Micah sat on a bench at the Battery, looking out on the ocean’s waves as they lapped against the seawall and fencing barricades that had stood for well over a century. The peaceful moss swayed in response to the whisper of an April wind rustling through the leaves of the massive oaks that lined the park at White Point Gardens. The weather was lovely this time of year in Charleston, as was the abundance of blooming azaleas, magnolias, and dogwoods. All of these things, when combined, lent a calmness that betrayed the anxiousness Micah had felt ever since he’d lost the little black notebook four days prior. He had never been without the book in his possession. It would not be long, however, before he’d have it back - before she arrived with it. His hands itched at the thought of holding the book again as he waited, pondering the recent turn of events that had led him to this point.

Four days ago, it had been another warm April day when he’d chosen to sit on this very same bench. As he’d done so, lost in thought as to what his future might hold, he’d caught sight of two women walking the high stone precipice in front of him. Of the two, he was instantly drawn to the woman with beautiful red hair. She was striking, even from a distance. Graceful in her movements, she reminded him of a ballet dancer. Quite animated as she spoke, she moved her hands and body to reflect the passion of her thoughts. His interest, seldom piqued, was thus as he watched her. Inexplicably, he felt the pull and knew instinctively that she was someone very special. After several lapsed minutes, the two women hugged goodbye, but the redheaded one remained, continuing to look out upon the ocean.

While watching her and wondering exactly what it was that drew him to her, he had absent-mindedly placed the little black notebook in his pocket - or so he’d thought. Even from where he’d sat, he could feel the beauty and the power her soul emitted. She was undoubtedly also endearing, strong, and intelligent. In all his travels, he had never paused long enough to acquaint himself with anyone who had truly snared his interest. But this woman, well she more than snared it - it was as if something about her had beckoned to him. Entranced, he had continued to watch her for long minutes before he’d headed home to the small carriage house apartment. Once there, he had stretched upon the bed, and though he’d left the woman behind, the allure he’d felt for her still encompassed him. Relaxing, he had welcomed the serenity of his thoughts and fallen asleep a short while later.

Awakening just prior to the twilight hour, he’d immediately realized something was amiss. Reaching into his pocket for the notebook, he’d found it was not there. Fearing he’d left it on the bench at the Battery, he had rushed back to the park but had been unable to locate the notebook despite his best attempts. It was then he’d realized that, while preoccupied with watching the woman, he had accidentally and completely missed his pocket.

Knowing the importance of the little book, he had immediately posted an ad, offering a $10,000 reward for its recovery. He’d waited impatiently for three days before a woman had unexpectedly called, leaving a voice mail on his phone; she had the book and wanted to return it. She also insisted she did not want the reward - she only wanted to return the book to its rightful owner. As he’d listened to her soft voice, laced with a lilting Southern accent, he’d realized that the call was from the one who had captured his attention at the park. How interesting that it had been she who had found the book. He wanted to be surprised by this turn of events, but something told him not to be; this was most assuredly pre-destined fate.

He had returned the call immediately, learning that she wanted to meet him at the Battery the following afternoon at four o’clock. She’d told him that she was anxious to return the book to its rightful owner and again had stated that a reward wasn’t necessary, but if he insisted, she would gladly donate the money. As he’d spoken briefly with her over the phone, he’d instinctively known the questions that filled her mind. There had been no doubt of it: she had read the book. As to whether she’d question him about its contents, he did not know, but he had to be prepared to answer any questions she might pose.

And so, it was that day at last, and he’d soon have the book back - and he’d soon meet her. He sat, attempting to be patient as he waited. Looking at his watch, he realized it was nearly four o’clock. He had been at the park, seated on the same bench, since two o’clock that afternoon. He was both anxious to have the book back in his possession and to meet the woman whom he had seen from afar only days earlier. He could smell the salt of the ocean and the fragrance of the blooming flowers as he heard the birds singing, only a faint trace of a breeze hanging in the warm air. His senses were on high alert as he waited for the book - and for her. There was no question any longer that she was special in ways yet to be revealed. He knew, however, that just how so would be disclosed to both of them all too soon.

