Episode sweet sixteen rings in with a beat of Billy Idol, into a stream of consciousness wake, led by a man of duality, and topped off with a poem by one of the ever-shining stars in our night sky...

Beccawaits and BIGT round off the video with style and loving grace.

Here's the lnk.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aadNTBBb54M&t=84s

And here are the pieces.

https://www.theprose.com/post/807496/...

https://www.theprose.com/post/805779/...

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

What do Walt Whitman, Danzig, Jim Morrison, Elvis, a shit job, and existentialism have in common? Episode 15 of Liquid Velvet Literature on Prose. Radio, that's what. Two writers follow W.W. to bring it home with words jumping alive with fire and life, and a touch of death.

Here's the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_ZY-9k0ZKg&t=121s

And here are the pieces featured.

https://www.theprose.com/post/807692/at-the-end-of-time-alexis-karpouzos https://www.theprose.com/post/807771/a-caged-bird

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Today starts the same as any other, with the sound of a whispered “I love you” walking out the bedroom door. I lay in bed as the room rumbles with the movement of the garage door. I miss when we had few weekday obligations and woke up in each other’s arms. I wrap myself tighter in the empty sheets.

My heart still flutters when he texts me good morning, just like when we lived states apart. It starts my cold morning on a warm note. I smile and begin to pry myself from the comfort of our bed. I miss the time when I woke up feeling rested, but I miss the days when we woke up together so much more.

I brush my teeth and throw on the work-from-home special, a dress shirt with sweatpants. I look at myself in the mirror and am glad he isn’t home to see the witch hair I tried to tame into a ponytail. Then, my commute involves walking across the hall and into my home office. I sit down and the house is silent save for the occasional mild creak when a strong gust of wind blows through. There’s just something missing.

I preemptively wince when I open my work laptop. I already know what I’m going to see, a day full of back-to-back conference calls. The screen flashes on and shows me I’m right, much to my dismay. I start my first call with an artificial smile plastered on my face. The smile wanes along with my patience with each passing call.

After five grueling video calls, all I have to show for it is an ever-growing task list that I can’t tackle until the barrage of conversations finally ends. I have an hour-long block on my calendar to respond to emails and work on a presentation. It tricks me into feeling like I’m taking a break because finally, I don’t have someone’s voice chirping in my ears.

It’s hard to quiet down an anxious brain. My mind is filled with questions. Why did I choose this line of work again? Are there any remote islands I can move to? What time is it? God, it’s only 2:00 PM. My mind may shut down if I have to do this any longer. Have I begun to hate people? I ask myself this every day.

Then, I hear a familiar voice downstairs call out my name. I couldn’t hear the rumble of the garage from my office on the other side of the house. His calm, smooth voice cuts through the sea of nagging demands I had been drowning in. I run down to give him a kiss.

“What are you doing home so early?” I ask. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

He looks down at me and grins. “I snuck out of the office early to hang out with you.”

I smile, then immediately frown when I remember the mountain of work I need to dig myself out of. The boundary between work and home is blurred to the detriment of the remote worker. Even when I step away from my desk, I still get a constant flood of emails and messages to my phone.

Then I remember how I was checking emails at Disney World and responding to a “fire” on Christmas Eve. I think of all the trips I had to postpone to accommodate work needs. I think of my kids asking me why mommy never has time to play with them. I can’t let that happen. I give him a kiss and ask for a few minutes to wrap everything up.

I put my laptop and notepad away and sit down next to him on the couch. “Afternoon nap?” I ask him.

He nods and pulls me toward him. My head lies on his chest and nestled into his shoulder. I can hear every steady heartbeat thumping alongside mine and my breathing slows to match his. I wish life could stay just like this.

My concept and definition of home is a bit more nebulous than most. I was born in Venezuela, a nation that I never got much of a chance to make a home in. You might have heard the chaotic headlines or whispered rumors from that one coworker who visited in the 90s. You see, Venezuela used to be a destination. It used to be a hot vacation spot known for its gorgeous beaches and women, and even a popular place to immigrate to for better opportunities. Now, it’s known for violence, hyperinflation, and a mass exodus from the country’s own citizens. It used to be a place to be proud of. Now, the actions of a violent few have corroded the shiny patina of Venezuela in the eyes of foreigners.

For the past 25 years, the beautiful land that brought me to life has been pillaged and plundered by a revolving door of murderous leeches. They come in walking on the backs of generations of Venezuelans toward their gilded podiums. They sit down, get fat off the land, and leave the nation a bit more crippled each time. They left my country tattered and decaying, a dying weed stuck to the northern coast of South America.

