection is a prose poem revolving around text messages sent by heartbroken lovers to those who broke their respective hearts. Each "section" is a different text message. Each number is the area code of a major U.S. city—New York City, New Orleans, Austin, Butte, Seattle, and Phoenix respectively. The title is a kinda-take on the common phrase/poetic framing device "Missed Connections," which refers to individuals who met each other incidentally, had a connection, but never followed it up and often never see each other again.
I first got the idea for this piece after seeing an article about the Last Message Received project (http://thelastmessagereceived.tumblr.com/), which documents the last text messages received by lovers, family members, friends, etc. I actually wrote it at 7 am, an hour before the deadline. I like the second, third, and fourth sections most of all.
I probably should have been clearer about the framing device. When I fix this up, I'm going to be changing the area codes to email addresses, and I'm probably gonna rewrite one or two of the sections. Do trust me when I say that this will be fixed up, though. Gonna become part of my poetry performance repertoire.
>>FrontSevens (FrontSevens)
Heh, thanks for the compliment. The (253) guy cheated on his girlfriend.
Thanks for reading!
>>Monokeras (Monokeras)
The laying/lying thing is just because I don't understand how that verb works.
I felt bad after you said in chat that this was very American-centric. You're totally right, though. Sorry about that.
The second section was meant to be a black woman.
Thanks for reading!
>>Orbiting_kettle (Orbiting Kettle)
You're a sweetie. I hope this explanation is good enough.
Thanks for reading!
>>axis_of_rotation (axis_of_rotation)
I find it interesting that you understood the sections were text messages, but didn't understand the area codes. I would have thought that the first would logically lead to the second.
Glad you liked the writing, since that's the most important thing here.
Thanks for reading!
>>The_Letter_J (The_Letter_J)
Probably true, but I don't quite think that matters. Using text messages (often "sexts") as a framing device for very non-text message like writing is pretty common in slam poetry. In any case, they're gonna become emails in the rewrite.
Thanks for reading!
>>Baal Bunny
Glad you liked the writing.
Thanks for reading! And I need to remember to send you the video I interviewed you for.
Thanks for voting my other fic into finals, folks!
I first got the idea for this piece after seeing an article about the Last Message Received project (http://thelastmessagereceived.tumblr.com/), which documents the last text messages received by lovers, family members, friends, etc. I actually wrote it at 7 am, an hour before the deadline. I like the second, third, and fourth sections most of all.
I probably should have been clearer about the framing device. When I fix this up, I'm going to be changing the area codes to email addresses, and I'm probably gonna rewrite one or two of the sections. Do trust me when I say that this will be fixed up, though. Gonna become part of my poetry performance repertoire.
>>FrontSevens (FrontSevens)
Heh, thanks for the compliment. The (253) guy cheated on his girlfriend.
Thanks for reading!
>>Monokeras (Monokeras)
The laying/lying thing is just because I don't understand how that verb works.
I felt bad after you said in chat that this was very American-centric. You're totally right, though. Sorry about that.
The second section was meant to be a black woman.
Thanks for reading!
>>Orbiting_kettle (Orbiting Kettle)
You're a sweetie. I hope this explanation is good enough.
Thanks for reading!
>>axis_of_rotation (axis_of_rotation)
I find it interesting that you understood the sections were text messages, but didn't understand the area codes. I would have thought that the first would logically lead to the second.
Glad you liked the writing, since that's the most important thing here.
Thanks for reading!
>>The_Letter_J (The_Letter_J)
But the bigger issue is that I don't think anyone texts like this.
Probably true, but I don't quite think that matters. Using text messages (often "sexts") as a framing device for very non-text message like writing is pretty common in slam poetry. In any case, they're gonna become emails in the rewrite.
Thanks for reading!
>>Baal Bunny
Glad you liked the writing.
Thanks for reading! And I need to remember to send you the video I interviewed you for.
Thanks for voting my other fic into finals, folks!