Oh look, Puppies!
Hard to see the things that used to be so clear.
Where's my keys?
Where's the dog?
Where's my phone?
Where did my body go?
Where's the beef?
My shape has shifted.
Everything that was "up" is "down"!
My body shifted from large to super size without the fries!
From auburn to gray, boohoo.
Oh look, puppies!
What was I saying?
What was I doing?
Where was I going?
Who was I doing it with?
Don't say that!
Don't say this?
Don't give me that look!
Oh look puppies!
Wasted Time
You say that I'm bringing you down.
But you guilt tripped me through three summers.
And you never tell me you love me.
Did everyone know, but me?
Waiting on bad luck,
I'm a hostage who has had enough.
I'm always out of dollar bills.
I bleed out like modern art.
I keep finding all your hair ties in my room.
Every tear drop builds up.
I got all these shattered pieces in my soul.
Spent a lot of nights forgetting who I am.
Accept that life is a beautiful mess.
I go along for the ride; it will be alright.
I've been waiting all my life, yes,
I swear all I wanted was to feel like I did something right.
Song List:
We All Got Friends, AJ Smith
All Night, Luna Blue
What a Shame, STRUAN
Dumpster Fire, Knox
HOSTAGE, Brandon Bales
I Love Myself, People R Ugly
Modern Art, Little Hurt
Cool Kids, Harrison Boe
Sad Sugar, New Friends
Spinach in My Teeth, BIZZY
That’s How I See It
That’s How I See It
Drinking at the canteen
Two stepping in between
Tunes from a Christine
Vocals from a Geraldine
Whirling in my cowboy boots
Twirling past the crapshoots
A pair of blondes, oh very cute
Both work as prostitutes
I love this life
I love this air
Perhaps I’ll start
A love affair
Just now
I saw her there
Up Town
Up Grade
Underdressed and overplayed
Time to care
Time to dare
Asked her name
She replied, “Emma Clair”
She could dance
She could swing
Do-si-do
And even swing
Miss Blair might bump
Miss Blair might grind
Whiskey shots for courage
Set up on her behind
The band played standards
Honoring Hank Williams and Dolly P
Emma eyes were locked on mine
Emma eyes were emerald green
By nine, she was mine
By ten, I was hers
By midnight, I was drunk
By closing time, I was blurred
Maybe it was the Jack speaking
Maybe I heard Jim Beam instead
When the local Parson asked for my “I Do”
That’s when I got newly wed
So two years and two girls
Tons of diapers, tons of curls
They’re my Queens
I’m their Earl
I still crave Emma’s shots
I still covet Emma’s hots
She’s built like an Autobot
And as easy as a chip shot
The band honors Loretta Lynn
The dance floor is getting thin
But we make this bar our own sin
And that’s how I see it
The Time I Pretended To Be A Lion Tamer To Save The President of Niger
"Get out," he barks.
I put my hands up, making a show of trembling as I slip out of the car. The man has two pistols in his belt, a wide mouth, and laugh lines around his eyes. Of course that doesn't mean he won't kill me: he'll just grin from ear to ear as he does it.
It does strange things to the brain, this heady atmosphere of rebellion. It has been only two days since the military has killed hundreds and sapped the government of all pretensions of democracy, yet one would think the circus had just come to town.
"Get on your knees," the soldier spits.
This is the way I had imagined this would go, but I would be lying if I said my heartbeat wasn't up a few notches anyway. Extra calories burned I guess.
He yells in a language I can hardly understand (Hausa) and then suddenly a blindfold is placed over my eyes. Now I am really trembling. But I breathe methodically: they won't kill me, not yet. Or will they? For a moment, Hugo's plan seems almost laughable.
I hear the sound of an engine and then a car speeding away, and finally, it comes; a hard kick to the ribs which sends me flying.
Yet, for some reason, it doesn't hurt. Nothing does, although I can feel blood trickling from my temple.
Perhaps it is the shock, but more likely it is the pills Hugo had made me swallow five minutes beforehand; even more likely it's the fact he had told me this exact thing would happen, and that it would be a sign I was getting through the gates. In any case, I am no longer afraid. Instead, I am filled with a heady drunken elation that this crazy plan is actually working.
...
Let me explain. We are in Niger: Niamey, Niger, to be exact. If you don't know much about Niger, then you're halfway to knowing all there is to know, for its resources and development are about as deep as a puddle, apart from the considerable stores of gold just north of us, that is.
You see, Niger is the second poorest country in the world, and its only real city, Niamey, is a boiling hot eyesore just on the southern tip of the Sahara. The country is comprised of a mixture of peoples, all of whom jockey for control and cessation, defying the Western pressure to become a melting pot, opting for varying bloody slices of the pie instead.
Niger became Muslim long ago, but just now it is becoming Islamic, with ISIL - the African brand of ISIS - on the loose, rampaging where it will, and how it will. This entails leaving plenty of bodiless skulls littering the desert's edge, poorly worded Shahadas still lingering in the air behind them.
