I am Chuck. I like telling stories, particularly stories with happy endings, but the worldview these days is making that difficult, even contrite. I sometimes wonder if people want to be happy anymore.

I like to read. I like to read writing with handsome, galloping language. I love when the page whispers by light. I love to read poetry, but cannot write it well, so I settle for attempting short stories fleshed out with poetic prose, which I am decent at I think, or the occasional humorous, rhyming story (what I call ”Rhyme-Time”).

I love The Prose site and the people who respect what I wish was it’s purpose… the sharing of lyrical language. So much so that I find it difficult to coincide my selfish desire for Prose to remain an intimate space with my appreciation of it’s true economical purpose, which as a business model must always be growth, particularly financial growth. (Woe be to those who make business of art, you dastardly bastards ;)

Regardless, I am glad to be here. I am glad you are here. I am glad for a place where I can share my passion for life, my love of dogs, and my fear of death; a place where I can yawp, “I am here! Come breathe with me… if only for a sentence.”

Press on with your Prose-on, everyone.

Dear Santa,

I am Scratchy’s negative… youngsters out there wouldn’t know, but I am sure you can remember back in the old days when we had to get camera film developed. The drug store, or the Photomat, would give us a strip of negatives along with the envelope of photos, just in case you wanted to have another print made later. As a kid I loved the negatives even more than the photos; those creepy, emotionless people with their light burst eyes looking out from their familiar, if shadowy world. Yep, the lighting on the negative was the exact opposite of the lighting in the photo, and that is me and Scratchy.

We are such polar opposites in durn near every thought that it is hard to believe that Scratch and I both hail from the same ”Made in America” envelope. Scratchy is everything new, bright, and shiny, while I am a reminder of older, darker days. Scratch is Joe Lieberman. I am Ronald Reagan. Scratch is soccer, I am football. Scratch is weed, I am beer.

Neither of us has been all that good this year. We are both disgusted with the state of things, albeit very different things disgust us. Scratch is disgusted by big business. I am disgusted with big government. Scratch is disgusted by all the pollution people make. I am disgusted by all the people who make the pollution. Scratch is disgusted by Karen Carpenter. I am disgusted by Rick Ocasec (sic?). In fact, the only things Scratch and I seem to agree on are our dislike of the Yankees, and my assumption that he also prefers crunchy Peter Pan over creamy Skippy. (Please say it is so, Scratch!)

And so, for Christmas, I believe Scratch should get the bundle of sticks, as he is pro environment, and I should receive the lump of coal, as I am pro-energy, but really no matter, Santa! We would both appreciate anything you care to bring, and as we have no plans to change or improve in the new year, you can always switch the gifts up next year! Who knows, if I am able to wind ’Ol Scratch up tight enough he just might squeeze that coal to a diamond! (On second thought Santa… the wealth of it would only leave Scratch feeling anxious. You had better bring the coal to me.)

Your bacon and beer are on the mantle, Santa. I put double this year as Scratchy is fasting, so you will have to go without over at his place. Wake me if you have time for a selfie… we‘ll send the negative over to Scratch.

Thanks for remembering us Santa, and Merry Christmas Scratchy!

Your friend,

Huckleberry-Hoo

Just 24” x 79

this somber tiny-house of mine

built of satin, brass and pine

a bullet shaped capsule buried in time

I care little about it’s decor

place a photo of Kay in, whom I adore

and maybe a book by Louis L’amour

reminders of what was loved before

’Cause surely someday the forever winds

Will worry away the earth and send

my tiny-house up to the surface again

so the future might see how it ends for them

Servanthood- to be tread upon, then complimented for the ease of it.

This is no cushy life. No job is, but to perform a lowly task decorously, regardless of position, that is the thing!

The burn pile awaits.

Looking back, but a single regret looms… that I might have served a djinn.

I got a bad case of this new variant ‘s goin’ round, ‘s got me feelin‘ down.

I call it Omni-cant, incites a red, itchy rant. Just seems mean to withhold the vaccine.

Change. She’s still the woman I lust, but is eye candy enough? I miss being a team, when she helped me cook and clean. Who knew that usefulness mattered? Our space was easivity for creativity, back when romance rhymed, back when she was mine.

So, in the words of the immortal Karen Carpenter, and although it’s been said here many, many times before, “I’ll say goodbye to love.”

(But I‘ll be checking in now and then with hopes that Love gets her act together, eh A?)

Day 1 Ransom Note

I’ve stolen you’re wife, and covered my tracks

For $1,000,001 I’ll give her back

You’ve owed me the $1 for 30 years

The rest is for interest, owed in a-rears.

