A woman is seated at a table with a man and a child. She feels out of place. She feels like she would rather be anywhere other than where she is, playing a role she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know how she fits into any of it.

The man is charming, the child well-mannered. They make her uncomfortable. She is wary. She waits for her role to become clear. They will tell her who she is, soon. She hopes, as well, to find out who they are, and what the three of them are to each other. Because she doesn’t remember.

The child is darker than the man, whose skin color matches hers. The child’s hair has the appearance of a soft black cloud. She is mildly put off by it, although she isn’t sure why.

The child has something to give you, says the man.

The woman turns to the child, expectant, and receives the rolled up piece of paper held out to her. She smooths it open on the table and stares at it, unsure.

It’s a plane, the man offers when she’s been quiet for too long.

Thank you, she says to the child, and manages a smile that makes her skin feel like tissue paper, soft and crinkly and likely to tear if stretched too much. She doesn’t say that she doesn’t like planes. She’s sure they should know this. She expands her smile to give it authenticity.

The child’s smile is shy, the man’s indulgent.

The woman feels hot, suddenly. Hot like she’s outdoors on a blistering day. Hot like she’s burning from the inside out. And yet, not a bead of sweat dots her skin. She looks at the man and the child. Their skin is dry, and they seem fine.

Isn’t it a little hot in here? She wonders out loud.

No, no. The sun doesn’t shine in here, the man says, smiling at her as though she has told a joke that only the two of them know the punchline to.

Her skin tightens. She can’t see it but she can feel it, and it feels like stretching, except in reverse.

My skin is shrinking, she whispers, more to herself than anyone else.

If the man and the child heard her, they make no indication of it. She stares at her hand, the one holding the fork she’d forgotten about. She stares at the fork as though seeing it for the first time, before remembering that she’d meant to use it to eat the meal in front of her, which she had also forgotten about.

Your food will get cold, says the man, his voice gently chiding.

She looks from him to the child. Is this alright then? she asks, not talking about the food.

The food is wonderful. But you seem anxious. Are you alright?

I’m fine, she snaps. Instantly contrite, she softens. I’m feeling a little tired.

He nods in understanding. It’s to be expected.

She wants to ask him what he means but she is distracted by the child tugging on her sleeve. She cuts up the food on the child’s offered plate into small cubes and hands it back. There you go.

She watches the child eat. As she does so, a thought occurs to her. Am I your mother? she asks, picking up her fork without thinking and stabbing at her meal.

The child’s head turns left then right in the manner signifying the negative, with cheeks stuffed with food.

The man laughs. No, he says, you’re mine. He takes her hand, the one not holding the fork, in both of his, and it is then she notices, for the first time, that her skin is soft and papery. That she is clearly old. This fills her with sadness.

Are you alright? The man’s frown is concerned, his tone sincere.

I’ve become old, she says mournfully.

Yes, the man agrees sadly.

The woman nods, resigning herself to her current state. She addresses the child again: Where is your mother?

Wordlessly, the child reaches over and taps a finger on the drawing of the airplane by the woman’s hand. She thinks, When did that get there?

On the plane? she asks the child. Is she on her way?

She’s dead, says the child, speaking for the first time.

I’m sorry, says the woman, her skin tightening.

It was a long time ago, says the man. He brightens. Perhaps you’ll see each other soon.

Where?

I’m not sure. But any minute now.

The woman is despairing. I don’t understand anything.

That’s alright. I suppose I ought to tell you now, since there’s not much time left. The man’s gaze is soft and full of gentleness. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?

She doesn’t know what she’s going to ask until she asks it. Is the child yours?

Yes. My child, and your grandchild.

So dark. Nothing like you or me.

The man’s smile never falters. No, nothing like either of us, not in that way. But very much a part of us. We are, after all, family.

If you say so.

Is that all you want to ask me?

You’ll tell me everything I need to know anyway.

The man leans close, gently prying the fork from her other hand and clasping it, so that he’s holding both her hands.

Everything you need to know, he repeats. Will you listen? Once and for all?

She nods.

In that case, here it is: You were wrong about a lot of things. And I forgive you.

The woman waits for him to say something more, but that appears to be all.

Is that it?

Yes. It’s everything you need to know. You can let go now.

He grips her hands firmly when she starts to pull them away. No, not like that. You know.

She doesn’t fully understand yet, but she’s begun to realize that she’s losing something precious. Her skin feels impossibly tight, but when she glances at it, it appears fine. She’s worried she’s disappearing, that she’ll fold in on herself until she’s nothings. That she’ll fold out of existence.

I’m burning up, she whispers, inside.

It’s okay.

But it’s over, isn’t it?

The man, her son, nods sadly.

