I’ll close the door to your bedroom

and turn the hall light off

I’ll keep down the volume

I’ll put your clothes in the wash

I won’t leave a note

it would smell like my perfume

I’ll leave my side of the bed cold

I’ll take my toothbrush from the sink in the bathroom

I’ll take my clothes from the closet

I’ll scribble out my name in your journal

put the tear-soaked tissues in my pocket

and burn all my letters, my words aren’t eternal

I’ll return your lighter

and wipe off my fingerprints off the counter

sear with every fibre

of my body - I’m out of power

I’ll find my scrunchie behind your bed

and wear it out on my wrist

let me join the dead

pretend we didn’t exist

I’ll tie my shoes outside

I’ll leave quickly this time

First breath, dawn's embrace,

Amidst city hum and glow,

A new story starts

Youth, a fervent blaze,

Chasing dreams down city streets,

Stars in fleeting days.

Love, deep and profound,

Whispers shared in candlelight,

Time's embrace grows tight.

Years blur, memories fade,

Yet the heart remembers beats,

Echoes of past flames.

As dusk looms nearer,

In the dance of love and loss,

Soul seeks the cosmos.

To begin, understand that things are always looking up when you’re flat on your back.

So it was with Paul Sewell. Born Rufus Paul Sewell to Rufus Gene and Margaret Browning Sewell, Paul was an oddball from the beginning. His was a veiled birth, en caul. This occurs when the baby is born still inside the amniotic sac. New England grandmothers called it a mermaid birth. The old tribes of the Pacific Northwest referred to it as Two Births, one from the mother and then the subsequent exit from the gestational casing. Rufus Gene, Paul’s father, called it Paul’s Egg and was fascinated by the phenomenon. Margaret was shocked and, though she would never say it, a bit scared of what to her looked like an alien being that had just emerged from her birth canal. She was quick to overcome those feelings once her 7lb 7oz. boy was fully hatched.

‘He looks like my father,’ she lied. He didn’t look like Rufus Gene, Margaret, her father, or any of the other fathers in the family. Rufus Paul Sewell looked like his grandmother, Stella Rowe Browning. It was maternal instinct in Margaret to say her freshly birthed son looked anything or anyone else than her mother. If the boy looked like her, it meant he could very well be like her, and though the heavens fall, Margaret was determined to have none of that.

As often happens when parental expectation is met with reality’s exceptional irony, Paul was exactly like his grandmother - a woman he’d never met and knew little about. Of course the question is: How does one not know about their grandmother? Wouldn’t any child ask about their conspicuously absent grandparent? The answer of course is of course. Rufus Gene and Margaret circumvented the truth via one fantastical tale they regaled young Rufus Paul with wherein his grandmother, Sarah Rowe Browning, died under the most tragic albeit heroic circumstances.

‘She had a heart of gold. 14 karats!,’ Rufus Gene would say, usually with hands clasped behind his back with all manner of piety. As it was told to Rufus Paul, his great, some would say mythically pure of soul grandmother had fallen onto the Amtrak rails at the New Orleans station years ago. Adding a bittersweet note to the family fiction, Rufus Gene and Margaret would always add that Sarah had simply lost her balance while in the process of standing up from a moment of prayer for the passengers - an every-Wednesday routine she adhered to with monasterial devotion.

In an effort to weave the fantasy as tightly as possible, the Sewells had the presence of mind to pay a local theater actress a handsome sum of $100 to pose for a black and white photo, dressed historically appropriate and a finishing touch of the most righteous, upward gazing pose that would rival that of St. Francis. Rufus Gene, ever the detail-obsessed individual that was his father and his father’s father and so on, went so far as to antique the photo, browning its edges and giving it an aged look that would be indiscernible to anyone less than an expert in antique photography.

The truth was that Stella Rowe was hardly different than you or me. As a young woman she’d been the kind of beautiful that terrible poetry is usually reserved for. As an older woman, she’d become the kind of beautiful that’s almost impossible to describe without diminishing its perfection. What caused her daughter, and only child, our Margaret Sewell to recoil at any mention of her own mother was the nature of her mother’s unnatural beauty. As opposed to some skin care regimen ripped from the ads of a magazine, Stella Rowe was simply a product of what she was. A grim reaper.

For those skeptical or otherwise put off by that last sentence, I’d ask only that you grant me the smallest grace to explain. Since time immemorial, human beings have confronted death by assigning it the confines of what can be comprehended. The cloaked skeleton holding a scythe and looking as inhospitable as possible has long served as the de facto representation of our collective mutual friend: death. Perhaps the reason for this is because to imagine death as anything other than repulsive - frightening - is to attribute to it a kind of familiarity that hits much too close to home. It’s the same reason we rarely see depictions of the Devil himself as an everyday man, frumpy and with crooked glasses. Instead, it’s the flaming eyes, pitchfork, and all the other things that keep him at a safe distance.

