Prose > Poetry
Sooooo…
(a beginning).
I wonder why
there is so much poetry
on Prose
when prose
is obviously
superior,
thus the site’s name?
Poetry (spit). Bahhh!
(Pook will get me
for doing that
in her kitchen ;)
Curious…
does formatting
in this
phone-centric style
make my
prose =
poetry?
Or is that just
illusory?
If so,
then my prose
looks tantalizingly
poetic.
Does it not?
Even if it’s not?
Even if it‘s snot?
BTW,
apologies for the
grammar
(using it, that is.
You know…
poetry taboos).
But,
I am old and cannot
help myself.
And there is
precedence, being
that it is not really
poetry
at all!
happy Birthday
It's 11:57PM
I'm finally eating my cake
Happy 19th birthday
But it's just me
sitting at the family dinner table that seats 8
And the cake that my long distance friend bought me
Surrounded by the ghost of my family members
Who couldn't even spare a hug
It's 11:58PM
The cake's good
I had a feeling
It would be like this
It's 11:59PM
The cake is half eaten and the ice cream has melted
And the tears are on the verge of spilling over
a sniffle here and there
time to pull myself together
And it's 12:00AM
The cake's in the garbage
And the longing for an embrace is heavy
All I needed was a hug and a 'Happy Birthday'
But it's 12 o'clock
Maybe I'll have better luck next year
The Truth in my Sights
“You gotta go. You gotta see him,” was what they told me, and they were right. I’m glad I went, and I would go again, though he delivered a chill like hell down my spine.
I’d never seen one. Most of us had never seen one. That was the reason we (and was the only reason we would have) broke our ranks and slipped away, one by one. We wanted to see... no pray-tell, we needed to see what it was that we were about to kill, though I might have found it easier had he remained faceless.
I actually tasted him before I noticed him; an acrid, rich, coppery, uncomfortable taste followed by the smells of perspiration, leather, dust, and stale tobacco which together created an aura of difference in the very air around him. He was right beside me before I realized. I turned my head and he was there, resting lazily atop a rail fence post, casual-like, as though he hadn’t a care in the world, his body slouched, his one boot heel hooked on the bottom rail while the other swung loose below. He had that knack that some men have of appearing comfortable no matter their situation, and had he worn blue he would have looked so much like us that I might have passed him by without even noticing, and would have anyways were it not for the hairs on my neck and arms rising up in some subconscious, preservationist warning. But that is what he did. Like evil, he sparked a fear. Once next to him I froze, sensing danger, as the deadly potential of a drawn pistol inside a crowded barroom will freeze a body to stillness.
He sat alone, without even a guard, though twenty yards away and in plain view camped a whole company of our boys; cooking their coffee, washing their socks, and pretending their best not to watch him, but he knew and I knew what would happen if he moved. His britches and jacket were cut from the same thick, butternut-colored cotton, while his wide-brimmed hat cocked back at a rakish angle which I longed for my own hat to do, though mine would never abide it and still remain in it’s place upon my head, as I never did have the talent for such showy things. As I looked, just to prove his professionalism, he spit a brown stream which arced perfectly to the ground, landing atop a small rock already slathered in tobacco juice, all of the stream finding the rock that is but for a tiny bit which caught in the beard directly below his lower lip, and which he somehow did not bother swiping away with a sleeve, a sure sign for me of the manner of heathen he was. My mother had warned me of such men.
Yet mindful of manners, and sensing my curiosity, he pulled an unused plug and penknife from his jacket pocket, cut off a rather large jaw-full, and tossed it in my direction. My hope was that he noticed the deftness with which I snagged it out from the air. The morsel looked and felt about like a piece of wood, or maybe like dried and aged leather twisted and toughened by time. I examined it dubiously, and him, but he only nodded his head and spat again, covering the poor rock afresh while eyeing me for a response. So I brushed away some lint and loaded up, pushing it in until my cheek stretched out near to splitting. Then I squatted on my haunches, arms resting on my knees, and waited.
