"It was after," I leaned in towards Larry with emphasis, but uncertain, "Yeah, I guess," costume party fatigue was setting in, that good-buzz was wearing off. He looked up with semi-interest, knowing who and who we were talking about. The one that was invited, but nobody really liked, and that guy.

"Didgya catcha glimpse 'r somethin?" he said polishing of the crumbs of the doggie bag plateful he had or whatever. I shook my head, cause at this time of the a.m. our quirks can be too much.

"That's what I'm telling about," I said adamantly, trying to pass his mal processing.

"So she finalllly took off the mask?!"

"It didn't happen like that. It was some weirdass conversation between her and the one dressed like a phantom." We'd presumed who that was, but weren't all sure, and I guess it didn't much matter.

"Lloyd," Larry ventured with a yawn, "well?"

"She stood by the window," like a mannequin on display I thought, "and just spoken all limp. I mean the words were coming out death like."

Larry scrunched his face like W-t-F and scratched his arm, waiting for me to go on. He wasn't in any hurry to sit up on the rug or get a move on out of the hall.

"She said, 'Look at me.'" It scared the bejeezus out of me. Not normal.

Larry raised a bushy eyebrow, twisting his nose to one side, like that's all?

"Did he?"

"I guess not, cause, soon I hear her hissing insistently, 'Look at me,' and I get to looking, myself you know? He's glanced up, and says 'uh you've let your hair down, very nice.' And she whispers, 'Look at me,'" again. Pitifully. It gave me the creeps.

"Sounds freakin' annoying, man," Larry folded his arms and I just knew he was bout to close his eyes, so I push the wrappers and leftovers towards him to remind him to take care of his own trash on the way out, and not fall asleep on the spot. He takes the hint; "And?" renewing his waning interest.

"Now Lloyd-boy looks up from his phone, tries to look attentive and says, 'Ohhh you've darkened your make up, tonight,' and goes back to his Facebook or whatsit that he's got his tilt on, but now I'm not on cell lit Lloyd anymore. It's like her face is falling through..."

"What?!"

"She's giving out this hiss like a deflating tire," and I still hear her slithering tongue, "She says 'Lloook at me, Lloyd,' but he's all engrossed in the angle of the screen with his back shouldered away like he doesn't want her to see and I hear him say, 'Can you close the window, hon, there's some kind of chill in here,' and she's got no face," she was backing into the shadows outside and I was transfixed on watching like it was animation.

"No face? how's that?" Larry's got his mass together now and is about to lumber out.

I hold the knob, with the door just enough ajar to let him pass. "Maybe it was all ok, relational BS, but I swear she swung a leg out the sill, then the other, and shut the window behind her. Her face was hollow as a skull, and still whispering 'Llooook at me.'"

"Eve is so messed up."

"I know, I know. Man, see you tomorrow."

10.21.2023

Halloween Mask challenge @Bunny

You could've kept your cold breeze. It ruins the sight of the beautiful color on the leaves. The haunted houses that I hate to the core. Where fiends with masks try to make my soul ascend. Though the lights and decorations on houses are quite outstanding. And I love the bright smile on a child's face as they run with their candy, soon to stuff their face. Pumpkin spice latte's drunk by women named Brandy. I took a sip or two and the taste also tickles my fancy. No more shirts and shorts, I have to throw on my sweater, But the comfortable feeling it gives maybe this is better. You ruined my weekends, with all of your sports. From every bar I pass I hear a cheer, I join in of course, pass me a beer. But please hold the snow it's not yet part of the show. And while I hate you October, maybe I love you just a bit more

Dear Sexy Minds That Rule Our World:

By request, here's a, hmmm, well...a warm and special story about a stroll to the lake under moonlight; contemplation, introspection on a certain level, and quite possibly something else...

Here's the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vnThXeTVNo

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

There’s a chill in the air outside, and I’m still angry, mainly at Bram but also Walker and also my own mother and, you know what, probably Darian as well. Everyone is too much and not helpful and I just want some goddamn peace.

Bram tries to catch up with me, but I scream at him until he retreats, and I continue down the street, away from the inn and away from the coffee shop. After a few minutes of walking, my mind as empty as I can make it, I hear a car driving down the road to my right, coming from behind. When I glance over, I see a grey SUV slowing down to match the pace of my walking, and I squint into it.

