Reaching her gnarled hand toward me, my mother said in a gasping voice that there was something she had to tell me before she died.

“Child, I don’t want to tell you this but I have no choice because it will greatly affect you when I am no longer living.”

“Mom, be at peace, I don’t need to know anything if it hurts you so much,” I answered.

Her frail voice quaking, my mother insisted that she must tell her story.

’I was a young woman in my twenties who was unable to have children of her own. This caused me tremendous grief every day. I decided to go to the art museum so I would get my mind off my problems. There I saw the most beautiful painting of a young child with flowing golden hair sitting in a chair looking straight at me with her lovely green eyes. She was so real with such longing on her face that I reached my hands out to her and pulled her out of the artwork and took her home with me. The little angel was you, my love. I knew there would be questions about your sudden appearance so I packed up and moved to another city where I wouldn’t be known. Eventually, I found a wonderful man and we raised you as our own. The man you thought was your father never learned of my duplicity and went to his grave loving us both.”

I was horrified at what I was hearing and thought maybe my mother was delusional. “No matter what, Mom, I love you,” I assured her.

Just then, I heard a knock at the door. “Answer it, my child,” my mother requested.

Standing at the door were two official looking people. “We’re here to take you back to the museum,” they informed me. “We found out what your mother had done a long time ago but you were just on loan until she passed. Now we must return you to the museum.”

There are bright lights where I am but I am trapped in my canvas. People stop to stare at me, saying they have never seen such a life-like painting.

“I’m alive, let me out!” I beg. But no one hears me.

who will fix me now?

'cause you know i can't do this on my own -

this feeling inside, this ripping hole is alive

breaking barriers and soaking up in tears

who will fix me now?

i am terrified

this feeling inside, this ripping hole is alive

it's haunting me, this loneliness of being here

i'm not okay, it's not alright

screaming here alone

who will fix me now?

who will save me from myself?

when nothing else is helping

when no one else is coming

will you be there to bring me home again?

help me save myself

here i'm drowning

and here i'll stay

gulping in water

gasping for air

scrambling for purchase

in a nothing-hole of existense

who will fix me now?

crying out in despair

to the ones around me

who knows who'll listen?

i can't take it anymore

this wondering how to ask

can you help me?

i'm not okay, it's not alright

stuff this pride away

ask for some help

and hope for the right answers

drag me out alive

help me learn to breathe

calm me down

please, just, please

who will fix me now?

it's getting harder and harder to breathe

stumbling around

while standing still

who will fix me now?

oh, help me now?

it's getting worse and worse for me

i'm doing it on my own

and you know i can't hold it long

who will fix me now?

just understand

that when i ask you

who will fix me now?

i'm trusting you with everything i have

giving you everything i've got

i'm destorying my pride

and crushing my doubt

oh, don't let me down

the loneliness is killing me

oh, don't let me down

who will fix me now?

who will fix me now?

who will fix me now?

w

h

o

w i l l

f

i

x

m e , n o w?

This is the story of me.

I have been loved and cherised all my life, with alot of people giving me wants and needs. I always considered myself to have alot of freinds, but I'm slowly realizing I don't.

Sure, people talk to me, and be nice, but only when their 'better freinds' aren't there.

Everyone already seems to have a group, and I'm stuck on my own- I don't fit into any groups. I've always concidered myself a nerd, but now as I go to a bigger school I notice that I'm not even close to being one- I'm not as smart as I thought.

I try talking to other Harry Potter lovers, but I normaly don't talk with people for longer than a few minutes.

This type of lonlieness is the worst- I'm alone in a group of people. I really only have one true freind at school, and she admits that we aren't best freinds. We don't even have the same lunch!

I'm not asking for pity, I'm really just describing how much Prose means to me. I'm scared about the real world, but Prose always makes me happy. It's a positive place where I can do my two favorite things- reading and writing! I can make people's days by commenting on their posts, and every like, repost, follower, and freindly comment I get makes me just a little bit happier.

