No-Name-Narrative

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Construct a narrative outline without a protagonist and with multiple characters, involving a journey without an outer transformation. What would the story look like?

I'd place a group - three or four max - in an elevator; trapped in a space where it would capture all personalities in a locked-box scenario which I'd contend to create.This scene would evoke a series of enraptured interactions befitting to the unfolding event of a daily struggle to move on and out of one circumstance to the next. 

I'd utilise all skills and or conversation starters, serious points of character revelation, and even flashback in differing perspectives to give this scene a built-up and solid foundation to create tension and anxiety blockades to stage a full-frontal foursome trying to overcome a shared obstacle. 

This type of setting encumbers them to react in virtually distinctive physical characteristics, shaping the encounter through mannerisms, social mores and contextual misunderstandings explored in a tightly confined situation.

A comedy of errors, if you will, would ensue gently navigating the terrain of characters' elaborate wishes and desires to fulfil in a delightful realism with each leading character possessing strong perspectives. The characters' accentuated humour intentionally designed to create conflict, drama, and disunity as they each aspire to reach significant and unique outcomes to their shared present challenge. 

Biography~

Rhys Westbury is a twenty-three year old guy who studies at RMIT in a Bachelor of Arts second year Creative Writing program. He loves poetry, loves to love, and he majors in making people laugh - at him.

He prefers to see through the looking glass - or as Will says in Anchorman, "In a GLASS CASE OF EMOTIOONS!??!" at deep feelings. The voice he longs to mirror is none other than literary colossus of dreams, epiphanies, and deep despair, Miss Silvia Plath... He was also born on her birthday... coinc-kee-dink. Megan Abbott specialises in saucy, steamy, L.A. forties to sixties noir, in a decadent stirring of the darkest human desires - he enjoys this bit of light fic, really.

He has this acquired taste for spiritually entrenched meanings shining through his works, pulling a part pieces of human relationships to analyse humanity's psychic frailty.

We're all so fragile -

He knows himself;
When he writes,
Freedom's his embrace.

Poo \ Peace / Power.

Two will do.

Grab your keys.

Find your peace.

If time will allow,
make a sound ----

out with it.

R.W.

What does the intercultural experience mean?

God only knows.
He does.
What will I choose for the topic at hand --- "come hither, go thither"
aventure de jour.

R.W.

The way we were is who you are now.

The way we were electrified us. I sat across from him,
and had this crazy feeling we'd met. We had.
      "You're joking?"
      "Nooo way, Rhys - isn't it?"
      "Tom," I declared, placing the name over him like a command.
       I knew who he was, see? I'd created a face for him in my world,
and from house to home and on the road again - long lost brethren,
ol' pal Tom, from la la la long-long-long time ago, came up and hugged me.
       He was in his trademark flannelette hoodie, bum jeans and bearded -
and strikingly I was very much the same since I'd left him in England.
       We'd met plenty of places and times over there, memory fails to exact
certainty of each location - all blending into one episode in the sands of time
of our secretive, out-of-our-minds world conjured as journeymen.
       He wore a hushed and subdued manner, eyes fiercely startled by my presence.
       So I pressed on past our joint silence and said, "Tom, are you working
back 'ere?" He didn't need to brace the topic before I spoke for him,
"Ah, but you're still recording your E.P. aren't ya?"
        "Sure am," he agreed. And then he nodded to the beat of my phrasing suited to cater for a personality lukewarm, and soft of sound.

Assignment with Sidney - Milestone Three

Mother is my marker,

Mother is my marker!

Mother is my mind,

And I her minder.

 
Somewhere outside frosted shells,
Dancing in the light
Spreads you thin.
Oh, life acquired a willy-wag tail
To outlive the eldest tree trunk---
Do you reciprocate?


There, called Life to some,
was where I came to be.
I didn’t do it for elaborate sincerity…
I’d doodled and compounded,
that this is where my love
should be founded.

On a breakaway wall
two words etched:
Me + You

If you could see
my black ship
linger on a port,
you’d sound about
right on point.

Chortled he did,
finding me on my perch -
delight smeared on him,
hunched over and happy.

He knew I could dim
the hard-noise with my
noisier chirps….
He, being my whole embrace.

He called me Murphy,
I knew him as Jack, and I
loved the words “something borrowed, something new” to describe how he’d thrown his lovely person from view,
telling me:
My wings only fly me to you.