Writers,  

     Seattle Refined did a remarkable spot on us. From a bar in West Seattle to the downtown offices of Prose., this three-minute piece came out nice and clean. Link is below.

     We hope your sentences are hitting the page lean and mean, and to see more of your work across this spectrum words. Thanks for being here. 

Go to minute 14:00. 

https://youtube.com/watch?v=fm-uquSrxSI&

     Writers, 

     We set up the Seattle Refined challenge, to write about the passing of Chris Cornell, to be won based upon the most shares. Reading through the entries, and being here in Seattle, two things ran through our minds: So many good stories here, poems, tibute pieces, and pure expression of loss through art. The second was who would share what to put just one up top. The most shares went to James M. Byers, with his poem, aptly titled, "Black Sun, Black Days." 

     We could go into detail here, why we think this one received the most shares, or we could almost say we didn't really expect a rhyming poem to get the most shares in a challenge like this, but with a subject like the one presented, there was no gauge or reason for one. A great man died, and expression against death has always been the writer's medicine, or the most effective kind. 

     Fitting, actually, that a rhyming poem is featured as the most shared, because the lyricism of Cornell is what inpired the piece. Byers, in flawless recall, threw down the notes of tears in beautiful verse:

     Pretty noose foreshadowed doom;

     A burden in the palm.

     Blowing up the outside gloom,

     The rhinosaur brought balm.

     Black rain fell in drops of thought

     As phantoms telephoned. 

     Great write, James. A ton of heart. 

     You can read the entire poem here:

     https://theprose.com/post/164786/black-sun-black-days

Not to post back-to-back about it, but this is an exception:

We joined forces with Seattle Refined to commemorate & celebrate the life and lyrics of Soundgarden legend Chris Cornell with a new writing challenge. 

If Chris Cornell touched you, write about it. Share your story, poem, tribute, anything about him. We will be putting together a book for the Cornell family, of the posts entered. All proceeds from additional copies purchased will be donated to suicide prevention. The most shared post will be read on air and posted on seattlerefined.com

Go to Seattle Refined in Portals to enter and read. 

Thanks for stopping to read this. Go write.

-Prose.

     Rome. 2016, March. Hadn't seen him since the '90s. Drunk on being away from the States, drunk on red and white wine, and a stomach gorged with in-house pasta, bread, and anything else I could get my hands on. Alley, restaurant. Trevi fountain checked off. Young Italian girls waving Americans in to their restaurants. A brothel feel. I want to go into the story about the two Italians fighting over the check. The owner and a drunk patron. I want to go into the gelato after, the air of Rome, the bricks of the alleys. But I can't. Rare to see this profile written in first person, but this is different. Like Rome is different. Lost there. Must gaze upon the Pantheon during the first rays of moonlight. 

Lost there. Around a blind corner I nearly walked into Cornell. The man was tall. I'm 6'1 and he loomed over me. We glanced at each other, I registered the situation, and kept moving. GPS called me a moron in code, so I followed Cornell and his wife, and their little girl. I wasn't listening but I was. He was telling his girl about how life is in Italy. I heard, "In Italy..." then the crowd around us absorbed the rest. A few people took fast second looks, and then went back to their tables, their drinks, their own trips and lives.

     In Rome no one cares who you are. 

     Quite a beautiful feeling.    

     Rome is different.

    Crossing back toward where I had to go. Losing light. The Sun becoming the Moon, and I'm standing there then, staring at the street that I would cross to my hotel, to give up, but I'm feeling too fine, and I'm in Rome. I'm in fucking ROME. Not to sound incredulous. I put my phone to my ear to hear the directions, looked down the street. Cornell. Giving me a skeptical but not-so-sure stare, a sideways check. It would appear I was following them, but I wasn't. It didn't bother me. I laughed ahead. Rome is different. He disappeared down the street with his family, and I realized I'd been going the right way the whole time. Turned back, walked and thought about it. I could have had a conversation with him, I could have dropped one name. His parents lived next door to my friend's parents here in West Seattle. He'd skated with Cornell, and once told me he and his parents would watch Cornell mowing his parents' lawn from upstairs, even after Soundgarden took off. We could have had a conversation away from the music, the words, just two dudes from here laughing about the suddenness of meeting in Rome with such far-reaching connections to the past. What stopped me from shaking his hand? I would like to fall back on ego, but it was only ego in the sense that I didn't want to be a fan, a number, even with a rare connection. 

     But the truth is I am a fan. And though I don't believe in regretting something you've already done, I should have shaken his hand. I didn't have to tell him that his lyrics were brilliant, his voice one of the most distinctive in all remembered time, or any of that bullshit people like him, the few of them, hear and have to deflect or appropriate when they're out in the world. I also simply didn't want to interrupt him or his family while they walked in peace as the Moon rose over Rome. 

     I found the Pantheon, young moonlight. Breath stolen. 

     This morning I awoke to a text from my buddy, Dave. Four words and an abbreviation: Dude, Chris Cornell died. WTF?