Our questions lay muffled under tobacco juice as we watched each other chaw. I’d initially thought him older, but upon closer inspection realized that it might be so, but only by a year or two at most, though his face was already lined by a weather and worry that mine had not yet been submitted to, and his hair bleached the same. I found myself envious of his beard, of his colorful Lindsey Woolsey shirt, and of the bedroll slung haphazardly over his shoulder, all of which seemed like improvements over my shaved face, woolen blouse, and heavy knapsack with it’s thin, skin-splitting canvas straps.
I earned a cold-eyed smile as my first spit splattered fortuitously atop the rock, but then it disappeared as my sleeve swiped across my chin of it’s own volition, though I aimed to not allow the shame in the act to show through to my adversary. With my jowls so full that I was unable to speak, I nodded in appreciation of the tobacco and started back towards my own company. I had seen the prisoner, and that is what I had come for. Despite his cockiness he seemed a good-enough sort, and I thought we might have been friends in another place, but time had brought us both here, where two armies of men were currently squared off for blows; one army the sword of God, and our battles to determine which.
Tomorrow I was like to see my first of these battles. I have heard many stories around the campfires of wild-eyed rebels like banshees breaking through the smoke, seemingly fearless of our guns, and I’d wondered if it were true, but having seen the enemy I no longer doubted. He was as young, brash, and as carefree as were we. I was left with little doubt that an army of those like him would stand resolutely. I could take no pride in shooting him or his like down, and I wished for his sake that he’d been born on the right side.
But the truth is a bitter pill which sometimes goes down like a hunk of lead.
And though it would be a shame to gun down such as he, the shame would be worse were it me.
And there is the God’s honest truth of it.
cold feet
she woke up because her feet were cold
The window was open
and she had not the audacity to
stand and shut it in someone else’s house
He was still asleep
beside her
The sheets were stained with her maiden’s
blood
That was all right
She was twenty
But him.... He was also twenty but that’s not the point
This was the boy who
put her through hell during both middle
and high school
The bully
There was that time when he pushed
her down the stairs
and broke her thumb
that time during the field trip
when he threw a rock
straight into the side of her head
that time when he put
a frog in her
lunchbox
And another in her backpack that she
carried home
That time he kicked the ball
in her face giving her
a bloody nose
that time when he threw a snowball
at her ear
And there was another incident
resulting in a chipped tooth
and all of that was besides the
name-calling and the random hair pulling
and the tripping and the scaring
and all...
Yet now here she was
Here they were
In his house
In his bed
And all because he contacted her the previous day
and apologized for everything. Truth
is her life placed some nasty miles both
behind and ahead of her
and someone being nice all of a sudden...
It was so easy to get her
And what did he think of her now?
She felt tears trickling down
her cheeks as she thought of this and
stared at his sleeping body beside her
Maybe the time to
get revenge was now
Or was it not?
***
LISTEN TO THE AUDIO READING HERE:
https://www.instagram.com/p/Cz5xy-zsec6/
Don’t I love to rant? #majorlifeupdatevibes #prollynotgonnaworkouttho (:
It has come to my attention that, perhaps, I had been taking life a little too seriously. That, maybe, I care a little too much.
For as long as I can remember, I had been trying to build a system I could follow in my life. I believed I was in desperate need of a routine to pull my life together. And I probably wasn't wrong, to be honest. Life was a little complicated back then, and perhaps the lulling solace of a routine was precisely what I needed. Maybe it could have made me feel a little less helpless, and a lot more in control of my life. But I never built one. Or in other words, I built many, even brought out various cool adaptions and variations of such systems as life took me forward in time, but none of those could hold me accountable. They failed me. Or in a much more real sense of things, I failed to keep up with any of them. And here we are now! Perhaps, I had been taking life a little too seriously.
All these systems, they did not keep me accountable. Right? But did they help me? In some ways, they did, I wouldn't lie. But it did more harm than help. Attempting to keep up with those routines left me tired and unmotivated. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't just bring myself to do the things that I was supposed to do. And the to-do list of each day just remained the same, or sometimes grew larger in size. It was overwhelming, and the guilt was eating me alive, though I was barely getting anything done. Ironic.
