I am in love

with the idea

of a book in my hands that I created

I am in love

with the idea

that someday I will stand in New York in the fall

(they do not have fall

here—

the trees stay green)

I am in love

with the idea

of orange and red and yellow falling around me

(i hope when I get there

i will have finally found happiness

but i doubt it)

I am in love

with the idea

that maybe I am more than just a girl

who will waste away in her room

watching the stories of someone else unfold

(Trapped)

(I am trapped)

When the life cycle of pupae turned the corner, shedding it’s robe, Nana broke out her complementary weapons. Nothing was going to keep her from her merited pastime; books, bonbons and swinging on summer eves. It was time to prepare her coveted porch for battle. Off spray cans were purchased at Woolworths along with boxed matches and citronella candles.

“What’s that for Nana?” My discombobulated nose demanded I ask, even though I knew the answer.

“What’s what for?”

For dramatic effect, I faked a cough, yet another one of my damsel in distress auditions. Instead of speaking, as if I couldn’t, I pointed with my left hand towards the etched glass cylinder holding the waxed oil and wickered flame. With my right hand, I pinched my nose.

“It’s called citronella Suzie,” She said curtly, rolling her eyes. “Haven’t I explained about that already? It helps keep the mosquitoes away.” Yes, she had told me, many times. Did she wonder back then just who or what was the ultimate porch pest? The next question I wanted to ask Nana but decided to quit while I was ahead was, “Could it be there is something smelly about me keeping him away?” But I didn’t, because quite frankly, why should I put dear Nana through yet another one of my pity parties? Even the sultry evening did not deserve another one of my whine fests over my big brother’s eschewal of me.

The years went by as they do, with another calendar tossed unceremoniously on January 1st. At the head of the basement stairs I’d step silently, questioningly over the threshold where there was proof that Robbie and I were indeed siblings. The door jam where Nana had stopped measuring us, was that evidence; hand written dates, flanked by the initials of either SK, or RK, with a one inch line ending in a numerical height. It had been many a New Year’s past since Robbie declared, “I’m too big for this. Enough already.” And just like that one of the few things we did together was in compliance with yet another cease and desist order. Besides outgrowing the ritual, as small as it would be to some, stopping it was patently against my own desire. Blood was just not thicker than water in my house, at least not between Robbie and me, his call only, until one summer night when the cicadas came out to play.

The power was out at our house at a time when hurricanes weren’t measured in categories but in number of days without Johnny Carson. Seven. Bored enough to sleep, but kept awake by the heat and hunger for something other than the defrosted food Nana forced upon us, apparently the desperation worked in my favor. Nana was probably asleep for hours when there was a knock at my bedroom door. This rat ta tat tat could not be from Nana’s knuckles. She did not knock, a mutually agreeable arrangement between us. An intruder? For certainly, the only other human living in our abode, would not be coming a calling on me, would he? Unsure if I should open the door to an intruder, I called out sheepishly, “Who’s there?”

“Who do you think, Peabrain. The man in the moon?” He called me Peabrain often, and nerd, and baby. Baby, not in a good way like babe; like stick your head in gravy baby. I liked that name the least, and never asked Nana why she didn’t tell him to knock it off.

“Want to go for a bike ride?” He said, as if he asked me to pass the salt, so why should I react to his invite as if the neighbor’s cat just got hit by a car?

“Sure!” I said kinda cool, but then I immediately recoiled like a morning glory; couldn’t help myself, and he watched as I looked at the wind up clock. “But it’s eleven o’clock? What would Nana say? It’s past our curfew.”

“Don’t be a baby, Pea brain.” And for once, I suddenly sorta got why he called me baby.

“Let’s go. NOW!” I retorted, pushing past him as he stood caught off guard in the doorway. Something came over me. A fever of sorts, pumping through my viens. Game on. For once, he was the one to follow me as we began to creep down the narrow hallway. I motioned “shh” canoodling my pointer with my smirk as we passed by Nana’s room. If sawing logs means snoring, sequoias were dropping in there. There was no doubt the coast was clear, and she’d be out cold for the night.

Bike helmets were not a thing back then, so seconds from the front porch, we embarked upon our maiden voyage secretly named by me, “Hoorayzonetime.” One wrong move, or word said by me would surely put an end to the present dream come true, so refusing to throw caution to the wind, I changed course readily and assumed the ancillary position.

