I promised

Infinite Nothing.

So let's hold that Thought.

Saw it, in half if one must.

For each side of the locket,

Clasped,

To the here after.

Not prying open.

Hearted,

Peering into past perfect.

Penmanship, left-right, handed.

Presence, common-sensed.

Closed,

like a Safe.

What puzzle piece of the Universe

ever fitted up exactly,

having no cushion in

the era, or in itself...

Being just space:

For Partial

Human

Understanding.

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

In today's video, I went ahead and shot it from my profile. Always good to change it up once in awhile. But I wanted to feature some of the new writers and give thanks to the ones I've admired, and I figured the best way to do it was from a writer, and not the admin, at least for this one. Here's the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=93DI9TdR5DE

And.

As always....

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team.

In a firehouse the most important attributes you can bring are integrity and the ability to cook. Each shift starts with a discussion and one of the topics is always about what's for dinner. One of the traditional meals that hits the station table often is chili, for many reasons. Chili is hearty and filling. It can be served many different ways to appease the liking of whoever is to consume it. It rarely is cooked the same way twice; mixed with different spices and ingredients each time. Versatile and flexible for most situations and kitchens. There are several components causing contrast and depth in their own way, but the base remains the same. Protein, beans and a sauce serve as the blueprint. It will feed a crowd and can be served over days while maintaining its taste and form. Reliable and dependable. Most find it appetizing and satisfying. A true entree to be proud of.

So in conclusion. I'm a potato.

The car rolled into a parking spot and the driver got out. Kat was writhing in the back seat, moaning and crying. The moment the door opened, her legs fell from the door and suddenly she was being dragged across the seat on her back. The other guy let go of her hands to slide out of the passenger side to come around and help his partner.

“No! NO!” Kat screamed as he hefted her up and out, dragging her out of the car. She screamed, crying for help as they yanked her out of the car and she tried to focus through the pain. Her hands were grabbing the vehicle, trying to keep herself from being pulled out but they yanked her out of the car with far greater force than she could fight against.

She could see the car getting further away as the second man shoved it shut. She started beating on the guy’s back, smashing her head into him. “LET. ME- GO!”

And he didn’t seem to mind her thrashing at all as he hauled her down the steps of the quiet dock, though his pace seemed to increase.

Kat took in a sharp breath and tried to scream at the top of her lungs but he jostled her hard and it knocked the wind out of her, making her cough and gasp. She was grabbing her neck where she’d hit his shoulder and trying to catch her breath as she turned behind her to see him walking her to the boats. Her mouth opened and she tried to strangle out her next words. “Ah- fuck.” She winced, turning to try to look at her captor. He pushed her back more so she couldn’t see his face and she grabbed what little hair he had and yanked back, making him yell. He squeezed her tighter, making her ribs ache and scream and she blubbered out a pained moan in response as she let go and tried to work to free herself again.

“Hurry up and tie that anchor there to her ankle and we’ll just throw her in and be done with it!” He whispered loudly to his bald partner.

The moment she heard him, she was flailing her legs, trying to fight back. The other guy grabbed her leg and she smashed her head into his repeatedly, dizzying herself. She clamored to push the hands off as he peeled her head back, shoving her face away so she couldn’t keep hitting him in the head. She was clawing at them then before trying to fight the anchor that was being tied around her ankle.

“Fuck! Drop the anchor already!” The man seethed to his partner.

“I’m fucking trying! It’s heavy! It’s tied! It’s tied! Just shove her in!”

Kat was slapping him as he tried to pull her off. She managed to get him to drop her on accident and she hit the pier, wincing. She gasped as he tried to pick her back up and she slapped at his hands. He grabbed her in frustration and managed to grab her throat, pushing against it for a moment as he choked her, pinning her down before she hit him with her foot, managing to get it between them and she slid back. She realized too late that she was at the edge and she grabbed the end of the pier before he shoved her off completely and into the water. The cold bit at her limbs, stinging her and she wanted to cry out, to scream for help as the water flooded in. She started coughing, gasping as she reached for the pier’s pole that held it up from the bottom of the coast.

She stared at the two shadowy figures, but her eyes went to the anchor as she watched him dangle it beside her and then before she saw him throw it, she went back under. Hands pushed against her shoulders, and she thrashed. She threw herself back up, shaking her head. There was a brief moment she resurfaced, grabbing onto the pier again to scream but it came out as a cough before she was shoved back under. She choked, gasping and suddenly she was falling. Her hands were wildly thrusting against the water as the hands left her and she felt her strength go at a harsh tug from beneath her. She felt a yank when the rope tugged tight and she was brought down towards the bottom of the body of water.

Kat was holding her breath, watching the sky melt away as the dark of the water overtook her vision. She reached up, holding her breath till she felt her chest throb painfully and the cold cut in. She gasped and suddenly the bubbles of the last of her breath were floating away. Water rushed in and her eyes rolled as she sunk deeper into the water.