Ever since I was young, there had been another thing I had forever struggled with. Doing something for myself. Ah, the guilt! It always eats me alive. The frolics every toddler put up to buy all the things they loved in the shop, I never had one of those tantrums. I never wanted anything. I wanted to ease the burden of my family. I was the good son. Did I even ever actually want something? I don't know. Maybe I did. But a long progression of that cycle eventually left me with this looming disinterest towards any given thing in this entire goddamn globe. What a tragedy. Most people struggle and end up demotivated and desolate in the rugged path to their dreams, while I had none to begin with. Or maybe I had, I just neglected it for so long that I can't find where I stored them anymore.
What was the point I was trying to make? I struggle to come to the point, I really do. And I am not editing this post. I am not going to filter myself, and present the version of me that I want to be seen out there. Don't get me wrong, but I'm doing this more for myself than for the ones who might eventually read this post. I want clarity. My brain had been in a haze for far too long, and it's about time I take it out for a rinse. And thankfully, I love to rant and write. So this is technically a rant to clear my brain. My life, actually. But I wouldn't mind some company. In fact, I would love some company! If there's someone out there going through similar stuff or actually just wanna help me out (because I'm such a beautiful person who deserves the entire world (: ), tag along! We can get through all of this together! After all, the company matters just as much as the journey, doesn't it? Maybe if we are all in this together, this could be a whole lot more memorable and fun!
Ah, yes, haze. Directionless. Dreamless. Disinterest. Unmotivated. Systems! Yes, systems! So yeah, I'm gonna just dump all the systems in the trash bin in the back alley. I know they had been with me for far too long for such a miserable farewell, but guess who left me miserable for a long time too? What you're witnessing right now might just be the rejuvenation of an ex people pleaser, who's about to enter his villain era. That is, I am about to put up some white little fences which anyone can jump across and still be overwhelmed with tremendous guilt when I couldn't help out the one person who would ditch me in a stranded planet without a second thought (: I'm just kidding, I'm not that naive. Oh! That's one of the fun parts, lemme explain.
I know exactly what I'm doing. The level of self-awareness I possess is almost otherworldly. It's the pinnacle of human evolution. And the desire to act on it is also such a force of nature! But do I? Probably not. I do tell myself that my apparent naivety is a guide to view the world with a pretense gullible-ness, which allows me the privilege of seeing right through people and their intentions and puts me in a position superior to them, all the while they consider me a weak, 'rose-tinted glasses' wearing, 'untouched by the cruel realities of the harsh world' optimist. I actually take some pride in that. And to some extent, I am not wrong. It does help me a lot. And when Waymond Wang came along in Everything Everywhere All At Once, representing the others like me, I was absolutely enthralled. But again, what was the point I was trying to make?
Yes, losing the systems. I was in an argument with a friend of mine the other day (let's call him 'The Productivity Monster' for privacy's sake), and all of a sudden, I coined, "Life's not a to-do list, stop treating it like one." At the moment, I thought I was liberating myself from the capitalist loop the world is stuck on. But am I? Nah, I don't think so. I believe it was more of a 'I want to retain this peace I somehow earned over the years, and I am not risking it over a conflict that I couldn't care less about'. But I do believe that life's not a to-do list. On the contrary, a freestyle isn't exactly the way to go about it too. It's not our fault though, hear me out.
Societal norms. There are certain societal norms out there. And it is not impossible to shut your eyes towards these norms, and live a life following your heart's fantasies. It's magical, it's transcending, it's what we all would have done with our lives in a different geopolitical landscape. But these norms not only influence the approach with which we want to approach our lives, but also influences the approach with which we have to. These norms were not exactly prepared by considering every possibility of human condition out there. So the ones who weren't born to the privilege of meeting the basic societal norms had to attain some level of privilege to even think about altering or revising such given norms. And sadly, most of our lives end while we are attempting to meet them. Again, what a tragedy. But what was the point I was trying to make?
