Anyone who thinks that writing is easy has never really sat down and written a story. Sometimes, like most, when I get in a bit of a funk I find quotes from other writers to cheer me up.

We're all in a club, we writers, with one thing in common. We're all crazy in love with writing, which drives us crazy.

I found this quote from Dorothy Parker who lived in the first half of the twentieth century. Every time I read this quote I laugh, because it says it all about our obsession with writing.

"If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of THE ELEMENTS OF STYLE. The first greatest favor of course, is to shoot them now while they are still happy."

Dorothy Parker

     Rain, pouring in buckets. Pitter, patter, the sound it makes as it slaps against my window. What a perfect sound to compliment this horrid night.

I sat on my queen sized bed, feeling the tufts of warm faux fur in my palms as if it were trying to comfort me. But nothing could comfort me right now. No matter how much the furry duvet begged me to lay upon it and let it all go, I stayed on top of it as I looked out the window, watching the rain.

     I wished to cry again, but that's what the wine was for. My fourth glass this night. It's almost laughable if it weren't so depressing. How did I get to this place? I never drank, I never sobbed uncontrollably. I was the strongest of my friends and family emotionally. But here I am, on the verge of a mental breakdown. I took another sip.

     Seconds upon seconds, I sat completely quiet. The only sound you could hear was the rain, slow like lava as it started to cool, but hard like rocks against the concrete. I could feel it wash over me, inside me, as it did the same outside. I could feel the melancholia as it radiated through my window. It's almost as if nature is mimicking my pain, saying, "You're not alone. We're all in some sort of pain. I promise." Like a mantra, it chants it's words of reassurance as the raindrops pitter, patter, across my window, like a wash cycle that never ends.

     What was it this particular night? I was fine this morning, almost happy. But sometime after dinner, I felt a weight of despondency. Why, why, why? I took another sip, longer this time. I wanted to figure this odd and unfamiliar emotion out, dissect it until it dissipates into nothingness and I can go back to some normalcy.

     The worst thing about sitting in silence is that the thoughts travel freely without any warning. They come and go swiftly, each time inserting a new horror into the folds of my brain for me to contemplate. Every now and again, certain thoughts pop up that I must forcefully push down along with a few tears.

     Eventually, I cannot further withstand the frigid emotion that clouded the atmosphere of my small bedroom. I lit a candle that was the closest to me using the small lighter I keep around with me. As the light of the candle began to flicker, flack and the flame slowly rose, almost as if it were stretching towards the heavens, I watched in complete silence, unable to make the choking sobs I had been repeatedly executing.

     Maybe it was the warmth in which the candle emitted, so tender and loving, but subtle, without any thought or contemplation. Maybe it was the comforting scent of pumpkin pie and gingerbread that continuously protruded my nostrils, sending a sense of the comfort of fall and the sweetness of life jolting throughout every nerve in my being. Maybe it was the flicker, flack of the candle. The light, the beauty, the reminder that there is a beginning and an end to everything. Every meltdown, every love, every storm and rainbow. There is a beginning. There is an end. Maybe it was when the pitter, patter’s chant started to sound sincere. But, eventually, the glass was empty and the sobbing had ceased.

     The baby wouldn’t stop crying.

     “Why does it do that?” Evelyn asked Mama. “Why doesn’t it ever shut up?”

     “Now, now Evy, don’t talk like that. You know I don’t approve of that kind of language. And by the way, you refer to the baby as he, not it.”

     Evelyn could care less what it was called; all she knew was that it was just one more noise-making annoyance in her life. As if the numerous animal Noisemakers they owned weren’t enough--now the newest, loudest, most irritating one lived inside.

     Evelyn watched as Mama tried to shove the bottle in the baby’s mouth again, but it kept crying. It was one of those uncontrollable, never-ending sobs, more angry than sad.

     Evelyn felt pressure building in her ears and in her brain. She was sure her head would explode if she didn’t get out of the house away from the Noisemaker, and fast.