The light from the pier sank away as she fell further into the dark before she tried to tug away, but the rope held tight and her movements felt so rigid and slow. She kicked, trying to free her ankle, but the water was so cold that her body went into shock, paralyzing her. Kat closed her eyes, motionless as the water slowly came to a halt around her and she was floating. It felt like a cold, like a dark dream. Was this how she was going to die?

The bald man was sighing heavily. “Fucking hell- I thought it was weird that she was able to fight back so well.”

“Well- when you’re on your way to kill someone, they tend to give it all they’ve got.” He sighed heavily, looking at his wet sleeves. He sighed, unbuttoning it as he tried to tug the button up shirt off, leaving his black t-shirt underneath. “God. Lee- fucking bastard. He said we were good-”

There was a loud roar as a nearly eight-foot beast came barreling down the docks.

He stopped, turning to glance up and his brows rose sharply over his shades at the lycan. “SHIT!”

“Wha-” The bald man was turning to see a black form barreling down at them and he turned, slipping on the dock to run back towards the boardwalk. His partner was fumbling for his gun.

“Shit- shit! SHIT!” He pulled the gun out quickly, trying to prime for a silver bullet at the top of his ejected clip.

Bright gaslight blue eyes fixed on them, a deep rumbling growl could be heard over the pounding of claws into the dock as it drew nearer to the boat.

“FUCK!” His hands trembled as he dropped the silver bullet, accidentally shoving it and missing it from the clip. He winced, turning to look up before he turned and made off after his partner who was clamoring over the brick and trying to get away.

“FUCKING THINGS COME IN PAIRS!”

“NO SHIT BEN!”

Lights danced across our skin. Each breath, each inhale, adding to the feeling of the living thing that hung in the air between us. Tension. We knew its name, yet we couldn’t think to label it. The emotions running so high and so brightly that our minds emptied. They reached out, crossing the gap and touching me in an instant. Glitter left in the aftermath of their feather touches, every nerve in my body focused purely on where our skin met. Where our breath joined and held each other. Their hands slid down my sides, dragging a line from my heart to the centre of my soul. Forcing ourselves to keep breathing, each movement sapping attention away from the simple task of inhaling.

But I found a feeling, hidden between moans and stars, nestled in pleasure and destruction, slumbering beside despair and ecstasy.

A feeling of letting go, of doubt and insecurity, a feeling of joining. A feeling of finally realising that I was stardust and I could be stardust once again.

In that moment, my blood turned to glitter, glittering in veins, my tears turned to silver, sparkling in the night, my heart became ruby, almost too full for me to carry. I was pure feeling.

9

stands

as the final man

on the diving

board

Poised

when everything

has had its fill

and its negative!

take any number

Times the lonely figure

and it all returns in

the affirmative

Regard:

9 x 1 = 0+9  = 9

9 x 2 = 1+8  = 9

9 x 3 = 2+7  = 9

9 x 4 = 3+6  = 9

9 x 5 ..and on on!

Add a little something

to the back bone

and see what

forms in the

mind and belly

of the beast:

9 + 1 = 1+0  = 1

9 + 2 = 1+1  = 2

9 + 3 = 1+2  = 3

9 + 4 = 1+3  = 4

and more see..?

subtracting/dividing

never cool in

operation....

so no sense

in wading

that deathly

pool

9

is

already

diving

into 10thcycle

- - - - - - - - - -

always

ALIVE

Vicarious experience is hard work to which perhaps not all souls are suited for... It involves two components, or three if that is how you prefer to count it. It requires of course the Observer and the Observed; and one thing more! Awareness of Observation!!

That is to say Metacognition on the part of the Observer... the Observed being allowed a passive role.

Without this aspect of awareness no vicarious processing occurs. The root of the word is vicis, meaning an interchange or substitution carried out. Note the active. It is the difference between a person staring at a pond, and a person wondering what's in the pond. They both see the water, the fowl, the wilderness, and feel the breeze, and smell or even taste the humidity of the surrounding landscape. But the second, by that momentous leap of imagination has already teleported and entered in, now imagining the cold, the damp liquid, the murky ground beneath, with algae clinging between the toes of the feet. Maybe even had a moment of panic, submerged under, before resurfacing... Same for reading a book. One reader understands the meaning of the words, paints a mental picture even; Another feels the wording with psychosomatic precision.

My thinking in posing the question (phrasing of which abysmal my apologies!) was that Sensitivity requires training and maintenance. Hence, a fight. In the way a knife needs the sharpening stone to restore its edge from time to time. A reminder to myself that we get dull. Not bored, but dulled. It's not about who or what we see outside, but how we process on the inside.