     Tap google. 52. Suspected suicide. No matter, he's gone. They all go, they don't live long enough to see themselves shine like the rest see them. And they don't care. Sitting here now, blasting Louder Than Love, and sending my best thoughts to his family. 

     Bukowski once said in a letter, "Death isn't a problem for the deceased, it's a problem for the living." Or something like that. Looking back on the dead artists of the last few years, Cornell hits pretty hard. 52 years old.

     Much love to his people. Hands All Over just started. I need more coffee, and to kiss my dogs. 

     Outside it's grey and bright and warm. 

      Austin, 2014. An idea was born into the streets. Two men walking, teeth dry from the ways of liquor. One stares in front. Downtown festival. Talks to the city ahead, but to the one walking next to him.

     I have an idea for an app. 

    Small city, the grey heat. Overcast no match. No hope to burn off the film from the damage last night. Hotel lounge, hair of the dog. The city had grown, and they were strangers now, each waiting to leave there, one by plane, one by car and dog. Talks of Prose., the font. Talks of why it would work, a family the size of a world. Strangers yet not quite. Revolt against apathy. Earned things, lost in paces too fast to retain soul, to keep their light. Drinks and words, the lobby bar turned museum for the old death of the words eaten by technology. A way out through a way back in. 

     We are all here now. 

     Thank you for being here with us. 

     Thank you.  

     It’s true. 

     Shots of bourbon in our coffee lead to reverence for you in the voice of Neruda.

     Where to begin? Does anyone who asks that question not know where to begin?

     We’ll start.

     Swift but graceful changes here at Prose. Our coder, while also knee-deep in slaying dragons and winning digital hills on rendered battlefields, is working on new features as this is being typed. Keep your eyes peeled. In another change, call it a red sun rising, we’re taking the app to 18 and over after the next update. Any young guns existing won’t need to worry, and should anyone under 18 sneak past the doorman and smooth-talk the bartender into a drink with no ID then you probably belong here, anyway. 

     Many more things to appear on the horizon.

     Stay tuned. Stay hungry.

It’s Friday, ergo, it’s Friday Feature time. This week we get to meet a lovely lady in beautiful Palm Springs who is going to rock your world. Be upstanding for @AlexWestmore

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

A: Linda Kay Silva is my real name. My pen name is Alex Westmore

P: Where do you live?

A: I live in sunny and often hot Palm Springs, but I was born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area.

P: What is your occupation?

A: I am a Professor of Literature and history. I teach American, World, and British Lit. Sci-fi Fantasy, Women's Lit, and Creative Writing. I also teach American and World History

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

A: I have always written. Then a friend said, "Submit something." I did and was rejected multiple times before finally getting my first book published. It has evolved in so many ways. I am a much better writer now. I writer tighter prose and with 6 series, I have learned how to plant seeds and tie off loose ends.

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

A: Reading is such a great thing. Reading keeps me sharper.

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

A: I just published my first romance. In future posts, I'll be adding snippets from my other series...I'll be adding challenges...I think this is a great place for writers and readers to come together.

P: What do you love about Prose?

A: I love that it's about writing...not selling. Not a constant me me me or I I I. I have read some really well written pieces, and that's been fun. I believe we are all looking for community or a place to belong in these trying times.

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

A: Mine. No lol. Just kidding. I think everyone should read To Kill a Mockingbird.

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

A: Rita Mae Brown. I read everything she wrote...then decided I should try. Funny story. A few years ago, we met at a conference, and now we are good friends. That's one of the highlights of my life. She is brilliant, and the best storyteller I have ever listened to.

P: Describe yourself in three words!

A: Fearless, Funny, Fighter

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

A: The question isn't who's going to let me, it's who's going to stop me? Ayn Rand.

P: What is your favourite music, and do you write or read to it?

A: I'm a classic writer, baby! And no, I do not listen to music when writing. I find it alters my mood which may or may not be appropriate to the scene I am writing.

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

A: Books were WONDERFUL. They were like hot chocolate in your hands as you look out over the snow. They were like the fur of a rabbit or the sound of a waterfall. Books were diamonds; some shone, others had inclusions, but all added to our lives. Books had a distinctive odor, a familiar feel. They were, like each being on earth, special in their own right.

P: Do you have a favourite place to read and write?

A: I have written a number of novels poolside on a cruise ship. Yeah, I have a rough life, but someone has to do it, so I pick me. To be writing as you cruise trough the Panama Canal? Sublime. To be writing a book set in Egypt when you pull into the port in Alexandria? Yeah. Pretty fucking awesome.

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

A: I write long hand with a fountain pen because I can write anywhere. There is also evidence that the kinesthetic act of writing does something different to our brains. 

Keyboarding is a very sterile activity, but the fluidity of writing opens many other pathways. I love it, and I have some awesome pens!

Thanks so much to Alex. Make sure you follow, like, love, and do the Prose thang! If you have sent your answers back and have yet to feature, fear not. There are a number lined up for future delectation. If you want to be involved, get in touch with an email and we’ll get the questions off to you.

Afternoon, Prosers,

It’s week sixty-seven of the Prose Challenge of the Week, and given the changes we have made to the challenge stream, this week will be the last post we make to announce them in post form. We have the functionality to choose the winners digitally, notify them immediately, and transfer the coins into their Prose Wallets automatically.