     Evelyn headed for the kitchen and grabbed her backpack which hung on the wall. She bolted out the back door before Mama even knew she was gone. Not that she ever asked. Mama didn’t care.

     Evelyn walked through the back yard, past the old barn, and followed the semi-worn path through the high grass. The land her family owned extended for acres beyond the farmhouse in every direction. The seven year old girl knew every inch of the property: where the best trees to climb were; where the sweetest strawberries could be picked; where the darkest, most secret hiding places were. One time Mama called the town police because Evelyn had found such a great place to hide that she refused to come out, no matter how many times Mama called her name. That night Papa used his belt on her, explaining that hide-and-seek was not a game for one person.

     After walking for half an hour, Evelyn arrived at her destination: the pond at the very back of their property. She stepped to the water's edge and peered into the murkiness. It smelled bad. Flies swarmed over the surface, which reminded her of seagulls diving into the ocean in search of dinner. She saw that on a television show once.

     Evelyn dropped her backpack on the ground and circled the pond until she found a large fallen branch. She picked it up and returned to the spot where the flies hovered. Slowly, the girl submerged the stick as far as it would go, then started to stir like a witch over a cauldron. The water was opaque, swirling with sediment. It wasn’t long before a tuft of orange and white fur clinging to shredded meat and bone rose to the top.

     It was the feral cat, the Noisemaker that used to hang around the farmhouse--the one that wouldn’t stop mewing.

     Good. It was still here.

@RubyPond

     It’s true. 

     Shots of bourbon in our coffee lead to reverence for you in the voice of Neruda.

     Where to begin? Does anyone who asks that question not know where to begin?

     We’ll start.

     Swift but graceful changes here at Prose. Our coder, while also knee-deep in slaying dragons and winning digital hills on rendered battlefields, is working on new features as this is being typed. Keep your eyes peeled. In another change, call it a red sun rising, we’re taking the app to 18 and over after the next update. Any young guns existing won’t need to worry, and should anyone under 18 sneak past the doorman and smooth-talk the bartender into a drink with no ID then you probably belong here, anyway. 

     Many more things to appear on the horizon.

     Stay tuned. Stay hungry.

If you were to open me up,

What you would find,

Is your other half.

Therefore I urge you,

To dive inside me,

So that our essence may fuse.

For in such a union,

A seed’s conceived,

And I, in turn, shall transform.

Copyright © 1986-2017

Alan Salé

All Rights Reserved

contact: AASalehi@gmail.com

PoetryByAlan.com

In solitude I roamed a mist shrouded path

where thick icy fog swallowed every faint sound,

a victim of loss, and it seems, heaven’s wrath.

In my heart a sharp pain I had carefully bound;

numb feet took me deeper into the damp gray

as if some enlightenment, there could be found.

I stopped near a spectral tree, kneeling to pray.

in answer there came to me only deep gloom;

in anger, I’d cast my faith blindly away.

My wife and child, lost before new life could bloom.

Alone now, consumed by this unending pain,

the fog encased silence reflected my doom.

No solace would my shattered heart now obtain,

as slowly I choked on this black, evil grief.

Ah! Trapped in this lonely hell, I would remain!

The pain in my core had dissolved my belief;

now, without my family, I’d nothing to lose.

If God was in heaven, then he was a thief!

From all of mankind, why would my loves he choose?

All hope has been lost in death’s poisonous bath,

the future holds naught but bleak days and gray hues--

with no way to vent all the pain my soul hath,

in solitude, I roamed a mist shrouded path.

(c) 2017 - dustygrein

** This form, the terza rima, is one that was made popular by the Italian poet

Dante Alighieri, with his classic poem The Divine Comedy. I have found it a great way to tell narrative stories to the rhythmic cadence that is metered poetry.

For the first time since I was seventeen,

I woke up alone. You are gone,

and you took the children with you.

How can I ever get out of this bed again,

much less go downstairs, make coffee,

eat a banana, listen to Morning Edition,

take a shower get dressed go to work

smile say hello?

I can feel the emptiness in the house

without having to read your note;

I already know what it will say.