An arm is waving at me out of the driver side window. "Hey!" I don’t recognize the voice or the face of the woman leaning out the car window to look at me. She’s got tan skin, freckled from years of sun, and a thin red and orange scarf covering her hair, tied under her chin. Her arm and the back of her hand is wrinkled, much like the skin around her eyes, and I’d judge her to be in her sixties, though she smiles with a youthfulness that even I don’t possess.

I look behind me in case, by chance, she’s calling out to someone else. No one else is around.

“You need a lift anywhere? We’re headed to Jacaby’s Peak.” The woman is alternating between smiling at me and glancing in her rearview mirror, presumably checking up on the other people in the car. I can’t see them all, but I can see at least an arm in the passenger seat and a thin, white, blonde teenage girl staring at me through the middle row window. She looks eerily like I did at sixteen.

“I’m fine,” I tell the woman, waving a hand dismissively and continuing down the sidewalk.

The SUV’s engine idles. I can still hear some kind of psychedelic rock emanating from the car’s radio. I look back.

“We’ve got space in the car. It’s a Windthrow Point tradition, to picnic at Jacaby’s. You’re welcome to come.” I stop, and I don’t know who the hell has a picnicking tradition, but my stomach is suddenly reminded that it needs food. It doesn’t need a picnic, but it does need food.

“No thanks,” I say to the car. It rolls forward so that the woman and I are side-by-side again. The figure in the passenger seat leans around the woman and into my view, and I see that it’s the guy from the bookstore.

“Hey, Masie! I’m Keigan, remember?” He gestures at his finely-sculpted face, aesthetically framed by his shoulder-length blonde hair, which is half-up-half-down in a very elven way. “You sure you don’t at least want any food?”

I scoff. Keigan has eyes as innocent as a child’s, the woman driving the car is bobbing her head to the music on the radio, and the teenage girl in the middle seat is chewing on the end of her hair and watching me. “Why? Why on earth would you offer me food?” I don’t have the energy to be polite, and I end up yelling the question on accident. The woman’s face morphs into a frown.

Then her expression clears, and she stretches her tanned arm out towards me, palm up. “Why wouldn’t we?”

I resist the strange urge to step forward and take her hand. No one in Windthrow Point has any reason to be trusted, but I look at her face and any more arguments I might’ve had die on my tongue. I’m too tired to keep fighting. “If there’s room,” I concede. I’m rewarded with charming smiles, the woman’s and Keigan’s matching each other perfectly.

I’m seated in the back of the car, next to a large wicker picnic basket and a bundle of fire pokers. The middle seats are occupied by two (roughly) sixteen year olds, who are called Wynne, the blonde girl, and Roshni, a brown-skinned girl with a heart-shaped face and round glasses. Keigan informs me that the woman driving is Gerti, who is his aunt, Wynne’s great aunt, and also, apparently, the mayor of Windthrow Point. Not sure how to respond to situations involving kind strangers, children of any kind, or mayors, I sit silently in the back seat, legs pressed together and hands tucked in my lap.

The rest of the car doesn’t seem to mind my discomfort. Wynne and Roshni are having a conversation about some video game that involves shape-shifting and werewolves, and Gerti is driving with one arm while the other dances like a snake through the air outside the window. Keigan has a hiking-boot-clad foot on the dash and an open book on his lap.

The ride isn't long, but we pass by a few different areas of Windthrow Point: a series of small houses, a view of the river, and trees that get closer and closer together as the road curves up and around. We continue up the winding road until it spits us out at a tiny gravel parking lot at what I presume is the top of this hill. Probably Jacaby’s Peak.

What follows is a flurry of movement. Everyone exists the car, chattering about the radio and the food and the weather and, still, werewolves. The trunk of the car is popped open, and suddenly Keigan is passing me a bundle of fabric and a small cooler. I grudgingly but silently accept, then follow everyone else down a trail through the trees.

It's beautiful here, I have to admit. It's a different kind of beauty than the beauty of the ocean; there's so many intricate details in the woods that it almost feels claustrophobic, whereas the water is always so vast and open. Here the sun is filtered delicately through the trees, only revealing certain plants to the warm light, while the rest is cool and shaded. Moss grows up the tree trucks and red berries dot the scraggly branches at our waists. Small white flowers grow in random patches on the ground and bees flit from one to the other. Birds and chipmunks disturb the plants ahead of us, making clicking and rustling noises.

I find myself walking next to Gerti, who's holding the fire pokers like she's going into battle and has an orange backpack slung over her shoulder. Small branches from the bushes at our ankles keep catching on her long, billowing skirt, but she doesn't pay them any mind. Part of me admires her just for this; or maybe it's just some kind of kinship I'm feeling as I look down and see her burnt-umber skirt next to my white one. I note that my tennis shoes are more practical than the delicate brown sandals she has on.

