Part 1
He knew immediately when he woke. It was so cold that his skin burned in little bursts. He could feel a layer of frost crackling under his nose and on his eyelids as he fought his body. He gasped, the sharp pain of frozen air entering his lungs drove him into full wakefulness. How did I get here? He wondered. He couldn’t tell how long he’d been out, but it couldn’t have been long - he wouldn’t have woken if it had been long. But what had roused him?
Something pawed at his back. It was warm. Suddenly, uncomfortably warm. He turned very slowly. It was a baby dragon.
His frozen mind fought to make sense of this new puzzling piece of information. He was nearly frozen, half-dead, in the snow, with a baby dragon at his back, prodding his quilted coat and melting the snow to slush around them. How had he gotten here?
No time for killing
Where I come from, the best killing season is summer ’cause the ground is soft; makes for easy digging…though times are the heat can be damn ornery. And you can’t keep a new kill around too long if you don’t want to deal with stink and rot.
Spring is good; blood seeps into the ground right quick with all the rain washing sins away…’course, trudging through the mud leaves tracks you don’t want nobody seeing.
Autumn has a double whammy, in a good way: Falling leaves provide cover for new graves and if that don’t work, soon-to-be hibernating wildlife devour details, leaving behind an unidentifiable pile of bones. Lots of trekkers are out in the fall, come to see the leaves changing colors and take pictures. Me ’n cameras don’t get on too well, if you know what I mean. But, trekkers, especially the lonesome ones…well, maybe I was wrong. Fall might be the best season.
But, winter? Winter is a time to rest, eat, and sleep. To think and to plan. To get better acquainted with next season’s target. Targets.
Ol’ Granddaddy told me this story and I ain’t ever forgot it. “Boy, if’n – or when, I ‘spect – you find yourself in a killing mood, winter is not when it needs doing. You might think the deserted, snowy mountain is your friend, but you’d be wrong. Not everybody knows this, but ‘roun here, we have us a murderous snow where blood bounces off and clings to death. I seen it with my own eyes back in ‘53. We was fixin’ to teach a lesson to some boy had no business stopping in our town. Mind you, I was just watchin’ as I was too young yet to have my own knife. Didn’t get my first till I was six. Just like you.
Anyways, boy’s there on the snow, naked, hogtied and cryin’ for his mama when my daddy’s friend, my Uncle Bo, says I’ll give you something to cry for, boy. Uncle Bo takes out his hunting knife and slices the boy’s side like they did Jesus on the cross. But when the blood poured out, it didn’t seep into the snow like blood should. Naw, call me a liar if that blood didn’t bounce off the snow and splash in ‘ol Uncle Bo’s face. He started to scream and all the men who was about to join in the killin’ backed away. The snow blood was stabbing, ripping and tearing at Uncle Bo’s skin. And when it spilled onto his clothes, they turned to ash leaving his skin covered in snow blood. In the end, don’t know if it was the stabbing, the burning or the drowning what killed him. Drowing, you say? Yep, he was gurgling and clutching at his throat, a bleeding mess before he finally fell down dead. Snow white as it was when it fell from the sky. Some kind of deadly miracle. Boy was dead, too. Bled to death, I ’spect. Or froze. My daddy picked me up and ran so I don’t rightly know.
So, son, listen when I tell you, winter is no time for killin’.
The Kiss of Dopamine
There's something about not being picked. It triggers something, messing with the dopamine receptors.
"Well, what'll we have, Antoinette? " he said, tilting his head in a critical lean to the left.
I'd done a good job. Better than in the picture on the App profile. He was pleased. Some people just don't photograph as nice as they look in real life. And contra wise, some are romanced by the viewfinder of the camera, but lose their luster when seen actually moving in space, the third- or fourth- dimension revealing asymmetry that is otherwise quite natural, though sometimes unbecoming.
And others endure the knife. Or botox a certain look. Art for art sake, I've always felt was justified. I brushed a strand of cinnamon auburn from my cheek with chic red acrylic French tipped finger.
"Please order whatever you like..." I said, "On me."
