At Easter I like to share my testimony for those who want to know how I became a Christian.

Sometime in 1970, I stole a Bible. Perhaps “stole” is too strong a word. Let's just say I borrowed it and never gave it back. The theft wasn't intentional. It happened at the Naval Air Station in Atsugi, Japan. One evening, while on duty, I was in a room where someone left a Bible. I picked it up and began to read.

Though brought up in church, I'd questioned the existence of God, so His Word had become irrelevant to me. Fortunately, I had not become irrelevant to Him.

When my duty watch was over, I took the Bible back to my barracks, thinking, “I’ll return it when I'm done.” While flipping through pages, I found Psalm 40, and read the verse “I waited patiently for the Lord; and he inclined unto me, and heard my cry. He brought me up also out of an horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings.”

The words touched me.

The year before, I'd been under investigation because of drugs. A dishonorable discharge loomed. But because I'd just become a father, I was given leniency. Perhaps fatherhood would straighten me out. Afterward, I was sent overseas.

As I traveled to various naval bases (Japan, Guam, Vietnam, and the Philippines) I fell deeper into my own “horrible pit.” To deaden the despair, I turned to drinking. (I stayed away from drugs because I feared the Navy would throw the book at me—and it wouldn't be a Bible.)

In June 1971, my first wife wrote me a “Dear John” letter, launching a deep personal crisis that came just months before my discharge from the service.

The following Sunday, I attended an evening Chapel service. That night, instead of a sermon, a film was featured. It told the story of three men trapped after a coal-mine collapse. One man was a churchgoer whose faith was not real. The second was an avowed atheist. The third was a believer. It was obvious that only the believer was prepared to deal with the crisis. I wanted to be like the third man.

After the film, the chaplain gave an invitation. I was the second person who went forward. Later, a counselor had me read Roman 10:13, “For whosever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved." When I read the word "saved,” I realized the promise of Psalm 40 was fulfilled: I'd been pulled out of the pit and placed upon a “Rock.” My life hasn't been the same since.

Thank God for that . . .

I am incredibly saddened and disappointed at the responses to this challenge. I don’t think calling someone cisgender is a way to “hate on them” unless you believe the opposite—that calling someone transgender is a way to hate on them.

It is very straightforward term with no opinion and only fact behind it only meant to distinguish someone who was assigned male or female at birth and relates to that gender as they have grown into the person they have become. There is also Intersex or Eunuch, etc.

I am cisgender because I was assigned female at birth and it is the correct gender for me. But there are people born with both sexual organs whose parents arbitrarily pick a gender for them who could say the same. But if they were assigned female and identified as male despite having the biological anatomy they would not be cisgender. Cisgender doesn’t mean “biologically” male or female and I think that’s a really important distinction that it seems most of these challenge responses are leaving out.

What connotation someone places on the word matters (as any word), but the word itself does not mean anything offensive and only helps affirm people who are living a very difficult lifestyle.

It is so easy for someone not affected by a problem to say something like “we don’t need more labels”. No one is upset when someone calls them able-bodied. Cisgender is a similar distinction to wrap your head around. Adding your pronouns after your name might not be important to you, but creating the ubiquity of it it can be the difference between someone spiraling into a suicidal depression from being misgendered and made to feel like their own self and self opinion is unimportant and disrespected.

be better to eachother

Hello Writers and Dear Readers.

In today's vid, we look at two beautiful styles of writing. We'll tag them along with the crew in the crew in the comments. The link is right below this sentence.

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

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team.

The man I love lies under the olive tree

The hero of my past is now of this world free

At the top of the hill with neighbors and strangers

Facing the sun, free from all of this world’s dangers

Today, I walked the path leading to his final abode

Under the rays of light I walked the endless lonely road

No longer the child that used to beg for his love

Nor was I the girl who used to make him stand so proud

Today, I walked with heavy feet dragging the weight of words I wanted to say

Haunted by the ghosts of my past begging me to let them stay

The closer I got to the top of the hill,

The harder it was for my heart to stay still

There he was, serene and unchanging

While each day I am from myself, estranging

Before I looked down, I gazed at the sky above my head

For once, I did not dread the fear that was lurking ahead

I took a long breath as my eyes found their hydration

And looked down at my father’s pinned location

You see, I am no stranger to words, to talking nonstop

My mind is haunted and the voices inside never shut up

But as I stand in front of he who left me alone

For once my mind was blank and my mouth was sown

As if talking was no longer initiated by speech

My mind begot a language the soul of the departed can reach

You see, words betray us when we need them most

The mind is a mystery and mine is haunted by a ghost

My words turned to tears and my heart sunk in despair

Only those who seek, shall find a pain they can bear

I was brave, I must admit

It took me years to deep dive into my heart’s pit

I became friends with the demons inside

They offered me peace and a place to hide

I walked down the hill, leaving behind the olive tree

The sun was no longer bright as I left behind a part of me

Though less heavy, the words were never delivered

Sinking back in my mind creating the ultimate blizzard

did he miss me, is he okay? I wonder

There he lays, the forgotten hero who’s Six feet under

I found her in the garden, surrounded by my skeleton. My ribs, a clamped-shut jaw. Her fingers white-knuckling my moon-bleached bones. She doesn’t raise her head, until I am close enough to touch her. I want to touch her. She’s not wearing anything, and her skin is an eruption of nerve-endings. Her eyes are frantic. Fluttering, pacing, glimmering-ghosts. She is unfocused. Kneeling in fresh soil. The earth pooling around her. I’m caging her in. I’m holding her hostage. She’s still. She’s pacing. She’s looking at me, but not. Eyes glassy. Spectral stare. Staring, but not. I want to touch her. She presses her face between my last two, true ribs – T6, T7. She opens her mouth. Staring, but not. Her tongue is shining, too red for this world. Her tongue is made of rose petals. Her tongue is licking my bones. Not moon-bleached. Sucked dry. Expertly cleaned. Her red roses are tumbling around my sternum. She is my sternum. She’s eating me from the inside. She’s stealing the meat of me. She is licking her lips. Salivating. Staring, not-staring. She’s pouring out ghosts. I am losing time.

