I was born; happily, I am here, still alive to write for you, fellow Readers.

I live in Ukraine. We struggle, and I must assure you, this is not going to stop. Fighting for freedom is too much in human nature, it seems, to stop in the middle of fighting.

Now a few more words about me. I write for challenges only, being too idle to challenge myself; that means I must thank fellows who post challeges for introducing my into the world of writing.

Thus, thank you, everybody!

I just joined this site very recently to practice writing for challenges/contests. I've always been a writer, but have been hyperfocused on one novel for so long that I've neglected my writing skills in other contexts. This seems like a safe space to practice without pressure of perfection.

Legacy is a big deal where I am from. Raised in the “Urban” of “Urban” neighborhoods. Lowriders on the streets, the smell of carne asada in the air and illegal fireworks on September 15th to 16th. Horchata running down your esophagus and Art Laboe playing those Sunday jams. Granddaughter of an important founder of a small town in Baja Cali; but of course, history doesn’t write about the sweat and blood mixed in the cement; only the greed and votes of the feared. When tourists drive through the town, they drive over my history, my grandfather’s legacy, our blood.

I have a fear of my children not knowing the truth about me; so, I write… a lot. Once vivid dreams are now printed on paper and typed on platforms. I’m an RCIA Team Member at my local Church and I help people find their inner faith with God. I write what I know, what I dream of, what I aspire my kids to acknowledge and learn.

My name is Betty Berniice, with two “I”s and I am happy to have found The Prose.

Blessings!

The house that built me grew mold on its sheetrock years before I was born. A 3-bedroom, one bath house. A kitchen, a living room, a garage , a couple hallways and several corners. Filled with 6 people, 2 dogs, a cat and the occasional runaway cousin. My childhood house was nothing more than that - a house, nothing that felt like home. Little me did not originally know the welcome mat was not welcoming her , and her ideas, her thoughts, her tears, her body. Little me soon realized going home after school was not a sentence she should be saying. That her home was like being in a hurricane but never getting to experience the eye. My house was a tidal wave that helped me learn how to live as I drown. Little me found home in her ink and wet paper as she cried in her closet. Home is the words of my heart that raised me. I believe in love for others and balances of peace. That happiness comes in waves, but sadness is what brings you back to the shore. This is recovery for little me.

Like a cat, I have nine lives. My first was lived in a cloak of adolescent invisibility—that nerd who played in the band and taught swimming. Good grief, I was even a Girl Scout until graduation from high school. My second lifetime was spent taking my clothes off on stages from Nova Scotia to Puerto Rico and everywhere in between. The third life was spent doing penance for it as a Sunday School teacher and the church pianist in an uptight, little church. So far, my current life- the fourth, is my favorite. I'm the bad grandma who never follows rules. I'm the crazy aunt who makes my relatives blush and is writing books about the years in my second life.

You may know me as tinad but it's really Tina D'Angelo

I felt myself slipping away. I was lost in this world, too overwhelmed by the noise to hear myself screaming. Scared to hold onto the little girl who never got a chance to shine, scared to let go and become just another person going through the motions. I spent my days feeling tired and my nights staring at the ceiling. My voice had been quieted a long time ago, my vocal chords cut off by the standards society had held me to. I took the knife and severed my old self from the carefully curated version of myself everyone wants, the blood is on my hands.

I felt myself slipping away to the point I couldn't understand why I kept holding on. So, I let go, no one caught me. I landed in cold water, drowning but still finding peace in the silence the water brought. But, the world pulled me back. I wondered how I could keep living, I wondered how everyone else did it, until I saw how my fingers could dance. How they danced over the keyboard, how my ideas could spill into words. How pieces of my heart could be preserved forever. How I could slip away into my own world from time to time.

I am H1.

