Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

In today's vid, we feature a triple threat, to say the very least. Writer, painter, musician, tattoo artist, and on and on. Click the link to the channel and check out this low-key and humble, high-art man of talents. He's right here on our site.

And before any of you decide to take a swipe at the old man, I'm aware that I mispronounced n'ere. But I rolled with it...

Here's the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uTGysKxtx1o&t=19s

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

He twisted his fate between his fingers. The string was so short, so fragile. Everything he had ever done, had ever seen, had ever experienced – all of it was contained in this tiny string.

Today, that string would be cut. The three ancient women hovered over him, one of them holding a pair of scissors, another holding the eye they shared between them.

He had come intending to face his fate bravely, to give up his life for the sake of another, his beloved. It had been an easy decision.

Yet now that he stared at the string, his string, he hesitated.

Once that string was cut, there was no going back. No second chances. The weight of it hadn’t hit him until now.

He glanced at the three witches, still hovering, and then back at the string. No. He wasn’t ready.

He turned and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. As he rounded the bend, he tripped.

The last thing he saw was a rock as sharp as a knife slice neatly through the string.

I was working in a crawl space today--an attic space filled with insulation, miscellaneous wiring, plumbing, a few forgotten treasures left in a state of eternal storage, and roughly one metric ton of dust layered over every bit of it. I'd covered my mouth and nose with my shirt, which kept slipping off as I maneuvered through the dark space. Trusses created the network of skeletal structure which allowed me to crawl from the access panel entry near the garage to the opposite end of the house where the laundry dryer vent ducting had become clogged. At the ends of the trusses, bird board let in light through circular screens which allowed the attic to breathe, and allowed the metric ton of dust to enter. It was dark, and one misstep meant falling through the sheet rock ceiling and spilling dust and insulation, not to mention myself, spilling down over whatever part of the house I was over at the moment.

That's when I saw the tarantula by my hand. There was a degree of overreaction, I admit. I didn't scream or cry out or bite my tongue. I did recoil for safety's sake, though in truth, it was involuntary. My eyes, I'm sure, grew abnormally large and my heartbeat definitely increased from the adrenaline. It wasn't monstrous and it wasn't small. It wasn't jumpy, nor was it still. It wasn't aggressive, but it wasn't scared. I'm glad I didn't slip and fall through the ceiling because for all the things it wasn't, most importantly, it wasn't a tarantula. Like I said, it was dark. It was just a wad of insulation that moved when my knee grazed a wire and tugged it just so.

It reminds me that we do not react to the things around us; we react to our perception of the things around us, and that perception might not always be accurate. I try to always be prepared to second-guess myself, to act swiftly but react cautiously, especially when I'm in a dark place.

Do not foretell death as the villain of this story. For the lies we tell, and the hatred we give are the monsters that dictate our mournful tale. Our deceitful actions, paired with our sinful way are demons fanning the flames of our combusting society. We ourselves are building the walls of our cells, yet we continue to blame others out of mistrust. We watch as our world burns and refuse to take blame. Perhaps we are scared of the justices that will fall upon us in our final moments. Terrified that our choices will damn us for eternity. So in turn we blame each other, we blame death, even our gods. For what is assigning blame except being to afraid accept fault? What is hatred other than finding fear in the flaws we ourselves hold? What is crime other than a damning release of emotions to paralyzing to work through? How do we, as human as we are, ascend to the holiness they expect. When we are just mere children in their eyes? I fear that if I find the answers to the questions that plague my mind, that I might also find the answers to the questions I dare not ask. The questions that crawl up my spine and whisper in my ears. The questions from death himself. The questions that leave holes in my chest and gaps in my memory. Questions that could bring repercussions that would shatter the specks of peace our gods has granted. Questions with answers so deadly, I fear the end of me as they form in my mind

The mist shrouded the mountain like a snake that is about to squeeze its prey

At this place, far away from human civilization, I found my nirvana—

fresh air, fresh view, and fresh climb

Trees stretched their fingers towards the azure sky while bees and flies

circled around their trunks, always searching for something,

maybe blossoms that never grew on the branches

I too, am searching for something...