We left for the US with little more than suitcases of clothes just before things took an even sharper downturn. It took nearly ten years until we were finally able to secure permanent residency. Throughout that time, I felt like I was truly a person with no home. We took a couple of careful trips back to Venezuela to visit family where possible, but it was clear that the nation was falling into disrepair. It was plain as day that things weren’t safe for our family there so the last time I ever visited was in 2006, 18 years ago. With the way things have progressed, I think that might be the last time I’ll ever see it with my own eyes.

I thought everything would change when we became permanent residents. Now we had a legal document asserting that we could call the United States our home. But could we really? We’re an immigrant family that wasn’t exactly rolling in money. My parents worked hard to provide a roof over our heads and food on the table. It wasn’t ever easy, but they made it work somehow. Truly, the “how” is a mystery to me to this day.

We moved around a lot. The 2008 recession crushed our family, but we spent the next 15 years working hard for a better life. I’ve called a lot of rented apartments, townhouses, and eventually single-family houses my home. My parents sacrificed a lot to allow us to go to top American schools in good areas. Good schools cost a lot to live near. I’ve worked hard to make them proud of their investment in my future.

I’ve been at my current place for a year now. We thought we were going to get to call our last place home for a little longer, but our landlord needed to move back in. Something always happens, so I try not to get too attached to any place. This place feels different, though. It’s still a rental, but I’m making it feel like home. We go thrifting for artwork and bit by bit, we invest in furniture and rugs and all the other things that make a house a home.

Some people talk about going back home. Some people ask me where home is for me. I’ve lived in different countries, states, and cities so at this point, home is wherever I’ve currently got my two feet planted in the ground. I haven’t yet set roots anywhere too permanent, but I’ll get there. Until then, I’ll just shake my fist at the economy and try to pay down these student loans.

A spontaneous recording session from a found piece of gold ignited the twelfth episode over at Prose. Radio. We'll add the piece and writer in the comments. Nothing says Tuesday like black coffee and a bittersweet story. Gets no better.

Here's the link:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v5_h3z8MM2M&t=116s

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Summers is the worst. Now, trust me on this, I'm no teacher's pet. I like school as much as the next kid, but I prefer the school months to the summer ones. I live way off the beaten path as ma calls it. My bus ride into school takes over an hour, though I've never timed the trip. I'm sure you can see where I'm leading. Nobody's parent wants to drag their kid an hour out of town down a dirt road that's made of more potholes than gravel. And neither ma, nor dad are going to drive us. It means me and my brothers are alone for two months.

Alone, however, doesn't just imply boredom. I'm sure my brothers and I could entertain ourselves alright. But dad has other ideas. It's the job of us kids to keep up after the chickens and drag the goat back to the homestead after he gets out for the third time this week. We've got weeding, watering, pruning, and harvesting to do. The tractor quit two years ago, so even in the spring, when we used to be free, we were up early and up late trying to plant all the produce.

Ma couldn't even help this year because of the new baby. She was off her feet for weeks. Dad was more upset than I thought it was alright for him to be. Ma's absence meant extra work for all of us. Dad even dragged Kit, who used to be the baby, out to the farm this year. He's only four or five, but Dad said his father forced him out in the fields when he was even younger. Dad is always telling us how lazy we are compared to him as a child. Grandma would be ashamed, or whatever family member he tries to condemn us with that day.

The verbal lashings are better than the real ones. They don't come often, but when the day has been real hot, and dad's got a cold brown bottle in his hand, one little slip up of the tongue or even a slip of the feet could land us in trouble with dad. There may not be many trees around, but he'll find a switch, that's for sure. It stings bad.

I wish I could say we get days off, but even Sundays, when we don't have to get up too early, are miserable. We all pack into the truck. Us kids are too many to fit in the cab now. Will and Mickey have to sit in the back of the truck on the way to church and pretend that the sun-drenched metal truck bed isn't burning their skin off when they sit.

We're always late to church. Dad chews everyone out when we get home. Sabbath is supposed to be a day of rest, I think. But dad drives us out to collect the eggs, milk the goat, pluck the pesky yellow worms off of the zucchini, and water the thirsty plants. The last day of school has me counting down to the end of August. When I heard they were drawing out the school year last year, I got excited. Dad was real mad, and even more upset that I was grinning while he shouted. He switched me real bad that day.

