A small town in Idaho, on the outskirts, lives an...artist...of sorts, and meets a reporter who gets more than he bargained for, and the end might come, or will it? MUAH HAHAHAHAHA!!!! From the mind of one of our talents, comes this irresistible Halloween romp. Here's the link to the narration of said romp on Prose. Radio, narrated by Jeff Stewart, who is whereabouts unkown in the States, in a room where he was able to send in the audio of this story by our own WilkinsonRiling.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TqIX7_Ddllg

Also, he asked us to mention this: Another talent here on the site, has a book set for release on 11/22, so go here and pre-order your copy, and give this Appalachian poet some love. He's fantastic!

https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/in-the-throes-of-beauty-by-kevin-d-lemaster/

Piece feaured in the video:

https://www.theprose.com/post/780635/the-halloween-legend-of-jack-mccarver

To keep the tradition in closing traditional:

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose, team

Orion,

Do you ever feel like two people? No, a hundred; a thousand? Do you ever think that freedom comes at such a cost, and that happiness does too?

I say, where does who I am end and who I become begin?

I am, in many ways, myself. But even that is everchanging as the reflections on a rippling water's surface. Constantly influenced. Constantly adjusting to the circumstances. Should I hold my own a little more? Should I be who I am or who I become?

In some ways, I am everything. All knowing, all powerful. King of my own destiny; maker of ideas and my own world. And yet none of it comes to fruition without people, or earth, or day, or night. Should the daylight take hold of me, I am one being. Should the night, I am another. It is the same of those around me. My face a mirror, a ripple, just light glinting off the edge of glass. Bouncing effortlessly from one state to the next.

I readjust. I am many people and many faces. One who is joyous, one who is tired. One who believes strongly, one who is weak. One who is adventurous, one who is cowardly. I have changed, and I no longer can distinguish selves from other.

There are two minds. Rational; dream. What the rational mind knows the dream mind rejects. What the dream mind conjures the rational mind denounces as impossibilities. I live in a thin space between the two, where both come to me, pleading, and I, knowing nothing and having no assurance, sit idly by and make rash judgements. I cannot be governed by either. For the rational mind rules with fear, and the dream mind with hope. Reality sits with me in between.

Who am I to deny a dream its influence? To let the promise of something beautiful be enough to wrap my fingers around it, grab it, let it drag me to its natural end. It sounds easy until the rational chides me. There is nothing so beautiful as to be worth the cost. There is no action without an opposing reaction. There is no such folly equal to following what is unproven; what is only a dream.

I am torn in two, or four, or eight. Continuously and indefinitely. Each face not recognizing the other. I am more soul than body, more space than presence. There is no end to what has no beginning.

Forgive me, I have written with no end in sight. I seek answers no mortal can give. Just know that I consider everything just so. And that for that, I am aggrieved. In this world I may only take one action per decision, and I handle each carefully. Forgive me, then, if I make the wrong one.

Yours truly,

Artemis

I.

First comes the drowning—

the weight of absence pressing down

like dark water in winter.

Time fragments into before and after,

sharp as broken glass.

I count breaths like rosary beads,

each one a small victory

against the undertow.

II.

They say grief comes in waves,

but they don't tell you about the spaces

between them—how empty rooms

become caves of echoes,

how your coffee cup still makes

two rings on the table

before you remember.

III.

The world spins madly on:

traffic lights change,

dogs need walking,

bread goes stale.

Such ordinary betrayals,

these constant reminders

that time refuses to freeze

around the shape of your leaving.

IV.

I find pieces of you everywhere—

a forgotten note,

your handwriting swimming

through sudden tears.

A lone sock behind the dryer,

your favorite song on the radio.

Each discovery a small earthquake,

aftershocks of a greater breaking.

V.

Slowly, like spring after permafrost,

memories begin to thaw.

I can speak your name now

without my voice cracking,

can tell stories that end in laughter

instead of silence.

The pain doesn't lessen—

it just makes room for other things.

VI.

Years pass like migrating birds,

and grief becomes a quiet companion,

no longer the stranger

who broke down my door.

I carry you differently now,

like a river carries starlight—

not a burden, but a brightness

woven into the flow.

VII.

And sometimes, in dreams,

we meet in that timeless place

where loss has no meaning.

You smile that familiar smile,

and I understand at last:

love doesn't end when breathing does.

It just changes form,

like water into cloud into rain.

VIII.

Morning comes again,

as it always does.

I wake to find your absence

has carved new spaces in me—

spaces that fill, slowly,

with understanding:

how letting go

doesn't mean forgetting,

how remembering

can be a form of joy.

IX.

Time doesn't heal—

it transforms.

Like a garden growing

over ancient stones,

life blooms around the fact

of your absence.