I've learned the Shahada well, by the way. I won't be caught with my pants down, especially since I'm blonde-haired and blue-eyed and probably look good in front of a jihadi camera. There are worse things than pretending to be Muslim for a day, given I am agnostic at best.
But that is neither here nor there: because the military junta, despite having deep Islamic pretensions, has not a speck of common cause with the ragtag terrorists who've again and again managed to lop off their personnel's heads ( incidentally, sending the rest of the soldiers running back to daddy, tails between their legs).
And of course, the Islamists would like nothing more than to step in and overthrow the overthrowers (I don't think that's even a word), but as Hugo instructed me last night, let's tame one lion at a time, so excuse me before my brain explodes trying to decipher exactly what on God's good earth is going on here. Hugo is much better at that. He has the master plan. And so naturally, he has sent me here like a lab rat, seeing if I can't sniff out the solution he's already prearranged.
Pity if I don't: I'll likely have my head blown off.
Title: The Time I Pretended To Be a Loin Tamer To Save The President of Niger
Genre: Action/Adventure/Intl
Age Range: 18-60
Word Count: 60,000
Author Name: Anna Kratki
Why Project Is a Good Fit: snappy, irreverent humor, upmarket plot construction, 'learning without learning' about current events in an obscure yet important region (Sahel)
The Hook: Manon thinks she's just being sent on another hum-drum mission to the land of her roots (The Sahara), to save another deposed president - but little does she know that she's unwittingly stepped into the middle of something much much bigger, and now she's gone from hook to bait.
Synopsis: Manon comes hot off of a job in Syria, down to Niger, where there's just been a military coup. She's supposed to infiltrate the deposed president's palace (where he's being held under house arrest), pretending to be a lion specialist in order to help the military sell of the large game the president had acquired. Everything is going according to plan, but when Manon finally gains access to the president, he refuses to go with her, and she is caught. After another failed escape attempt, she, another African captive girl, and the president's wife are given to ISIL (ISIS in Sahel region) in some sort of goodwill deal between the two warring factions. To make matters worse, Manon's recent bloody history in Syria is about to catch up with her, and to make matters more complicated, she's grown attached to the captive girl and begins to see her mission change - will she be able to outsmart ISIL, save the girl and the president's wife, and help restore Niger to order? Probably not, but she'll die trying.
Target Audience: Generation X, Y, and Z interested in foreign affairs.
Bio: I am a small business owner in Croatia who used to work at CURE Children's Hospital in Niamey, Niger, as a writer and photographer.
Platform: None
Education: Cornell University, BA Near Eastern Studies, 2012
Experience: A few years in West Africa, A Few Years teaching in the Middle East, living and writing all over the world.
Personality/Writing Style: I try to keep it fast-paced, and three parts salty one part soulful.
Likes/Hobbies: Ultra trail running - up more than down. Cooking. Photography (a lot).
Hometown: Ithaca, NY
Prose is Where the Heart is
I hit my peak. I hit my peak of trauma and pain. My mind was overflowing with thought, while my sadness was eating away at my heart. I was fighting the feelings of grief, an overwhelming amount of grief. Between 2018 and 2020 I lost my father-in-law to suicide, my best friend since childhood to addiction, my grandmother to sickness and my mother to an accidental overdose. Death is hard enough to deal with, but when you consider the reason behind a person’s death, certain reasons will make grief even more complicated.
I was suffering to say the least. I had so much that I needed to put into words, but talking wasn’t enough. To me, talking was the equivalent to water dripping from a faucet. I was able to get some thoughts and words out little by little. However, it wasn’t enough! I needed those thoughts and words to come out the way water uncontrollably flows over a waterfall. I was drowning because I couldn’t express myself. I needed a little direction, in order to get those words from my mind, to my fingers. My thoughts were everywhere and I didn’t know where to start.
Accidentally I came across Prose on Google.com. I was struggling to sleep and I needed an outlet. I needed a prompt. I needed to write. Searching the internet for prompts at three o’ clock in the morning, I came across this website and eagerly I created an account. I read through such beautiful pieces, some filled with pain that I understood. Quickly I knew that I was in the right place.
After reading such honest works amongst fictional posts, I felt safe and I opened up the floodgates. I scanned the challenges and found one I loved. For the first time in a long time, these writers who have no idea who I am nor do I know who they are, made me feel like I belonged.
It’s almost one year since I found this community, my community. Within this time on Prose, my mind isn’t drowning and I began to reconstruct my heart. Writing truly heals and having the opportunity to be apart of prose, has saved me in more ways than one. A community of writers is a special group of people. To truly understand the depth of healing we provide for each other, is something I wish everyone could experience. Prose is a place where my sadness wanders and my anxiety disappears, allowing love and peace to take the forefront. It’s a place where my mind and my heart pulls my authentic self out, so proudly.
