We lied to each other as we lay together.

He lied and said he’d done this before, but in all fairness, so did I.

I lied and said I loved him, perhaps I believed it, but that didn’t make it so.

He lied and said he’d love me forever, but I harbor no grudge;

                                                                Forever was never what I wanted.

I lied and sighed “that was amazing”--I didn’t know better

                                                                but I knew enough to know it wasn’t so.

He lied as I looked into his eyes, deep pools of cosmic intensity that wrapped me up and transported me to a place where our lovers lies were the only truth.

Sweet, subtle lies of fading youth. 

It’s Friday! And we all know that that means we get to find out about another Proser. This week we shine a light on a younger member of the Prose community, a sixteen year old young lady from a small town of big dreams; one where she dreams to be acknowledged as a writer. We are getting to know a little more about @AMY this week. Yay!

P: What is your given name and your Proser username?

A: Aqsa is my given name while my prose name is AMY. It's a short form of my full name, Aqsa Muhammad Younus.

P: Where do you live?

A: I'm from Pakistan. (No I'm not a terrorist haha)

P: What is your occupation?

A: I'm currently in grade 11, studying O levels in a Cambridge school.

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?

A: For me writing plays the most important role in my life, I guess? I've always found it hard to express my feelings and keeping everything bottled up inside became frustrating. So when was in grade 5, I just took a pen and my diary and began scribbling poems and quotes. They were my break from the 'dreaded' reality of life because I knew that those pages were my world and I could create anything I want.

Those monochrome sentences might look dull to some but for me they were my emotions and my fantasy. Somewhere far far away from the burdens of being the eldest one at home. Of course, in the start they were funny and childish with strange rhymes but then slowly I began learning more about how to write poems and all. Now my scribblings are comparatively way mature than before.

P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?

A: I was six when my mother took me to this bookstore (I have no idea of the name) It was not that huge and had an antique tinge to it (as if it was a store from Harry Potter) but God, it was filled with so many books! There I felt a strange surge of fascination. From that store my mother bought me a fairy tale book and she or my father used to read one story to me everyday. Soon I began to read it all by myself. It was my prized possession back then (I still have it with me)

P: People have often compared me to Matilda for some reason. (I have no idea why)

A: I've always been addicted to books. Like writing, they are a break from reality for me. Most of the time at homd my nose was buried in books that my mom scolded me time and again to give my eyes a little rest. Whenever my dad asked me want I wanted for my birthday they were mostly books from Oxford publishers (I don't know but for some reason I liked the books from that particular bookstore) and now I get a feeling I have more books than I have clothes.

Now I don't buy books thanks to technology I read them on my phone online.

Maybe that bookstore was magical after all.

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?

A: Expect the unexpected. Everything depends on my mood, from my reading to my writing. One minute you see me reading R.L Stines books like haunted and the hitchhiker, the next minute you'd see me crying over the ending of Wuthering Heights. Even my writing, one minute it's all romance, hearts and flowers the next minute, my words would be dark and enigmatic.

P: What do you love about TheProse.com?

A: Everything! This place is great. I got to meet more qualified writers and learned many things from them. Those challenges are great way to provoke poetry and prose too. I can share my thoughts and scribblings with ease. When I came across this page I was like 'Finally! My writings won't end up staying in my diary forever.'

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?

A: One? That's so hard to choose from many amazing books I've read so far. I think I'm currently a fan of Sylvain Reynard's "Gabriel's infernos." You should try it if your favourite genre is dark sensual romance.

P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?

A: I never thought about that.. Maybe those people of Syria and Palestine who struggle to protect their families but are not given honour and respect they deserve? The honour for the pain they are going through and the difficulties they are facing. They keep on giving hope to their families that good times would soon come but are eventually butchered in cold blood? I keep on writing about the horror of Syria and Palestine. Maybe, I don't know...

P: Describe yourself in three words!

A: Moody, curious, adventurous

P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?

A: "I became insane after long intervals of horrible sanity." -E.A. Poe (He's my idol tho)

P: Favourite music to write and/or read to?

A: That depends on the genre I'm reading or writing to.

P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?

A: No books? Okay, that's a nightmare. I thought about it for a really long time but I can't possibly think of a future with no books! I mean, as long as people want to be educated and 'rich' we'll have school books. As long as we have thinkers, daydreamers, escapists. We'll never run out of books.