“I haven’t been able to sleep.”

The tonguing ceases. There is wet glittering at the corners of her mouth. She nods.

“crows?”

It echoes across my bones. Rattles my innards. Feathers kiss the inside of my mouth. Wings beat and float around inside my windpipe. They’re trying to escape. Her voice clangs against my internal organs. Resounding cacophony, clashing through costal cartilage. Roses bloom from the spots she touched. Thorns caressing my veins. Symphony of growing sounds. Growing blossoms. Growing birds. She’s flourishing. She wants out. I break the floating ribs – T11, T12. They splinter away in shards. They’re rushing through me. Targeting my heart. And I am the sternum. And she is the cage. I found her in the garden. Surrounded by my skeleton. I’m peering between bars of thoracic cage. I’m surrounded by my skeleton. Or is this hers? She’s licking the bones. She’s planting seeds. Is this mine or is this hers?

My tongue pushes between my lips, involuntary. I’m salivating. I’m resisting. I’m losing. I’m tasting her ribs. I’m lapping up marrow. Is this mine or is this hers? I am insatiable. Ravenous hunger overpowering insomnia. We are eating to burst. Resistant-tongue grazing petal-tongue. Tastebuds brushing velvet. I am the sternum. I am the hunger. I am the starving. I’m filling with perennial, rebirth. There are vines bursting through me. Climbing my walls. Rebuilding my structure. My bones are wasting away. Saliva eating at the surface. Whittling me down. I’m eating myself out of house and home. I am built of glass. Botanic conservatory. I am transparent. I am spectral. I am verdant. Our eyes meet. She is my resurrection. We are becoming one. We are many. We are one. She is we. I am we. We are we. We are swallowing light. There is no light. What is light? Floral nectar rushes through our veins. We suck out life. We are filling. We are flourishing. We are one.

We eat ourselves, raw.

(this excerpt is from my novella Swallow - available in print here https://www.amazon.com/Swallow-Emily-Perkovich/dp/180016291X/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3P8FEJBR0B4Z2&keywords=swallow+emily+perkovich&qid=1680132930&sprefix=swallow+emily+perkovich%2Caps%2C156&sr=8-1 - or lmk if you'd like a complimentary digital copy in exchnage for a review)

Weeks of planning hinge on his predictability. Her heart pounds, her blood whooshes loudly in her ears. She hides. He crashes through the front door, yelling for her.

“Where are you, worthless woman? You’ll pay if I must come looking for you!”

Payment meant cracked ribs, or bruises, or skin split open with the point of his favorite Kasami filleting knife. A tool fit for the renowned Chef. If only his patrons knew.

She trembles. He bursts from the back door, so close she can smell him. He trashes the potting shed then heads for the doghouse. Her beloved Rufus is long gone – his name fading from the bleached wood.

“You love that mutt more than me” he proclaimed one day, grabbing a knife and heading outside. She tried to stop him, but he pushed her down the stairs. She lay stunned, listening to the yelps.

Now, she watches him bend down to look inside. “Are you in here, barren bitch?” he taunts.

She rushes him from behind and smashes his head with the shovel. He tumbles, headfirst, into the deep hole concealed under the doghouse. She covers him with rocks and soil.

Two days later, the police follow up an anonymous tip about child pornography. They find evidence on his laptop. Collecting the material made her sick to her stomach, but it was convincing. They find air ticket receipts.

She wrings her calloused hands, hardened by weeks of covert digging and feigns surprise when asked to open the safe, only to discover it empty. She weeps and says she has no idea where he has gone.

I’ve got hair growing outta my fingers

It gets so long it hangs

I gave my fingers a haircut

I gave my fingers bangs

My girlfriend really likes it

She likes my fingerbangs

My girlfriend drinks apple cider

Drinks it all the time

She loves that apple cider

With a twist of lime

She loves cider and my finger bangs

Fingerbangs n’ cider

She loves cider and fingerbangs

fingerbangs n’ cider

My girlfriend eats pork butt

But not the lower piece

She only likes the upper part

She says it has less grease

She loves upper pork butt

And fingerbangs n’cider

Loves fingerbangs n’ cider and upper butt

You and me together

riding through the canyon

blues on the radio

my hand on your thigh

I pull to the side of the road

you lock the doors

we remove our clothes

carelessly thrown about

we’re both highly excited

you’re moist and I’m hard

you climb on top

riding me to the rhythm

of the throbbing blues

we smile together

as we erupt in pleasure

orgasmic vibrations lead to

the afterglow of love

our calculated redressing

we get back on the road

blues on the radio

riding through the canyon

You and Me together