It's also great to make others happy. It's not as sappy and cheesy as we all thought- it's real! I enjoy coming up with positive comments and encouragment for other aspiring writers. I love using complementary critism to help others get better. I love people saying thank you- it's the best reward I can have.

So, thank you, everyone.

Thank you for building my happy place.

.

the moon has rounded my edges

put light into my lines

it grazed against my body . curving my tattered soul

the world spoke to me in a whisper

galaxies carrying a gentle tune

vibrating through my tired state

stars had fallen on my skin

marking my arms with invisible scars

my core gave a low sigh

as the moon slowly . followed the map of my bloodstream

as it made itself a home

in me

.

Once upon a time, in a little town called Ryne. There lived a farmer who loved his farm. He would wake up before dusk~ to work on all his tasks.

One day, the farmer stumbled upon something in his field. He used his pick-axe to make a deeper hole in the ground. With his tool he got to dig out pieces of tiny bones.

This scared him and sent chills down his spine. There were two bodies of young children who had been buried in the field. He didn’t know whether they died naturally, or if they had been killed.

The farmer decided to take a break and take the rest of the day off. Later when he was back in his cottage, he heard a knock at the door. He opened it and saw two pair of eyes watching him.

He asked, ‘‘How can I help you dear ones?’’ They blinked at continued to stare at the farmer.

Before the farmer could say another word— he saw one kid nod his head & the other moved the pick~axe aiming for the farmer’s chest. He screamed the second that the pick-axe landed right at his heart.

The two kids walked away and disappeared in the mist. If only the farmer had paid attention to the other folks who had told him not to disturb any bones he finds even if they were lying in his field. Maybe if he had buried them sooner (before twilight) he might have not faced the two undead children.

#Mort~Vivant:TheTwins.©️

Once upon a time the sociopath stole her innocence. Not only her innocence, but her piece of mind, safety, well being and left her living in a dangerous neighborhood. She was afraid, and yet again, victimized.

The Master then noticed her. It was not the kind of relationship people thought it was. It was not love. It was a deep need and care to teach her to protect herself.

He too had been victimized at one time. This deep need and care was not for her. It was an obsession. He needed to teach her all he knew about overcoming abuse, mentally and physically.

He did it for himself, but nobody understood why. Including her.

He had been in training for many years. He started as a young teen. He knew martial arts, boxing and other techniques to train the mind.

She could never love him totally because his ways were obsessive and extreme. She noticed he could be crule to others. She hated that...she told him. She was never afraid to tell him anything.

He could never love her totally because she was chosen to be, student.

This was not sexual, only a few times when they had bonded over an accomplishment via the training- later she realized it meant more to him than it did to her.

He realized that he had taught her so well over the course of many years that in order to find love, he had to move on.

This was not easy for him! Like a musician who teaches a student how to play an instrument, so she fits perfectly into the band- when it ends, the music is never the same.

That is the only way I know how to describe it.

One of the last times she saw him, she kicked him in the ribs, exactly how he taught her. He fell to the ground.

The people who knew them were shocked. They thought he would be furious, but no. He was proud just like she knew he would be.

The one he finally fell in love with, was never his student.

The Master only taught who he wanted. He only shared his studies and knowledge with her.

Student and teacher miss each other. Yet, they parted ways forever.

She thinks of him often. She knows he thinks of her too! They do not speak- she just knows.

There are many things she could use help with right now- but all she has, are memories.

And in hindsight, she knows she’s better off. “The Master” was also a sociopath...Just a different type.

(only to her was he kind, and to this day, she never understood why.)

What about the one he loves?

Once again- he was only kind to the student.

For whatever reason his view of being “The Master” was unfathomable to anyone, who knew them.

Benz

10/12/19

Smoke blew up into the sky and the ground shook as the gates to the crumbling city closed its gates. But maybe it was just crumbling for me. Maybe the closed city gates were to keep us safe but as the acidic air stung my nose and brought tears to my eyes doubt backed up every thought in my head.

