A Romantic Dinner

I had always considered Valentine's Day a load of rubbish. Surely your lover knew that you loved him every day that you loved him.

I continued thinking that until I met Ernest. He was a serious, young man whose name matched his character. After a whirlwind romance, we married.

For a while, our marriage was happy, but he was so dull. Every evening, he would plonk himself down in front of the television set and not talk.

One day, I bought a bottle of cyanide and added it to his dinner. He keeled over and died instantly.

Two great things that go great together... But: Before we get to the two featured writers, we want to congratulate Eric Johnson, or ErJo1122 here on Prose., for the near-future release of his book, There's Gold In Those Hills, a collection of short stories that will be available on Kindle the first of next month. We'll link it below if you want to pre-order yours. Congrats, again, Eric, on the accomplishment!

Today, two posts are featured from the Spotlight page, two of our columns in the Pantheon of Prose., two poems by two great men. See the links to the pieces and profiles below.

And here's the link to The Prose. Channel for their narrations.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kLYWh60Mnoc

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

i visited an old friend the other weekend.

i met her dad at the door and he gave me a hug

but there was a sad look in his eyes. the kind of

look that tells you he can't believe how fast i've

grown up--how fast any of us have grown up.

he asks me how i'm doing and i give the polite response

"i'm good...how 'bout you?"

he hesitates for a moment as the sadness deepens,

pooling like puddles of rain in his eyes.

he tells me about his kids--the kids i grew up with.

he tells me how only one of his sons is interested

in getting married anytime soon. he asks me if i

have anyone and i nod. i do. he continues on to

tell me of his other son... he says he has some

"problems"

i know what they are.

the wind whistles through the cracked screen door

and i shiver. life is cold and gray now...nothing

like what it once was.

i visited an old friend the other weekend.

but that's all it was...old.

Against the wall, we hold the gun

Bewitched with the red satin drape

The patron began the vigilance

Scouting the gate to nirvana

Kneel on the sand, wash by the wave

Bussing the bits, soothe the wall

Reach the fruitless bosom to taste

Cast with substantial delicacy

Dripping water blow the echo

Peculiar whisper and rather enticing

Brushing my ear, poach my line

Dragging me to the race

Raised a loaded gun, put me on guard

Chase by the unknown, enchanted the wall

Run and run to the deepest den

Crawling under the booth

Move around, swing the gun

Shaken sand captive my body

Blow vigorous vein, hook it

Gushing out as lightning

Blast handgun drizzle on sap of conundrum

***

Note: This poem originally published at vocal.media: https://vocal.media/poets/hers-ggh5bc0a6f. And will be published in my upcoming book: [Más]Caraing

Credit: Photo by John Rocha from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/grayscale-photo-of-naked-woman-230986/

Pulled eight beautiful pieces from the Spotlight page. We'll link the pieces and writers in the comments below the tags.

Loved reading and narrating each one of these.

Here's the link to the channel.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0gs05GdyAc

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team