Credit to the moonlit clear night, we were off and navigating handily through the aftermath of the storm. “Head towards Chestnut,” he commanded, and I obeyed. “Turn left at Walnut....right at Aspen.....” Following his direction and his pace, things were going rather smoothly, even when I realized we had passed the town line. Nothing was going to hinder my joie de vivre. Robbie stopped giving verbal direction when he realized just how in sync we were. As a gymnast, my stamina and balance were solid. Effortlessly pumping the pedals, with arms outstreched off the handlebars, we almost touched fingertips at one point.

No name calling, without talking at all, the only sound heard besides the cicadas was the deceleration of our bike wheels, when to my chagrin, I looked to my left to see we were at the curb of the Forest Hills cemetery. Robbie motioned his head towards the entrance. Was this a cruel trick? A test of my babyhoodism? Not funny! I hate cemeteries! Bones, stones and soil. All of it. Oh and ghosts, real or imagined. But on the other hand, I had the fever for Hoorayzonetime, so even I surprised myself when I was the first to get off my bike and say, “Let’s do it!”

The first few steps off our bikes were slightly wobbly as our muscles shifted gears from pump to walk. The sign we both read at the lit, ungated entrance read, CLOSED AFTER SUNSET. Another test of my game on approach to this evening, and I passed the test and the sign with ease. I did not protest, even though Biddable was the pseudo middle name I gave myself.

It wasn’t long before we were running deep into the yard of bones, sprinting as if we were two track stars in a fifty yard dash, decidedly fueled by adrenaline, when we heard, “STOP!” The LED headlamp blinded us into submission, more than the command. Before us stood an aged, slightly built, Barney Fife look alike weary rent-a-cop. “What do you kids think you are doing? Didn’t you read the sign? Don’t you have a curfew? Do you know you are trespassing? How would you like to be charged with a class 3 misdemeanor that comes with a $500 fine? Where do your folks think you are right now?

That’s when it kicked in. Partly due to my extensive babyhoodism training, but mostly in celebration of Hoorayzonetime, I was about to execute an academy award performance. The mere mention of my parents always conjured tears, but this time, I drew on that pain, workin’ it to save our asses.

“Mister.....mister.......plluueesssee......don’t......arrest.......us! I choked through every word, punctuated with squeals and gasps that sounded like the inconceivable offspring of a pig and a donkey. At this point I probably only kept him at bay because he might have thought I was having a seizure. I continued, slightly more composed. “How would it feel to you if your parents were both killed in a plane crash? Do you think it’s easy growing up without parents? Thank God for our Nana. Bless her heart; she takes such good care of us and I know it would kill her if we got arrested. It’s the anniversary of their death, and Nana couldn’t drive us over here because her car was damaged in the storm. I told my dear brother that I couldn’t go to sleep without visiting their grave and he was kind enough to honor my request. PLLUUEESSSEE don’t arrest us!”

I lied. About all of it, except the part that it would kill Nana if he arrested us. Truth be told, our father left the country chasing a Russian doll, never to be heard from again, and our mother was so depressed she took an overdose of sleeping pills when we were 3 and 6, but that explanation might not have gotten us the get out of jail free card.

“I’m so sorry about your folks, and no we wouldn’t want to upset dear Nana; regardless, you kids need to follow the rules. Where is the gravesite?”

“Right over there,” I pointed, hoping, for obvious reasons, he wouldn’t lead us over towards the headstones.

“Go on now. I’ll give you one minute and then I’ll lead you out of here.” Thankfully, out of respect for the deceased, he didn’t follow, because from what could be read in the moonlight, we were standing in front of Harvey Whitestone’s headstone, born 1888, died 1941. I continued to weep donkey-pig style counting to 60 and then we walked back to him. “Barney Fife” shook my brother’s hand and gave me a half assed hug like I had cooties. Could I blame him?

“Get on home now. I’ll lead you out of here. Are you on foot?”

“Our bikes are out at the curb.”

“Well let’s hope they are still there.” I hadn’t thought of that. They were. His parting words were, “Again, I’m sorry, but don’t come back here at night again, OK?”

“We won’t mister. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.” OK. That parting line was a little bit much while standing in front of a cemetary.

Back on the bikes, we made it a couple of blocks before we fell off of them, rip roaring laughing. It was my brother’s turn to do all the talking. “That was so righteous and groovy man! Cool daddy-O! Leave it to my punk sister to throw a hissy fit knocking off the fuzz. Wait till I tell my dudes. You are NOT the candyass I thought you were!”