A little grin pulled at his cheek, revealing a dimple in the center, like a child's, and I could see he thought the evening was going favorably well, for himself. If he thought anything wasn't quite right, he'd swept it like lint from the Five Star table napkin. Nonexistent.
We chatted pleasantly about nothing.
A convo chameleon, I'd read the transcripts enough times to have the wording verbatim on immediate rolodex. He'd talked about swimming, fishing, sailing, and his latest yacht. Yada, yada, yada, and oh yes the kind of girl he'd love to have on it...
"Your eyes are grey," he interjected over the aperitif in lead crystal. Ching ching.
"Colour changers," I said lowering and raising my false lashes for full effect.
By the sixth course, we were touching toes beneath the tablecloth. We split a sorbet, raspberry-lemon.
I had a very vivid recollection of her apartment. For fun I described it to him. All the odds and ends, those I was convinced he'd like best... "and just outside the bedroom double glass sliding doors there's a balcony, iron rails, overlooking San Franscisco Bay, and a palm screened hot tub in Turquoise tile."
"Wow. Sounds amazing. You've got a great place," he beamed love rays from his chest, an eleven-course meal in itself.
"Would you care for a dance?" I betted on an immediate yes. It was that kind of venue. I knew he'd trained, Latin and Classical.
Soon enough he had me in his arms, and I assessed our fittings. Her dress, impeccable. I didn't have to tuck or hem, though I did select my fullest undergarments and we both appreciated the lift and curvature. His hand lighting on my hip, breast to breast, our breaths just a little bit compressed, capturing the mood of the music.
I let him lead us wherever he liked. Three songs, four... till the band rested.
Back at the table, digging into the savory finger bites, Spring rolls and Lobster Rangoon's, I thought about her leftovers in the ice chest. Saved, to be dealt with later. Together.
"Let's skip the nuts, and head out?" I suggested, pulling out my keys and stroking just the hairs over his hand, stoking what I already knew was electrifying beneath the surface.
"Your place?" he said, surprised and delight, and I gave a little churlish giggle, behind a flirtatious hand with platinum bangles. He was charmed, and gallantly took me under the arm once I'd retrieved her credit card into my sequin clutch.
It was a quick ride, tipsy from the warmth of the revelry and intoxicating novelty, and anticipation of the stretch of evening still before us. I suggested a dip in the swell of the hot tub, and he was entirely game. Even when he saw as I undressed, that I wasn't exactly what he had pictured. Nevertheless, I fit within the breadth of his profile range of preference, as "open to persuasion," and so he reshuffled mentally, roused all the same.
We slipped into the bubbles of the jets. He closed his eyes and I leaned against his thigh. Now seemed like optimal timing:
"What shall we do with her?" I whispered softly.
"With...?" he murmured lazily, confused but not yet disturbed.
"With her. The woman. You know... the One you picked. From the App."
The trouble is you think you have time. For instance, you always think one day you’ll tell her. Not now. Not when it’s so inconvenient. not when it could make things weird. Not if it means losing her. Not if it could make her uncomfortable. not if it could worry her. Not when it could cost you a lifetime of friendship, her kindness, that ease you love about her. and her lovely face, the way she lights up a room. Not when she’s your favourite kind of magic. You won’t tell her now, but maybe later, when you’ve introduced her to all your friends and her friends don’t think you’re weird. When you’re not invasive, not out of place. Just a friend. Maybe one day you’ll introduce her to someone, or she’ll let you meet them, the kind of someone who makes her feel everything she deserves, who gives her all she needs, a handful of rings and a fistful of diamonds kind of love people write about it. Perhaps, as the years go by, you’ll wonder if you could tell her. but it’s not so important anymore. And you lose touch, and hear one day that she got married to that person, that magic person. They post pictures of their honeymoon hiking across the Andes. So you won’t tell her then, either, but instead thread the memories of loving her into that tapestry of fondness, of the things that kept you alive and hopeful, the things that kept you wanting to be better. You’ll write about it, tell someone else as you stroke their hair by the sea. Another friend, maybe, to watch get married to somebody else. And you’ll tell them, that maybe you loved her, loved the fantasy and her enough to know that you didn’t want to risk losing her by loving her wrong. About how you walked home from that rainy café thinking of how you would brew her chamomile tea—anything she wanted. How when you sat next to her you stretched away from her but all you wanted to do was hold her close, her lovely lovely shoulders. How at choir you only wanted her to stand closer, and lean into you, and you imagined swaying, like that, in a kitchen alone. You will tell her that you always held back, but that you loved her, maybe, after all, but it all flew by and the trouble was you still think you have time.