On April 3rd of 2021, at 0946 hours, I am steadying myself in the cockpit of the mighty C-130. Out the left window flanking the wing of this monstrous military cargo plane lies the great metropolis of Tokyo, the crystal Bay curving round the right side, enveloping the mass of skyscrapers in a deep shimmering blue cuphold. Turning round, we bank to starboard, sky and city amassed in a blur before righting themselves once more. My eyes lock on the infinite space beyond the front window before landing on a dead-center view of the formidable Mt Fuji, made majestic with a fresh powdering of snow on its cap. I am fighting nausea—but this is fantastic! This is unforgettable.

Hi, I’m H1. I found Prose last September, but I merely dabbled my toes in the water until I landed on a challenge, entitled “Obstructions” that spoke directly to me. My entry (link: https://theprose.com/write?postId=543409) was a snapshot of my personality. And I won honorable mention for it! Then I was hooked. I live in Japan, smash writing and essay contests, and I love puppies. Sorry cats. I’m severely allergic so it’s biased. I’m a fan of stories featuring superhuman, paranormal, and identity discovery. After reading, I dream (and sometimes write) spin-offs every time. It gets bizarre, but it keeps me going. I get lost in the writing. Writing is painting—with words. The paper an empty canvas, my mind blankly splashing with color. Words are like paints. Choose and mix with care. How does it look on the page? How does your mouth feel when pronouncing it? What feelings, emotions are conveyed when you hear it? Does it match the flow? Is it an emphasized splat?

I considered using “blot” instead of “splat”, but my point is to be poignant, like a spike in the radar, drawing immediate attention, catching the reader off-guard, but leaving them hungering for more.

What is depicted? More than just words. It is another world. Be transported by the spellbinding art and exact science of the English language. It is beautiful.

I am H1. Writing is my life.

PS If you have any questions, leave them as comments and I will answer them.

PPS Yikes that’s a big “paragraph”…sorry.

Stacks of papers, nonsense on every line. Hope wrapped in these paraphrases, understanding my inner most demons and coming to terms with the true me. These stories come to me like dreams and rituals passed along down my timeline that is forever changing. Understanding myself as I try to unload the ever running voice in the back of my mind, to create some sort of silence as I thrive in the chaos that is my life.

Hello! My name is Drake C. Dyer and I am seventeen---almost eighteen---years old and a senior in high school. I first discovered my love for writing in 2015 at the age of ten when I read my first Stephen King novel: Christine. After I read it, I tried to spend the majority of the summer practicing writing poems, flash fiction, and anything else I could write. After about a year, I decided that I wanted to be a writer, but I didn't feel that I had the potential to make a difference in the simplicity of my writing; the sheer immensity of the idea of writing the next Great American Novel was such a dream, that it almost seemed impossible. In 2019, I started a novel called The Grey Affliction, which I didn't finish; it now sits in my desk drawer, collecting dust. After COVID, I really had the urge to write, and that's exactly what I did...Between February 2021 to March 2022, I wrote and completed my first book, "4:46 P.M: A Collection of Short Stories," which gave me the opportunity to finally share my words to the world in the way I wanted. September of last year, I started a project that was supposed to be a short story, but turned out to be the beginning of my very first novel called "Only Alice Knows Me," which was released less than two months ago on Amazon for $15.99. Now, I am very close to finishing my third book---another collection of short stories---called "Senioritis," which are stories, poems, and other writings that I have completed during my senior year of high school. I've always loved writing, reading, watching football, baseball, hockey, listening to music, watching old movies, and driving with my friends. I am attending the University of Tennessee in Knoxville studying finance and hope to write professionally, part-time, and built up enough financial security to support my family. Writing is the true love of my life, although we have a love-hate relationship that's lasted about eight years, I still am honored to have their presence in my life.

A true nomad, Lawrence C. Cobb has never stayed in one place for more than two years. Constantly starting over, Lawrence learned how to make friends with people quickly and never grew attached to any one place. Reading and writing are what he turned to as a constant in his life amidst the ever-changing surroundings. Organizing yourself despite the chaos is perhaps the greatest skill he acquired through all of those changes. This is his first book in The Lumen Caligo series.