And there it was; the gift I was pining for all along. I’m not going to lie straight up and say we were bossom buddies from that day forward, but something did change. Robbie gifted me a new name. Badass. Nana, for once, maybe because the name is sort of a curse, told him not to call me that, but I decided it was so much better than baby.

Heat lightning flashed in streaks of promise lighting up the dark sky. I was getting antsy and, yet, a frenzy of anticipation warmed my body and awakened my urgent longing.

Because I hadn’t killed anyone since last Friday, my overwhelming need for power and dominance was building up in a crescendo. I climbed into my car; well actually it was my former girlfriend’s car, but she was already dead. To make a long story short, I called her Friday. I always labeled my victims by the day of the week that they met their end. The moon hid behind dark clouds as I peered through the dead of night to find my next victim. I was fired up and quite titillated when I saw a young woman at the side of the road, looking in frustration at her flat tire on her vehicle.

Her leather mini skirt was hiked up to spotlight her rounded ass as she bent over the tire. But it really didn’t matter what she looked like to me because I knew that control was what turned me on and the rest didn’t concern me all that much. I was superior and would show her how to tremble and fear me until her last drop of scarlet blood leaked out onto the ground. I shivered in expectation as I pulled to a stop behind her and got out of my car. “Do you need help?” I asked her in my best reassuring voice, as I tried to hide my darkness.

With a helpless smile on her face, she simpered, “I can’t get the lug nuts to loosen. Would you mind trying?”

I thought I saw something flash behind her eyes but I believed it probably was just relief. She handed me a flashlight and I got down on my haunches to take a look. I turned back to reassure her that I would be able to take care of her tire and almost smirked because I could see right up her skirt to her dark reward because she wasn’t wearing any panties. I felt a surge of excitement because I knew I had her where I wanted her.

When I turned back to her she said in a deceptively sweet voice, “Here’s a lug wrench that you can use.” Was it my imagination or did I see a sly look on her face? Maybe she wanted something from me but it wouldn’t be as much challenge if she was looking forward to a sexual encounter.

That was the last thought I ever had as she smashed the wrench down on my skull so forcefully that pieces of bone and brain matter sprayed in a pink misted arc.

I felt like I was somewhere in space, looking down at the gory scene. I imagined I saw a triumphant smile turning up the corners of her lush mouth as she said, “He is Monday!”

Good Morning, Prosers,

The way publishers find new authors might have just changed forever.

We are pleased to announce that we have joined forces with publishing giant Simon & Schuster, whose legacy includes Ernest Hemingway, Carrie Fisher, and Stephen King.

Simon & Schuster’s editing team hopes to discover the next generation of great authors by utilising our challenge feature and our social community, initially through a 500-2000 word writing challenge that ends June 1, prompting you to, “Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by Simon & Schuster’s editorial staff for consideration.”

This challenge stipulates a minimum of 500 entries and a maximum of 2,000.

We will announce the top-50 entries on June 21, 2017.

Here is the challenge URL: https://theprose.com/challenge/5367

We hope you are as excited about this as we are. If you know people who would like to get noticed by Simon & Schuster, spread the word(s).

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

I am that thing that complains about the view,

But never turns her head.

Afraid-but not enough to run away.

I stand still with my eyes closed.

Like a child who thinks that wearing sunglasses makes her invisible to the world around her.

I am the kind that doesn't matter.

The one who raises her hand to say hello in return, just to realize the smile, affection, or friendly gesture was for the person beyond me.

I am the shadow that comes out to see the light,

Shies away from the spotlight,

Yet critiques those brave enough to stand directly in it.

I am an unappreciated statue in the park,

Bespeckled with the black and white scrutiny of the grey pidgeons.

It falls on me like blame,

Because after all,

All I do is stand there.

A soft wind

In a strong hurricane 

A fragile rose

Within a thorn bush

A broken leaf

On the forest floor

A fallen tree

Beside a beautiful sea

A farm house

In the background of a painting

A page ripped out of a book

That doesn't affect the plot

A coffee stain 

Covered by a table

A single person

Alone in a pool of people

He woke to a stream of urine sliding down his thigh; thankfully, it was his own. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry. Here’s a fine state of affairs, he told himself, terrified to open his eyes and see where he was. He could ascertain that he was not on his bed; whatever he lay on was hard and flat. He ventured a guess that it was the floor, although the sidewalk was not out of the realm of possibility. With a groan that evolved Darwinianly into a hacking cough, he struggled to sit up, eyes still clamped shut.To recollect the events of the – to speak charitably – past twenty-four hours or so was still beyond his capacity, as the interior of his skull now seemed to be sloshed and swirling around like a flushing toilet. Another groan and then from somewhere nearby or terribly far, behind him or before him, he heard a door open and close.

