White Clouds of Elation

January 29th, 2017

Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man’s work, please check out his his book, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available on Amazon.

White Clouds of Elation

Sneezing
out oxy
first thing
in the
morning

Walking
through a
white cloud
of elation

Climbing
the stairs
avoiding
the steps

Only a
follower
would
submit
to a
program

I’m making
progress
one day at
a time

All my faith
is consolidated
into a single
phone call

I often wonder
how the other
side lives

Able to accept
all the things
that drive
people to
madness

This renegade
is still free
to walk these
streets of
disease
without the
threat of
infection

This straw
is my sword

This bottle
my shield

Together we’ll
fight off the
contamination
of societal
madness

 

 

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THIS WEEK: Hacking Mobility by Deborah Brannon

January 23rd, 2017

Stay Tuned THIS WEEK,

for a second installment of

Voices of the Disenfranchised: Disability Narratives

 

Hacking Mobility by Deborah Brannon

 

 

What’s New

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2017 FLASH SUITE Contest Winners

January 16th, 2017

Welcome to defenestrationism reality.

 

We are pleased to announce the winners of the 2017 FLASH SUITE Contest, only on defenestrationism.net .

 

First, the Fan vote:

with 81% of the first place Fan Voting,

Disarticulated Life by William R. Soldan

 

and with 54% of the second place Fan Voting,

Sometimes We Are What We Seem, but Other Times We Are Something Else by Ingrid Jendrzejewski.

 

And the Grand Prize Winner, by four Judge vote plus Fan Voting is

Sometimes We Are What We Seem, but Other Times We Are Something Else by Ingrid Jendrzejewski

 

and the Runner-Up,

Disarticulated Life by William R. Soldan

 

View How the Judges Voted

read the finalists

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More Disability Narratives

January 15th, 2017

Our Defenestrationism.net special reporter

Deborah Brannon

has the flu, so we will publish her exciting journalism on Video Games hacks that enable greater access to players with Disabilities

later in January.

Till then, with but hours till we announce the winners of

the 2017 FLASH SUITE Contest,

enjoy her poem:

Elegy for a Fallen Angel

by Deborah Brannon

What is it about autumn?
You always asked that question, when I knew you.
What is it about autumn?
every time something went wrong.
I stand by my assurance that as many things went wrong
for you in other seasons.
You were just stuck on autumn
(that is also called Fall)
because of the day you suffered
by a plan, or a mistake, that at least you never intended.
But you can never anticipate God.
You said that too.

You used to moan in your sleep.
I’d never tell you. I’d never even wake you,
spare you the pain of your dreamed remembrances.
I was selfish then. Your half-coherent mutterings
were the only window I had into your inhuman,
smoldering wreck of a heart.
The wind is swift and it hurts, you’d say.
The wind is swift and it hurts.
I made the connection one night, late when
intuitive leaps seem more acceptable and true.
The wind knifed you as you fell from a very long height,
a height no human could hope to survive.
I wondered who pushed you.

When you started coughing up blood,
I knew you’d be going home soon.
I didn’t know whether they’d let you in
and you probably didn’t either.
You didn’t seem any happier to leave,
at any rate. I thought I should ask you some questions.
I wanted to know about the swift wind that hurt.
I wanted to hear you say why you really disliked autumn.
I wanted to believe, wanted inalienable validation.
You died in autumn,
with little fanfare and absolutely no heavenly host
and my questions still unasked.
Who can believe in a story like that?

 

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Winter/ Spring 2017 Schedule

January 9th, 2017

With One Week left in Fan Voting,

we are pleased to announce our winter posting schedule,

beginning with two pieces expanding our

Voices of the Disenfranchised: Disability Narratives

 

Jan. 15th

Disability Gaming by Deborah Brannon

Jan. 22nd

Elegy for a Fallen Angle by Deborah Brannon

Jan 29th

White Clouds of Elation by Michael Marrotti

Feb. 5th

Little Desert Flower by Michael Lee Johnson

Feb. 12th

Solo Boxing by Michael Lee Johnson

Feb. 19th

Alberta Bound by Michael Lee Johnson

Feb. 26th

Hazy Arizona Sky by Michael Lee Johnson

March 5th

Lion in my Heart by Michael Lee Johnson

 

 

Thnx for surfing through,

and remember us next time.

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Fan Voting, in mere Hours

January 2nd, 2017

Happy New Year, to one and all.

 

Fan Voting for the 2017 FLASH SUITE Contest will open in mere Hours.

 

So first, read all of

Sometimes We Are What We Seem, But Other Times We Are Something Else

 

TWAS BRILLIG

 

and

Disarticulated Life

 

!We’ll see you later tonight!

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Sometimes We Are What We Seem, but Other Times We Are Something Else: the Vacancy

January 1st, 2017

by Ingrid Jendrzejewski

The Vacancy

When I tell you I applied to be the moon, you just laugh. The moon? you ask. You have to be a little bit crazy to be the moon! I know, I say. I am, aren’t I? You raise your eyebrows and leave for work, a smile on your lips.

Personally, I think I am uniquely qualified for such a position. I spend my most conscientious hours awake at night, silently watching over our restless little one, my face peering down, full and sleepless, quiet and trenched. My dark arms wrap around her smallness: I am so close and part of her that she forgets I’m something different from the night itself. We hold ourselves in that wasteland between twilight and daybreak when nobody but the infants and troubled and death-sick and mothers are straining.