I have been really struggling to keep spirits up these last few years, for no apparent reason, as life is rewarding and full. I have a wonderful, loving artistically gifted husband, an affectionate brilliant son, a calm place to live, demanding but meaningful work... so sensitivity and creativity should be full tilt... but I find it slipping...and I wonder, is it I that have I grown less sensitive? are my powers of empathy fading? am I lazy in not seeing things in their unique intricate compounded richness?

I feel a wall between me and the outside.

And so, a certain tristesse. I remember when I was quite young, I would blush profusely at any provocation drawing warranted or unwarranted attention to myself as Observer of the world around me. Somehow I was ashamed to be seen as seeing... My closest friend at the time, who is now passed, said to me with a grin: "Would you rather be a rock?"

"YES!" I wanted nothing more than the stability and reliability of a rock, through and through. Imperturbability. He laughed sympathetically, while I cried bitterly. Some years later, my affliction passed, and NOT without my noticing. I noticed alright. And I mourned it. I remember in horror what I had foolishly and spitefully said, and thought: "This is it. This is how it begins... this is my decline, and my just punishment. I am losing my Sensitivity."

Naturally, I comforted myself so that I could carry on, and put up all sorts of prompts and supports to ensure that I could at least pretend I was compensating for my loss with rigorous self Discipline. I worked hard to feed the Vicarious.

But so it begins... I am convinced. It begins at different points for each of us-- the losing of our higher order abilities. No longer perceiving the phantom limbs that tie us to all Experience. Hence, my question to you in this challenge about the worth of The Fight, for the Life within.

* * *

Tall, slim and graceful, a lovely pine sways

Elegant arcs, dark against a luminous blue sky

Across the meandering glassy stream, is a

Gentle swelling hill with pink boulders improbably stacked

Resting, rough edges smoothed, lichen splashed, doing that

Lizard thing in the sun.

“Come, come the pine beckoned,

Elegant branches weaving blue shadows,

Come, come dance come, come sway,

Sway with me amid the hills.

Enjoy the grass, drink the flower wine.

Savor blowing wind and crystal liquor stream.”

Resting, soaking up the sun, the boulder smiles

“Look at me, worn and smooth.

Time has fitted me into place.

Snows, wind, ice, and rain burnish daily

Eliminating the rough, making me comfortable,

Suitable for the place I need to be.”

“Long have I sat watching the stream.

Watching it wander to and fro.

Feeling it push against my feet.

Carving slowly, polishing there,

Lifting the hill, making soft the valley floor,

Spreading me out for nodding flowers, dancing pines.”

“Come boulder, come.

We will wander the hills see new views.

Enjoy the world, leaving our mark.

Come with me, embrace the day,

Fondle the night with gleaming stars and silver moon,

You and me.”

“I can not,” boulder slowly sighs.

“You see my partner there.

We fit along the rounded seam,

Time and adversity polished smooth.

Inextricably bound as one. We are

Enjoying the view”

A parting wave,

A graceful toss of breathy bough,

A moment gone, so lightly passed,

As if it did not matter.

Moving on into the past

With hurried pace.

A tighter fit, for tempest borne.

A soft caress

A warm embrace,

Of shared sun and sky.

A tender, gentle, cozy laugh.

“Look at you, you old coot.”

Life begins

outside the confines

of the self

The insides of which

are visited

by ever presented

Death

increasing its

real estate and

taxing all that is

individual

with age and decay

But outside of us

is the expansion

of the galaxies

on the march

seen by the eyes

of Oneness who

is busied always

planting thoughts

across the stars

There will be

flowers after all

in the heart

of the grave

in remembrance

of Winter's

metamorphosis

into a

Springing

of Souls.

I love the physical book, so when we speak of Publishing that is my preference... in the long run.

In generating my own day to day writing I am satisfied with online formats, because I am not focused much on permeance as on the practical discipline... I'm content to produce the content, even if it will just languish in a drawer or on a shelf or dissipate in virtual space.

I suffer from sensory overload and it seems that creating artifacts helps me encrust the things which have crept too close to the skin. However, when it comes to other people's work, I want to be able to take my time and turn paper, page by page in any tangible format (zine, paperback, hardcover, etcetera).

So personally Publishing to me means... a home business prompted by my adoring husband who puts so much faith in my creative being (as you can read on his Prose posts!). Our company is called Bunny Village Press. It's direct print to purchase publishing, middle manned by Amazon, with no overhead, and no stock piled copies. The art, design, layout, editing, writing is done in house... We've put out three books, and have two additional in the works, one of which I hope to wrap up over Spring Break next week. I regret very much that I can't breath as much life into the venture as I would like because I work full time, and have a toddler (: the previously mentioned Rémy Niko who will be three next month :) but still reassure myself that I can do better, one day, one day! ...and for now we accept and give thanks for this Snail's pace as a success in itself. Forward motion a sign of continued momentum... God bless!