The dirty water that was the only thing we had to drink and the only thing we could wash our clothes with were defining and symbolizing the life that we were leading in the crowded maze of our confines they called homes.

My senses were beaten around by the smell and sounds of the liquor and yelling of escapism.

I almost couldn't see the street just a few steps ahead of me. Now whether that was because of my shitty eyesight or the smoke. Hell, maybe it was both it's hard to tell.

"Lucia! Come hurry!" My friend and co-worker at the Ring, Nikola, ran up behind me swinging on his vest and holding his sword limply in his hand.

Darting after them I noticed that the smoke that was billowing into the sky from what looked like the center of time was turning red.

Red smoke...

The commanders.

********

The town square was filling up with people who were being dragged into yard. The commander dressed in a blue uniform stood on a platform in front of the crumbling stone church. In her hand was the head of the town's mayor.

Looking around I could see that amongst the drunk and sick this did nothing to intimidate them.

No one cared about that fool so no one was sad either.

Twisting around the people in front of me I could see about six soldiers on either side of the platform.

"Your mayor has been killed for treason. Until a new leader has been appointed we will be here to keep the peace." She stuck her chest out with pride in the justification of her duty.

Nikola burped and leaned against his dull blade kicking up his open-toed boots onto a cracked open and mud-covered whiskey box.

The commander surveyed the people.

"You may return to your day. If any more changes occur you will be summoned back to the square."

It took a short amount of time for everyone to stumble and meander out of the town square and into the pothole-ridden muddy water streets.

Walking up to the commander we made it a few feet infront of the commander before we stopped by her soldiers.

"Welcome to the Mud Pit. Hope you leave soon." Nikola snarked to her before moving to the opening of our street way before waiting for me.

Looking up at her I could see the gleam and shine to her uniform and looking at the soldiers who stared blankly ahead I could see that their uniform was just as clean.

"I really do hope you guys get to leave soon."

I didn't look back till I was in the middle of my street next to Nikola and all I could see was the fog and smoke which was pretty blurry to me.

For me anymore, a good hot shower is essential in attempting to melt away all the morning kinks and hitches that encumber my aging frame. Gone are the days of just jumping out of bed and hitting it- I took those days for granted. I take note of my shoulders gradually loosening under the pulsing shower spray and try to imagine how long I can keep my complaining joints and organs passably functional. Turning a lemon grass scented bar of soap in my hands, I rationalize my preoccupation must have something to do with being retired. I lather my head with a slow, circular motion, hoping to massage a few more neurons into firing.

As hot streams of water run over my shoulders, I wonder if my wife ever contemplates similar thoughts about aging and keeping physically functional or if she figures, it’ll all work out as part of some divine plan. I circle my head on my neck and listen to faint, grinding gristle sounds. While rinsing my hair, I concluded she probably didn’t. As I’ve gotten older, north of sixty, my eyesight is worse than it ever was. I’ve noticed certain parts of my body have either disappeared or morphed into some version of a five-year-old’s drawing of a human figure. My toes, for instance. Fortunately, I can still see them but unless I’m washing between my toes, I don’t really care if I have any or not. They could just be flesh-colored crayon scribblings for all I care.

The soap slips from my fumbling fingers and my stiff knees complain as I bend to reach for it. A steaming shower doesn’t reach all the joints as well as it used to. I turn as I rise and adjust the hot water knob hotter. More steam fills the shower and I pretend to become invisible while still trying to manage cognitive thought. In a moment I can’t feel the hotter water. Either my hide has gotten thicker, or my muscles are numb. I wash my face and let my hands linger over my eyes, allowing the warmth to sooth their morning dryness. When I pull my hands away, I make a point to look at them—really look at them like a baby does. Again, my eyesight hampers clarity, but I’m unperturbed. By now, I know everything my hands can do—like the cord of wood they chopped yesterday—and everything they’ve done, like playing trumpet for the last thirty-five years. Long gone is that intense, baby-like fascination for hands or an innocent fascination for the rest of the world.

