Home of the Brave Hearts
Became a mom again but this isn’t like the first time.
I see it now. You and your sister traveling different paths.
Two roads open yours paved with speed bumps and grit.
Aesira’s smooth and clear
Yet both reach the same sun
A love's golden warmth
home
a place
where you both bloom
wild and free
each in your own way
both perfect
I Am Insatiable
I want the likes, the challenge, the double shot of vodka in my lemon drop martini, on the rocks. I want to write at a bar, order and sip, write and publish, make people's jaws drop at my prose, my ability to shock and make noise in the literary world.
I just wrote a letter to someone and sealed it with a kiss, but isn't that how everything is on the internet? You put forth writing on a writing website, and people click 'like', without knowing that your saliva is all over the font, the punctuation kicking me in the gut every time someone comments.
I don't get recognized for my writing, or maybe I do. There's a condom ad where a dad is at a grocery store, and his toddler is throwing a temper tantrum, throwing all the produce on the ground, screaming and causing a scene. I wonder if my writing is used somewhere as caution, use protection, never whine and complain about your WASP life, because you have everything.
I am thirty-one. In one month, I turn thirty-two. Pretty obvious, right? Except that it’s not that easy when you’re suicidal, pushing the limits of your serotonin. When do I get famous? Probably never, and that‘s okay, that’s the logistics of both my genetic lottery and this game I play where I write out my feelings.
I am insatiable. I want to be the greatest writer ever created, until I look at the writing of Ernest Hemingway, and my dog who I named after him (we call him "Ern"), and see that his corgi legs are too small to hold the weight of my expectations about myself, that the real Ernest Hemingway is somewhere looking down, but not at me, at everyone else who wants a place in history.
This is all great, I'm sure - you'll hit the "like" button, or move on, or just forget this post ever got written. I'll drink my martini, the one I made a double, because the bartender asked, and I had nothing to lose - and now, I press "publish" and hold my breath that someone reads this and isn't lost in my line of thinking.
Mountains, crooked arms of the moon, send rain, and where you cope.
'Mountains' by Prince started the morning off right, winding around a few stones of Prose., one legendary, preceded by two new bloods whose words cut through like butter beneath blade. Beautiful words from these measured and magnificent artists. Kick back, but also let it all fall off the sides and get into the words of these writers. Smooth and rich, like coffee, like all things that last.
Here's the link to episode 32 on Prose. Radio.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YTiBo32fmDs
And here are the featured pieces.
https://www.theprose.com/post/814678/10-minute-walk https://www.theprose.com/post/814650 https://www.theprose.com/post/814328/news-flash-it-appears-that-its-not-so-much-how-you-cope-as-where-you-cope
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Hot Chocolate, pork and beans and prose, four ladies, spit upon a page, and lemonade air.
A Challenge created by putski brings home the first glance on today's feature on Prose. Radio, where Hot Chocolate bass-lines the morning into the world created by four talents and their heavy lifting of our minds into - then onto, a plateau of a dimension defined by coping, four seasons in heavenly bodies warming by the fire, a madman's babbling, and into the lemonaide air with a flash.
Here's a link to the show.
https://youtu.be/W0u4DfJbSx8
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/814391/the-cheshire-cat-with-a-side-of-pork-and-beans https://www.theprose.com/post/814503/togetherness-for-the-whole https://www.theprose.com/post/814610/i-found-these-things https://www.theprose.com/post/814243
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose team.
Journey
Once upon a worldly time
She came into being
She sat at the bottom of the world
And saw nothing but the sun at noon
The sunshine told her that she could
One day embrace a better world
So she climbed and she climbed
And one day she saw the world
For the first time
For a while the sun did shine
And she danced on the plains
She yelled for joy
And sang the praises of the world
And one day
The mirror broke
A thousand pieces shattered before her
And she was back at the bottom as before
For an eternity she mourned her loss
And for an eternity she cried
Only after a flood of tears built up
Did she finally climb out again
But the mirror was broken
Things would never be the same
So she pieced together what was left
And said goodbye to the sun
She sits on the plains at night
Breathing in and out
And embraced the quiet moon instead
An (Un)breakable Cycle
Ten years ago, every day, I'd have to fight a dragon. The dragon would snap at the slightest notion, would swipe its claws at me without reason, and would mercilessly attack my very being. My only shield was,
"I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry,"
"I'm sorry!"