"Masie, Masie." She says my name like she's getting used to it, like it's a test. I look into her face, and it looks so round with the patterned scarf tied around her head. "You're far away from home?" This question could've sounded condescending, but her tone is even. No judgment.

I give her one of my best smiles, which means I probably look like an angry bitch, and scoff, fingers digging into the blanket I'd been given to carry. "Uh, yeah, I guess."

We're at the edge of a clearing, some kind of cliff almost. Gerti nods at the clearing. "Alright. Now, this is Jacaby's Peak."

I follow her gaze out over the cliff, which really isn’t too steep, but does appear to drop off pretty significantly at the bottom. The view is of the river down below, with the shore on the other side lined with trees and dotted with a few small houses. The rest is sky, perfectly clear.

And in front of us is a roughly circular area, mostly clear of trees, where the grass is worn down to loose dirt from use. Keigan is dragging a wooden picnic table to the center of the space, and the girls have stopped to look at a charred pit in the ground.

Gerti herself squats down by the pit, and the girls disperse to help Keigan set out folding chairs and take food out of bags. Out of her orange backpack Gerti procures a set of matches and winks at me. "I never was a girl scout," she tells me. "But I am a woodland creature at heart. What about you?"

I blink down at her, and she looks up at me and stands again, reaching out and relieving me of the cooler and blanket in my hands. She takes them over to the picnic table and sets them down, clarifying over her shoulder, "Are you a woodland creature? Or more of a sky-being? A water serpent? Something else?"

So she's some kind of weirdo mystic. "Yeah, I don't know," I cross my arms, not knowing what to do with them now that I’m not holding anything. The girls are standing at the edge of the ledge, looking down at the water. I feel a bit sick suddenly, while simultaneously trying to remember their names.

Keigan, standing nearby, is looking at me, and I accidentally catch his eye. I make a face at him that says 'this lady, am I right?!' but he just has this calm look about him and I’m not sure he understood what I mean.

Gerti is somehow at my elbow. "Bring me some wood," she says, pointing. There's a stack of chopped fire wood at the edge of the trees, blending into the shade.

I look down at myself–silk, white, corset–then back at her. "Yeah… Maybe Keigan should." I wave a hand at my torso to emphasize the point.

Gerti’s expression doesn’t change, but she does chuckle and start gathering up loose twigs. "Aren’t you capable?" she asks.

I hold back a rude response, click my tongue, and, when Gerti doesn't even look up at me, I stalk over to the wood and pick up a log, holding it straight out in front of me so it doesn't touch my clothes. I bring it to her, and she just thanks me and points to the wood pile again. I bring her four logs and am about to get a fifth when she stops me. "That's enough for now," she says while adjusting the wood. "Not a woodland creature, then," she adds to herself.

I watch as she lights a match and starts up the fire. She sits back on her heels and we both watch the flames grow, wrapping around the large logs but not consuming them just yet.

"Who else is coming here?" I ask suddenly. What I'd really like to say is, “How long is this event and when would it be polite for me to leave?”

Gerti checks her watch. "Technically all of Windthrow Point is invited, but knowing the townspeople, I don't expect a huge turnout."

"But you said it was a tradition?"

She nods, her mouth pulled into a smile. "Every Tuesday afternoon of the summer, rain or shine. It was Portia's idea. Keigan and Wynne's mother, my sister." She’s looking at Keigan, but I can tell she’s seeing more than just him; she’s looking past him, into a memory.

"Is she…"

"She's not with us anymore," Gerti clarifies easily. Her eyes are so clear when they look at me. "It's not quite the same anymore. Only some of us still do it. But more people will come, we're just early to set up."

I give her a second big, fake smile.

Thirty or so minutes later the food is set out, the picnic blanket is spread on the ground, and chairs are set up by the small fire that Gerti is poking carefully, enticing into the perfect flame. Only two more people have arrived, one of which I recognize from the Briarstone Café–the old woman. She's with a man that must be her husband, and the two of them are chatting with Gerti beside the fire.

I've sat myself down on the picnic blanket, consigned to my fate with a small plate of fruit cubes and graham crackers. Keigan had been chopping more wood–of all tasks–but has since stopped, rolling his shoulders. The tattoos on his arms look deliciously touchable out in the open air; he’d abandoned his thin leather jacket on a chair and now is only wearing a loose and very open-necked short-sleeve shirt. He sits down next to me with a little ham sandwich, which apparently the old woman had made.