I can even see your bottom drawer is still open;

I must have been out cold last night.

By the end of the day, the neighbors,

my sister, my parents, your parents, 

they'll all know you've gone. I will probably

still be in bed. 

I will be abandoned. Left. "He left her" is 

what people will say. She's separated.

What would I call it, if anyone bothered to ask me?

I read an article last week, about germs, 

how they are everywhere, and you can't really 

get rid of them

or really live without them,

and it made me think of all the other inferior species

that roam our lives: the dog that barks too much,

the cat that sheds everywhere, the rat in the walls,

the hamster who dies a week after you buy him.

But even a dog who barks too much is just trying

to tell you something, isn't it? 

They use germs to kill other germs:

the anthrax of neglect, the sarin of indifference.

Taxes, birthday parties, working late, sick kids,

a whole life lived on the backburner

and eventually, through the constant shrill,

there comes a sudden and terrifying silence

and you don't even remember

what a dog barking

sounds like. 

Before I went off to college, my mom gave me some advice: “Smile,” she said. “Be nice to everyone you meet and you’ll have no problem making friends.” Desperate to make up for my lack of friends in high school, I took her advice too literally and walked around campus for the first few months with a constant smile on my face—not a full smile because even I knew that would be ridiculous to maintain, but a vague, remembering-something-funny smile: the sort of expression I hoped might portray the openness my mom was referring to without crossing over the line to lunacy.

By my sophomore year, after many failed attempts at meeting other students on campus and in class, I decided to get a job at a nearby coffee shop, purely for the social benefits. I knew the people who worked there were mostly college students, and as coworkers, they would have no choice but to talk to me. I basically applied to be a part of their friend group, and luckily my social scheme worked. I immediately became close with two girls, in particular the taller, sarcastic one named Harley. She and I had a lot in common, from binge-eating problems to anti-social tendencies, but my absolute favorite quality of hers was her honesty. She could say anything to anyone and get away with it, because her observations were always spot-on and hilarious, until of course the day she turned around and started observing me:

“Hey, did you know you walk by my class every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon?”

I shook my head.

“Yeah, and you always have a weird smile on your face like you’re thinking of a joke. It’s really strange.”

Really strange. After a year and a half of upholding what I thought was a friendly demeanor, all I had managed to do was come across as really strange. I went home that night and promised myself to never again let my mom’s advice make me look like a fool.

A couple years after I graduated college and moved back home with my parents, I decided to go for a walk by myself. I kept my gaze toward the ground and my expression serious—a look I knew well from high school and decided to reinstate after Harley’s comment from college. People weren’t drawn to me when I put out this negative sort of energy, but at least they weren’t invited to make fun at me either. Being closed off seemed like the better option of the two, that is until I walked by a neighbor who noticed my flat appearance and felt inspired to say:

“Smile! It gets better.”

When I looked up, he had a big grin on his face, as if he was trying to visually teach me how to a smile. His intentions I know were good, but in the moment, his words felt cruel. I was twenty-one years old, lonely, depressed, and unbelievably insecure. The last thing I wanted was some stranger telling me to smile, when I could hardly think of a reason to fake one myself.

I walked away feeling more confused about myself than I had before. What did people want from me? I starting thinking about all the opposing things people had ever said about my appearance. I thought about Harley and my mom, but there were so many more instances: the bartender who asked why I was so happy in my license picture, that friend who told me I giggle too much, my high school teacher who said I never smile. Well which one was it? Smile too much or too little? I tried to think back to a time when people didn’t make these sort of comments, or better yet, a time when I didn’t hear them. Was I ever so securely me that I didn’t pay attention to others’ criticism? The answer was too far away for me to reach.

A few months later, deep in the trenches of depression, I stopped caring what people thought of me. My insecurities just sort of drifted away one night during a blizzard as I fell into a pill-induced sleep, too weak from the muscle relaxers to make any conscious facial expression at all. At age twenty-one, suicide began to feel like my answer.