It’s the assumption of your narrator that you’ll be pleased or at the very least surprised that Death is in fact not given to macabre fashion, nor do they accessorize with archaic farm tools or any tools for that matter. I say they not to convey mystique but rather to illustrate my next point. There are many Deaths. When I say many I mean hundreds of thousands. Much like a plumber, airline pilot, schoolteacher, or any other occupation, Death is a job to be performed by only the most competent and diligent kind of employee. Before we move on, it’s important to relay a few items regarding terminology.

We’ve already established that the tired notion of Grim Reaper is as inaccurate as it is insulting. Having been about the terminal business for hundreds of thousands of years, those who work in the employ of the Almighty for the purpose of transporting the living to the Other Side are known as Sparkles. I kid, although such a nom de guerre might go a long way in allaying the unreasonable terror in even thinking about Death. No, Death Dealers refer to each other as Porters. See? Nothing ominous. Of course that’s not their technical name as that particular term is impossible to type or write or even say in any kind of human language. Add to that the fact that it would take well over a hundred years to even manifest the word, and you’ll see that Porters will suffice.

Next up in the makeshift glossary here concerns the actual individuals themselves who eventually succumb to the inevitable. No, they are not victims or husks or whatever other nonsense you may have heard. The customers, if you will, are referred to as Keys. If it seems uninspired or unoriginal, bear in mind that doling out the terminal is a serious business and while you might be brewing up dozens of much more clever, literary designations for these roles, the fact remains that there are two beings involved here: Porters and Keys

It probably would’ve been much more beneficial to start off with a FAQ since, as you and everyone you know will discover, the journey from here to there is, without exception, filled with questions. Regardless of who or what time in history or what cultural origins, everyone asks at least the same dozen or so questions. To wit:

How do you get this job?

There are two types of Porters. There are the Made Porters and the Told Porters. Made Porters are the oldest variety. These are made as in the original angels of death. They are often ill-tempered and given to fits of impudence especially concerning their Told counterparts. Made Porters have no knowledge of human experience in that they’ve never been human. Theirs is a divine assignment. The youngest of them is thousands of years old, and the oldest predates the Earth itself. More on her later, though. So, Made Porters are born with the job. Think of it in terms of ancient royalty or a culture where marriages are arranged. Once brought into existence, the Made Porters know their task and accept it as you would an appendage. It is what it is.

Alright. What about Told Porters?

Many years ago when the world was one land mass, Pangea, the business of Death was fairly straightforward and the number of Porters necessary to meet the demand was sufficient. As the land and, subsequently, people began migrating and procreating in tandem at exponential rates, the situation became untenable. At this point, those in upper management, if you will, saw fit to solve what they saw as two problems. For them, the solution was to assign the Made Porters to various regions of the ever expanding population and, in the process, carefully select individuals from the people themselves to undertake (forgive the pun) the demanding day-to-day tasks. In short, Told Porters are born human to human parents. They exist with hopes, dreams, fears, and grief like any of us.

So how are Told Porters chosen?

A hotly debated topic in the Porter world, the rationale behind how Told Porters are chosen is not easily discernible. For all that is nebulous in the process, however, the one common factor among all of them is none are chosen past the age of 13. That is, Told Porters are recruited very early in life and, with very few exceptions, have no living parents to speak of. Again, there have been a handful of exceptions to this unwritten rule. More on them later.

What about Heaven and Hell?

Ah yes. Perhaps this should have been the first question in this makeshift FAQ section. As much as it pains me to disappoint and offer no definitive answer regarding what happens when you die, let’s say the Porter knows precisely what happens between your death and the next step, but after that is off limits. The Porter considers themselves as somewhat of a cabbie or an airline pilot. They don’t help you off the plane, carry your luggage, and accompany you to the destination. They fly the plane, and you get off. From there, well, that’s the business of you and your respective associates.

Why is death necessary?

Why is anything necessary? Because nature demands it. Because death, perhaps more than anything else, is the binding element of human existence over which we have no control save but for what we choose to do in the meantime.

What do the Porters do when they’re not…porting?

Everyday things like anyone else. They buy groceries. They vacation (though not often and the destinations are limited).

Where do they live or stay?

Now this is one tidbit that’s rather exclusive to the Porters in terms of their occupation. Due to the nature of their tasks, Porters are required to live together in their respective, assigned areas. These areas are called districts. Yes, I know. Not terribly unique but, again, originality is not the prime directive when you’re in the oldest business in the history of the world. Some of the Porters who are more inclined to embrace the more macabre nature of their roles will often refer to their areas as dens. It’s an unfortunate kind of nomenclature but it’s stuck regardless.