I towel off and then shave. I’ve gone back to using a double edge safety razor like my dad used. In college, I used to shave with my grandfather’s pearl handled straight razor. The sound of stropping its keen edge before holding the naked blade to my face often drew a small, morbidly curious crowd of cocky young males just waiting for me to slash my throat. But I rarely did, and soon the novelty wore off for them. Shaving with a weighty, steel handled, double-edged razor as opposed to a plastic, multiple edged, discount store razor just makes more sense now. The old style razor is cheaper and gives just as close a shave, contrary to what advertising hype promises. The bathroom mirror is still a little steamed, but it doesn’t matter, shaving is more by feel than sight these days. I hear my wife grinding coffee beans in the kitchen. The smell of the fresh ground beans charges into the bathroom. Imaging my first sip of coffee makes me hurry, and I give myself a little nick. After swearing at my less than steady hands, I’m thankful I wasn’t using my grandfather’s wicked straight razor. Wiping the steam off the mirror I look into my own eyes and wonder if I’ll ever learn any patience in this life. My wife is already a master at patience—I know, because she hasn’t asked for a divorce in all our years together.

After dressing, I walk into the kitchen and just continue my thoughts aloud. My lovely wife frequently informs me I have a habit of suddenly talking aloud in the middle of some silent monologue with myself and expect her to know just what the heck my inner ramblings were about. In response, I usually give her a scrunched-up, quizzical expression. I can’t be as habitually schizophrenic as she says.

“I dunno Hon, you ever notice how a baby stares all wide-eyed and full of wonder into an adult’s eyes, like they’re seeing something simply spectacular for the very first time?” I reach for my coffee cup and pump the carafe, filling my mug with a strong brew. I stare a moment and watch the steam swirl off the rim. I continue without looking up at my wife.

“Babies look at everything that way, fascinated, hungry like carnivorous sponges. Heck, they’ll stare at their grubby little fingers for hours. Adults are so jaded and bored, they fool themselves they know everything. I think adults have lost that wide-eyed wonder because we don’t actually care if there’s anything new or special left in the world.”

Having not yet put my spectacles on, I fumble around the countertop for the cookie jar full of biscotti. My wife rewards me with this special treat every once in a while. It’s my favorite cookie and the only thing to dunk into a nice hot cup of joe. She doesn’t know it, but I’d re-roof our house for a batch of these suckers. From habit, I know she’s on the other side of the kitchen island turning her java into some kind of sweet concoction involving heavy cream and almond extract and god knows what-all else.

“You know, I think if we all took the time to notice things in the manner babies do, like it was the first time we ever saw them, we’d be a happier species. I think we’d be more patient and open-minded and less stressed out. What do you think, Sugar?”

Finishing my question, I take a bite of dunked biscotti and with cookie crumbs around my mouth; I look at my loving wife for the first time since entering the kitchen. She looks up from her barista concoction and stares at me wide-eyed, full of wonderment.

“You did it again Hon. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

For a while, we stare at each other over the rims of our coffee mugs, not saying a word. Eventually, the fresh aroma of coffee infiltrates our subconscious and I smile. She takes a sip from her cup and raises me a smile back. At that very moment, I’m ‘Texas-Hold’em-all-in.’ A hot shower, a strong cup of coffee and a loving smile from my wife, and all’s right with the world. Now all I have to do is remember where I left my glasses before lunchtime.

#short story #fiction #hot shower #retirement #aging #relationships #introspection #william calkins #roarke

The morning held still, so still the air dared not breathe. The rain fell, somehow silent, as I watched a tear drip from your lip onto snow-crested ground.

Just another drop of rain.

How is it that you can look so sad when your smile stretches so wide? How is it you say you love me, for now and all eternity, and then reject the ring I have slaved to get you?

