Dear Brilliant and Beautiful Writers:

I wanted to read every one of these, but time chained me to only five, counting the winner. If it's too late for coffee, pour a cold one, or a double, and look upon the talent featured on the channel today.

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

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

"How do I look?" she asked, pressing her dress down and turning in the mirror.

Jacob looked up from the evening program his assistant was holding. Looking herself over in the mirror, Rachel had that look he was now so familiar with. Her eyes pulled back as if she was trying to hide, and her bottom lip slightly pouted.

"Wait outside a moment, Andrea," he said, and his assistant left, closing the door to the dressing room.

He stood for a moment, hands on his hips. Rachel turned, her eyes seeking consolation. Though she was trying to hide it, he could tell she was nervous, her chest rising and falling.

"Come here," he said, sighing as he beckoned. She crossed the floor and slid into his embrace. He held her for a moment, trying vaguely to not mess up her dark curls. When she stepped away, he smiled, her arms lingering in his. "Remember what I told you when you started."

"I know," she nodded, and an easy light began to settle in her eyes as her nervousness began to turn to excitement. "'The best performers follow their heart, not their head.'"

He leaned his head against hers, their eyes closing. "What does your head say?"

He could feel her smile. "That I better not mess up."

"And what does your heart say?"

She breathed in sharply, holding on to his arms. When she said nothing, he opened his eyes. Hers were still knit closed, and she was biting her lip. They opened when he brought his hands up to hold her face, and her eyes lit again when she saw his smile.

"You will be... amazing."

They left the dressing room as if in a dream. And as if in a dream, she floated from his arm onto the stage.

Jacob found himself in the dark, standing alone in one of the balconies, watching the production. On any other night, he would've been carefully noting when then crowds clapped, laughed, or cheered. Tonight, somehow, all he could see was his star shining below. And when her last note rang out to the heavens, he allowed himself a small smile.

"She did it."

https://youtu.be/BfrUQA2tb6M

| Birth |

A new horizon.

A miracle arisen.

From the Dark form springs.

|Growth|

Multiplicitous

Size shape height weight change

The body and brain.

|Development |

What life is meant for.

Clutching moments place in space.

Reaching out to live.

|Aging |

It is a as the tide.

Waning moon and suns gone by.

Through this life we pace.

|Death|

Deaths the guarantee

Bringing life's sacred value

Last beginning faced.

you are born in blood

and cry for something unnamed

yearning for soft love

your emotions are

too big for your body, and

you want to catch up

but young adulthood

brings loneliness in u-hauls

and loved ones fading

is this life? just change

and love and loss and feeling

so much you might die?

and then death arrives

so gently, and carries you

back to your old room

We and the sun, high

as lords, as our frisbee, white,

whirling to my hand—

volleyball, cap/gown

cake, pavilion, dogs, friends, a

baby, relatives—

Another photo:

my grandparents and me, one

final time. Happy.

Photographs are leaves:

colorful and aged, what was,

pressed into a book.

Through my window, snow

frames cardinals, searching bare

vines for frozen grapes.

There is nothing more important in the world than learning. It gives breath, scope, and depth to all, bringing us full circle in unique and unfathomable ways. It is the breath of life, the crux of all matters, and the endlessness of the universe. Learning is the catalyst that propels us forward in all we do, helping us to reach for the stars and sail on distant seas.

Learning is the very essence of this thing we call life. There can be nothing and no one without it.

"I am still learning." Michelangelo

A challenger approaches, the challenger lurks in the pixels of a screen

Or does it lurk in the doubt,

coiling in between my ankles, cold scales and leeching warmth away

What if, it calls, sings softly, in the voice it has always had, even in childhood

Pictures of horses, of dragons, drawn to life with seemingly effortless swipes of a pen or pencil

And beside that paper - me, unmarked paper, a growing resentment

Why bother? it hums, sliding up around my neck to reach the ears I haven’t grown into yet

Why even try translating your imaginings onto paper, when others can do that?

The dragon that hesitantly comes to life looks at its cousin with mournful eyes -

flat, undefined, as though it died confined to be 2-D on the page - no muscle

no grandly arching wings stretching nearly off the page

See? whispers the voice (sad, triumphant, angry, who can truly tell)

It leaves trails down my mind, across my thoughts - blood trails of apathy that ache like infected cuts.

It doesn’t bother to use fangs - who has need of teeth when apathy burns for longer?

Its apathy births a twin - indelible, its own teeth bared in denial.

Why not try? it roars, where the other voice whispers.

everything starts small, everything grows -

The coiling presence doesn’t bother to laugh, but its twin cringes away regardless.

Do we really believe that?

(It doesn’t limit itself to reality though, that’s the cruel irony.)

With every scroll, it awakens.

We’ll never be that good, it hisses.

Its solutions sing sweet as rotting fruit, but by far, its cruellest trick is impersonation.

A facsimile, a false twin rises from the apathy,

a wounded voice.

We’ve done well before, it speaks, and it speaks truth (another bitter cruelty).

Would it not be better to take up an already shining creation, to present it under a shifted light

rather than stare at the void of an empty paper, a blinking curser, a scribbled-over sketch?

You know that one’s good, at least.

Most days, it’s hard to even tell if the false twin is false - it speaks with the same voice as bared-teeth obstinance.

What if, sings the voice, coiling between indecision and the blank pages

Better not to try than to be bitten, says the voice below the song.

The twin snaps and snarls at the apathy drifting around its head,

roars at the blood trails left by its twin, the cruel mirror

(is it cruel, if it speaks truth? Does it?)

They share the same frustrations, it seems.

Another empty page, and two sets of eyes watch the curser blink,

drifting around my ankles, snapping at their twin, pushing it back down -

It is always unknown, which will win at the beginning of things.

A new challenge - is it worth facing, or is it better to read other works, feeding insecurity to the ever-growing ouroboros.

The snapping of teeth, a hissing retreat.

The soft words linger, even as the words appear to fill in the void.

What if?

There is nothing more important in the world than unimportant things. For that is what makes the other things important. The only problem, though, is figuring out who's the one making the call.

Maybe I should consult the beautiful people. They should know. I'll get back to you if you're important enough.

I glimpse your light

Within my periphery

Your deep thoughts

And silly pondering

I cannot help

But remark how

You are so singularly

Exquisite

But you

Deny

Deflect

Discount

Yet I see your protestations

For what they are…

Defense mechanisms

And these things

Only cause me

To adore you

All the more

Fervently