Publishing Craft Beeeeeerrrr :)
The first excerpt shared below is the first piece of writing I professionally published. I could finally call myself a writer and author. It was the best feeling ever. I went on to write a regular column in Virginia Craft Beer Magazine, and I published several articles with them. The second excerpt is from my most technical writing piece, and the last excerpt is part of my favorite opinion feature. I was born to write, but I pay the bills by brewing craft beer. I haven't shared that on Prose before today! Publishing articles about my day job gave me the confidence to start writing about everything, and Prose gave me the place to do it. Thanks for that :)
"An American Girl in Bavaria"
Being a woman in the professional brewing industry isn’t for every elegant lady, but for the past five years, I’ve dedicated my life to craft beer. From the beginning, I joined Pink Boots Society to link up with fun loving, beer making girls like myself. Pink Boots is an organization for women in the beer industry, and their main goal is to help women advance their careers through education. They offer a ton of amazing scholarships throughout the year. As I was perusing the Pink Boots website this summer, one of the scholarships jumped out at me. It was a trip to Germany for ten days to visit breweries and hop farms, and learn about German brewing traditions. I have a passion for traditional brewing, so I applied immediately. A couple of weeks later, I got the news that I was chosen for the scholarship along with six other professional beer ladies. It was off to Bavaria for us, and Germany did not disappoint.
https://virginiacraftbeer.com/an-american-girl-in-bavaria/
"Digging Into the IPA Hops"
The history of IPA is common knowledge nowadays. Centuries ago, British brewers realized that hops have a preservative quality, protecting beer from contaminates and bacteria. Romantic folklore claims that beer was safer to drink than water. On the long road to India, brewers packed beer with hops to endure the long journeys. IPA=India Pale Ale. It’s important to acknowledge this history lesson, but the story doesn’t end there. IPAs are constantly evolving. One thing remains constant though. IPAs have lots of hops.
https://virginiacraftbeer.com/digging-into-the-ipa-hops/
"So You Wanna Be a Brewer?"
Unfortunately for all brewers, regardless of their gender identity or zodiac sign, no one ever asks what we actually do at work all day. People think the job is cool, but they have no idea what a glorious shit-show it really is. Try asking me how I spend 8+ hours a day in a haunted warehouse full of stainless steel tanks and brewery hoses. How many spray nozzles and gaskets have I replaced in my life? How do I identify the faint sound of a faulty CO2 connection, and what do I do when every pallet is broken or a stupid size? Why doesn’t anyone manufacture a good squeegee? How often does the production schedule change, and how many colors of dry erase markers do you need to brew quality beer? What’s the best music for canning days, and how long does it take to fold 500-case trays? Do I love my forklift more than my best friend?
https://virginiacraftbeer.com/so-you-wanna-be-a-brewer/
Grapefruit Honeymoon
The window above our bed is open, and there is a hot and salty breeze. Or is it his breath? I open my eyes, brushing the wet ends of my hair out of my face. He is beside me, on top of the covers, and I am underneath the covers and underneath his arms and one of his legs. The top half of his face is warmed by the peeking red glow of the Everglades sun. He looks for all the world like a child— save for the stubble around his gaping, snoring mouth. We were married yesterday evening, an autumn chapel wedding in Florida with family and a few close friends. I am now a wife.
I am 18 years old. I slap a mosquito bite on my arm, then one on my thigh, then one on my chin, then I sit up in bed and shut the window. I feel both matronly and very young, kneeling in my long pink gingham nightgown. He wears just his gray cotton boxers and looks naked and smells like sweat. He is also 18. I want to sit and look at him for a while because he is now my husband, and this is my first morning having a husband ever in my life. And he still is so handsome to me, even today, even drooling on my hair and on our pillow. But he smells like sweat, I smell like his sweat, the room smells like his sweat, and I decide that I will watch him sleep some other time. I want to bathe. I need to make breakfast. And as soon as he wakes I still need to air out the sheets, which will never air out in the sultry Florida air. A fresh new mosquito bite stings on my lip and then on the soft back of my hand.
We are staying for our honeymoon in my great aunt’s farmhouse, and I have only been here once before. The master bathroom has a great big window with no curtains or blinds. I won’t change in here. I will change my clothes in the closet after I make breakfast and then bathe. I splash water on my face and brush my teeth with the toothbrush we share as of last night, since he forgot to pack his. It is the pink toothbrush I brought from the pack in my bathroom at home, my parents’ home. My brother has the purple toothbrush and my sister got the green one. I can taste my husband’s breath. I spit the sparkly blue toothpaste and rinse it down the sink.
The sound of the running water wakes him up, and he calls, “Good morning, sunshine!” My heart flutters like a bird. Through the doorway, he is sitting up and grinning. The sunlight is changing from red to yellow. Hopping back to the bed, I hug my arms to my chest. He wraps me up in his strong arms, kisses my forehead and I laugh. My voice sounds like a little girl. We say nothing else and just sit on the bed. I am so very hungry and have not eaten since before the ceremony because of the butterflies in my stomach. On cue, I hear his stomach growl. My ear is on his chest and I don’t know if I should make a joke or not, and the moment passes, so I don’t. Through the window I see the grapefruit tree and the chickens. I will have to collect the eggs and squeeze the bitter juice for his breakfast. But for now, I close my eyes, listen, and wonder how many of his heartbeats I will have the privilege to hear in this lifetime.
