the snow fell like forgotten ashes,

covering the world with your sins.

i never knew

hell was a trap door.

falling through felt like

fooling me twice

and shaming me forever.

no place to go

but up.

no one to love

but myself.

can’t you see the fire?

flames licking

your lips,

like my name once did.

you were my villain

circling the damsel in distress

with clouds of smoke

and make-believe happy endings.

stuck to my pen now,

your misguided love stays frozen

in time and dishonor.

i write to remember.

so my mind has space

for undeserved forgiveness

instead of wasted second chances,

for untouched hearts,

instead of reliving

those days of shattered pieces.

no place to put you

but the page.

no one to write you

but me.

It's horrible feeling like it’s the only reason you exist.

But no one is ever going to listen.

No one has the time to care.

So what's the point in existing.

#motivation #writing #life #self-doubt

Do you know what a twisted mind actually looks like? I didn’t. I do now.

I also know what is meant by obsession.

And I know the shapes and colours of meanness.

I know a lot of things now that I didn’t know earlier.

Also, I have acquired tremendous mental powers. I have an eidetic, almost magical memory. Mind reading is easy. Telekinesis is child’s play. Telepathy is a piece of cake. What is extra sensory perception to you is sensory perception to me. As you can observe, I am not using my mouth in talking to you. My words are being communicated to you from my mind to yours, directly.

And it is all because of my well-developed seventh sense.

Come nearer, ladies and gentlemen. I will tell you all about the wonder drug in these bottles that I carry with me planet to planet, offering it free of cost to any and all humans or humanoids.

Seventh sense? What is seventh sense?

How do I explain it to you? How do you explain colour to the congenitally blind? What words or signals would you use?

Consider. Is the mind aware of itself?

No, that does not make the subject clear. I will try again. Can a person be fully aware of the inner workings of his mind?

No, this is still vague. I will try again.

There are a multitude of consciousnesses (is there such a word?) in a human being. These consciousnesses (again that word) usually work independent of each other. Is it possible to coalesce them? To make them fully aware of each other? It is. That is the work of the seventh sense. The seventh sense can be said to be a sense to sense all the senses. A sense… Oh! What’s the use? I cannot find the right words. Let me approach it from another angle.

Of course, you know what the sixth sense is and how it works. Seventh sense is yet another advancement in the level of awareness - of oneself and ones surroundings. You have heard of Dr. Darnel haven’t you? Darnel discovered the hormone that stimulates the sixth sense. Darnel and I were both working on the project together. In fact, the discovery of the sixth sense hormone was more my efforts than his but somehow Darnel managed to hog the limelight. Damn Darnel. Damn hi

No need to panic, folks. I am fine now even though it took me a long time to recover from the backlash of hate (hate against myself, for I am Darnel in many respects). These backlashes are new to me no longer. They are one of the effects of the seventh sense.

Seventh sense. Awareness. Is there such a thing as too much of it?

When Darnel stole the credit for the sixth sense hormone from me, I worked on. Forgetting family, forgetting humanity, forgetting life – I spoke of obsession earlier – I worked on and I discovered the seventh sense hormone. I tested it on myself. I got awareness. I got awareness in spades – awareness much superior, intense and expansive to that of any ordinary man.

As an aside, let me tell you that I often wonder about the next level of awareness. What would happen if there is an eighth sense? What would it sense? Perhaps that elusive something called the soul?

Enough. Let us come back to the seventh sense.

Seventh sense, as I expressed earlier, involves awareness – internal and external. As an example of external awareness brought by the seventh sense, consider this. When you look at a tree you see certain shapes and colors. When you touch different parts of it, you feel the different textures. You take these sensations, these outward expressions of an object and give it a name: tree. But when I observe a tree with my seventh sense, I perceive the treeness of the tree. More than this I cannot explain.