As mentioned in our post, “Let’s talk about Prose,” these challenges will now be pay-to-enter for the time being. It’s because of this that we are renaming them simply, “Prose Challenge.” They will run until the maximum number of entries have been reached so we can use the entry fees to pay each winner.

Let’s have a look at this week’s prompt:

ProseChallenge #67: Write a poem about grief. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for 24 consecutive hours. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.

Back to week sixty-six. The winner of the “life lessons” challenge is, @starryEYES with their piece, Learning to the song of the beeps.

Congratulations! You have just won $100, and your post will remain at the top of our Spotlight feed for the next day. We will be in touch with you shortly to execute payment.

From this point forward, the winners of the Prose Challenge will get a notification and the coins will automatically transfer to your Prose Wallet within 24 hours of winning the challenge. If you don’t get the coins within that period, give us a shout.

To keep tabs on the challenge winners of all challenges, check out the challenge archives. https://theprose.com/challenges/archive-month

As you may recall, last week, we announced a sponsored challenge in collaboration with publishing giant, Simon & Schuster. Here is the link, just in case you haven’t stumbled across it yet! https://theprose.com/challenge/5367

If you haven’t entered any of our awesome challenges yet, why not? Check out some of them here: https://theprose.com/challenges

And as always, remember to spread the word(s).

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

It’s only bloody Friday again. Naturally, as we all know, Fridays we get to greedily consume the tidbits and morsels of a Proser’s life. This week is another splendid one, as we find out about a Proser that many of us know and love, but want to know what lurks behind the mask. We’re heading to Montana; as we prepare to meet with @mrjhyde

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

J: My name is James, I go by mrjdhyde online.

P: Where do you live?

J: Helena Montana. Which as most people don’t know is where you go if you NEVER want to be discovered as a writer. Apparently there’s a literary black hole in the middle of town. I once saw it eat three poets, and a novelist. Sad really, but on the plus side, I consoled their widows.

P: What is your occupation?

J: I’m a writer. I make no money at it yet, and I support my writing with working at a grocery store and doing odd jobs. But I think that how we define ourselves if very important. So, I am a writer.

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

J: I always wanted to be a writer, but never had the sack enough to take pen to paper. I would just make up stories in my head. Then I started sexting, full stories. I joined a fetish site that let you post stories, and that gave me enough confidence to branch out into other genres. Soon, that site wasn’t what I wanted anymore. I wanted to be a real thing writer. Not a popular one, but a good one.

For me, good trumps popular every time. So I study writing and how I can become better with each story, and poem. I’m still the guy who uses the word “grammarize” but at least now I know that I shouldn’t use it.

For me the written word is the ultimate art form, because it is carried in the head after use. Some one can still tell a story even if the book was burned, that story will live on. And stories can change the world, bring down kingdoms.

I often tell people that a king fears the song, not the sword. Only one man can wield a sword, but a song can sweep through the country like a fire. Thousands singing.

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

J: It makes me a better person, as a child i didn’t have good strong role models so I found them in books. They helped me decide what kind of man that I would be. Whenever I read a book I put myself in the place of the characters and ask myself what I would do in their situations.

In my professional life there’s three books that have guided me. The Art of War, The Book of Five rings, and The Hagakure. In order these books teach how to be a General, a soldier, and samurai.

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

J: Dear lord, I’m writing six books right now I think? And short stories galore. Future posts? probably some angry rambling, some ranting, frothing, a few poems, a short story or thirty. And then the day after tomorrow...

P: What do you love about Prose?

J: Brooding poetry chicks… What???

I mean, uh… The stories. And the challenges. Because there are so many great writers on site, I have to work harder trying to be a better writer to compete in the challenges.

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

J: Anything with my name on the cover.

Barring that… Christopher Moore. Anything by him will make you laugh, which will make your day better. Which makes the world better, so read him. You want to make the world a better place don’t you?

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

J: S.E. Hinton, I read ‘The Outsiders’ in school and it changed my life. Suddenly I found out that there were people like me out there. That began my reading.

As for writing? Brooding poetry chicks… Blame them.

P: Describe yourself in three words!

J: I’m nobody special.

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

J: No, but if you think of one please send it to me. I would like to know.

P: What is your favourite music, and do you write or read to it?

J: I play a few instruments, so genre of music isn’t as important to me as how well that it’s done. And no, I need quiet to write because Squirrel.

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

J: “Hi, God sent me. Bring me to the women.”

P: Do you have a favourite place to read and write?

J: My big over stuffed leather chair. I love my chair, and it loves me.

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

J: Mark Zuckerberg is the reason for Justin Bieber. Really, Mark created him to try to control the Girl Scout mafia. Unfortunately, Mark lost control of the poor, mad thing. And it ended up eating the real Zuckerberg. Now Facebook is controlled by the CIA, in hopes of getting the secret Keebler recipes.

Well thank you very much, James. How cool was that, and was he? You know what to do now – follow, like, comment, love; do all those things that make us what we are.