Out of Isolation

by: Nessa Zisman

Contained in the isolation of my contentment, doing what brings one happiness and savagely bruises the egos of those who wrote the fictional scenes in which I conform to such rules and regulations given in borrowed speculations.

There...There where the nails divy themselves through splintered wood passing through this heart as it screams for individualized characteristics to set one apart from the shepherds herd.

Eyes sewn shut in passive aggressive opinions that sight is what is seen reflected in my blue ignorance.

Imagination trumps the weight of blindness forced upon me at birth, I see more than meets the judging eye, but all that is hidden in the space between the soils of the burdened and the untouchable depths of the heartless.

Could be the infinite fire that toasts the forest trees from beneath the mask of bark shielding the blind that believe they have seen all able to be seen.

Feel it...Feel the breeze grow warm in the brewing pot of gurgling slop fed to us on silver spoons to choke upon.

Choke up these words in haste as they search for the pages that rewrite the ending they created, as an army sets forth to stand against all that I mold into their imprint, disfiguring the image they have in mind.

Cut loose these fraying ropes tying me to this hole in midst of fictional stories they repeat in my ears as would a taunting lover, hoping to caress me with falsified promises to submission in protecting arms.

No hold is needed for I cloak myself in these lines, baring this flesh to the world to be scorned for the evil doings of brilliance inked in the blood of the mocking voices in my head at all times.

Aim to cut through this barrier, to relinquish the walls around me to ash at the feet of the defeated and walk among the lilies, basking in the sunlight rehearsing mornings in a glance.

The dew sticks to my skin, feel the perspiration of new days flood this sight with vengeance. Seek out I do, what truth lies in the no man's lands of these corridors that allow me venture in thought...

Carry on this walk...feed me all that is and quench my thirst in the notion that there is always more than is presented in a meeting.

Kissed the clouds in their ever changing, ever tricking the eye appearance, knowing at second glance they be untouched, newly formed desires to drink of.

Spun a web to catch the insults that haunt the throned surface of my walk under the moon in all its glory, overshadowed by this ever-bending branch I lay to dream, to bed.

Where one rests a weary head, the mind sleeps never reinventing the second hand striking time pass by the minutes of breath to weave.

Reconstructed criticism overheard and this pen shakes in pain, in loss of the unrequitted, unraveled mystery it fights to bring life.

Rituals be mere burdens, lighting candles to consummate this moment in bask of shadows on the walls of my sub conscious swaying undirectional in this rendition of spasms as they claw and mark the memory at the clocks hour.

Soured are the fruits of cunning tongues preaching their disillusion within the winded speech. As long as this air flows least a bit, long live the words on my pages. Even in fires dwindling to soot beneath the mantle, my picture holds a pen to continue the scrawl...though the canvas has aged, though skin bare the life lines, though death move closer with every moment, my ink seeps through the years....

Cursing all in the memory of the day the barriers burned in my fire.

And those that dare see, leave me to wake again to feed their desire....

Desire is need and I need for everything, but nothing.

Writer's Choice Poetry Contest Winner

Out of Isolation
by Nessa Zisman

What​ ​genre(s)​ ​do​ ​you​ ​write? 

Non fiction, poetry, Sci-fi, psychological thrillers.

Which​ ​do​ ​you​ ​prefer​ ​to​ ​write:​ ​short​ ​stories,​ ​poetry,​ ​novellas,​ ​novels,​ ​essays,​ ​nonfiction… ?

Poetry, Novels.

What​ ​genre(s)​ ​do​ ​you​ ​read? 

I try to keep an open mind, but am typically drawn to the horror genre.

What​ ​made​ ​you​ ​want​ ​to​ ​become​ ​a​ ​writer? 

Writing has always been a big part of who I am, I picked up my pen at 7 year's old and felt at home and free to express myself or escape into my own creations, for me it was better then facing reality at times.

What​ ​is​ ​your​ ​first​ ​memory​ ​of​ ​writing? 

I remember writing fairy tales (imagine that) For my younger sister when we were growing up, we would often turn them into plays and act them out for our parents at bedtime (embarrassing)

What​ ​and​ ​/or​ ​Who​ ​inspires​ ​you​r ​writing? My kids are by far my biggest inspirations.

What​ ​is​ ​your​ ​favorite​ ​book?  

100 love sonnets by Pablo Neruda

What​ ​turns​ ​you​ ​away​ ​from​ ​a​ ​book? 