Today was Tuesday, I think. Missing church always messes with my memory. Ma and the baby have the flu so we're not allowed to bother her. It was all okay for dad, though. He woke us up with the sun and drove us to the yard without breakfast. Without ma, we can't feed ourselves more than bread with whatever jam is on the shelf. She won't let us touch the stove. The gas is broken so the flames shoot real high. She gets burned all the time and won't let us near it.

I knew the day was gonna be a bad one when dad flicked Kit hard for whining about breakfast. The sun was hotter than normal. My skin has already been burned to a crisp. Dad says the sunscreen will kill us faster than the sun, so he won't let us use it.

After a few hours in the sun even Mickey, who idolized dad and did whatever he asked with reverence, was begging for a break.

We chugged water and made a couple mayo sandwiches. Now, I don't like mayo sandwiches one bit, but after a morning of hard work in the hot sun with no water, I could've eaten ten of them. Kit barely had three bites of his sandwich when dad was ushering us back out into the field.

One of the ties on my braid snapped and dad wouldn't let me go in the house for another one. He said he had half a mind to cut off my pigtails and be done with it. So, I tied the ends of both together with the one I had left. If I have one thing I like about myself, it is my hair. It was as blonde as ma's and real long too. I wore all my brother's old hand-me-downs. Without my braids, I'd look just like a boy. Dad couldn't cut my hair. I knew he'd forget about it if I dropped the topic altogether.

Dinner was nothing but sandwiches too. We had one bowl of chili left, but dad said that was for ma. But at least this time we got to put some tuna on our sandwiches. I was downright starving.

Bedtime followed shortly after. Now, most kids hate bedtime. I don't hate the sleeping part. I hate sharing the bed with Kit. He still acts like he's not even potty trained much and wets the bed at least once a week. Now, I suppose I don't get too mad, except when waking up in the middle of night. Laundry is my job, so it gets me out of the sun a day or two a week. Anyways, I guess I just like going to bed because it makes me one day closer to the start of fall and the end of summer.

Our eleventh show on Prose. Radio was spawned by the music of Buckley, but, it was led on from TheWolfeDen's Challenge, then into a touch of hellfire and something waiting to, well, shine, in his own way...

Hear the two pieces here.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tHhGGEz8eC4&t=62s

Let's get this week to the weekend, where a stiff drink awaits...

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

The lockdown had taken its toll on our family, and it seemed like nothing would ever be the same again. As we returned from quarantine, my mother and I were plunged into a world without my father, who had lost his battle with cancer while we were away. My mother, usually composed and strong, was now a shell of her former self as she struggled to plan what she called a "celebration" for my father's life. But as soon as we stepped foot into our home and saw that picture of him smiling above the condolences book, all pretenses fell apart. My mother crumbled in front of me, her cries echoing through the empty house where my father's absence was painfully evident. And in that moment, I couldn't help but feel the weight of our loss and how much my parents' love for each other would never be the same again.

In life's procession, I've been to two,

Funerals solemn, tales both old and new.

At six, a haze, I, unaware,

In a poofy dress, a moment to bear.

A gathering vast, on grandparent's land,

A memory vague, like drifting sand.

A lady's grasp, a room of tears,

As a child, the weight, it seldom nears.

The years passed, the truth unveiled,

Grandfather gone, the tale regaled.

A church in chorus, grief's symphony,

A mother's wail, a painful memory.

Fourteen years hence, another scene,

Awareness sharp, the air serene.

To bury my father, a solemn quest,

Dressed in white, at life's behest.

No casket in sight, a preacher's voice,

Celebrating life, a collective choice.

Fifty-nine, he left our sphere,

In a box not seen, emotions clear.

Eldest daughter, a stoic role,

In a Nigerian home, a steadfast soul.

Not a tear shed on that fateful day,

A rock for others, emotions at bay.

Hopeful that he, in the beyond,

Feels pride, approval, in love we respond.

Alone in my room, when guests depart,

The facade crumbles, a broken heart.

The peach trees are in bloom and her birthday was last week.

They're vibrant and pink and remind me of cherry blossoms in Japan or DC. They almost don't look real; they're spatters of paint on otherwise bare limbs. Some modern artist randomly touched a wet brush to knobby wood.

I figure we'll have another frost before April, and those pretty little bits of pink paint will droop and drab and go sepia.

I didn't wish her a happy birthday.

Clinton was in office the last time we spoke, but I still remember how she smells. Her laughter echoes in the chuckles of others.

Grief isn't always about death.

It's absence.

I mourn alone with others every day, and today, the peach trees are in bloom.

I tell myself that I don't care that her birthday was last week.

Frost will come for those trees as surely as some lies keep me warm.