How can you walk away after all the time we spent? The years we collected under star-speckled skies? How can you just leave as if I were nothing?

“I’ve a whole life to live,” You said, “Places to see and people to meet. You want to live in a box and keep me there with you. I love you,” Another tear had fallen, “But spending more time with you would just hold me back.”

Damn your smile.

Like a fool, I watched. I watched you walk away, listening to your heels clack until I saw nothing but rain and fog.

Like a fool, I waited for days. Guarding the phone in anticipation, in hope, that you’d call back and apologize.

Like a fool, like a fool, like a fool.

Eventually, I had to move on. I had to walk past the spot where you ended us as if I held no consequence, I had to keep my head held high and learn that all love is not meant to last and any hard feelings between us do not deserve to fester.

I learned, the day we saw each other again, a happenchance meeting, why I was wrong for you.

How much happier you looked, how much more free.

I had learned to live with you, to dream with you. You had learned to do the same, just without me.

Your reckless, carefree attitude never suited me back then. But now, cracking a cocky smile that you returned, I understand.

Dream for the future, sure. Plan for it and enjoy the moments, just don’t get so caught in those moments that you lose sight of it all.

“I love you,” You mouthed from across the way.

“I love you too,” I mouthed right back.

And then we walked away, separate and apart. But not broken.

No, I was not broken anymore. I was going to learn to live, and damn it, I was going to enjoy it too.

"Hey," she laughed softly as she brushed the short strands of hair out of her face "you don't know me and thats okay because you won't get the chance." Her skin is pale, almost sickly, and her smile what looked to be pearly whites are now yellow and rotting. You do know her but why, and where from? your stomach starts to growl and she gives you a sad smile "Today is your last day down here," she says motioning to the dark prison cell that your curently in. As you take in your surroundings you feel a since of familiarity but once again you can't place it. "And in correct correspondence, your last day seeing me, by tomorrow that means you won't remember me anymore, you wont feel the feeling of familiarity this will be your home." she says with a sad smile. Your vision blurs as you try to stand up processing everything the girl says only to lurch over immediatly coughing up whatever contents was in your empty stomach.

You look at her to try to speak but your throats so dry all you manage to give is a dry cough. Your stomach starts to ache as you look around for any source of water, wondering how you didn't notice any of this before. You glance over at the girl just in time to see a tear get wiped from her cheek as she nods to herself as if making a pact. "If your looking for any type of substanace here you won't find it..." she says her voice trailing off. you rush too the bars pulling and banging on them as a pain starts to grow in your stomach. You began to get more violent and agressive with the banging and pulling, only to suddely stop at the smell of a warm home cooked meal. you turn around following the scent only to see a stream of blood going down both of the girls arms."Now, dinner time." she says holding out her arms as your instincts take over not giving your brian time to think. You rush over and just as fast as it began it ended, with you waking up in bed covered in blood and breathing heavly as you began to rememebr the events from the night before. The last words the girl said to you that you couldn't hear in your rampage, "I still love you, and i forgive you okay? Your sister forgives you." as tears roll down your cheeks at the thought of what you did to your sister the door opens and in walks a tall woman in a nurses outfit. she clicks her tonuge at you somehow at the same octive her black pumps made when she came in. "Well this won't do..." she says to herself as she takes something out of her dress pocket. you quickly make your way out of the bed but not quickly enough, first a sharp pain them numbness as you fall to the ground dazed and paralyzed.

"Looks like your going back down and we have to find another one of your famly members, im sure your little brother will do this time round, just tell him the same thing we told your sister. You either feed your sibling or we rip off your back and break your ribs backward just like we did your mother. That should do the trick, yes it should" she hums more outloud than to anyone else as i fade in and out of conciousness. a single tear rolls down my cheek as the memory of how many people i've been through regesters in my mind, the terrified faces, the begs the screams all echoing in my mind. I close my eyes or what feels like the last time, for i know when i open them i will be erased and whatever monster they're creating will take my place. This, is my final good bye.