And I tend to both:

the flowers and the stones,

the grief and the gratitude,

knowing now that they

were always meant

to exist together.

its not

that I miss my father

or that he has never seen

what his legacy

had become

but rather

that he has never known

I am so much more

than a abandoned son

but a father

who was always there

for his own son

I clench my jaw until it’s painful. As though it will ground me.

It does not.

I dissapear from the face of the earth-

No one notices aside family that makes habit of who I am.

I don’t have friends. How sad is that?

Such an adult at twenty two years old, without anyone real and concrete in my life.

I blame myself at my worst- blame being sick so young and infecting others.

I know I am not to fault for their misplaced grudges.

I yearn and miss those I knew when I was young. Perhaps it’s easier than explaining why I am who I am. Perhaps it’s retribution.

But they don’t want to know me.

That’s bitter such a pill to swallow. But what else is there to know?

They do not reach out, or interact online.

They don’t want to know me.

I hate knowing people have friends since they were children. I do not have that.

I cannot unlearn that hatred.

I think of my life entirely.

I think of it in chunks.

My childhood- which I try everyday to remedy her pain.

My teens- years I fight, but soothe like a chronic ache.

My adult years... I am unsure.

I think I do well, until it is incomprehensible.

The purity of the earth is Shakti.

The dynamic force whose womb gives birth to all of creation.

The feminine aspect of the God head.

We worship the manifestations of Shakti at her abode – mandir, churches, mosques.

We religiously worship her physical form.

We adorn her with jewelry and beautiful garments.

We honor her as the consort of the masculine.

But how are you honoring shakti?

How are you cultivating shakti within you?

How many times do you look in the mirror and criticize the vessel containing shakti?

How many times do you compare your body to other women?

Why are you disrespecting shakti?

You honor her idol but won’t honor yourself.

Don’t you see beautiful woman, you are shakti.

You are the manifestation of the purity of creation.

Your womb is the portal that births life.

Why do you reject your true essence?

You don’t know the power you hold, my love.

Shakti is the paradox.

She loves passionately but she is detached.

She gives you all, but she never runs empty.

She flows freely and gracefully.

She is the vibrancy of the universe.

She calls into her life what resonates with her soul.

Her divinity is expressed in her sexuality.

Never used to control a man;

But to nourish his body and create.

She knows the divine power bestowed onto her.

To honor Shakti, is to honor yourself.

When you cultivate and express your divine feminine essence.

You see shakti within all women.

You respect each woman for what she is.

You respect her choices, her mind, you let her grow how she needs to without judgement.

That is true feminism – honoring shakti.

-A. Priya

cursed shoots still grow

where i cut the weed tree down

reflections of you

...

8/24/2024

Smug

August 21, 2024

“I can begin the challenge immediately. All you have to do is walk through the “doorway”. Miss Winters, you are not of this time. You have learned too much, expressed too many opinions, and have a robust hatred of societal conventions you feel are holding you back. Thus, it is time to put your money where your mouth is. I will open the portal and, if you have what you say you have, mainly the intestinal fortitude, then forever forsake our time and go to another.”

“Even if what you say is true, where or when will you send me?”

“You once told all of us that anywhere would be better than here. I will use the power saved from an accurate hold for a precision hold. In essence, when you arrive will not be as important as the quality of the arrival. The “doorway” will not close until you finish exiting. You will not be hurt on the journey. However, you also will have no recourse in which to return. In essence, this is a one way trip.”

“Then I accept the challenge. I will go to another time, possibly another place, and prove to all I encounter, I am the best prepared representative for the trek.”

Miss Winters rose and waited for the machine to spool to full power. Once the doorway opened, she gave a final statement.

“You will hear from me again.”

Miss Winters walked through, never to be seen again.

That is until she walked through the “doorway”, in the exact same spot, nearly 230 years in the future. That is what the Greeter told her as she made her entrance.

Millions watched the historic event. Billions more viewed the video currently streaming through the galaxy. The greeter called for silence and the audience understood.

Miss Winters took the time to see the “doorway” close and the dome come into focus. The Imperial Fleet kept a low orbit, despite the power drain. The High Counsel wished to be part of the historic event.

Miss Winters wanted to speak, but the Greeter did not permit anyone to break the imposed silence. He simply raised his hand to accept her hand to escort her off the ceremonial podium to an awaiting shuttle. Miss Winters moved without hesitation as the galaxy’s population watched.

“Think she knows she will be the breeder for the next generation of humans, all ten billion of them? One guard asked another as the shuttle rose to rendezvous with the Imperial slave ship.

“Who cares? It is not like she has much choice?” The second guard answered before extending his sticky tongue, capturing a small male human and pulling him into his ravenous mouth for both nutrition and taste.