So yes, I'm going to be a little silly from now on. I am going to loosen up a bit. Let myself act on intuitions and intrusive thoughts a lot more. Try and give up on my rather perfectionistic impulses. Try not to feel everything too deeply. But ah, wouldn't that be terminating the one thing that makes me special and lovable? Probably yes. But I'm fully confident that I'll never be able to ditch any of my uncalled-for compassion and empathy even if I try my best to do so. Who knows? Maybe I might even end up finding just the right balance. Hmm, this seems like such a beautiful step forward.
If you wanna tag along on this self-actualization journey alongside me, don't be shy! I'm shy myself, so we're gonna be just fine! Let's do it together! To a beautiful life, my friends! Let's do this <3
Dear Reader
It took me a little while to recognize my fatal flaw, as a reader. It's not a question of extremes, as much as underlying interest. Undoubtedly, some enthusiasts immerse themselves in environment too much, or not deeply enough; or sink into plots, and become entangled in the knots of artificial problems or trip over allegory altogether; some identify empathilessly, or delve into infatuancies, with heroes and antiheros. That's not me.
What I didn't realize until early teens, junior high, or high school the latest, maybe, was that I was maintaining extended conversations with the authors. Made up of course, extensions on the basis of what was given in text, or interview elsewhere. Nothing fascinated me as much--- the rest of the story being "words on paper."
I guess, like a vampiread, I wanted the Life behind or within the story line. I wanted to understand, why the devil did so and so feel it necessary to carry-in to existence this work, this body? I suppose I hoped to see for a moment through the eyes of the wordsmith, and perceive what effect he or she was trying, hoping, to achieve, in the mind of others, through the manuscript as laid out, long or short.
In my own search for meaning, I must have made the (ghasted! I know) assumption that there is a Purpose behind all things. Note the capital, as denouncement of something grand: that accident in art is minimized by a closer analysis of impact, and a penultimate point of acceptance or rejection of it, before final publicization (form/media determining in large part the arena of distribution, as print, gallery, screen). In short, that the writer had something to say, beneath the tip of the berg of what now appeared in our glare of vision.
Not necessarily something new. Something personal. Vital.
It must have been in the early teen-years that I first revealed, and sighted, my flaw--these quirks being unjudged internally until someone else balks and stops you in your everyday stride. Discussing a book, I was subsequently met with indignant tonguelash. I can't remember what book or what I said, but I remember distinctively the response. That I was wasting my time.
Writing isn't like that. Words speak for themselves. It's about characters. The work takes on a life of its own. It belongs to the audience. A typographical orphan. Beyond control. The search for meaning as in our own lives is futile... The author like a God is long gone mentally and busy, anyway nobody is expositioning themselves. Book closed.
To my fellow student-writers, majoring in nothing at the time, it was as if personally offensive. Yet irrational. A barrier put up by the readers themselves in their minds, Private Property/ No Trespassing. It puzzled me that our teachers nodded along, though we routinely pursue potential acts of major and minor characters in our imagination in literary assignments. Character study we call it.
To be sure I don't like chained link or barbed wire, and would avoid these as well, still I conclude that unnecessarily imposed fences, especially intellectual ones should be scaled, down to size. In defense of the antagonists, the only thing I could think of was the fear of Writer's Block. If we spent too much time pondering over Purpose, we would create nothing at all. Maybe.
Yet I am inclined to the idea that understanding intent is within the Reader's purview, as much as it is part of the Writer's prerogative. As a reader, I give much respect to the Author, and freedom to take us wherever inspiration in the moment or future will lead us. I can't ask for it back, but I can pay it forward, when I myself scrawl something down, with that invisible prefix "Dear Reader..."
A Birthmark
the butterfly
affects the heart
I take my imagination
open
to flights
and it flutters
and falls
into the open
venue of ozone
where it might
spark
or
go mussing,
in contrast
like red madder
on cerulean does
when not mixed
in the brush
I make stuff up
I believe it
like a fool
till seen
in the mirror
objective,
where a stranger
finds
no need
for courage---
in obvious state
to say
--Look!
there's brown
smudged
on
your face--
And I know,
know
with pain
everything
is joyfully
missed
as I lift
a timid finger
to the winged
shape
and grin
lightly
to touch
the impermanent
permeance of
our mixed
perceptions
What Happened to the Hunters?