She glances down at their entwined hands, then at her grandchild, so silent. Her family. The first tear drops onto the back of her hand, followed closely by another.

Her son folds her in an embrace, which she returns. It’s going to be alright, he soothes. It’s going to be okay. When he pulls back his face is wet with tears.

He turns to the child. Say goodbye to your grandmother.

Goodbye, grandma, says the child.

Give her a kiss.

The woman presents her cheek to her grandchild, who gives it a soft peck. Thank you, she says to the child. Then, because it feels like the right thing to do, she says, I’m sorry.

It’s alright. I love you, says her son.

At this, her skin loosens, and she is no longer hot inside. Whatever needed to be done is done. It is then she notices the only doorway in the room, leading to a corridor. Her way out. She stands up slowly, uncertainly, trying to see what lies at the end of the corridor. She can’t.

Panicking slightly, she asks her son: Where am I going?

Hopefully somewhere good.

The woman squares her shoulders and nods. Alright then. Goodbye, she says to her family.

Goodbye, reply her son and grandchild.

She walks through the doorway and down the corridor, which has no doors lining it, and whose end doesn’t seem any closer or farther than when she went into it, even after walking for quite a while. The only way she knows she’s making progress is that each time she turns to look back at her son and grandchild, they appear smaller.

At last she reaches the end, where there’s an open door. She pauses with her hand on the handle and takes one last look at her son and grandchild, both of whom are now no more than specks in the distance. Then, bracing herself, she turns back to the door, pushes the handle, and steps beyond it into eternity.

Been some time since I've posted on my own profile and not as Prose., but I wanted to post something from here and tag some writers, because I want to start getting back to my own shit. I need to write more, or just plain out start writing again. Prose. is a labor of love, so that's great, but no matter what, I need to write. Realized today I haven't even posted to my own channel in ages, and it worked out, because I didn't want to post my work on The Prose. Channel, because I like to keep that for the writers aside from me, and my voice and big, fat face on the channel is enough from me, without reading my own work, too. Holy fuck, I couldn't even watch that...

Been on this gnarly but satisfying carnivore diet the last couple of months or just less, and yesterday was an all-Hell-breaks-loose day. Beer, whiskey, bread, name it... paying the fiddler now. I'm sure he's thrilled. He's an asshole.

As myself, I want to thank you for being on Prose., and for being so generous with the work you give to it. Every day I read something great on here. So much talent in one place, and I think back to when it was just an idea stemming from another hangover, in the heat of a Texas afternoon, where I happened to find myself in that particular moment in time. Looking at Prose. now, it's very humbling, and I am grateful to you.

Alright, enough mushy feelings and shit. Here's a link to my own channel and some poems from here, but also appearing in a book of mine, set to release in the near future.

Thanks again.

-Jeff.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sKw-vodNOMU

None of us knew about Marianne until the funeral. Grandma was dead, having outlived her in-laws, her son, and his wife. She'd lived a full life, cliche as it was to say.

She'd grown so old and withered that we often forgot she'd been young once. She'd been alive for so long she couldn't remember parts of her life from the beginning, from the middle.

And yet when she went, in her sleep, we couldn't help but feel that it was unfair, even as we knew it wasn't. She'd had more time than most. She'd lived a few years past a hundred. She'd done so much with her life.

There were no speeches at the funeral about how she was gone too soon, how she hadn't done everything she wanted. There was only talk of her long, full life. Her legacy; six grandchildren and one grandchild, with two more on the way, and numerous friends and acquaintances. And all the well-wishers. A large family home in the country. A furniture business worth hundreds of millions.

The funeral was held at the family home in the country. Large as it was, it appeared to be teeming with people. We'd invited as many people as we could, and still there were many more we could have invited, but for lack of space. The house was filled with people and still they weren't even up to a fraction of the people that knew her, loved her.

It was in that house, where we and all those people had come together to mourn a death and celebrate a life well lived, that we first learned of the existence of Marianne.

There we were, standing in a corner of the enormous living room in a loose circle, us Andersson kids six. Luca, the oldest at thirty-one. Carl or Carlisle, twenty-nine. Twenty-seven-year-old Elke, named for Elke Sommer, an actress our mother loved. Theo, short for Theodore, twenty-four. Me, Rainer, commonly referred to as Rain, twenty-two. And our youngest, Philip--Flip to us and Phil to everyone else, nineteen years old.

It was the first time we'd been alone together, just us, since people started arriving. We spent the time alternating between trading stories about Grandma and lapsing into silence as we each recalled our own memories of her.

Someone came in through the doorway, and there was a, well, not a hush, but a dimming of conversation.

I noticed her first. From where I stood, I had a clear view of the arched double doorway.