P: Do you have a local Indie Bookstore we could approach for our ongoing feature?

A: Nope. I live a place away from the main city centre so I'm not sure if I know any.

P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you/your work/social media accounts?

A: I'm from a family where I'm the part of the second generation who is being educated properly (the first being my parents) English is not my first language or anything but I've always preferred reading and writing in English. I've currently written a short romance novel I recently published on Amazon Kindle with the name "Yours Truly." (It was my first attempt to write a book I don't know whether it is actually good enough to be considered as a book ahahah) and I'm working on another modern romance novel "His desire, His revenge." And yeah, that's probably it. You can find me on Instagram as Aksa.8 for more of my scribblings and other random stuff and updates. :)

What a great insight into the life and times of this lovely and promising Proser. If you have yet to do so, please follow and interact with her. If you yourself want to feature, or would like to nominate anyone, do please get in touch. We have a few in the queue, but we always welcome more of you to it!

This is love and it cuts to the bone.

The blood around my heart crystalized 

and let nothing through,

creating a perfect stone,

but now it is time to split it open,

and shape it,

until,

everything,

is changed.

Smile and laugh, but the flash of your teeth grinds me away

like sand at jade.

I've known you for lifetimes.

We were Pharaohs and Kings

Servants and Slaves,

You've kissed my dirty forehead

With sun-stained lips

Exclaiming, Tecum vivere amem, tecum obeam libens

We were Inventors,

Hungry and feverish.

We helped to create this

And we will surely watch it change

Colors like quiet laughing.

"We were Artists," you say,

"And Actors," I say.

And you smile like the movies,

But not like the movies

At all.

We have gone out kicking and screaming,

Stoic and silent.

We have lain in ashes

Inhaling each other and

Sending wishes to the wind:

I hope she reveals herself to me.

I hope we recognize our love.

I hope I find him. 

But my heart is a boomerang,

It always comes back to you.

Is the rush I feel in my wound-licked soul

the holy spirit or just abused, rusty

fans behind the pews, working overtime to keep

cool amid summer heat, derived

from impending fire and brimstone?

I squirm. 

The pastor holds up a bible 

and says, HE is joining us

HE is here, manifest.

Repent, and raise those hands!

The emperor with no clothes felt

more clothed than me right then,

the roof removed from my sin-riddled

self, marred and twisted by judgment

casket blown open, a seal broken

standing face to face

with God

or a rusty fan. 

I knew you,

River, you were

a kinder thing -

      what sunless wild tore

      your tongue into

      this spitting froth -

      knotted with your heart,

      what swallowed stone

      made home now 

      grates to frantic grit

the song that

held me gently

once?

Possibility.

One word, a fragment of a thought, that manages to carry hope.

And I guess the problem with it is that it, even with its inherent fragility, bears a lot of responsibility at the same time.

I think that's the beauty of it, too.

Whatever you want in this world, you can have it. 

See? That's the hope, the optimism.

But the catch is the can.

Because you have to have the will to execute.

Realize it - that's the responsibility, the charge.

It's a balance.

Between your passion, the driving force, and chance you won't be strong enough.

Possibility's a fight.

But I like to think of it as the good fight, this thought of mine.

The only one worth joining in.

From the favelas 

of Rio to the 

empty stadia 

is already odd,

an Olympic stretch

of reality making 

civilisation's

defining moments

seem shallow fraud. 

Unreal, surreal,

a pedant's sigh,

a Monk's tale,

superilluminated

in shaded cloisters

for the literati

drinking 12 ounces tall

with sugared jellies

in coffee shops that

are rather lax about

third world issues

and paying tax. 

Thin gruel for

the starving

who save their

'first looks' and

reviews for 

empty bellies. 

Meanwhile the

'first world',

and, who can tell,

perhaps the last,

throws out food

and plays with fasts,

imagining itself

witty and engaging

while contenting itself

with navel gazing

and wittering on

about suffering and God. 

On the back streets

the thin faces 

would trade 

civilised conversation

and sport

for food and love

in those forgotten places

where reality

is written in 

mud and blood. 

you wait for joy like

the moon's gray spots

to fill; galaxies overflow and

spill, child, blossomed

from that dust.