Flaws in a plot line

Who​ ​is​ ​your​ ​favorite​ ​author(s)? 

Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Pablo Neruda

Are​ ​you​ ​a​ ​published​ ​writer?​ ​If​ ​so,​ ​what​ ​have​ ​you​ ​published?​ ​If​ ​not,​ ​are​ ​you​ ​planning​ ​to publish​ ​or​ ​is​ ​writing​ ​simply​ ​for​ ​pleasure? No, I am currently in the final stages of publishing my first novel Children's Books Shouldn't Be Written, a psychological thriller set for release April 3rd.

Learn more about Nessa Zisman: The Writing Wench

Read her winning poem: Out of Isolation

Rabbit Hole Prompt Contest Winner

Fucking Love Yourself   

All the best people—think they're crazy.

All the normal people—aren’t.

Which side of the looking glass is real?

Which side is not? 

Butterflies and birds

Bats and mosquitoes,

They fly.

They fly above all,

First and foremost,

Forget questioning.

~ CL Steele~

1977

by ROSTI

The needle slipped in so easily
And created a profound change.
I was sickened first from the hepatitis my patient transferred to me
But there was more.
A madness that turned me from normal
To having long periods where no rest could be found
Despite the narcotics, the barbs, the benzos.
My unwanted companions for 13 long years.
And between the hyperactivity,
Bone-crushing depression for which I sought help
From amphetamines, cocaine, meth.

Over that decade plus,
I treated myself, a fool for a patient,
Having more and more trouble
Modulating these foreign moods
Which had become commonplace and routine.
4 marriages, 3 divorces,
Another marriage on the rocks.
And becoming habituated to my chemical compounds
At one time thought of as friends but now enemies.
It was this fourth marriage on the skids
And my separation from my son that wore me out finally.

I chose the barbs as my exit tool.
Lying there conscious of the fact that I needed to remember to breathe.
Somehow a friend I had known from years’ back
Just happened to show up,
Just happened to find me in a stupor,
Just happened to act rapidly to call 911,
Just happened to.
I was comfortably numb during the resuscitation,
Thank God!
I really have no recall until I was transferred to Rehab
For detox and a 30-day drug and alcohol program.

After detox I was diagnosed…
Bipolar 2 was the name they gave me.
“And, oh, by the way, you have AIDS, too.”
I recall the perfunctory way the doc
Just slipped that test result in front of my face
And said only, “Don’t do any more drugs.”
Not noticing how dumbstruck I was
Offering no compassion.
Perhaps he knew the relationship of AIDS to Bipolar?
Maybe not…
But I uncovered it and thought back to 1977.

That gave me insight.
Whenever I’m sick
It’s best for me to create a mental picture of my illness.
So now I had one.
A link back to that patient in 1977
The one with dementia
And weight loss
And cryptococcal meningitis
After all those years I had, unknowingly,
Made one of the very first AIDS diagnoses.
A dis-ease I had given myself!

Despite tremendous personal, financial and professional issues,
Despite the cognitive impairment that went with that diagnosis,
Despite the endless array of varying combination of pills and potions,
I aligned myself with the BEST practitioners I could find.
I followed treatment plans to the very letter.
Rigorously…
I enrolled in experimental protocols.
I struggled to survive
Not one, not two, but three
Life-threatening illnesses…
After 25 years, it finally paid off.

The lynchpin was dumping the “drug of choice”
And starting an atypical and two antidepressants-
An SSRI and SNRI.
I suddenly became calm
And normal like I hadn’t been since before the fateful day
Back in 1977.
It was almost as dramatic as flipping a light switch
And flooding an unfamiliar room with light.
To see the unseen for those thirty plus years.
To be back in my own skin again.
To achieve normalcy.

After those eighteen years of work
The rubrics cube of me was finally aligned correctly.
Today, I’ve been in the same relationship for over a decade.
Today, I’m residing at the same place for fourteen years.
Today, I’m an effective father and spouse.
Today, I have personal responsibility for myself
And my remission.
Today, I engage in activities that are congruent with my nature,
Which is that of an intelligent, empathetic, resourceful person,
Able to deal effectively with life on life’s terms
And share my successes with those who would have them.

The takeaway?
Recovery IS possible
As long as one has the capacity to work hard
With themselves
And their healthcare team
IF I could do it
That means it IS possible
Like anything of value
It requires effort
And courage
And, I’d guess, a bit of luck.