She was stunning. She had the kind of beauty that reminded you of Old Hollywood starlets, soft and sultry, even without visible makeup. She was dressed in a simple black dress and simple black heels, and still she was the loveliest person in the room. She also looked out of place, like she belonged in a catalog for ladies' funeral wear, in spite of her simple outfit. But it wasn't the outfit, it was her. People were staring, but she didn't pay them any mind.

She stood there in the doorway. Her lips were bare and her eyes were searching. I stared at her, fascinated, until it occurred to me that she might have been looking for one of us.

"Who's that?" asked Flip, to my left.

"Who?" Elke took a sip of her drink.

"In the doorway," said Flip.

Luca peered over the top of Carl's head. "Huh."

Elke and Carl twisted around to look.

"Oh wow," said Elke.

"I think she's looking for one of us," mused Carl.

"Not me." This came from Flip. "I wish she was though," he added wistfully.

Carl shrugged. "Don't look at me, I'm married. Happily."

"Same here," said Luca.

"Well, she's here for somebody," I said. "Theo?"

We all looked at Theo. Theo, who'd had his back to the doorway the whole time, turned around. And froze.

And there it was. She was here for him.

She spotted him almost as soon as he set eyes on her. She smiled then, unsure, and started toward us.

Theo stood there, unmoving. We, on the other hand, retreated further into the corner, close enough to exchange pleasantries with her, far enough to give them some room. Probably not far enough though.

She stopped in front of Theo.

We watched them curiously, as did other eyes in the room. Questions formed and burned in our minds. Seconds passed. Neither of them spoke.

"Christ this is awkward," muttered Carl, which earned him an elbow in the ribs from Elke who hissed, "Shush."

It was the woman who spoke first. "Hello, Theo.”

"Hello."

It was quite formal. I wondered if she was a coworker, or an acquaintance. Or an ex.

He didn't look happy to see her, but he also didn't look mad. He seemed tense. He clearly hadn't been expecting her. But she was here now, and didn't seem to know what to do about it.

"I heard, and-I wasn't sure if I should call first. I thought, maybe, it would be better to come and... I thought that being here in person would be better."

"You didn't have to."

"I wanted to."

There was a flash of something in his eyes as he stared at her, and then it was gone.

"Thank you," he said.

We wanted to ask who she was, but we held ourselves in check, waiting to be introduced. Rather, all but one of us.

"Hi," chirped Elke.

Theo turned to us as if suddenly remembering we were there. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking not quite sheepish, but close.

"Right, um...these are my siblings. And um, guys, this is Marianne."

Marianne. We'd none of us heard him mention a Marianne. Not even Elke, with whom he was closest. But that was Theo. He kept things close. We were still learning not to take it personally.

He introduced us from oldest to youngest, and we each shook hands with her. She had soft hands. A firm grip, but hands that were soft and smooth like I imagined a princess's would be.

Theo spoke. "So, this is my family. But we're a few members short."

"Yeah, about two wives and a kid, with two more on the way," I said.

Marianne nodded."Oh."

"Luca's married with a kid and another on the way. Carl's also married and expecting his first kid," Elke explained.

"I know," said Marianne.

She knew.

Before we could comment on it, before we could even really think about it (she knew. She knew) she smiled at Carl and said, “Congratulations.”

Carl smiled back. "Thank you."

"It's lovely to meet you all," she said. "I'm so sorry about your grandmother."

"Thank you," said Luca on our behalf.

"How do you know Theo?" asked Flip, and I could have shaken him by the shoulders. From the look on our siblings’ faces, I wasn’t the only one who’d had the thought.

Marianne and Theo exchanged a look.

"She's my...friend," offered Theo.

We wondered about the space between "my" and "friend" but knew better than to ask about it.

Marianne turned back to Theo, and said, so softly we might not have heard her if we weren't actively listening, "I'm so sorry, Theo."

We didn't know if she was talking about Grandma's death or about something else, or both.

There was something about the way she said it. And what happened next. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek and his eyes closed. Only briefly, but it was enough. We knew.

We'd seen something in his eyes, just before they closed. A softness, a melting, a longing. And we knew.

We knew there was a lot between "my" and "friend" that he hadn’t mentioned. We knew she was someone important enough that he should have told us about her. And we knew that whatever she was to him, whatever they were to each other, it was so much more than we could have imagined.

We knew, and still it wasn’t enough. We wanted to know more. It seemed like he’d told her about us. What had he mentioned? She knew about us and we knew nothing about her because he’d kept her a secret for who knew how long.

And it hurt.

But that was Theo. Theo kept things close. It was how he’d always been.

We were still learning not to take it personally.