There are several examples of the internal awareness that the seventh sense brings – awareness of the creation of thoughts, awareness of the activities of the brain. Imagine an invisible complicated honey-comb structure with invisible cells – cells upon cells, cells beside cells, cells connected to cells, cells within cells – twisted, straight, of all invisible shapes and invisible sizes. Invisible yourself, you move along invisible pathways through all the invisible cells at the same time. And you watch – you watch with invisible eyes, different types of invisible actions, reactions and interactions going on around you, within you, on numerous levels of perception. You watch invisible impulses coming in and invisible responses going out. You hear with invisible ears, the inaudible beats of the alpha rhythm. You feel intangible fingers groping for intangible talents to use in formatting response to stimuli. You see immaterial hands rummage through immaterial memories, select some memory at random, replay it, replace it, select another one ---

Do you know what it feels like to have regrets? You do? Imagine regrets a thousand times more in quantity and a thousand times more intense and acute. No, you cannot do it.

And now here is one last thing I want to tell you about the seventh sense. In my subsequent researches, I discovered that a person who is human – the word “human” taken with all its implied universal values – can rise to dizzying heights of awareness, can become super human, without actually suffering the way I am suffering under the burden of the seventh sense.

As soon as I found this out about the seventh sense hormone, I prepared a huge quantity of the hormone, packed it in bottles and made it my mission to take it to different planets where humans live and offer it to anyone who would dare to use it.

Anyone among you who wants to imbibe the seventh sense hormone, please step forward.

THE END

Welcome everyone to Roundtable. The object here is to introduce you to someone on Prose who writes, and also to gain a bit of insight of who this person is.

Every two weeks, I will choose someone randomly, so beware, you may be next!

But, be the Proser already established or new here, look at it as a way to know a little of the person behind the words.

At the end of the interview, is a piece of writing I selected at random for your reading pleasure.

In this, the premiere of Roundtable, we have: Undermeyou.

__________

Please, give us a little insight on yourself.

My real name is Emily, and I’m from the Chicago-land area. I’m going to be 28 in March, and I celebrate my birthday all month long, so get ready for that. I don’t have a favorite genre to read, but I like anything that makes me think. I enjoy writing poetry best because it is most natural for me. Aside from writing and reading, I love to paint. I work out at least 4-5 days a week. I don’t know that either would be considered a hobby, but I love getting tattoos and seeing live music. My username comes from a poem by EE Cummings, “I Like My Body Best When It Is With Your” - it was the first poem that I ever read that made me want to make others really feel my own writing.

The always big question put to any writer is how long have you been writing and why do you write?

I was put on an accelerated reader program in first grade, and I started writing as soon as I knew enough words to string together a story. The first thing I ever really remember writing was a story that was inspired by me reading “A Wrinkle In Time”. I don’t necessarily remember the storyline, but I do remember that I had a character named Silver and one named Gold and that they showed up in a field during a storm. I could probably write an entire book about why I write. The simple answer is that I write to let all of the busy buzzing out and make it something tangible. But. I think what creates that need to let the buzzing out, for me, is that I want to let others know who I am. Especially the darker parts that most people are too afraid to talk about or share. I think it’s really healthy to let that out and let others know that it’s ok to let it all out as well. I guess I write because I can’t help it, but I want my writing to make you feel everything. And I want to leave you wanting more.

Who are your favorite authors and please; give me a few names?

I love Chuck Palahniuk, Capote, EE Cummings, Michael Faudet, Ray Bradbury and Stephen King. Additionally I’m a Harry Potter and an Alice in Wonderland fanatic, and I love E. Lockhart’s newer YA. And I don’t know if song writers count towards authors, but Laura Stevenson, Damien Wong, Dan Campbell, and Jordan Dreyer can create stories with their lyrics that I would listen to even if I hated the music. And if I couldn’t stand the noise, then I would at least read their words.

Do you have any literary work on tap for publication, or have been published?

I have a novella I would like to get published during the first half of this year. My initial goal was the end of March (as some Prosers already know), but I posted awhile back on Prose and had some users look it over and give me some suggestions and critiques, so structure has changed a bit. With that being said, I am a constant editor and have allotted myself some extra time on that personal deadline.

Is there any one particular book you have read you would recommend others to read?

I just posted recently that I am not big on book recommendations as I don’t really feel that literature is one size fits all, but I would recommend “First, We Make the Beast Beautiful” by Sarah Wilson. It’s about anxiety and other mental illnesses, and it does have triggers and is a bit scattered at times, but I think it has a very important message not only to people with these diagnoses but for the people they surround themselves with.