© Richard A. Martin, Jr. MD CPC, 2016

Read this and other poems on Rosti's website

Archaic Word(s) Definitions

Archaic Words

Definitions of the words for the Archaic Word(s) Poem Contest. 

abroad: out of doors

ague: malaria or a similar illness

bedlam: an asylum; an old woman

billow: a large sea wave

blow: produce flowers or be in flower

camelopard: a giraffe

corse: a corpse

crankum: an elaborate decoration or detail

dandiprat: a young or insignificant person

dark: ignorant (as in dark poetry, not a racial slur)

dot: a dowry from which only the interest or annual income was available to the husband

doxy: a lover or mistress

drab: a slovenly woman

Archaic Word(s) (A-D) Poem Contest

English Oxford Dictionary defines archaic words as those ‘no longer in everyday use or have lost a particular meaning in current usage but are sometimes used to impart an old-fashioned flavour to historical novels, for example, or in standard conversation or writing just for a humorous effect.’

Some are fancy, floral, roll off the tongue with all the lyrical elegance and sophistication of an eighteenth century philosopher. Some are just damn goofy. No in between.

This contest has two options. Below those options is the list of words to choose from. Have fun with this one :)

Option One: Use as many archaic words as possible in a poem… without looking up the definition! Use each word only as you think it should be used.

Option Two: Choose one word. That's the title. First stept, use the association you have for the word, what you think it means, to write a poem. Second step, focus on the archaic meaning to add  to your poem, but don't erase anything written. 

Hint: I'll probably publish every single entry so long as directions are followed

abroad, ague, bedlam, billow, blow, 

camelopard, corse, crankum,

dandiprat, dark, dot, doxy, drab

Author Spotlight — Riya Zach

Monthly Choice Award Winner

My Life, I Author

by Maria Zach

How did the prompt inspire your story?

The idea that somebody else controls my life - I've always found that scary. I guess I have this innate desire to be in control at all times. At the same time, I've no wish to know what's next; I like the unpredictability of life.

• What genre(s) do you write?

I've dabbled in Fantasy, SciFi, Crime, Horror and Romance. I say dabbled because I find it hard to draw lines and place my work into boxes.

I've mixed Crime and Paranormal; SciFi and Romance. I find a lot of enjoyment in mixing genres.

• Which do you prefer to write: short stories, poetry, novellas, novels, essays, nonfiction… ?

When I started, I wrote mainly nonfiction and poetry. Since then, I've written short stories, flash fiction and nonfiction.

I've started on a longer piece now. I don't know yet whether it'll be a novella or a novel.

• What genre(s) do you read?

Everything. Every fucking thing that I can get my hands on. But my (current) favorites are fantasy and speculative fiction.

• What made you want to become a writer?

I hold conversations with imaginary people. I have imaginary conversations with real people.

Every. Single. Day.

My imagination has helped me through a lot. I developed that from the books I read as a child and young adult.

Initially, I just wanted to get the voices out of my head. Now, I'd like to share the gift of imagination with other people.

• What is your first memory of writing?

I have no first memory of writing. But the first time I thought of myself as a writer was as late as 2013.

• What and /or Who inspires you to write?

The imaginary people - they need an outlet!

• What is your favorite book?

Too many favorites.

Pride and Prejudice, Harry Potter, A Town Like Alice, Water for Elephants, Letter from Peking, We Have Always Lived in the Castle, Rebecca - to name a few.

• What do you look for in a book?

Realistic characters. Suspense.

• What turns you away from a book?

A weak opening doesn't necessarily turn me away. I like to give the book the benefit of the doubt so I try to make it through the first 2k-3k words before giving it up.

But bad grammar and obvious plot holes are an instant turnoff; they tell me that the author is not interested in their readers.

• Who is your favorite author(s)?

Jane Austen, George Orwell, J.K.Rowling, Enid Blyton, Agatha Christie, Shirley Jackson, Paulo Coelho, Tolkien, C.S. Lewis

• Are you a published writer? If so, what have you published? If not, are you planning to publish or is writing simply for pleasure?

Like I said before, initially it was all for pleasure. Recently, I've started looking at publishers. I've sent out a couple of poems, a flash or two. Besides Scribblers Chamber and 121words, I've received only one other acceptance so far.

Read Riya Zach's story:

My Life, I Author

And remember... Write like it's criminal!