I wrote this when I was a teenager. This isn't what it looked like back then. This is an extremely abridged version, with stuff added in. It's about how I felt back then, and how I feel now as well, sometimes. It's a bunch of thoughts thrown together. It's very me, I think.

On graduation day, you want to get up on that stage and cry real tears and say it’s been a long, wonderful journey and mean it. You want to gaze upon their expectant faces – because the future is, after all, ahead of them – and feel that bittersweet sensation which means you care and you’re sad it’s over and you’ll never have this period of your lives again. But you can act. Forget about drama club. Forget about class plays. In that moment, you’re the world’s best faker.

You will cry and hug and say those empty, gushy words that have become so familiar to you. Everything you say means nothing. Nothing you say means anything. It’s how you’ve always been toward each other. All smiles and light hearted conversation, but stabbing each other with daggers in your minds.

Your loneliness is a big thing. It’s so big it swallows you up and doesn’t leave room for anything else.

Some days you wake up, and your skin feels alive. There’s an itch just below its surface, an itch that worsens as the day wears on. You want to lash out, physically and verbally. You want to complain and cry. You want to be left alone. You want to be sympathized with.

You just want. You want everything. You want nothing. You want one thing that you can’t put your finger on. It’s confusing. It’s maddening. You’d peel off your skin and scratch the itch if you could, put an end to your madness.

You are a walking letter of apology. You go around apologizing to everyone, for everything and everyone, but nobody bothers to read you. And the part that makes you the saddest is the fact that you apologize, most of all, for yourself. And for what? What have you done that’s so bad? Why do you feel guilty for merely existing?

You want to be taken seriously and not mistaken.

And it’s so hard to turn the bad stuff into good stuff. It can feel like life’s being hurled at you sometimes. You don’t want to deal, but stuff’s happening and you can’t dodge any of it. And when you do manage it, it takes a lot out of you. It’s exhausting trying to turn negative situations around. Why is it so hard anyway? Because life and lemons and nowhere to make lemonade, I suppose.

The fucking lemonade. Say you do make it. What if it’s not sweet enough? Then you have to go find sugar or honey or something. It's not enough to just make the lemonade. It's got to be sweet, you know? I know you know.

It's exhausting.

I hate you

I hate you for making me smile

I hate you for making me laugh

I hate you for every time you said my hair looked nice

I hate you for every time you said you wanted a hug

I hate you for every single moment you spent with me

I hate you for every kiss I wanted to steal from you

I hate you for falling asleep on me

I hate you for saying my name the way you do

I hate you for holding me

I hate you for making me feel like I had really found somone

I hate you for making me think I was worth something

I hate you for making me feel safe

I hate you for texting me in the middle of the night

I hate you for staying up late on the phone until I fell asleep

But most of all

I hate you because I really don't hate you at all

See You In The Next One

-A.E.T.

I walk

I run

I hide

I scream

I call

I cry

I fall

I sigh

I cough

I sneeze

I try

So damn hard

When I walk, I want to run

When I want to run, I want to hide

When I want to hide, I want to scream

When I want to scream, I want to call out to myself

When I want to call out to myself, I end up falling into a pit of darkness

When I fall into this dark pit of nothing, I sigh, knowing I failed myself

When I sigh, I cough, trying to clear my throat of the sickness in my head

When I cough, I sneeze, allergic to my own feelings

When I'm allergic to my own feelings, I try

I try so hard to just move

Talk

I can't

I do nothing

I can't

Why am I so hopeless?

Why can't anyone answer me that?

Maybe I've gotten sick

Maybe I've lost myself

Will I ever find myself?

See you in the next one

-A.E.T.

A man and woman fell in love

They move to a small home in the country

They had a child

The man next door enjoyed hunting in the spring

He is shooting his rifle next door, hitting each target

The baby cries, hearing the loud sounds.

The woman and man sigh, finally asking him nicely to stop shooting his gun so their child can sleep

He grabs his favorite rifle and loads it with pride

The man walks over, the baby still crying.

The mother cradles her child, shushing him

The man kicks down the door,

ending every sound in that house

True story

See you in the next one

-A.E.T.

I walk away from you

But yet you run towards me

You were the one that had the idea to separate from each other

They tried to stop you, but you didn't listen.

The person that helped you break my heart followed after you

Another ran after you two to stop you, but you didn't stop

Your words went through my ears, I tried to smile to tell you I was okay

When Lapiz comes around, she tells you two to leave me alone

You finally listen and leave to go smoke

Lapiz hugs me tight, speaking soft Spanish words to me

"Amor, I'm so sorry. I heard what happened. Estoy aquí para ti."

Hugging me tight, I close my eyes, feeling safe.

See you in the next one!

A.E.T.

P.s. I'm going through a break up and I'm trying to get everything out that I can through writing. Thank you for the support <3