Minnix

46 reads

In case no one has told you today.

Dear Prose Community,

In case no one has told you today, I'm proud of you for making through the days you thought you wouldn't come out alive. Whether you're recovering or you're still struggling, I'll always be proud of you. Misery is only a temporary feeling. I've said it constantly and I will say it again:

Things do get better. Things truly get better.

From personal experience, it takes patience and effort to climb up the mountain. One wrong move can easily make you topple down to the bottom. But no matter what, don't lose hope because you can always climb back up. Hope is never taken from us. It could only be surrendered. And as long as we keep fighting, we will keep hoping. No matter what, if it takes weeks, months, years, or even decades, you will make it out alive.

If you feel like you're behind in your journey, remember that everyone's journey is different from yours, so don't feel bad because your pace is different from others. Take your time, there's no rush. Get some rest. Cuddle up in some blankets. You seem exhausted today. If you need to let out a cry, please do. It'll make you feel relieved. There's no shame in crying. If you need a hug, I'll quickly give you a virtual hug, although I wish I could hug you in-person. You deserve it. Eat some food if you haven't. Drink plenty of water. Get enough sleep. Allow yourself to relax, y'all's head is pretty loud back there. Are you alright?

How long have you felt hurt in order to create such masterpieces?

And also, how long have you been feeling alone to the point where you're so used to feeling lonely?

To the Prose community, I hope you are doing alright. I want to hold your hands and reassure you that everything will be alright. I may only be a high school student, but you know, I'll leave one last thing to y'all before I head off for the night.

Thank you. Thank you for making me feel like I belong.

This is the only community that I could freely express my thoughts. Thoughts from my ear-splitting head. Thoughts from my heart, my gut, my brain. Because of you guys, I don't feel so misunderstood on this platform. Because growing up, I've always been feeling misunderstood, like something was wrong with me. I didn't know why I was so different from the others.

But being different isn't all that bad. Being different only made me feel proud of myself because I feel a sense of uniqueness. Maybe being different isn't so bad.

So, to the Prose community. To whoever read this letter, take care.

I'll always be proud of you from afar. xx

- Sincerely, Raynstar.

12:08 A.M.

Challenge

Challenge of the Week(ish) CCXXXIV

Write a haiku about discovering a corpse. Two weeks for this one. 50 bucks to the winner, chosen by Prose. Go.

matianrus

21 reads

Next to the dirt road

The man called his wife, shaking

"Found our dog," he wept

Challenge

Challenge of the Month XLI

Begin a story or poem about your first memory, but write it in the style of a Tarantino or Charlie Kaufman screenplay. Where it goes from there, use any style you want. Open the belly, bleed on the page. Winner gets 100 big ones. Go.

ErJo1122

24 reads

The Makeshift Door

FADE IN:

INT. CONDO - NIGHT

Two men sit on an old leather sofa. On the table in front of them are issues of rock magazines (i.e Hit Parader, Circus, Metal Edge) There's a half-filled ashtray with smoking roaches rising through the condo. The two men clink beer glasses and laugh. They’re talking about women and swearing. One has a Fender acoustic guitar in his lap. He strums some chords as the other plays harmonica. The two are rehearsing for a bar gig that they have landed downtown.

MAN WITH HARMONICA

I saw Cindy Lawler at the mall the other day. Jesus, she looks good. Should be a capital crime to look that good.

MAN WITH GUITAR

Yeah, she's a beauty. And not one of those beauties that fucked everything that walked just because she could, ya know? She made you work for it.

MAN WITH HARMONICA

Didn't make me work too hard.

The man with the harmonica winks, lets out a small laugh and takes a swig of from his bottle of Alexander Keith's

MAN WITH GUITAR

Oh yeah? The story she told me is that she was in bed waiting for you and you couldn't get your prick up. Ironic that she didn't make you work hard, and you couldn't even get hard.

MAN WITH HARMONICA

Oh, fuck you. As if that's never happened to you before Mr. Knocked-up-a-girl-before-you-were-18-year-old

MAN WITH GUITAR

Well yeah it's happened to me before, but not with a bombshell like Cindy Lawler.

MAN WITH HARMONICA

Wait a second, you slept with Cindy?

The man with the guitar lights a cigarette, holding a KISS Army lighter.