Undying Love
Every year I hope for an empty bed on Valentine's Day.
Every year, I wake up in the middle of the night to a heavy weight on my chest and claws like sharp arrows sinking into my skin.
“Will you be mine?” It whispers into my ear with a smile.
The corners of its contorted grin widen impossibly. It extends its ghastly hands toward my chest. Its icy claws graze my skin and leave beads of blood in their wake.
Every year I pray my wife's ghost will finally move on from here. The Vatican stopped responding to my letters.
Ten seconds of fame
Elise grabbed the phone when she heard the ring tone, I Will Always Love You.
"Hey, Luca."
"Hey, babe."
"I was just thinking about you."
"Me, too. Look, bad news. I have to work late on Friday."
"Valentine's Day?"
"Yeah, I know. My boss doesn't care."
"Can't you work Saturday instead?"
"I wish, but he insists."
"Okay, I guess. Dinner Saturday?”
"For sure. I'll call you."
Friday night, Elise sat on her couch, flipping channels. She was watching half-time basketball highlights when the picture shifted to the audience. She screamed and threw the remote.
Luca was on the Kiss Cam.
Henry Miller’s interest, one true north, and a leaf in autumn.
On the show today, Miller leads into a poem by Mariah, a short and heart-soaked piece to arrive on shore when it must, and then into a short story by a fellow named Frank Gainey, whose words flavored the coffee beneath the mic, and set Saturday for an open eye and a casual shot of bourbon.
Here's the link to the writers being narrated on Prose. Radio:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0S3Ct8RNbs
And we'll link the authors below, along with their pieces.
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Do We See the Same Stars?
Dear Friend,
As I sit under the vast canopy of my night sky, my pen hesitates above this blank page. I often wonder about the world that cradles you, half a world away. The ink bleeds a little on the paper, mirroring the way thoughts of you have gently seeped into the corners of my being.
We have never met, yet your words have become the silent whisper in my every day. The streets I walk, the people I see – they all seem to hold a piece of the stories you've shared. I find myself pausing at the marketplace, smiling at a stranger, imagining if you would've noticed the same peculiar smile that I did.
Our worlds are different, as are our skies. My days are painted with the broad strokes of a sun that sets as yours awakes. And yet, in your letters, I find a familiarity that transcends these physical disparities. The emotions you weave through your words resonate with a part of my soul I never knew was seeking a companion.
You write about the rain that falls in your city, the way it paints everything a shade darker. I imagine you, watching the droplets race each other down your window, as I often watch the sun paint the evening sky in hues of orange and purple. In these moments, I am there with you, a silent observer in your world.
Though our lives are a patchwork of disparate threads, we have managed to unite around one common strand. You with your stories of packed streets and dark nights; me with my wide-open spaces and an unfathomably large sky. We have found comfort in the empathy of a stranger by sharing our joys, anxieties, and ordinary moments.
Sometimes, I lie awake at night, your latest letter clutched in my hand, and I stare at the stars. I try to map out the constellations you've described, but they are foreign to my sky. It's in these moments that the distance between us becomes tangible, the miles stretching out like an unbridgeable chasm.
Yet, even as this thought lingers, a comforting feeling washes over me. It is the thought of your words, your existence – a reminder that across this vast, incomprehensible space, there is another soul that resonates with mine.
Tonight, as I write back to you, I wonder if the stars that watch over me whisper secrets to the ones that guard your sleep. In this thought, there is a poetic justice, a connection that defies the logic of distance and time.
So, as I seal this letter, a vessel of my thoughts and a bridge over our distance, I find myself asking a question that seems to hold more than just curiosity. A question that perhaps, in its simplicity, captures the essence of our unlikely friendship:
Do We See the Same Stars?
With love,
Your Friend