When you aren’t writing, what do you do that pays the bills?

I am a Process Instructor and an Integration’s Office Management trainer for a 1,000 store; 20,000 employee-based MSO. Which basically means I travel the country training people on process for the company I work for. We are a collision repair center, so I train on parts, estimating, accounting, and office management and admin as well as culture. I sometimes paint and do photography on the side, but I have to admit that it’s hard to find time for it between work, family, and friends.

Can you shed some light about yourself that other people here can get a feel for who you are?

Over everything else, I am a mom. I have two boys, 4 and a week shy of 9. I am slightly obsessive, determined, and usually a bit of a controlled mess. I think before I speak, and I take one day at a time. If I didn’t I would never be able to make it through life with my anxious thoughts. I love words more than I know how to properly express, and I think my favorite is probably “ephemeral”. I don’t know that it means anything to anyone, but if I could do anything with life, I’d buy a big, historical house for myself and my family, restore it (I love house projects!), and spend my free time writing, reading, and painting. I also probably drink too much coffee. But who’s counting?

Are there places as far as social media accounts, perhaps your own website you would like Prosers to be aware of where you can be found?

Yes! I love staying connected in as many places as possible. Sooo … other places you can find me:

Instagram - @undermeyou.poet @undermeyou @avox11

Snapchat - emilyann3623

Lookbook - lookbook.nu/undermeyou

Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/undermeyou

How long have you been on Prose?

Nine months give or take a minute.

What is the single most thing you like?

I’d have to say my kids. But after that would be a tie between writing and painting.

What one thing do you really dislike?

People who do not respect others enough to listen and cast aside their own opinions/beliefs to hear what’s actually being said.

If you could offer up one piece of advice for other writer’s, what would it be?

Write every day. Even when you don’t have something brilliant to say, write anyway. Eventually something worth reading will be born. And, I know you asked for one, but I can’t help myself - PROOFREAD AND EDIT! If you read back over what you just wrote and you can’t make it through it yourself with the current grammar, punctuation, story line, content, character/plot development, or spelling then don’t expect other people to make it through it easily either.

Lastly, your favorite quote?

I don’t know that I have a favorite quote. I have several tattooed on me, but I’m not sure that I prefer any one over another. On that thought train, though - my first tattoos were on my wrists. I got them for my grandfather when I was 19 because they were the first tattoos that he got when he was 14 (he got them on his knuckles, but it’s a bit hard to find a good artist who is willing to tattoo a 19-year-old girl’s knuckles). I have “Love” on my right wrist and “True” on my left. When I was small he told me the story of why he got these. He was hanging out with some older kids, and they were tattooing each other with a needle and ink. Everyone was getting “love” & “hate” on their knuckles. When they got to him he said he didn’t hate anyone, so just put “true” on the other hand. He said that he got them on the hands that he got them so that he could always remind himself to be looking for true love and to remind others to always love true. Even when I was small I thought that was one of the most beautiful things I had ever heard. Anyway. Keep reminding yourselves to be looking for true love and for the ones that love true.

Thank you Undermeyou/Emily. It has been a pleasure.

__________

Butterflies by Undermeyou

Suddenly your mouth is not enough. And the moment that hits me, I become desperate. I yearn to eat you up. I yearn to destroy you. My left-hand curls around your neck as my right reaches down your throat. My fingers close on beating, struggling mass. And as I pull your heart out past your teeth, my own grows all but insatiable. Yet still yours beats. Mouth-watering, belly growling. My fingers, wet with blood, daintily drop the entirety into my gluttonous mouth. A rhythmic pulse crawling down my esophagus. And I know I’ve made a mistake as it scorches the fleshy pink of my throat. It hits my stomach with a dull throb. And as it lands it bursts into legion. A myriad of you crawling around the unsatisfied pit of me. And the nausea hits all at once. It is infinite. I can feel them growing inside of me. I can feel their wings. They tickle my stomach lining, whispering your name. I tear my hands across my rib cage. Scratching and clawing. Longing to pull you from me. But the wings still flutter. A light and foreign ripple grazing my veins. I jam my fingers down my throat, still raw from your slow descent inside of me. Vomiting, the only relief I can imagine. And the sickly creatures rush out in a bloody torrent. Small and wet. Sticky crimson and bile ceasing their poisonous flight.