MAN WITH GUITAR

The same night.

The man with the harmonica looks on the verge of losing his shit for a moment, and then the man with the guitar breaks out in laughter, and they both begin to laugh harder than they have in years. At the stairwell there's a heavy Lion King blanket tacked to the wall acting as a makeshift door to keep out the cigarette smoke and drown out some of the sound of the boys Friday night vulgarities. Tommy, a four year old boy sits at the bottom step listening to his father and his father's friend discuss things that no four year old should be listening to.

MAN WITH HARMONICA

You know I uh, I got Jules pregnant.

MAN WITH GUITAR

Get the fuck outta here. You serious?

MAN WITH HARMONICA

Yeah. I'm a goner. My life is going to be blown to shit. No more getting laid for me.

MAN WITH GUITAR

Were you getting laid anyway?

MAN WITH HARMONICA

No, not really. But still probably more than I'm going to be. The little bastards, they ruin everything.

Tommy puts his ear up to the blanket.

MAN WITH GUITAR

You're looking at it all wrong

MAN WITH HARMONICA

I am?

MAN WITH GUITAR

Well, yeah. Listen, life is only over if you're a selfish prick. I mean, let's be honest, you're working part-time at Puralator, you're on your second marriage. The only thing you look forward to are our Friday jam sessions, which we rarely actually jam. I mean, come on, man. This could be right for you. This could finally turn you into a man.

The man with the guitar pats his friend on the back and takes a drink of his beer, placing it back on an old issue of Cream with David Lee Roth front and center.

MAN WITH HARMONICA

Oh, and I suppose you're way more a man than I am?

MAN WITH GUITAR

No doubt about it

MAN WITH HARMONICA

Fuck you

MAN WITH GUITAR

Well, I take care of what's mine. I'm on my first and only fucking marriage, you better believe that. We're making it work, and I love the little bastard. Most days he's the only thing keeping me from losing my shit. They give you a reason to not be stuck inside your head all the time. Me, me, me, me, fucking me. We're selfish beyond belief before kids. Time to start thinking about someone else for change. It's time to change the fabric of our being or some shit. You know what I mean? It wasn't like your old man or mine ever cared. Take the chance to break the cycle man. Be a good, strong father. It's hard but there's more good than bad, let me tell you that.

MAN WITH HARMONICA (thinks about the words, then shakes his head, not yet ready to hear them)

Let's just play some music

MAN WITH GUITAR

Now you're speaking my language

The man with the guitar starts strumming a G, C, and D chord with a chugging rock-a-billy pattern. The man with the harmonica belts out a blues solo and begins to sing. The two harmonize on a song called "Your True Colours" Upstairs Tommy's parents bedroom door opens with a slam, nearly scaring Tommy's skin right off his body. He can hear his mother throwing up in the bathroom, sick with the flu. And by the sounds of vomit on linoleum, he figures that she didn't make it to the toilet. The music stops, and in an instant the man with the guitar, is opening the blanket door, and spotting his four year old son dressed in long Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pyjamas, and sporting a bed-head cowlick. Tommy is scared, because his father's temper can go nuclear.

DAD

Tommy, what are you doing down here?

TOMMY - shrugs his shoulders timidly

DAD

How long have you been down here?

TOMMY

Not long

DAD

Can you hear everything from here?

Tommy shrugs his shoulders again. As the sounds of his mother crying, and the smell from the vomit comes wafting down the stairs.

DAD

Jesus, that smell is awful. Go to bed, Tommy. Alright? Go to bed and I won't tell your mother that you've been sneaking out of bed.

Dad goes up the stairs first, and gives him the sign that the coast is clear, as Tommy runs and jumps into his bed. He can see his father holding back his mother's hair in the bathroom, as shes leaned over the toilet bowl on her hands and knees.

DAD

Ouff, that's a rough one. Are you okay?

MOM

Does it look like I'm okay? I feel like my insides are on fire. Christ, I think I'm dying.

DAD

Oh, stop. It's just a bug. It's no big deal

MOM

No big deal? Okay, let me give it to you and we'll see if it's no big deal.

DAD

That's not what I meant, and you know it.

Mom turns around and sits with her back against the bathroom vanity. Dad has a towel and he's cleaning up the vomit that missed the toilet.