"So what do you do?" Keigan asks me, taking a bite of his sandwich. His face has that warm sheen of just-exercised-but-not-too-sweaty, and I try not to acknowledge that I find him quite attractive.

I shrug, chewing a cube of watermelon. “Do?”

He raises an eyebrow. "Blogger? Model? Russian spy?"

I laugh charmingly. “Those are vastly different jobs,” I tell him, positioning myself on the blanket to face him more straight-on. It gives me a good view of the way his hair sticks lightly to the perspiration on his forehead.

Keigan’s smile is all pearly-whites. “You never know. I think you’re capable of doing all three.”

Capable. Just what Gerti had said. My smile falters. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

He’s not put off by this comment. “Ok, so what do you do? I’m a bookseller, if that helps. In terms of pleasantries.”

I inspect him out of the corner of my eye as I pick at the fruit on my plate. “I’m a writer,” I say. I don’t know what compels me to tell the truth.

“Neat,” he says, going in for another bite of sandwich. I glance at him, honestly offended that’s his only response. Usually people either say things like ‘How do you make any money doing that?’ or ‘Oh, I could never’ or ‘What else do you do?’.

Keigan chews, then his eyebrows shoot up and he reaches out and presses his fingers to my knee. I can feel the warmth of his fingers through the fabric of my dress. “Hey, I’ve just thought of something–if you’re available, we’re actually looking for help writing a play. Would that be something you’re interested in?”

A play. I cough; the honeydew chunk caught in my throat, my stomach suddenly lurching. I haven’t written a play since… well, since those days at the lake house. A wave of nausea rolls over me, and it’s the same feeling I felt this morning, like there’s water in my lungs, in my throat, behind my nose. I stumble to my feet, swaying, trying not to retch.

--

(next chapter)

pt 14: https://www.theprose.com/post/774071/melodic-pressure

--

(previous chapter)

pt 12: https://www.theprose.com/post/768088/the-edge-of-exploding

Smoky eve undressed screeching crimson winds

Blood moon swaying sinking curls brushing steel

Monoliths; bombers cruised bruised skies.

stars

Charged hypersonic fighter jets, plasma

Full of serenades, Dark Tower showered

Shallow shadows: world spit me out, fell back to

Entropy, pills, and pornography. Gaul

Heights center of gravity, what holds me up?

John Cowells watched nights collide, blue moon… rounds

Rolled in rusty cylinder, journals stacked

Up to Oblivion, quarter filled bourbon,

Taste never budging. He wrote the only

Girl he could imagine, one before Hellfire

Out in Dallas? Pink City? her my last

Care in this domed state. He wrote nights, lost

Days of sleep- an obsession driving him.

Stale UTOPIA night fell deep into

Lovestruck sheets; he cut empty gem pages

With diamond tipped pen, every word a moment

Closer to realities dictated by

A fairytale love. another parade

Of drones and Legion Rangers, surveillance

Swayed away a dwindling writer’s block;

Manic fist clenched shimmering inky dweller,

Stellar pilgrimage to ego death; she was

Out in New Navajo, galloping like

Josey Wales, battling giants, Major

Dick Winters amongst gory poppy fields:

An infinite war of love and hell. He

Wandered memories of his dear mother

Wrapping him before leaving for DC.

Dagger cut, hours venture to insanity.

The Machine crackled wicked vinyl pops,

Voltaic rhythm etched rigid landscapes

Against hole-punched walls, galactic shutters

Assail solar winds, warping time through borrowed

Sleep, tomorrow seeks today venture noble

One; Cowells peaked blinds divide; Interstellar

vacuum awoke him from his afternoon

Hibernation, depressants and valium:

Analog God silence suicidal

Idealogue, repent! repent! four walls

Judge closer, days wasted, hold on to what

You can't, soon she'll leave, love's reprieve. sorrow

Sweet, digitize for an hour or eight, just

Enough to make crickets chirp, shirts stay on

For weeks, showers optional, misery

Like a hawk swooping as I begin to stand.

Fade away Flower of Evil, burn! shrivel!

Before destruction

of Empire

Council carved Legions;

Became one

Under

Canvas skies.

Dear Smooth Operators:

On the channel today, we feature a few writers you just might want to get to know, to follow three of our legends. Would have read for hours, but a certain aging gentleman is going to see even older gentlemen playing metal tonight. Hint: Whiplash...