“Real nice,” a voice said. A young voice. A young boy’s voice. Pre-pubertal, if he had to guess. Now that’s something. He let out another, final, beautiful heartfelt groan and opened his eyes, blinked one two fourteen times in a row and tried to focus on what was before him.

What was before him was the empty space that lay between him and what looked like a garage ceiling. He rolled his head toward the sound of the boy’s voice and managed to stop it before it rolled completely off his neck. His eyes watered and he blinked until he made out a boy in school-bus yellow running shorts and a San Diego Padres t-shirt who looked an awful lot like his son.

“Isn’t this a fine sight for a boy?” he croaked, then belched and had to fight down the vomit on the tail end. He rolled onto his side to face the door and the son, and his bulk rustled what were revealed to be fourteen empty bottles of Zumwalt beer.

The boy rolled his eyes and shrugged and turned back through the door. He licked his lips and thought, Oh what a beamish lad. He idly built a pyramid of three empty bottles and knocked it over. I should stand up and go inside, take a shower; the wetness of his pants was now uncomfortably cool.

The boy now came through the door again, holding a steaming mug that said World’s Greatest Dad on it. Coming down the two steps and crouching before him, the boy held out the mug.

“Is this some kind of joke?” he asked, gesturing to the mug. His innards revolted at the smell of coffee but he obligingly took it from the boy’s hand.

“I don’t hear anybody else laughing in here. Do you?” the boy answered. He settled himself on his bottom, shoving aside bottles of Zumwalt in a clatter of clinks. “Are you ok?”.

The coffee burned his throat and his stomach gave a disconcerting gurgle. But he had to admit, sitting upright, somewhat, felt better than lying down. “You’ve pissed yourself, Dad,” the boy said. He nodded. “Don’t I know it.”

He sighed and reached out and patted the boy on his golden kneecap. The boy placed his own hand overtop. “Let me tell you a story, my lemon sugar boy,” he said, shutting his eyes again, feeling only the soft lightness of his son’s hand on his.

“Once upon a time,” he began, but the boy squeezed his hand and shifted.

“It’s ok, Dad. I thnk I know this one.”

Eleven.

He was only eleven.

When his Mother was eleven she was ripping pages from magazines and tapping them to her wall. She would run into her mothers room while she was downstairs making dinner and go through her makeup. Trying to copy the models flawless looks onto her freckled and pudgy baby face.

When his Father was eleven he got into a fight with his brother over the Ginger, green eyed girl that sat in front of him in science. 'Dibs' was the call of her hand and though he had called it. His older brother disrespected it and had his first on the mouth kiss with her. They ended up rolling and summersaulting down the stairs. He broke his arm. His brother fractured his wrist.

When you're eleven you're supposed to be a kid fighting to become an teenager. The ones in the movies wearing makeup and kissing boys and being on the football team. They're supposed to make fools of themselves but be completely unaware of it for years to come. It's when you are refusing your childhood and embracing what you believe adulthood is. Which is parties with red solo cups and spin the bottle.

He was eleven and he would never know the phase he missed. Here he layed in platinum steamed and straight scratchy sheets. Underneath a thin and drab gray blanket. Surrounded by a sea foam colored wall with white wave embroidery. It was supposed to be color in the white hopeless of the hospital. But all it did was remind his parents of the bedroom at home that he slept in less and less.

His life was filled with blood clots and black and blues. Easy bruising skin and wispy thin hair that started falling out in clumps by the age of nine. His cheeks were supposed to be rosy and flushed. Instead it was as white as the snow he could never play in or as white as the paper gown he had to wear every time he walked into his other home.

The worst part about the ordeal was this;

No one knew what it was supposed to be called. It was supposedly some form of leukemia, but that was only best guess. No medication worked and no diagnosis stuck.

His parents fought to pay the hospital bills, he was prayed for. He was cared for. He was loved. He wasn't getting better.

Now the family stands again in the room that shouldn't be his, in a building that's not home, with doctors they shouldn't have met.

His body had rejected him. His lungs, his blood and his heart were rejecting him. His future had given up. His past was no better

Life itself had rejected him. So in turn he had only one thing left to do.

Reject life.

His goodbye sounded like a flatline.