Dear Inez,

Where do I start with this one? Oh, apologies - you don't know I'm doing a "letters series" to those I once knew but haven't spoken to in years. Don't worry, I'm probably never going to send this, but in the off chance I do, please feel free to burn after reading.

I knew you in ____, California, when I lived there, in the early days of my living in California. I met you - when? I think in 2019. Yes - before Covid. We met at a cafe on ____ Avenue. You had suggested it. It was dismal, actually. Pretentious as all get-out. The coffee was served like I needed to know some hipster language to get it, a language I didn't speak, and I was treated accordingly.

I don't think that was your fault, Inez. It also wasn't your fault that you had everything I could ever want. You were a writer. A copywriter, I later learned. You had short hair and bangs that were too short. You went to _____ College on the east coast, so we had that instant connection.

You spoke like you didn't care what anyone thought of you, but how do I make that lyrical? For you spoke off-handedly, casually, like you had nothing to prove. My entire life, Inez, I have had something to prove.

After coffee we went to a bookstore on ____ Avenue. You bought Ulysses. Ulysses! "I've always wanted to read it," you said, again, casually. What angel brought this creature to me? I thought. She's perfect friend material. We had so much in common.

Why did you stop talking to me, Inez? That is where this letter really begins, and ends. For lack of a better term, you were "cool." We made an appointment to go to winery, right when Covid was starting to clear up. You drove us, and we got so lost - we ended up two hours away from the winery by the time of our appointment. I was frustrated, but also in awe. How could someone steer us so wrong? But it was so cool. It was so cool that you were so oblivious, when my type A personality would otherwise be freaking out.

That day, we ended up going to a beach instead. I love, absolutely adore, the beach. Seeing the ocean sends shock waves through my heart. We went to a little restaurant where they served charcuterie. I love, absolutely adore, charcuterie. It was the perfect day.

So, Inez, why did you stop talking to me? Was I not "cool" enough, like you? I watch your Instagram stories now and see you out clubbing, something I also love to do. We could have had so much fun. I watch your Instagram stories and wonder what additional qualifications I would have needed to stay your friend.

Instagram stories are one thing. But real experiences? That's something else. And we experienced that - together. When I was falling apart in 2019, before Covid, when we first met - my heart getting broken by savage men, repeatedly, like I was the center of a cruel game I didn't know the rules to - you were my friend. Did you stop being my friend because I was depressed about men? I'll never know.

I'm going to end this letter to you, Inez, by saying that I miss you. I miss our shared experiences. I hope you read Ulysses. Not because it's a good book (it is), but because that remains my vision of you - someone cool, who can stand to read a book like Ulysses.

(I might still watch your Instagram stories.)

Signing off,

A.

It's a cold, wintery morning as The Fisherman pulls into the parking lot. He pulls his bags from the backseat of his 2004 Ford F-150, and drags them through the glass, automatic sliding doors that mark the entrance to an unknown destination. The sounds of hundreds of people milling about fills his ears in a cacophonous din so loud it drowns out his very thoughts.

Just last week he had bought a plane ticket to nowhere, and he was ready to go. He was ready to get away from the masses and leave this world behind. There was nothing here for him, or so he thought. He might as well save everyone else the trouble of caring about his existence. He didn't belong; didn't feel any purpose. He felt as if he had been born into a world devoid of sanity and hope.

He gets in line to check his baggage, and says one final goodbye to the supposed wretched world he lives in. He hefts his bags onto the scale and shoves his hands in the pockets of his dirty blue jeans. The attendant glances at her computer screen and turns to look The Fisherman in the eyes.

"No one truly goes nowhere."

Suddenly, it felt as if a burden had been lifted from The Fisherman's shoulders.

Happy to tell you brilliant beasts of beauty, brains, and boulevards of written words that we are now on iOS. Oh, yes...

https://apps.apple.com/us/app/prose/id6470323009

And we have a new Challenge to bring in 2024, one hell of a good Challenge, we think.

https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14416

And, here's the link to the announcement on YouTube.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zPAGP07T7MA

And.

As always.

Thank you being here.

-The Prose. team

Emotions welled as he sat on the patio watching the pup play with their four adult hunting dogs. Today was the pup’s last day with them, and he reflected on the coincidence - perhaps Divine Providence, all things considered - that led to this moment.

Two months prior, he left on a hunting trip with one of their dogs but found himself detoured by the compulsion to buy a grocery store sandwich. Firstly, he never bought food for hunting and secondly, a bag of snacks set on the seat beside him. Furthermore, the sandwich he craved had to come from a specific store that he had already passed.