I get home from work and she’s still sitting in the recliner where she was when I left this morning. She’s watching Jerry Springer with the volume up as high as it’ll go. The smell of cooking oil is heavy in the small, dark apartment. She barely looks at me and I go into the kitchen to see what there is to eat. A grease stained paper towel covers a plastic plate. Two fried pork chops sit in a congealing mass. There’s a covered pot on the stove. I lift the lid and peer inside. Rice and Tomatoes mixed together. Her favorite. I put one of the pork chops on another plate, scoop a glop of the cold rice and tomatoes next to the pork chop, and place the plate inside the grease filmed microwave oven. I punch in one minute and forty seconds and then press the start button. I get the glass pickle jar from on top of the refrigerator and dump my day’s tips onto the pile of loose change already inside. The coins clink and clank like tiny chains. I put the top back on the pickle jar and spin it closed.

Chants of “Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!” blast from the television.

"Hey! That shit is too loud,” I yell.

“What?” she yells back.

“Too loud!” I scream back.

“Who’s proud?”

Oh, hell. I go into the living room, pick up the remote from the coffee table. The dark wood varnished table is covered with white discolored rings. She refuses to use coasters. I turn the television volume down until I can finally hear myself think. The picture on the screen shows a short man licking whipped cream off the body of a fat woman in a bikini while Jerry looks on with the microphone in his hand.

She looks up at me, “Why’d you do that?”

“Too loud,” I say and go back into the kitchen. She follows me, shuffling her feet in her once fuzzy pale blue slippers. The slippers are now as worn as she is. I grit my teeth. I hate it when she shuffles her feet.

“I cooked pork chops,” she offers.

“I saw.”

“Rice and tomatoes too.”

“I saw that too. Thanks.” The microwave dings. I reach for the plate and burn my finger. I left it in too long. I grab a dishcloth and carry the plate to the table.

I place the plate on the red and white checked plastic table cloth. Like everything else in this apartment it’s seen better days. I grab a mismatched fork and knife from the drawer next to the sink and I sit down. My head hurts. She sits across from me in the only other chair at the table.

“Your day go good?” she asks.

“It was okay,” I answer. I hold the piece of meat down with the fork and saw into it with the knife. It’s like trying to saw into a cowboy boot. I stuff a piece of the pork chop into my mouth and crunch on a piece of fried fat. I shovel some of the rice and tomatoes into my mouth. This shit is going to give me heartburn. She knows that.

“Marty called,” she says.

“Oh, yeah. What’d he want? More money?”

"No, he just wanted us to know that Linda is out of jail.”

“For how long this time?”

She lights a cigarette. I glare at her.

“I told you I don’t want you smoking in the house.” I say.

“Sorry.” She takes a puff and then drops the cigarette into a cup on the table. The cigarette hisses out.

“And don’t use cups as ashtrays. That’s just nasty.”

“You ever gonna be nice again?” she asks.

I get up and scrape my almost untouched food into the trash can. ’Probably not,” I tell her.

I go into the bathroom and peel off my work clothes, and then my panties and bra.

I fill the tub with hot water and ease my aching body down into the rust stained tub. Chants of “Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!” blast from the television again. She can’t hear worth a

damn. I slide down until the hot water covers my breasts. I soak the weariness out of my body while the water cools, and then I slip my head down until I am submerged. It’s quiet under the water. Peaceful. I feel like the Lady of the Lake. I come out of the water just long enough to take a breath and then slip back under. I wish I could stay here forever.

But I have to take care of her. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t know how I got elected for this shit job. Hell, she’s not even my mother, she’s Rich’s, but he’s gone. He left me his Mama, a battered Chevy, and a house going into foreclosure, and no life insurance.

“Damn Skippy, you did, Rich,” I say out loud. I have been talking to myself a lot lately. I wonder if that’s normal.

I get out of the tub and dry off and then slip into a t-shirt and my gray sweat pants.