He turned to watch her gradual approach. He’d told her that he’d be wearing a pale blue shirt and seated on the bench directly in front of the gazebo in the park’s center, and it was obvious that she had spotted him. Her lightly printed dress and red hair swayed in the light breeze as she drew nearer and hesitantly extended her hand in greeting. As he stood and took the slim hand within his own, he was filled with a new, overwhelming awareness of the woman who stood before him, much stronger than his initial impressions days earlier. He was sure now of what he suspected, and he also knew she was about to find out more than she had dared to ever imagine.

“Hello,” she said, her voice as soft as the April breeze. “I’m Amelia Grace.”

He smiled. He would always think of her as simply ‘Grace’ from this moment forward.

He extended his hand and said, “Hello. My name is Micah.”

He sensed the myriad of questions that flooded her mind as he felt her small, warm hand within his own. She firmly grasped the notebook with the other hand, clutching it to her chest.

Micah gave her an envelope and said, “Here is the $10,000. I must insist you accept it. The book is invaluable to me, and I am thankful more than you know for its return.”

She eyed him skeptically, but took the money. “I will gladly accept the money on behalf of the local homeless shelter. However, might I ask you a few questions about the book? Please, if you don’t mind, that is?”

Ah, yes. He was not surprised. “Of course. What did you want to know?” he asked innocently, already inordinately aware that he needed to answer her questions with the truth.

Amelia Grace hesitated, unsure where to start since she had an abundance of questions. The book was very strange, making absolutely no sense. Unsure of herself, she began, “There are so many names listed in the book, with dates that go as far back as the Renaissance. And each listing or each name has a detailed account of events with it. For example, Beethoven,” she continued as he listened intently, already keenly aware what words would issue forth from her mouth. She carefully opened the book and read, ”‘Saved from suicide, dedicating his life to his music, August 30, 1802.’ And there's also Michelangelo, ‘Agreed to complete the Sistine Chapel, initial misgivings reconciled, January 3, 1508’. And that’s just two of the many well-known names,” she said. “Indeed, there are so many names, both well-known and not so, in the notebook. Whatever do they all mean?” Her face reflected her confusion.

“Please. Sit with me a moment,” Micah said, gesturing toward the bench, watching her intently. “May I call you Grace?”

She nodded. No one had ever called her ‘Grace’ with the exception of her Mother, who had been dead for many years. She was going to take this as a good omen. She was already aware that she liked this man even though she knew absolutely nothing about him. There was a depth of goodness that seemed to radiate from his beautiful, clear blue eyes. And why did she feel as though she’d known him always when she’d only just met him?

As they sat on the bench, Micah turned to her. “It’s a beautiful day, is it not, Grace? Perhaps a day for revelations and new beginnings.”

She eyed him with curiosity but nodded, an unexpected peace filling her with his words.

He continued. “You may accept and donate the money as you desire, and I will still answer your questions. However, tell me, are you prepared to open your mind to the inconceivable? To something you don’t understand? Something many consider rather unearthly?”

She eyed him dubiously but then shivered before she shook her head affirmatively. ”She already suspects what I am going to say, he thought.

“I am a Nephilim or an immortal being created by the love between an angel and a human. Some would call me a fairy,” he smiled. “For centuries, I have traveled to those in need, offering intervention in their moments of desperation and indecision. Some were well-known individuals, such as Beethoven, and some were more obscure identities, such as Frederica Wessell on page 398. If you read her inscription, it will say, ‘Changed her mind about killing the Nazi soldier who tortured her at Dachau, forgives him instead, September 22, 1958’.” Micah saw surprise in her eyes, but he also saw something more: there was an acceptance of something she had long suspected.

“A Nephilim?” she questioned, her voice surprisingly soft. “A cross between an angel and a human....whose mission is to help others?”

“Yes,” Micah nodded, his vivid blue gaze all-knowing as he closely watched her. He glanced at the book she still held firmly in her grasp. “Please, Grace, open the book,” he said quietly. “And turn to page 444. There is a new entry.”