How many dens are there?

At last count there were 1,114,286 districts. One for every 7000 people (including themselves). And, on a related note, each district is assigned no more than 10 and no less than 5 Porters. If you’re keeping score, that’s 5-10 Porters per every 7000 living persons. It is a thankless job to be sure, and it is difficult to overstate the time and effort it demands.

What do the Rufuses and the grandmother, etc. have to do with all this?

Back to that, actually...

TITLE: The Porter

GENRE: Literary Fantasy

AGE RANGE: 15-95

WORD COUNT: 93k

AUTHOR: Jonathan Dick

WHY IT'S A GOOD FIT: Because no one is writing about death from Death's perspective, and it's high time the Grim Reaper got a chance to tell their story.

THE HOOK: The family that slays together, stays together.

SYNOPSIS: After the sudden death of both his parents, Paul Sewell is adopted by his long lost (and thought dead) grandmother, Stella. A regular grandparent in every other way, Stella is a Death Dealer, Grim Reaper, Child of Charon, etc. She takes it upon herself to raise her grandson in a way you'd expect anyone in that line of work to do.

TARGET AUDIENCE: Anyone familiar with death.

BIO: Winner of the Thomas H. Brown Nonfiction Award, Jonathan Dick has written for Rolling Stone, NPR, Salon, and several other publications in addition to his work as a communications strategist and content creator in the private sector. He lives in the foothills of the Appalachians in Alabama.

EDUCATION: BA in English | MA in English/Creative Writing | MS in Education

EXPERIENCE/PERSONALITY: I was adopted as an infant and raised in a Fundamentalist Christian cult. When I was 15, my biological mother told me that my biological father was a Jewish man from New York City who'd committed suicide. When I was 25, she said my biological father was actually an African-American man who lived in Atlanta. When I was 35, the DNA results told me that my biological father was a regular guy who lived in North Georgia and who also happened to be 14 at the time of my conception. My biological mother at that time was 23, married, and had a 3-month-old. My first memory was attending the funeral of my grandmother and having my picture taken while sitting on the edge of her casket. I was assigned my first pallbearing gig at 10 and have been asked to perform that duty over 20 times since then. As a direct result of these and many other experiences, my personality leans toward dark humor, and by "leans" I mean "nosedives into with reckless abandon."

WRITING STYLE: If Faulkner had a secret illegitimate child with a Harlequin novelist who then raised that child on a steady diet of trauma coupled with mandatory weekly library visits and a daily double helping of the King James Bible in a backwoods Alabama setting, I'd probably be that child's friend and would do my level best to mimic their writing style.

HOBBIES/LIKES: I restore antique clocks, and I like to wrestle with Zeus, my German Shepherd/Wildebeest mix.

HOMETOWN: Birmingham, Alabama (originally)

AGE: 41

I listened in peace,

To muffled whispers of dreams.

I was with her then.

I detached, dreamless,

In her palm, I rest my head,

With her, I am still.

I grow to her size,

My thoughts, hers, in parallel,

I grow to her age,

I miss her more now

More than imaginable,

More than she could dream.

I listen with love now,

I rest my head on soft, cold pillow,

Now, I am still.

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

What does dating a mortician, roadkill shoutouts, Shakespeare, tons of talent new to the site and our resident legends, a bad haircut, and over the counter flu meds have in common? The answer needs to be, "Nothing," but in today's video, each of those elements, and a few more, collide into each haiku in our last Challenge of the Week being read, after introducing the new Challenge of the Month, with a bit of pizzazz on this one.

Here's that link.

https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14207

And here's the link to the video on The Prose. Channel. I know for sure I dropped or misread a few words or usernames, but show mercy, if you would. I'll tag some of the writers in the comments, and a few writers new to Prose.

And, to them, from us: Big family home here. Pick a room, and walk downstairs for the feast, whenever you feel like it. Welcome home.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-FIElCwRN3Y

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

The semi-amassed are half-assed

They can only walk half-fast

You believe they pass you by

But their strides are not that high

Much amiss is aimless

And no one's name is stainless

Them, who catch you at your worst

You'll have to deal with first

But fret not those who feel, to advance

Need only look at you askance

When, what you see, you know is true

Ask self-righteously, "Who the fuck are you?"

My dad used to take me to an Italian restaurant every Saturday.

Our routine was always the same. He would be tired from work, but he'd still wake me up early. He'd let me dress in whatever I liked, whether it be my worn out Princess Jasmine costume and slippers, or the atrocious acid yellow-green gecko shirt he bought especially for me. We'd be off for the day soon after that.