"We have forgotten how to be good guests-- how to walk lightly on the Earth as its other creatures do."
~ Barbara Mary Ward
Vienna, Austria
May 14th, 2005
"Thank you, Mercy." The ageing man responded to the nurse. The falter in his voice had still not recovered from the peculiar events of the previous month. What had brought around the unexpected transformation in the great and proud Mr Aldrich Hunter was unknown to most. How could such an arrogant, power-hungry beast be so humbled over a few mysterious days? But everyone knew it had something to do with Nixie. Phoenix Landskein. His bombshell of a second wife. Unlike Mr Hunter and his son, she never returned to the mainframe, and no one knew where she was.
Neo Hunter took the chair on the other end of the fine dining. The table was older than the portrait of the Mona Lisa, spanning nine feet and carved with fine, intricate details from head to toe. The delicacies were not abundant enough to cure the hunger of an entire state anymore. Only what was required was served, and nothing went to waste. Neo ensured that was the case, and no one had any objections to raise. Perhaps it all had to do with the generational transfer of authority from father to son, most people believed.
But Neo Hunter knew better. Neo Hunter knew firsthand what had brought around the radical transformations in the Hunter household. It had everything to do with Mrs Phoenix Landskein, his enigmatic stepmother.
Sighișoara, Romania
April 9th, 2005
That bitch. Neo Hunter rolled down the haystacks piled so high atop one another. How could she? Neo always knew Phoenix Landskein was up to something, but everyone refused to believe him. But with hands tied against a coir rope and rashes of his allergy presenting themselves on his pale skin, Neo knew that was his best chance to prove his suspicions right before everyone. Phoenix Landskein was a gold-digger bitch.
Vision yet to be stable, Neo raised himself to stand, gaining support from his elbows and knees. The whole world spun around him, dizziness almost throwing him into another long daze. But Neo was desperate not to lose consciousness once again-- he slammed himself against the wall in the hopes of steadying his composure, his head held tight between his arms to squish some sense into him. Neo felt his throat ache and his entire frame sweating, leaving his body devoid of moisture. He needed water. Lots of it. Quick breaths. Long breaths.
The barn doors opened with a rasp to reveal before him a courtyard left unchecked for years prior. Ferns and rust had reclaimed all the fences and adornments once white and lustrous. Hints of a winding path leading to an old estate hid beneath the extensive flora consuming whatever men built over its natural state. The tall stone manor at the end of the road-- made almost entirely of stone and iron-- was all too familiar for Neo Hunter. It was his childhood home.
July 1986
The nights were the hardest. So were the days, but the newfound solace of jabbering strangers at school offered Neo an odd comfort. Was there a name for the fear of dinners? But it wasn't the food that scared him. It was what came with it. The people. His family. Every time he heard his name being hollered from downstairs, every step he took towards the dining room-- it all took an act of courage.
Gripping silences. Heaviness in the air. Neo often attempted to not let his cutlery touch the dishes, to not produce the slightest noise so that his parents wouldn't notice his presence. He only left the table once his mom disappeared into the kitchen and his dad to the porch.
But some days, even his silence could not save the tumults which were to befall. Sometimes, it was a hair in the soup, sometimes a tad amount of extra salt in the bacon. But his father's outrage always shook the entire cabin to the core.
Neo never looked at his father when that happened. He looked at his mom. How her eyes were shut, and a lonesome tear caressed her folds. How her palms clutched the dress she was wearing. Before long, when his father disappeared into another room, Gaia always asked Neo to go to his room. And there, he would sleep to the muffled cries of his mother in the place of lullabies, pillows tight against his eyes and ears to tuck himself into dreams where everything was alright.
April 9th, 2005
The rashes grew bigger and redder with the passage of every minute. Unable to find anything sharp and steady, Neo headed to their old kitchen, hoping to find something to free himself. But it was empty. Hollow. The fire and aura had long settled into smoke and filth. That was when he heard a cry from the floor above. Father. Rushing atop the stairs, Neo shouldered open the doors to their old bedroom.