Grace stared at him for a long moment, her green eyes curious, before she finally opened the book, her slim fingers carefully turning the creased pages until she reached the very last entry on page 444. There, on the yellowed page, in brown ink was elegantly inscribed, ‘Amelia Grace Hughes, learns she is a Nephilim, joins Micah to help those in need, March 5, 2021.’

Her eyes full of wonder, Grace looked up to find Micah smiling, a light in his blue eyes. He was surely the most beautiful being she had ever encountered, and truth and goodness seemed to emanate from every part of him. And if possible, he was even more magnificent than she’d initially thought because of what he’d just told her.

Micah’s face suddenly grew serious as he watched her. “I knew from the first moment I touched your hand that you are just like me. You, too, Grace, are a Nephilim who is destined for so much more. From this moment forward, our worlds have collided, and we now coexist. Nothing remains as it was. You are my Yin, and I, your Yang. We complete one another in every way.”

The depth of his words reassured her as he continued, and she smiled, as if in relief at what he told her. “We are predestined to pursue many adventures together, Grace. And there is still much to do. Are you ready for such an undertaking?” Micah asked, standing and extending his hand.

Accepting his outstretched hand, Grace felt the warmth, power, and serenity emanating from it, Her smile grew as she said, “Indeed. I think I have been ready for this moment all my life. When shall we begin?”

The heart wants

What the heart wants...

And the gut wants

What the gut wants...

...And the river plunge

Under rising ground...

...In the right light

'mongst the most

Darling of sounds...

This daydreamer

Ms

Must be manifest...

...Come alive, at once

Out in wilderness!...

Here the Lorikeets,

And the Hoopee's

Haunt...

...There are gulchs

Where enchanters

Dwell...

If you train your

Eyes though

Changing seasons taunt

Us into a trance...

...It's an arch

Soft sell.

The heart wants

What the heart wants...

And the gut wants

What the gut wants...

...And the river plunge

Under rising ground...

...In the right light

'mongst the most

Darling of sounds.

©

2018

Bunny Villaire

You crushed up the

World

In a ball in your hand...

...It was just paper

Trash that

Was meant for the can...

...Until there appeared

A huge breach

In the sky!...

...It might have been

Pierced with your

World weary eyes...

"O, God, what a light!..."

...As this vent now allows

Every wraith, and

Past member

Of the expired crowd...

Every foundations rocked,

As the walls crumble

Down!...

...There is little to keep

With that wrecking ball

Sound.

You crushed up the

World

In a ball in your hand!...

...It was just paper

Trash that

Was meant for the can...

...But right as you're

Blasted,

And the dish

Overturned,

The feedback

Came flooding...

...The truth which

Your heart yearned!...

It is speeding up quickly,

Though it took it's

Damn time...

...Better board the boat,

Baby...

...Mustn't wager, or whine...

...It is nothing you'd ever

Attempted to guess!...

...Time to throw up

Your hands, and

At last

Coalesce.

©

2018

Bunny Villaire

Did the world really end up being this?

What of the yarns they spun us, when we were kids?

Kids killed with ‘smart’ bombs dropped by drones.

Adults allayed with selfies snapped by ‘smarter’ phones.

Eco systems wrecked by wreck-less economic wrestlers only focused on the win.

Polar caps melting as refugees are drowning in their run off just trying to get in.

Every ten seconds a child dies of starvation.

Whilst another child, in another continent, complains about the lack of games for their PlayStation.

It’s all a little, a lot, anamorphic.

And for that they’ve got a pill, to stop you being sick.

The Reality they want you to see on your TV.

A slavery you can’t see can never bear a key.

So why not, have another drink, a sniff, a smoke.

With the secret yearning for the next one to kill you, and end this cosmic joke.

Or focus on the fairytales; it’ll be fine in the great beyond.

Well if that’s really the case?

Why the fuck does anyone carry on...

Because life is designed for struggle.

Humans designed to hunt.

Unless of course you’ve made it?