The next morning, I was rushed to the emergency room, and several days later, transferred to the psychiatric ward. When the nurses first walked me through the door to where the other patients were waiting to meet me, my first instinct under the heat of all those eyes was to put on a fake smile. Happiness was the last emotion I was feeling, but still in the face of strangers, I reverted back to my mom's advice. As the nurses disappeared and left me standing there smiling like a terrified idiot, a large, forty-something-year-old man emerged from the crowd and stepped in front of me.

"Let me guess: you probably took some pills, thinking you were being cool and rebellious, is that it?"

Immediately, my nervous smile drained from my face, and as it did, I watched his reaction change.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to offend you."

By this point, I was so broken down, so rejected by every facet of my life that I could no longer hide how I was feeling. The wall covering my true emotions had been torn down, and now for once in my life, I didn't care if strangers could see. That first day in the psych ward was my first day as an adult where I actually looked the way I was feeling.

Now, four years later, after coming out of depression and moving into my own home, I feel I have finally gained that self-confidence that I have always desperately yearned for. In the past, I was so concentrated on appearing the way everyone else wanted me to appear that I never stopped to consider the far more important stuff underneath: my true feelings. Almost immediately after coming out of the hospital, I started making real changes in my life. I found a job and moved to the town I'd always dreamed of living in. I let go of the damaging people in my life and worked hard on the relationships I cared about. I established a positive voice inside my head to push the negative one out. I built a business focused on being outside and around animals, because I knew a job like that would make me happy. Everything I did was ultimately for my happiness--a way to find my true smile--because as I've learned a smile really can attract a friend or start a better life. It's the phony ones that don't work right.

Good Morning, Prosers,

The way publishers find new authors might have just changed forever.

We are pleased to announce that we have joined forces with publishing giant Simon & Schuster, whose legacy includes Ernest Hemingway, Carrie Fisher, and Stephen King.

Simon & Schuster’s editing team hopes to discover the next generation of great authors by utilising our challenge feature and our social community, initially through a 500-2000 word writing challenge that ends June 1, prompting you to, “Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by Simon & Schuster’s editorial staff for consideration.”

This challenge stipulates a minimum of 500 entries and a maximum of 2,000.

We will announce the top-50 entries on June 21, 2017.

Here is the challenge URL: https://theprose.com/challenge/5367

We hope you are as excited about this as we are. If you know people who would like to get noticed by Simon & Schuster, spread the word(s).

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

Life has taught me this:

When you are born, you are given a blank canvas and a pallet with assorted paints on it. It is up to you to paint a picture. This will be your legacy.

You will look around and notice that some people have lots of paints on their pallets to choose from. And still others have larger or smaller canvases. Do not be discouraged that you have fewer colors, and do not mock those who have fewer colors then you. These paints that you have been given, have been specially chosen for you. As to the canvases, some painters shall be able to paint more, others less. Paint as long as you have room on your canvas. Make it your own.

This is your task: paint your picture in one go. You do not have a second chance, and mistakes will happen along the way. Do not fret about these blemishes on your canvas. If you work them into your painting, it will ultimately become more beautiful for it. If you dwell on the mistakes, you will make more...

It is also important that your painting be partially inspired by other pictures. (It is impossible to paint with out first seeing what a good painting is.) But remember to make the painting your own. Perfect duplicates of a painting make for a dull gallery.

Be forewarned, some who have gone before you have failed in there endeavors. They wasted the paint they have been given by smearing it in grotesque and terrible images. Some painters will even dare to destroy the canvases of others before ultimately destroying their own. Be wary of these people. Their influence is detrimental to the painting of your canvas.

Again, do not despair with the colors you have been given, or have not been given. Use what you have, and make your painting yours.

Never become discouraged. And remember this: once you decide to step away from your canvas, declaring it finished, it will become finished. Be wary of the temptation to give up on your painting when it is hard. A half painted canvas is only a half painted canvas. A good painting will be painted to the full extent the canvas has to offer.

Now go! use your paint, use your canvas. Live your life.