From that $1 you made millions, no mean task

But a dog could do it, same as an ass

You‘ve flaunted the thievery in everyone’s face

And I’m done being mired in your fiscal waste

So pay me my sum, if you want her back

Tie it up tight in a burlap sack

Stash it deep in the cave up on Copper Creek

then flip me the bird as you take your leave.

Day 2 Ransom Note

As young men you stole my loveliest prize

When Janey chose money over size

And all these years I’ve wished that she

Would feel a change of heart for me

That if she did, she might come back

We might find love in a poor man’s shack

Only wanting each other, and needing no more

than that dollar you “borrowed” those years before

But Jane has changed, she tries my nerves

She bitches non-stop, and in so-many words

Nothing I’ve given her seems like enough

Is she always this way, or only when cuffed?

Day 3

I’m feeling the folly of my unhappy days

It seems I have lived my life in a maze,

Coveting the things my neighbor holds,

His mansion, his wife, his silver and gold.

But by Day 2 the olden luster had faded

And Day 3 has left me tired and jaded

I have re-thought this kidnapping plan of attack

Now believing you merit having Janey back

And do not worry, keep the money

We both know that flies are drawn to honey

I wouldn’t want Jane following where it went

’Cause that dollar I lent you is the best one I’ve spent!

She claimed the name “Captain Pipeye Twain,” a brat with a sailor's trunk.

She’s a Merchant's Marine from Skibareen, a-waiting in yonder bunk.

I played her card, and she rode me hard, whilst the night was warmed with rum,

But now tis day, and she won't a-way, 'til she's had another bump.

I don't mean rum, tis the other fun, needs trimming a-fore she sails,

But flood me scuppers, there’s no getting upwards, I’m withered by her gales.

A night in the throes of her mightiest blows, has me hull resting heavy and low,

just one more wink, and I’ll likely sink to the locker where Davey Jones dove.

But disdaining harm, I’m scraping me barnacle, hoping to “up“ the main-mast,

’Cause this must end, I’ll tell you friend, belowdecks is no place for a lass!

Whims are funny things, but sometimes when chasing rainbows you do find gold at the end. I was flipping through those whom I follow, and who follow me, searching for someone whose work I thought I might find interesting enough to delve into, when I noticed a profile picture of a library in Prague that I believe I have actually visited (see photo above). This was how I chose SadieBug’s works to explore. I soon discovered that fortune, once more, shone like the sun down upon me.

Being pretty regular on the site, I know SadieBug’s username, of course. And I know I have read interesting pieces by her, because I only follow those who pique my curiousity. We have had some inconsequential interactions, shared “likes” and what-not, but I did not know her writings. Being honest, my expectations were somewhat low. What I found, however, lifted my spirits, and my ever-souring opinion of today’s youth.

The writing I found is immaculate, with zero noticed grammatical mistakes (although that might not pass a better editor’s censuring). I mean, not even a spelling error or typo to be found, making me insanely jealous. There is a great diversity of style in her works, highlightling creative storytelling, emotional poetry, thoughtful introspection, and the “show, don’t tell” descriptiveness that all who write strive for.

I feel like I really know who SadieBug is after reading her posts (I hope that doesn’t sound old man creepy”). There was a line in Who Am I? where she states, “I am a girl who lives through lines on a page, never knowing who I truly am.” I can feel that thought through her chosen picture of the library, through her love of “Gone With the Wind,” and from the “bookshelves and scattered volumes that litter the rug in her room (paraphrased).” I have grand-daughters that must be close to SadieBug’s age who, while extremely intelligent, do not read. This saddens me, who am an avid reader, to no end. I read “Gone With The Wind” sometime around Jr. High School, certainly later than 9 years old as SadieBug did, and am excited at the reading possibilities in front of a young lady who is that far ahead of most readers.

I started with her very first post and worked my way forward. My favorite piece was Anxiety Says, written a year ago. It is the conversation between an insecure teen and the voice in her head. The honesty it shares is such that I imagine it was difficult to hit “post” when it was completed, but is a breath of fresh air to all who have experienced the same fears, and that would include most of us, I am sure.

I loved Facets of Myself, what I took as being an embarrassing day at the pool. “While I am the girl at the edge of the pool who woke up hating the world, tomorrow I will not hate the world so much, and it is a slight difference, but it matters.”

Ice Cream Flavors is whimsical and delicious.

Dear Strangers highlights a powerful gift for observation and descriptive writing.

There are dozens of great reads here, and I am sure you will enjoy others that I have not mentioned, but you certainly will not be disappointed by giving these a look.

Kudos, @SadieBug... and... write on!