And then, after and before such vigils, I go about the day as if I am a different entity: I pack lunches. I sweep the porch. I peel oranges. I post birthday cards. In the dawn and dusk, I kiss you goodbye and hello. I am, otherwise, unseen; in the light of the day, my giant moon face shrivels until it is only the size of an average human head.

 

read all of Sometimes We Are What We Seem, but Other Times We Are Something Else

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Sometimes We Are What We Seem, but Other Times We Are Somthing Else: a Preference for Burrows

December 31st, 2016

by Ingrid Jedrzejewski

A Preference for Burrows

Over the years, I have been called a lamb, a scaredy-cat, a limpet and even a vixen (only once, mind you, and the gentleman was a bit tipsy). I’ve been told I have puppy-dog eyes, bird legs and the face of a horse. I am often busy as a beaver, I used to be as poor as a church-mouse, I have on rare occasions had a whale of a time, and I am currently as blind as a bat without my horn-rimmed spectacles.

If only people would recognize that I am a rabbit, it wouldn’t matter that I walk with an awkward hop, and no one would look at me askance when I wiggle my nose in that particular way to edge the aforementioned spectacles farther up my nose. No one would question my desire to have more children or my fear of large predators. It would not matter that I am a little furry in certain places, and that, sometimes, when faced with things I don’t understand, I sit as if paralyzed while my heart races and my ears twitch.

 

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Sometimes We Are What We Seem, but Other Times We Are Something Else

December 30th, 2016

by Ingrid Jedrzejewski

Houses and Cars

When I was little, I never expected I’d turn into a house when I grew up, but what do you know, here I am. I guess it was all that time I spent alone, or maybe it was the wishing.

My rooms aren’t too big or too small. When unfurnished, they seem both spacious and cold, but then, it’s not often any more that I’m on the market. These days, I look out at the street through sash windows, several of which could use a corneal transplant or at least a scrub. My heart beats in the furnace, causing strange sounds to rattle in the radiators. Things and people and ideas fill me, then disappear. Important, meaningful things gather dust in the closets, but remain, sometimes well after their families have left: photo albums; high school yearbooks; a pair of baby shoes, hardly worn. I didn’t choose to become a house, but I’ve become used to it. I’m pretty good at standing still.

The only thing I’m not able to get used to are the cars that are constantly pulling in and out of my garage. They are foreign, grunting things, not at all personable. I feel that if my womb should be so incessantly penetrated, I would, at least, like to be able to entertain the possibility of someday producing a small bungalow I could call my own. But these cars, and the men who drive them, seem sterile and engineered: not at all capable of causing my very foundations to tremble.

 

A Preference for Burrows

Over the years, I have been called a lamb, a scaredy-cat, a limpet and even a vixen (only once, mind you, and the gentleman was a bit tipsy). I’ve been told I have puppy-dog eyes, bird legs and the face of a horse. I am often busy as a beaver, I used to be as poor as a church-mouse, I have on rare occasions had a whale of a time, and I am currently as blind as a bat without my horn-rimmed spectacles.

If only people would recognize that I am a rabbit, it wouldn’t matter that I walk with an awkward hop, and no one would look at me askance when I wiggle my nose in that particular way to edge the aforementioned spectacles farther up my nose. No one would question my desire to have more children or my fear of large predators. It would not matter that I am a little furry in certain places, and that, sometimes, when faced with things I don’t understand, I sit as if paralyzed while my heart races and my ears twitch.

 

The Vacancy

When I tell you I applied to be the moon, you just laugh. The moon? you ask. You have to be a little bit crazy to be the moon! I know, I say. I am, aren’t I? You raise your eyebrows and leave for work, a smile on your lips.

Personally, I think I am uniquely qualified for such a position. I spend my most conscientious hours awake at night, silently watching over our restless little one, my face peering down, full and sleepless, quiet and trenched. My dark arms wrap around her smallness: I am so close and part of her that she forgets I’m something different from the night itself. We hold ourselves in that wasteland between twilight and daybreak when nobody but the infants and troubled and death-sick and mothers are straining.

And then, after and before such vigils, I go about the day as if I am a different entity: I pack lunches. I sweep the porch. I peel oranges. I post birthday cards. In the dawn and dusk, I kiss you goodbye and hello. I am, otherwise, unseen; in the light of the day, my giant moon face shrivels until it is only the size of an average human head.

 

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TWAS BRILLIG: postscript

December 29th, 2016

POSTSCRIPT

If I were to read just so,

This anecdote of note.

I have for you this small cadeau,

This suite is mine to quote.


I grin, for it just serves to show,
That bonnie lass I used to know  —
Whose look was wild, whose face did glow,
Whose heart was purer than the snow,

Whose courage I did come to know,

Who never sought a quid pro quo,

Whose oyster said that she must go,

As waves did swell and seas did grow,
Who rocked her wings both to and fro,
And flew her Walrus low and slow,

Dodging blow after blow after blow,

To give those saved a tomorrow,
That summer morning long ago,

A-flying in a boat.

–L.G.

Read all of TWAS BRILLIG 

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