Born of bloodline, silver cunt.

When I first heard this song, by 'The Carpenters' in 1973, written by Leon Russell, oh how I love his music, I knew it was for me.

I was only 13 years old. My life was focused on 'love' just like all girls my age. The first paragraph:

Are we really happy with
This lonely game we play
Looking for the right words to say
Searching but not finding
Understanding anyway
We're lost in this masquerade


I was always lost with 'boys', it was a masquerade. I could never find anything right to say, until I became 'me'. When I did that, then my 'best friends' were guys. Yet again, I was lonely, because, I kept relating to the game!!

Then HS happened. The song remained the same, the lyrics, never changed. When I heard it through HS, 'The Carpenters' weren't popular, but no one could tell me these lyrics from Leon Russell & sung many times by George Benson weren't. I would swoon hearing the haunting melody, and those lyrics!!

What were they telling me? Since the third and fourth paragraphs are so close, the second made me grow up quicker:

Both afraid to say we're just too far away
From being close together from the start
We tried to talk it over
But the words got in the way
We're lost inside this masquerade.

"WORDS GOT IN THE WAY!" That was my problem, I always tried to talk my way through relationships!

Okay, so I learned young in life, and didn't keep it up. If only I had...listened, because "my life became lost inside that masquerade"

I still listen now, but only with an understanding, it's a beautiful song, that I grew up on, with many tears, I try not to cry now, only sing, in the shower, with my pretend mic...but I'll never forget those beautiful words, Leon Russell..

I stare out at the expanse of time

The night is mine

I am the ruler of abrasive shadows

The creaky floorboard that brings you a shiver

The fear you feel when the lights get dimmer

A feeling of being watched, yet no-one is there

The movement in your wardrobe, look if you dare

I want you to…

My cold calloused hands want to usher your demise

I want to hear you scream, your blood curdling cries

To severe your flesh from tendon and bone

Think of me when you are all alone

But I can’t just kill you

The underworld has rules to adhere to

I need for you to look upon me

To investigate the unseen

To realise it isn’t a bad dream

To explore the scratching at the door

To peer out the window at that skeletal face you think you saw

For I am terror and fear, I am your hope that fades away

And tonight I have a special game for us to play

All that reads me, here on this page

Every person that has learnt about my supernatural stage

At midnight tonight I will be coming for you

Everyone on Prose, know this to be true

Time to lock all your doors, turn on all your lights

Close your wardrobes and prepare for this night

For if you awake tomorrow then you will have survived my game

But don’t get too comfortable

I may strike again...

© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.

I was running down a familiar road when I came across a collection of flesh and bone. I couldn't figure out how long the body had been there, but the remains weren't pretty. I could make out a broken jawbone with a leathered tongue laced between the jagged teeth. The eyes, milky white and writhing with maggots, made me shiver. The spine was awkward and contorted, arched as if it had been frozen in place when the person had hoped to twist out of death's rib-crunching grip. The cops came to package it up and take some prints. I explained what had happened and even told them where I had bought my running shoes. I finished my run and went home. Weeks passed and I had pretty much forgotten the whole thing until an officer showed up on my doorstep. Apparently my body was found by a runner a few weeks prior. He offered his condolences, and I shook his hand before closing the door.

The funeral was short and ill-attended.

I don’t want to be your receptacle, your waste bin for snagged pick-up lines and heavy breathing fantasies. To you I am simply a thing to fill, something for you to repaint so that I might match a mirage, a paradise in your mind. I want you to read me like one reads a forgotten love letter. I want you to venture within me to see the sprouting seeds in my mind, not to feast upon the pomegranates in my pelvis. But you would rather trail my skin as if beneath my flesh hid my secrets encoded in braille. I wish you knew that my secrets do not cower in my body. I bleed myself onto a keyboard. I knit my secrets into words and punctuate them with bows. I hand them to you for your consumption, but you let them fall through your fingers like ash. All I can do is hide away. All I can do is move my jaw like a marionette and pretend that my heart’s sutures aren’t bursting.