"Finally. You're awake." Phoenix Landskein was a woman of stature, or at least she possessed the charm of someone alike. There she stood, at 5"7', holding what seemed to be a leash made of the creepers from the grounds-- stains of red embellishing the light green of the stem. His father lay on his chest atop the busted cot, his bare back adorned with streaks of blood as he struggled to flee his chains. His restraints were not coir, but cold iron, leaving him zero chance of escaping the onslaught.
Phoenix walked up to Neo, stopping only a few inches away. Neo wanted to back up, but the notion of her kicking him down from the foyer persuaded him to keep his ground. The whip safe in her right hand, Phoenix stared right into his soul-- her green eyes threatening to claw out his deepest fears. In the end, a smile. She took his arms and twined her palms around the coir ropes, only for the yarns to magically untangle themselves, freeing him from its clutch. She passed the leash to his hands, whispering to his ear, "Careful."
As Phoenix strolled down the stairs, Neo ran to his father to help him escape. He needed something to break the chains apart, and soon upon his search, he found all the utensils from their old kitchen on the bedside table, spread neatly on a wet towel. And while picking up the hammer, Neo noticed how his rashes had faded into his skin, no longer inducing an allergic reaction.
But before he could carry his father out somewhere safe, Neo felt the temperature rising around him. Fire. He walked faster only to nearly slip over the stairs, losing the clutch over his father. His rather plump figure tumbled down the stairs, and for a moment, Neo was afraid he had marked the end of his father's life. But the day had other intentions, not a life being lost, though the stone-cold manor collapsed in on itself, leaving no reminiscence of the world Neo once knew.
Vienna, Austria
May 14th, 2005
Putting his father to sleep and piling a heavy blanket atop his fragile frame, Neo walked out of his bedroom to the cold verandah. Phoenix Landskein was never found after that day. Even the most capable investigation teams couldn't gather a clue as to where she was. And the non-cooperative silence of the father and son only led to more and more suspicions and never a proper answer.
But whenever Neo brought around a change in his father's allocation of wealth for the better, the trees and animals seemed to bow before him. The sun seemed to shine brighter on the days' Neo had felt his best. And on the days when Neo felt despair, the clouds taught him to let his tears fall. And whenever he reminisced about his mother, he felt the air tug him into a warm embrace. The leash no longer had the stains of blood, but it bloomed and flowered in the courtyard of their home.
Neo knew what had happened to the Hunter household. It had everything to do with Mrs Phoenix Landskein.
#####
I struggled with writer's block for a long while in between, and I'm sure a lot of people out there has the same issue. I'd never been much of a pantser and had always leaned to more plotting tendencies, and thus reading upon and listening to a lot of storytelling theory and experimenting with a lot of techniques, I'm figuring out an outline to help me with the task. It's not rigid, it's arbitrary, it's constantly changing, and it helps me gain more insight into the stories I want to write, and helps me explore what all I could incorporate into them. And I thought this could be somewhat helpful for someone out there too (: So, I'm sharing the outline I used to write this story here, and... hope it helps!
Outline: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1l0Rc2EuvqCKDFnmw-Z6wv5yXSWdZTDa9aqVUS51F28o/edit?usp=sharing
*****
Shoutout
[cuz it feels like a wholesome thing to do (: Also, these will be some of Prose's best, so keep an eye on them (:]
The Evil Series by @Danceinsilence
The Evil Series by @Danceinsilence feels like an episodic thriller with its division into separate books and parts. Featuring a team of cops with the primary focus on a divorced female law enforcement officer and single mother (with the most adorable son), Janis Baker, this series really justifies its title throughout its course... Trust me, no matter how humane a person you think you are, you'd root for some of these characters to suffer the most-brutish-deaths possible... The evil is constantly on the rise and the saviors are on a never-ending effort to keep the streets clean. Sacrifices, serial killers, assassins-- An over-arching threat, loved ones to protect-- this series will not give you a break! Do check it out!
*****
Instagram: (Um, I'll edit that in later...)