Yes, No, Maybe, So
Yes, No, Maybe, So
A “Penelope” Wannabe
A “Penelope” Wannabe
Some stories move in straight lines. Others rise and fall like a pyramid. But some—some spiral. They circle an obsession, drifting outward, getting lost, then tightening, tightening, pulling back to a single unavoidable center.
Your task is to write a punctuationless narrative, a stream-of-consciousness piece where a single word becomes the structure—yes, no, maybe, so, or any word of your choosing. This word replaces commas, periods, pauses. It is the breath of the story, the force that propels it outward, then brings it back again.
But remember—all narratives have structure. Even without punctuation, your piece must spiral, moving outward into chaos, memory, thought, distraction—before inevitably returning to the thing it cannot escape. The thing it always circles back to.
For Joyce’s Molly Bloom, it was "yes" and it was Leopold Bloom. What will your word be? What will your obsession be?
Choose Your Word – This is your punctuation, your breath, your heartbeat. Every sentence should be structured around it.
Embrace the Spiral – Let your narrative expand outward into new thoughts, ideas, tangents—then pull back, returning again and again to the central obsession.
Let Meaning Shift – Your word will change. "Yes" can mean excitement, exhaustion, surrender. "No" can be refusal, regret, disbelief. Use repetition to shape meaning.
Structure in the Chaos – Even without traditional grammar, this is still a narrative. It moves. It builds. It recirculates. Let the reader feel the pattern of your obsession.
What is your central obsession? What does your story always return to?
How does your chosen word shift in meaning over time?
Does the lack of punctuation create breathlessness, fluidity, or both?
Can this be read aloud and still make sense, or does it exist purely on the page?
"Penelope" (James Joyce, Ulysses) – A monologue that spirals outward and inward, always returning to yes and love.
The Waves (Virginia Woolf) – A novel where voices blur and language flows without clear breaks between speakers.
Linton Kwesi Johnson’s Dub Poetry – Rhythm-driven poetry where sound structure carries as much meaning as words themselves.
e.e. cummings – A poet who breaks all the rules but always with purpose, always with rhythm, always with motion.
Note: Some inappropriate language. I try never to censor literature, so DO NOT read this if you're sensitive to fowl language.
Yes because he never did a thing like that before as ask to get his breakfast in bed with a couple of eggs since the City arms hotel when he used to be pretending to be laid up with a sick voice doing his highness to make himself interesting to that old faggot Mrs Riordan that he thought he had a great leg of and she never left us a farthing all for masses for herself and her soul greatest miser ever was actually afraid to lay out 4d for her methylated spirit telling me all her ailments she had too much old chat in her about politics and earthquakes and the end of the world let us have a bit of fun first God help the world if all the women were her sort down on bathing-suits and lownecks of course nobody wanted her to wear I suppose she was pious because no man would look at her twice I hope I'll never be like her a wonder she didnt want us to cover our faces but she was a welleducated woman certainly and her gabby talk about Mr Riordan here and Mr Riordan there I suppose he was glad to get shut of her and her dog smelling my fur and always edging to get up under my petticoats especially then still I like that in him polite to old women like that and waiters and beggars too hes not proud out of nothing but not always if ever he got anything really serious the matter with him its much better for them go into a hospital where everything is clean but I suppose Id have to dring it into him for a month yes and then wed have a hospital nurse next thing on the carpet have him staying there till they throw him out or a nun maybe like the smutty photo he has shes as much a nun as Im not yes because theyre so weak and puling when theyre sick they want a woman to get well if his nose bleeds youd think it was O tragic and that dyinglooking one off the south circular when he sprained his foot at the choir party at the sugarloaf Mountain the day I wore that dress Miss Stack bringing him flowers the worst old ones she could find at the bottom of the basket anything at all to get into a mans bedroom with her old maids voice trying to imagine he was dying on account of her to never see thy face again though he looked more like a man with his beard a bit grown in the bed father was the same besides I hate bandaging and dosing when he cut his toe with the razor paring his corns afraid hed get blood poisoning but if it was a thing I was sick then wed see what attention only of course the woman hides it not to give all the trouble they do yes he came somewhere Im sure by his appetite anyway love its not or hed be off his feed thinking of her so either it was one of those night women if it was down there he was really and the hotel story he made up a pack of lies to hide it planning it Hynes kept me who did I meet ah yes I met do you remember Menton and who else who let me see that big babbyface I saw him and he not long married flirting with a young girl at Pooles Myriorama and turned my back on him when he slinked out looking quite conscious what harm but he had the impudence to make up to me one time well done to him mouth almighty and his boiled eyes of all the big stupoes I ever met and thats called a solicitor only for I hate having a long wrangle in bed or else if its not that its some little bitch or other he got in with somewhere or picked up on the sly if they only knew him as well as I do yes...