It was there that he found the frightened two month-old pup in the cart return area where someone had dumped him just minutes before. Without a second thought, he abandoned the hunt and returned home with the pup. Hank, as he would be named. Soon afterwards, he and his wife noticed gentle, caring manner in which their dogs treated the pup and how they were careful to make eye contact before communicating in the dog-language they spoke. Their vet then confirmed what they suspected: the pup was deaf.

Now, two months later, Hank was leaving for the state prison to be part of a program that centered around inmates training rescued dogs, particularly those with disabilities like Hank. Watching the dogs romp about in autumn’s chill, he smiled fondly at how this discarded, unwanted pup, was destined for a greater purpose.

They say in certain "memes" on social media that we all crave that bag of shredded cheese at 3AM. But what is a meme? And what is it to really crave something?

Before Louis C.K. got cancelled, I posted on social media an image of him with words over it, his words: "When a person tells you that you hurt them, you don't get to decide that you didn't."

I thought about my life with that quote, reflected on my past. In one image, I had a reason to think about things outside of myself.

I know, you're thinking. Welcome to the internet.

But isn't it crazy, that one image on the internet can summarize all my problems in one easy, digestible square of pixels?

But memes are also pointless. They're catty, or stupid, or not funny. They are why we are addicted to social media. Or, for most people, maybe. That little square that can get you to laugh, or think, or in the case of "Happy New Year 2024", make you think a quote can change your year, your life, your mindset.

I don't eat shredded cheese out of the bag at 3AM. But what is depicted in that meme is something else - a certain despair, coming across as humor. Which is of course what memes are - their entire point.

Perhaps they are the mindset, the mantra, of the Millennial generation.

Their entire point is to keep you addicted, so you keep reopening the same three social media apps over and over until you yourself become what you sought to avoid: being just like everyone else.

And, just maybe, that could be a meme in and of itself.

Perhaps, I want to remember that which I lost.

I didn’t forget my life. I only forgot who stole it and when and how.

Perhaps the thief discovered a secret coven of investors desiring of what I accomplished or how I accomplished, auctioned in part, or in whole. The purchase price would determine my life’s value. I would be portioned, metered, packaged, and presented.

All without me knowing the final outcome.

Perhaps, I could confront my quandary with an appearance to the exact location of the auction.

Perhaps, I could participate in the repurchase of my life.

I could bid vigorously for the complete set of missing years. I have the finances for such an endeavor. My only real expense would be the time it took to complete such an activity.

Yet, what if another life, adorned with sexy details, came up for bid first?

What if I stretched the value of my resources to invest heavily in the latter, and not the former? Would I have buyer’s remorse in the morning? Would the memories of my “new” old life find a compatible fit among the dusty (and now empty) bookshelves of my previous existence?

How do I even know if even one of my choices includes my previous existence?

At this point, would I even care if it didn’t?

Perhaps, I want to remember that which I lost.

Perhaps not.

Compliance falters from my grasp

To break the bones of failing fast

For I have never been without

The voice that holds the wayward route

And I have never seen the end

Of the burning road around the bend

So this I ask until the end

What fails to fail?

Pretends pretend?

It takes a careful hand

to draw a line across the land.

Farther the line stretches

the more certain it will bend.

Difficulties, even in simplicity,

imply perfection is more

than one hand can bear.

His herbal tea doesn’t work.

He drove to the grocery store at 10 p.m. on a week night to buy a box of that tea for me. Because I’ve had a fit again. The tea is called “Stress Free” or something. I hate him for trying. I hate him for bringing me into this world.

The tea tastes like licorice and pencil shavings, so he stirs in a heaping tablespoon of white sugar. I watch him from the couch as he shuffles around in the kitchen, boiling water and clanging dishes together. He wants me to go to sleep and to wake up in the morning, whole and clothed and in my right mind. It’s not going to happen, and I tell him this. He carries on stirring and sopping the teabag around. He only hears my tearful babbling. To him, I am much like a baby.

He is still tall and so stubborn, but when his back is turned towards me, I watch his shoulders and it’s there I see his age. Because he has carried the weight of my unthankfulness for so long, I tell myself. Because he bears his children’s burdens and his own. It’s not true, though. He looks old because he’s getting old.

In his stocking feet, he brings me the horrible, bitter, piping hot tea. My stomach turns. He is often very wrong. Sometimes, I blame him for whatever is deeply wrong inside my heart, within the hollow of my chest. But he holds the scalding mug out to me, and he holds it steady, and it’s pungent and it’s a gimmick, but it’s sugary sweet. And I know that this man would not knowingly hurt me. And somehow, I’m sure that he’s kind.

“It never works,” I sigh. I pull my blanket around me and shut my eyes tight. “Drink it,” he says, setting the mug on a coaster, turning out the light and leaving me be in the comfortable, easy darkness.

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.