John Tennent Writes

I must apologize for my silence this semester, it has been rather trying. I have, however, been scheming up a pretty big idea. These are some snippets of what I want this piece to be, please let me know what you think! I began this account nearly a year ago as a record of events that could be used after my rescue. My comrades could use this data and be sure this never happened again. Well, I suppose it will not be happening again. This account is now my only solace to keep away the madness that threatens to grow in my mind. It is my only tether to reality. I am alone. Do you even remember who I am? I wish I could remember everything. Let’s see what I know: My name is Alexsandr Fetiukov. I am a member of the United Earth Government Space Program. I have (had?) a family back in Russia that hasn’t heard from me in years. I have been marooned here on the ISS for more than a year, and I am alone. I am so very, very alone. My isolation is readily apparent to me now, but for how long? ...

My apologies to you all; it's been more than a while, but here's something new! What happens when a character dies? Michael could feel the force pressing down on him; he’d felt this strange pressure floating about his consciousness for weeks, months even, but today felt different. He felt trapped, besieged by malevolence far greater than any negativity he had ever felt before in his life. He had the irrational urge to run, to flee from something that didn’t even exist. But he had to go to work, to go about his day as he always did. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair, applied deodorant, dressed (first pants, then socks, then shirt, then tie, then shoes and finally jacket) and left his apartment for work. He was employed at Brown and Baker Attorneys: “we’ll win the case or you’ll win the lottery!” The plug was designed to give people the confidence that even if their case didn’t win they would still see money, but people rarely won, and the only money they saw were the fund...

This one was fun to write, I hope you like it. Creation Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap The blind man’s cane taps a beat on the cobblestones. His world is confined only to sounds, smells, tastes and touch. He constructs this world around him on his own, feeling his surroundings as they are available to him. It is by his power that this world around him exists in a way he can understand it. This music is a melody few people understand, A mode of communication without words. This bonds the man to his world And gives him sight. Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap The blind man’s cane raps at the cobblestones like a heartbeat. It is a lifeline between the physical and mental realities he inhabits. Without his cane he is cutoff, set apart from the corporeal. Without his cane he is rendered ignorant of his world. He is adrift in a sea of uncertainty, flailing in failure And feeling for a sense of direction. He is lost because the language has becom...

I was sitting in class and noticed that all of the students were in symmetrical rows and each person has an entire universe (at least they should ) floating around in their brain. Each one similar but different in so many ways. The Theory of the Multiverse is wrong: It does not describe the alternate realities Or the many Universes that may or may not exist. The Theory of the Multiverse is about us: The millions, the multitude of minds All teeming, dreaming With possibilities, propositions of what can be, what will be, what was. The power of human will defines Our lives, and breaks us of the confines, Of the setbacks of reality. The Multiverse is visible in the veracity Of our own valor and verisimilitude, So much so that we are unable to See the rest Of humanity, all hoping, praying for what we want, But, what do we want? The question rings and stings between our ears, A buzz in the bottom of our brains. We cannot answer a question that we do not understand An...

Something new to tide you over, I'm working on a few poems and a short story. It's about a sailor. Who doesn't like sailors? Let me know what you think. As always, I appreciate that any of you read this stuff! You are sitting in a bar in Rome, on leave from the war. Your glass of wine has yet to be emptied. Your eyes scan the room, a pleasant buzzing fills your head as the conversations of a foreign tongue wash over you. You begin to turn back to your fellow soldiers, but a flash of light catches your attention. You see her from across the room, a simple meeting of the eyes. Your heart begins to beat faster, your mind swells beyond the realm of possibilities. Here, now, this is all there is. We will never be more perfect than in this moment of true understanding. Life, death, fear, hope, love, loss, wonder, despair, power, weakness. All are wrapped in the sensation of seeing the only one who will ever understand the true depth of your buried life. You contemplate talk...

Here is a literary representation of my ailment: A poem about twitching, breaks off In the middle of what I say because My twitch does no T choose the most Convenient times to Show itself Can you Circu Umvent the twitch? Does it define me? Mold me? Create in me a brokenness? Or can I move past it? Who is in control? This infection robs me, but I am the master of my Fate, the captain of my Ship, and I will have the last say in my life.

A poem that I wrote today. You can tell I'm in an experimental modernisms class no? Faces in a writhing crowd, Crowded mass of unfamiliar people. People I don't know, or knew, Now wondering what went wayward. Weird, that I cannot seem to say, "See you me? See that I will not say how "Hard it is to see you here." Heart is neither fair nor foul Foul needs fair, and the turning of the World Worries me, I cannot find my place. Placate me with the knowing that This was not all there is to be. Belabor the idea that we loved, Living on now it was no dream Draining what I hope to feel. For truth, I will love again Against all; find me in another As you will be found in another.

An essay I wrote about language. Why is it so hard to say the things we want to say? Words Fall Through Me I sit here, grasping at words that dance behind my throat. My head is full of things I want to say, things I need to say but nothing comes out. They are caught behind my tongue, the flood held back by my own fear. She looks at me, her eyes saying everything. I know that she understands what I’m not telling her, but that’s not enough. My tongue stands still; my mouth will not form the words I so desperately desire. Words fall through me like a pitcher with no bottom: a few simple syllables I simply can’t pronounce. My first lessons in language were simple. This is a picture of a ball. B-A-L-L. Say ball . This is a ball. Rote memorization of the formation of sounds; the endless repetition of subtle machinations of the mouth. As I progressed, I learned sentence structure. I mastered the ability to form coherent statements. Grammar was no trouble. Despite my successes, I s...