Here's the link to the vid.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-oZ7ouLRtzY

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Dear Brilliant and Beautiful Writers:

I wanted to read every one of these, but time chained me to only five, counting the winner. If it's too late for coffee, pour a cold one, or a double, and look upon the talent featured on the channel today.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OfnCMh_dsrY

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Katerina Florence visited the sight of her mother's gravestone once every five years. On this day, it was her fifth.

The graveyard was small and provincial, much like Katerina's own childhood, and located on a plot of land wedged in between a rotting house built in the 1800s and a rocky cliff overlooking Lake Georgina. Katerina considered the grave sight from the opposite side of the road, considered the lake she could see through the trees, and then proceeded, as usual, into town. She would visit her mother tonight, when everyone else was in bed and the world would be silent except for the lapping waves. When she would be undisturbed.

Pepper's Town consisted of five buildings, a scattering of trees, and a central bungalow used for meetings, festivals, and (most commonly) late night rendezvous. Katerina knew each building intimately, as she had lived in one of them for the first eighteen years of her life.

There was the bank, first and foremost, which was the largest of the five and the only building which had gone through any significant renovations. A second story was added when the Toffee family converted it into a church ten years ago, deciding the town was in more need of salvation than financial aid.

Next to that sat Randall’s Car Garage, which had always been more of an excuse for Randall to show off his cars and vehicular skills than anything else. He’d always been a kind old man, though not quite right in the head. Randall was always telling ghost stories about the Emerson Estate, but as a kid Katerina had known it was just to keep the kids out of the graveyard. Nowadays, though, she wasn’t so sure.

Across the street was the Power Griddle, a diner that played exclusively 80s Rock ‘n’ roll, the Laundry family’s veterinarian’s office, which was often mistaken for a laundromat, and the Florence family bookshop, which constantly smelled like must and ancient ink. It was Katerina’s favorite smell.

And this place… This place was Katerina’s favorite place.

–Masie Clements, The Lakeside Haunt

I wander down the block, soaking in the sun like a flower. The town is prettier now that I have a plane ticket scheduled back to California.

I hadn’t been looking around properly before, but now, cradling my coffee, I start to feel a strange kind of déjà vu. I pass by a little tiny box of a building labeled ‘BANK’, then a thrift store advertising candy, of all things, then pause at a two-story brick bookshop. It’s got ivy crawling up the sides and those old-style multi-pane windows on both floors. The small square panes on the second floor are frosted, but I can still see the shadows of the books pressing against the glass, like they might tumble out at any second. There’s a stone slab being used as a step up to the shop’s door, which is propped open with an eight-inch bust of Shakespeare. A waft of air hits me, and it smells like musty old books.

And that’s when I realize why Windthrow Point feels strange to me. It’s kind of similar to how I envisioned Pepper’s Town in my novel The Lakeside Haunt. But what’s really strange is that this bookshop… it’s exactly how I pictured the Florence family bookshop, The Bookshade. Down to the smell, for Chrissake.

I’m standing in the doorway for a millisecond when my eyes land on a familiar figure. The box of books. Darian. Of course.

“Hey,” I say, raising a hand in a stunted wave. I’d like to say I did it because I’m friendly, but really it’s just because running off to avoid someone twice in one day is a little much, even for me. Not seeing much of a choice, I step inside the bookshop, pleased at how warm the air inside feels.

It’s exactly how you would picture an indie bookshop to be. Piles of books, possibly organized but who knows for sure, coat every surface. None of the tables or shelves match; they’re all varying shades of wood and metal. A tiny chandelier and a bunch of mini pride flags I can’t identify hang above the cash register. Fairy lights lead the way through the stacks to a barely-visible staircase.

And Darian. He’s on his tiptoes on a stool, shelving a thick red-covered book on the second-to-top shelf across from the register. He’s also ditched his jacket from earlier, presumably to show off his amazing biceps. Distantly, I try and decide whether they’re better than Walker’s, but it’s too close to call.

“Welcome!” There’s someone else here, apparently.

I turn and it takes me a moment to locate the man behind the counter, what with all the clutter. He’s got long blonde hair--not as nice as Bram’s--tied up into a knot, and a piercing through his upper lip. The tattoos on his arms disappear underneath his crochet vest, and he’s sitting with his nose, almost literally, in a book. Why is everyone here attractive? Also, Bram would really like this place.

“I’m Keigan. You new around here?”

So one person in this town is friendly. Well, Mariana from the inn was too. “Yeah…” I start, glancing at Darian, who has dismounted from his stool and is now staring intently at a stack of books.