MOM

This must be attractive? Just like when we we first got together eh?

DAD

Sure, something like that. (he winks)

MOM

You promised to love me in sickness and in health

DAD

And I do. Doesn't mean I think this is you at your most attractive.

Mom lets out a small laugh. Tommy smiles. He's thinking about how he made his friend laugh downstairs when he was feeling bad, and how he's making his mom laugh too. Dad has a bottle of water and he hands it to her, she drinks slowly, while wiping the sweat from her forehead.

MOM

Thanks, Hun. Sorry about yelling at you. But this bug is killing me.

DAD

No problem. I'll sure I'll get it soon enough and we can reverse roles

He smiles at her.

MOM

How's the jamming going?

DAD

What jamming? We've barely played a note.

MOM

Well, you better start playing. You have a show next week.

DAD

True. Gary knocked up Jules

MOM (looking visibly shocked, mouth agape)

What? Get the hell out of here. I thought they were on the outs. Jesus, I even heard that Jules was fooling around

DAD

Ah, who knows. None of our business. I just told him it'll make him a man, like me.

MOM spits out her water and laughs.

MOM

Oh, you're just a prime example of a man aren't you? (she flexes her arms, mockingly kissing her biceps. Tommy laughs from the bedroom)

DAD

I take care of my own. Now come on let's get you to bed.

MOM

My knight in shining Armour

DAD

My damsel in a puke soaked dress

He puts her to bed, closes the door and comes into Tommy's room. He sits on the edge of his bed.

DAD

How long have you been sneaking downstairs to listen in on our conversations?

TOMMY

Not long

DAD

Uh-huh. You know that the conversations adults have after you're in bed aren't always things you should be listening to right?

TOMMY

I know. I just like the music

DAD

You do, eh?

TOMMY

Yeah, I like the Colours one.

DAD (smiling, begins to sing)

Want to go back to the place where the smiles were on our face, just hanging round, till the sun went down. That one?

Tommy (smiling bigger than his father)

Yeah, that one. That could be on the radio

DAD

Maybe someday, kiddo.

Dad gets up, toussles Tommy's hair and begins to walk out, and then he turns around puts his finger to his lips, and reveals a bottle of beer, unopened. He opens it as mist rises from the opening.

DAD

Don't tell your mother

Tommy slides up out of bed with excitement. His father let him have one sip of beer before. The first sip from an open bottle. Tommy takes the bottle in both hands, as his father forms a shield in front of him, spreading his arms out wide. Tommy takes a sip, and grimaces like its a shot of 100 proof hard liquor. His dad takes the bottle back, kisses him on the head and exits.

DAD

Don't tell mom my secret, and I won't tell her yours.

TOMMY

I won't dad

DAD

Love you, kid.

TOMMY

Love you too, dad. Can you leave the door open a crack, I'd like to fall asleep to the music.

DAD

Sure thing, kid.

Dad walks downstairs. Tommy can hear muffled sounds from his father and his friend, but can no longer make out what they're saying. And just as he's about to fall asleep, he hears the guitar and harmonica of Your True Colours playing, and the two friends harmonizing.

Chapter 15 of 16

Chapter 15 of 16

Hunger of the Seraphim

The Ortolan is a French songbird. It must be captured at the perfect time, blinded, forcefully fattened, and drowned in brandy. Those who choose to indulge must do so wholly. Bones, feet, head. All but the beak. The diner must veil their head. Some say it is to savor the aroma. Tradition says it is to hide from the piercing eyes of the savior.

The birds are dead. They do not feel the cracking structures between the teeth of their masters, hollow bones pricking gums and scraping teeth. I will not be as fortunate once I am plucked from this gilded room. I will feel the cracking of my bones. The piercing of my flesh. Ground between molar and canine, my fear-soaked fat will burst through my skin, bringing forth a sinful ecstasy that cycles for eternity. They feast as we feast, maddening further with each bite, insatiable greed for forbidden delicacies.

Saturn devouring his son. Jupiter has better luck than I.

Do they dare shield their eyes from God? Perfect faces free from shame, crafted by the astuteness of divinity. They act in His command. They act outside of it as it suits them.

Truth. Speculation. Pessimism? Prophecy.

They are older, more powerful.

Purgatorio. The fated shall always be.