Porcelain bodies flung against a cold, white wall.

Frail and silent voices, drowned out by the wind.

Oh Savagery, whom will you take from me today?

Hopeful voyages, onward to reclaim our humanity.

An exposed heart, still beating, feasted on by a dozen of leeches.

Oh Lust, what will you take from me today?

A room filled with eyeless faces, profiles barely human.

Apparitions of Hadean origin roaming aimlessly between dimensions.

Oh Despair, whom will you take from me today?

Valiant spirits erased with one violent strike.

Abominations hunted down and slaughtered.

Oh Hatred, what will you take from me today?

Nobody is safe.

Nobody is beautiful.

Nobody will hear.

Don't you dare run, don't you dare die. What are we supposed to do?

Who will guide us?

Who will save us?

Who will kill us?

Don't you dare speak, don't you dare fall silent. What are we supposed to do?

On the show today, we open with a famed and tortured mind, from a certain point of view, and into the depths of two writers here that have written pieces to reach down into our cores and feel the colors of their minds. To quote the character of Doc Holliday in the best western made, from 1993, "That's just my game."

Here's the link to the Prose. Radio feature, and we'll post the writers and pieces in the comments below.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VwwVVRR1T4Q&t=1s

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team.

On the show today, Miller leads into a poem by Mariah, a short and heart-soaked piece to arrive on shore when it must, and then into a short story by a fellow named Frank Gainey, whose words flavored the coffee beneath the mic, and set Saturday for an open eye and a casual shot of bourbon.

Here's the link to the writers being narrated on Prose. Radio:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0S3Ct8RNbs

And we'll link the authors below, along with their pieces.

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Three more records of the trapped and true, from three more books outlawed, from three more writers on the site who brought the work back: Strongly.

We can't get enough of this Challenge.

We'll link the pieces and profiles below in the comments.

Here's the Challenge link:

https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14416

And here's the newest feature on the channel:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RAa63kwkPY4

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Once this was read, it had to be featured. From the same Prose. Challenge in the last video, comes this one, a day after the video was produced and published, but, like the YouTube description says, "High art prevails." Thank you, 7v7.

We'll put the profile link and the link to the piece in the comments below, so you can read what 7v7 did to continue a book from one of the greatest writers in history, just like the others in the feature. Before the channel link, here's the link to the Prose. Challenge. https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14416

Side note to LARGE, who also wrote a great piece for it: Narration was considered, but our narrator couldn't quite land on one of the voices in a way it deserved. That said, it is a beautiful piece of innovation.

Here's the feature on Obitus of a Suicide, with the feature titled for the last line of the story: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4CQ7OXsvGw

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

I wanted him to run, so

I could chase him away

Far from any union, or life

Together, we could never be

In love, true and tangible

A thing I could hold onto, still

Unstable enough, temporary

The warmest parts of fall, cold

Winter death knock knocking

Then I remember, this time

Now and forever, attentive to

His touch in December, love—

A fire burning beautiful, as it dies.

Look at me.

Your voice is gagged

Soul suffocating

Get close

Closer, shhhh

Smell my skin

Sweetness

Salt shimmering

My lips

Closer

Thirst heart

Apple red

Sweet honey

Do you desire me?

Make my pouty bottom lip bleed

My neck

Watch my jugular pulse

Run your finger along its purple road

Did you know you had such control over my life?

Life.

Put your mouth on my bare womb

Taste it

Run your tongue ever so slightly upward

Over my belly

Taste the sweat between my breasts.

I take a long steady inhale, reaching

Deep enough, releasing my soul.

I exhale. And I step out of my flesh

Walking cold across the Tennessee green,

Fertilized by the dead, and somber—

Touched by the dew of afterbirth.

I reach for the wildflowers, trying & fragile

Distant yellow faces. Then the wind speaks

Your name, I can hear your Appalachia

Psalm of a Pentecostal cry hissing

Beneath a snakeskin lying fetal. And

You beg me to remember.  But I have

Become callous against time and my lovers

Bespoke to their tongue-tied intentions falling clumsy from the side of my mouth.

I am numb.  And this food is bland. The sky

Paint is white and pale. My pulse is slow

Exorcising melancholy in slow motion.

Leaving me blind, exhausted, and roaming.

Emptiness echoes. I try

To find the words. a cavity

Of hollow love, unbecoming

To my gaping core. Scratching

Gnawing, I peer at hope.

In your eyes, a swallow cries

Lost to navigating. A path

Belonging to the blind at heart.

He cut the engine. Cool air

communion in a breeze, baptism

against my skin, his fever.

Daylight slumber, hibernating

with us, peace beneath an oak

hidden from eyes, watching

our pulse becoming one.