Back then my hair was long and curly, blond locks wisping around me. I was small, barely even at his knee height. My hands were enveloped in his.

We always went to go get our food first. We ate at a small, local restaurant. He'd always buy me pasta with cream sauce. I was a slow eater back then, who took big bites but never chewed or swallowed, but he didn't mind at all. We'd chat and spend our time together, and on my way out the host would place a small sweet in my hands.

He'd take my hand when we left, and he'd start to guide me home. We'd pass by clothing and shoe stores on our way, and with my puppy eyes I was able to beg him into buying me another pair of something I had too much of. When we'd leave the store, I'd look back with wide eyes and whisper to him that something was staring at me strangely.

It was always a red car. A red car with squinted headlights and a grill that grinned with such ferocity. At my height I could barely see past the face that grimaced in such a way, it scared me. When he looked over, he saw what I saw. He leaned into me to whisper.

"Doesn't it look fierce?"

I always nodded to that. He'd pretend to be scared with me, we talked about how it could follow us. When I got too scared I'd tug on his hand, pulling my arm and telling him we'd have to run, or we'd be eaten by the little red machine. I was first to sprint ahead, going as fast as my little legs could take me. He was always on beat with me, matching my pace and holding my hand.

After this I was less scared of the expressions on cars, but I never told him that. I'd always tug my arm anyways and tell him to run with me. With him I didn't feel scared. I kept this up for the next few Saturday's we went out. Sometimes I did it more than once, just for the thrill of running away with him.

One day he was more tired than usual. I pulled my hand away and he let go. I ran as far as my little legs could take me, but he wasn't there. When I looked back, he was still standing there. The red car was still there too.

After that I didn't run away anymore. That was one of the last times we did those outings when I was young.

From time to time we go out nowadays. I don't eat as slow anymore, but I don't like pasta. We go to new places, but I still beg to go into the different stores. We walk side by side with each other, in taller shoes I match his height. My hands are just as big as his now.

I don't pretend to be scared in front of him anymore. I don't run away, or fear how big the world feels around me.

Despite this, every time we go out, I always keep an eye on the roads.

I always make sure to look out for the little red car.

The truth is that I am lonely. Watching and waiting, always waiting for the person who will deeply and fervently know me. Passersby lend their attention and admirers lend their hours, but rarely do they borrow the weight I carry. The truth is that my creation and reason for existence was not to be known or admired. I was painted to life by a feeling and an idea or two. There is only one person who will ever be familiar with every brushstroke and intention, and the truth is that I am their effort to be known, too.

A blonde hair girl in a field full of wishes, chasing butterflies and smiling at the sun.

Stopping only for a second, to pick the biggest one.

Shutting her eyes tight, she takes her deepest breath and blows.

Bracts floating through the air, towards the sky, off she goes.

Running and laughing, on another hunt.

Stopping every few seconds, on the search for the perfect one.

Her smile is so big, and her laugh is so sweet.

Oh, to be like her and see the magic in a yard full of weeds.

Dancing in front of a mirror to a song only she can hear.

Swaying at a slow rhythm, paying no mind to anyone who may be near.

Dressed in a tutu with leopard print tights, upon her head a pink bow.

She moves with grace like a prima ballerina performing a grand show.

Her beaded necklace sparkles under the ceiling light like the ocean under the sun.

Oh, to be like her and have the courage to dance to the beat of her own drum.

A blonde hair girl,

without a care in the world.

Wishing on weeds,

dancing to a different beat.

Oh, to be like her, so magical and sweet.

To be like her and live life like a dream.

And so he told her a story

A story of a scared little boy

A fearful man who

Jumped through fires

Laughed with the crashing of the sea

But dropped his head

And looked down at the ground

That had no answers

To the girl with short legs

And kind strong eyes

And he couldn't laugh out loud

Or jump too high

Because the defeat in his soul

Was too strong

And the addiction was too hungry to rest

His hands shook

No stillness to hold her little hands

And so she told him a story

A story of a brave little girl

A hesitant woman

Who danced in the rain

And cried with the howls of the wind

But carried too much

When the stones were heavier

And stomped when the rain puddled

Her skin so dry

She started to become dust from the pushes of the wind

Because her heart was too full

With his blood

That it bled when he bled

And the stones piled as she dropped them unexpectedly

Up high

So high that he couldn't see her short legs

So high that she couldn't see his smile

And the stones were told a story

A story of a boy, a man who could hear

A cry with the howls of the wind

But droplets of blood dampening dust

A story of a girl, a woman who could hear laughter

With the crashes of the sea

But the shaking of the hands as the fire burned out

And the stones may one day tell a story

Of a dark tower built with fear and silence

To the ashened, growing earth

Of how faith and sound brought it

Tumbling ever after