Peace and serenity

Darting around in circles, the swallows performed gymnastics as they rushed upwards, plunged down in neat swoops, and then spiraled into the air

Grey-headed bullfinches sat unperturbedly on flowering bushes and fruit-laden trees

as rain lightly licked their feathers

A bird hopped on its feet and looked at me with curious, black eyes

I stood there, unmoving

A straw-thatched house perched on a grassy slope, its door ajar as if inviting me in From the west, a puff of wind lightly tingled the straw on the roof and dipped its fingers in the sluggish river below

Sheltered by lush plants and friendly animals, I even forgot that this was a tourist site—it was a comfortable home for me

However, my reverie was broken when my mother

and some crazy monkeys stepped in my way

“Smile!” my mother yelled to me as she snapped a picture

of me gaping at the mountain

“Oh mom, you broke the silence!” I complained

“We’re going down the mountain anyway,” she replied

As I descended, I took one last look at the startling Giotto-blue sky

and the swallows that dotted it

But before my we reached the bottom, several monkeys blocked the way

One monkey grabbed my leg and hugged it as if it were a precious piece of banana

Another monkey approached and reached for my floral scarf

I was aware that Mom was probably saving this memory inside her camera

As I detangled out of the monkeys’ reaches, I realized that

I was actually enjoying their presence—

that was until one jumped on my back and tried to rip my hair out

And I also realized that my water bottle in my backpack was gone

As I veered off into the craziness that represents my world,

I stole a moment to just breathe,

took in the magnificent view,

and found peace to take with me

But even with the flowers, trees, and other parts of nature

that I feverishly love so much,

from the safe haven of my backyard to the green spaces of the park,

I felt at peace on this mountain

I rested on the rocky slope overlooking the mountain,

able to gaze out much farther and stand much taller than I typically can

I enjoyed the rough climb upwards because at the apex

I could survey what looked like the whole world

On that mountain, I realized that what captured my heart about the climb is that once I reached my destination, I became part of Nature—

I was in the clouds,

the river flowing below,

the ghostly mist,

the twittering birds,

and the playful monkeys

I remember that day - March Tenth, Twenty-Fourteen - when I sank my teeth into the best damn chicken wings ever and washed them down with some whiskey that was old enough to legally drink itself, listening to the author whose mind caught lightning in its bottle - top-shelf lightning - and hearing the sparks of "Prose." fly with absolute freedom, savoring the freedom that was this idea, so pure, so beautiful, the best of social media married with the best of writing, a place not for the eyes, not for the mind, but for the heart and soul, for the highest echelons of our very being - for us to consume bite-sized amounts of the very finest written word, as if we were at a Michelin-star diner disguised as a casual, unsuspecting street kitchen - and for us then to be taken on the most winding road, most agonizing and scintillating journey, to have experienced the most medieval of all dark nights of any app's soul, only to escape that prison, as of late, in a way that gives Shawshank a sprint for its motherfucking mint.

I got another rejection this morning. Rejections are fine, truly; whenever you send a piece of writing to a publication, a rejection is the expected outcome, and that’s the math of it. I once heard thirdhand of a writer who said she aims to receive a hundred rejections per year, which helped me grasp how this all works. I’ve been fortunate enough to have some pieces accepted for publication, but there will not be some magical “made it” point where my quill develops a Midas touch; each time I see a message from a journal, I say the word “rejected” before I open it, bracing and grounding myself. Rejections are the norm and the price.

That being said, they suck.

As planned, I still sat down to write this morning. I’m a teacher on his last summer day before reporting for work tomorrow; my daughters are with grandparents and my wife is at work, so I need to make some literary hay while the sun shines. The rejection was a cloud, though. It was kindly phrased: “This one didn’t quite feel like a match for us, so we’re going to pass this time, but we enjoyed the read. The ______ made me smile.” It was a nice thing to say and a wholly expected outcome, and yet…

I contemplated killing an hour or so with Netflix.

Instead, I read a few pieces on Prose. @Huckleberry_Hoo made me laugh. @InLoveWithWords made me sad. @AlisonAudrey shared her writer’s dream. And by the time I had read their pieces, language felt vibrant again. I pulled up this lovely challenge by @TheWolfeDen, and I wrote.

I joined Prose in October 2019 because I wanted to write again and needed some help getting unstuck. I have kept using Prose through this morning because I wanted to write again and needed some help getting unstuck.

My thanks, everybody.