When I come out of the bathroom, she’s still watching television. Some old seventies sitcom. M*A*S*H maybe? I used to like M*A*S*H. Yeah, there’s Hawkeye. She doesn’t even look at me as I walk over to the television and turn it down.

“I can’t hear it now,” she complains

“Yeah, and neither can the people in Alaska,” I say.

“You don’t like me,” she says.

“It’s not a question of liking you, Stella. I’m just tired and the t.v’s too loud.”

“Rich didn’t care if it was loud.”

“Well, I’ve got news, Mama Stella- Rich is dead.”

She flinches like I’ve just struck her with the back of my hand and suddenly I feel bad. She hasn’t got anyone else, but how in the hell did I end up with her? I hate Rich. If he wasn’t in ParkWay Cemetery, I’d probably kill his sorry ass.

She starts to cry. Now I really feel bad. But I know better than to try and calm her. She’ll just cry louder and harder. I go into the kitchen and open the tip jar. I sit at the

table, empty the jar out on the picnic checked table cloth, and start separating the coins into neat piles; pennies there, nickels there, dimes and then quarters. I count the pennies

until I have fifty and then slide them into the red penny sleeve. I tuck the pennies in tight and then close the ends tight. I can hear her sniffle a few times from the other room. I

continue rolling coins and try to ignore her. When I finish rolling the pennies, I start on the nickels. When the pickle jar is empty I have seventy one dollars rolled. I get up quietly from the table, careful not the let the chair scrape against the linoleum, and walk over to the kitchen doorway. I peer into the living room. She’s sleeping in the recliner, her head lolled to the side.

I go back into the kitchen and kneel down in front of the sink. I open the lower left cabinet door. I push the container of Comet and squirt bottle of Glass Plus aside, then reach way back into the cabinet until my fingers locate the cloth bag. I pull it out. I take the bag to the table and unroll it. I quietly put the newly rolled coins inside with the rest and then roll the bag back up. I kneel down and push it back into the dark recesses of the cabinet and then arrange the cleaners in front again before closing the door. I brush off my hands and silently calculate how much I have now. Let’s see Tuesday I had fifty. I added seventy-five on Wednesday and then yesterday sixty. There was already two hundred and fifteen dollars from the two weeks before. With today’s seventy-one that brings me to four hundred and eighty dollars. In two and a half more weeks I should have enough, if I work double shifts like I’ve been doing. I only need about a thousand dollars.

That’s all, just a thousand, and then I can get out of this town. Down to the ocean where the rich folks live in Gulf Shores. Where it’s sunny and warm and I can walk on the beach, the real beach, and let the sea water rush over my bare feet, gaze out over the horizon while the sun sets and the sky turns all pink and red. I can listen to the sea gulls cry, smell the salt air, and feel the sand between my toes. I might even drink a margarita with salt around the rim. I heard they’re good. I can make a go of it there. I know I can. I’m a good waitress and rich people always need waitresses. Don’t they? Find some

cheap apartment. I don’t need much.

But what about her? I’ll just leave her here. Someone will find her. Someone will

take care of her. I just can’t do it anymore. I can’t. I’m forty-six years old. If I don’t get out now, I’ll never get out. Never once in my life have I ever seen the ocean. When Rich and I first got married he promised he’d take me. But he never did. And there were no babies for me to cuddle and raise. After six years of trying, we found out we couldn’t have babies. We didn’t talk much after that. Those first six years were pretty good though. The best I ever had. But six years don’t make up for the twenty-three lost ones. I deserve something. Damn right I do.

I walk into the living room drying my hair with the ratty towel and she’s still sleeping. I go to wake her so she can go to bed. The minute I touch her, I know. I put my hand over her breastbone. No

heartbeat. Her chest is still. No breathe moves in and out from her tired old body. The old lady finally did me a favor. Then I feel a tinge of guilt. She never asked for any of this to happen. She was as blameless as a baby. I guess I should maybe call someone.

I look at the television. Another episode of M*A*S*H is still on. Hawkeye is wearing his Hawaiian shirt. I wonder if they wear Hawaiian shirts in Gulf Shores?