Keigan notices, and looks between the two of us. He picks up his book and stands. “I’ve got to…” He makes no attempt to finish his sentence before disappearing.

Darian’s got his hands in his pockets now, his gaze on the ground. I try not to remember the feeling of my hands raking through his short curls. “What, um.” He clears his throat and then looks up. “What have you been up to?”

I cough a little, no sentence forming in my mind. Up to? Waiting for your call? Flying across the country on a whim? Ruining a cat’s funeral? Getting wasted? “Um.”

He gestures to his head. “I just mean--swimming? Your hair is wet.”

Right. I touch my hair briefly. I’ve somehow completely forgotten that not only am I wearing Walker’s t-shirt, something different than what he’d last seem me in, but my hair is also stuck in limp, wet, wavy, unattractive tendrils. “Oh, no. I had a run-in. At the café. I met Walker?” I’m going to stop talking now.

He nods stiffly. “Hey, I’m sorry for… Well, the deal fell through, you know, and it wasn’t just my decision. I would have gone through with it, if it were up to me.”

I can’t decide whether I’m mad at him or not. I was before, wasn’t I? I’ve been mad all day. But what I say is, “It happens. I get it.” I cross my arms, and I can’t stop thinking how much I wish I wasn’t in this dumb oversize t-shirt.

Darian puts out his hands, grasping at nothing. “I just want you to know that… it’s not because of anything you--we--did.” His brown eyes find mine, then drift across the room in the direction Keigan had gone. “You know, we were drunk. It was nothing.”

I laugh, like I knew that all along. I mean, I knew we were drunk, and it was great but also probably nothing, but the deal… If the deal fell through not because we had sex, then it fell through because my book wasn’t good enough. That’s worse.

“So.” He gives me a half-smile. “What brings you to Windthrow Point? We don’t get a lot of visitors.”

I run a finger over the spine of the nearest book. Heart of Darkness. “Aren’t you visiting?”

My head snaps up when he laughs. His whole face lights up, and how I see him now is the same way I saw him at that first dinner we had. He’d been very charming. “I grew up here. I come back to visit whenever I can, mostly to help Mom out.”

I breathe out a single laugh, surprised, and cock my head. This man in front of me, dressed in tailored pants and still sporting that shiny watch around his wrist, grew up here? A town with population of, so far, about ten? “No way,” I scoff.

Darian turns his smile to the shop as a whole, and I do think he could seduce it if he tried. That’s just the kind of smile he has. Objectively. “That’s right. We’ve always run the inn, and met all kinds of people through it. My mom’s the one who always encouraged me to get out into the world. ‘So long as you come and visit,’ she always told me.” Now that I know what it is, I can hear the nostalgia in his voice.

I should’ve pieced that together, that Mariana must be related to Darian. They’d seemed close. “That’s nice,” I reply dispassionately. Not because I don’t care, but because I can’t really imagine what that’s like.

“And?” he presses. “What are you doing here, Masie Clements?”

Clearly Bram didn’t tell him anything either. Goddamn Bram. Squaring my shoulders, I give Darian a confident smile. “Writing, of course. Just thought I’d get out of the city for a while.”

He chuckles. “Yes, it’s nice. Funny coincidence you’re here, of all place, though? Still, I hope you like it. Windthrow is a great town once you get to know it.” His smile fades, and he puts out a hand. “I hope we can get on as friends?”

Friends? After all that? Hell no. “Absolutely,” I tell him breezily, shaking his hand.

Darian nods. “Ok. Great. I guess I’ll see you around?”

Already backing out the door, despite the fact I’d love to peak around the shop, I reply, “Of course!” Then I’m on the sidewalk, silently counting down the hours until my flight takes off.

--

(next chapter)

pt 10: https://www.theprose.com/post/766726/all-my-ghosts

--

(previous chapter)

pt 8: https://www.theprose.com/post/764086/a-lack-of-apology

Dear Sexy Word People:

Here's a quick feature for some requests from the Prose. profile inbox. Speaking of which, if any pieces, or writers in general, do it for you, and you want them featured, write in with the Prose. link attached, and we'll feature it if we can.

The Challenge of the Month XLII video is on the way next.

Here's the link for the quickie today.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I_GE3rW7sPE

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Dear Deep and Dreamy Minds:

Just a fast one here. Was about to head out the door early, but four bits of brilliance binded me in-studio, and I had to read them to break free, much like how a song is stuck in your head until you play it to get it gone. In this case, they were like four really good songs. Here's the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yn6d1q9UY9g

And...

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team