And although your hunger was sated for the time, it was never enough.
Ten years ago, I never knew the joys of parenthood.
Ten years ago, I never knew the indescribable, innumerable love I felt for my girl.
So, while ten years ago, I forgive
Now, I fight you with my claws.
Togetherness for the Whole
Sunny finally stops, "Ok, we'll rest here for the night," immediately followed by three heavy sighs of relief. "April, find water. Amber, start a fire. Eira... find us some dinner."
As Amber and April were about to shuffle off, Eira, visibly weak, drops to the earth, close to death as you can get from exhaustion. "I can't move another step, we've been walking all day."
"Eira, we're all in this together, we each need to do our part. The longer you sit, the harder it will be to get back up. We will be OK." Sunny's deep blue eyes gazed just as deeply into her soul. While fiercely intimidating, they would instill confidence in even the most unmotivated individual. But Eira is more stubborn than most.
"What's the point... nothing survives in the end anyway," she mutters, unsurprisingly woeful.
"Why do you always have to be the pessimist, Eira? You know Sunny hates it." April retaliates, defending her older sister.
"She's right, you know." Amber says as she picks up a piece of wood off the ground, "and for the record, I'm not being pessimistic."
"What do you call it then? Sure doesn't sound optimistic."
"It's called being realistic," she calmly replies, pulling out her pocket knife.
April must've never heard this word before, because she fails to respond and then looks towards Sunny for help.
Sunny rolls her eyes, "ok, Ms. Realist, how do you realistically propose we save mom?"
Amber had already started whittling the piece of wood she found. She remained silent for a few moments, then slowly looks up at Sunny, and dodges the question. "I thought you were the leader... what's your plan?"
Unaffected, Sunny beams with confidence, "by working together. Which reminds me, can you please start the fire?"
With a glare from her sage green eyes, Amber turns around and disappears into the dark, mumbling to herself, "yeah, yeah... that's not even a very specific plan..." Amber knows she is more the type of person to take someone else's ideas and improve on them, rather than make a new plan from scratch. She saves that kind of creativity for her artwork.
Sunny reminds April to find water, and after some direction, she heads towards the sound of a creek. April really looks up to her older sisters. She wishes to be just like Sunny, and she looks up to Amber if only to know how to be the opposite. Blue eyes, but a lighter shade than Sunny's; curious, growing strong, and with plenty of life still to see.
Then there's Eira. Eyes so dark brown that they look black if not exposed to direct sunlight. She is the oldest, and arguably the wisest. She's experienced so much loss that her outlook on life has become extremely cold and bitter. One would think the influence of Sunny's bright soul would help, and maybe it does, but she doesn't show it.
She finally found the energy to look for food, and about 20 feet into the darkness, to her delight, stumbled upon a ripe raspberry bush, making her task quick and easy.
They can all finally relax around the warmth of the fire. With bellies somewhat full from the fruit, they stare blankly into the dancing orange flames. No energy to bicker anymore, the minute differences in pitches of the crackling wood acts as music to combat the silence.
Eira sits alone further away from the flames than the rest. Amber sits cross-legged hard at work whittling at a safe distance from the others. April and Sunny sit together, with April's head at rest on Sunny's shoulder. They know what comes tomorrow, but for now, enjoy this moment together.
Sunny begins to hum a tune in hopes of increasing the overall morale. She hopes to create a sense of peace before the looming storm on the horizon.
(note: this is in relation to Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter in the northern hemisphere, as I understand it would be the opposite for the southern half. I may pursue this to be a proper short story or even book. Thanks for reading!)
Crossroad Blues.
Forgive me, father, for I sin.
Each breath.. entangled in a brume of spite.
I mean well.
I do.
It's why I've amicably come forth with a gilded spirit and an open mind, wishing—hoping—for a remedy.
You summon me before you as a proscenium, my life a dancing intermission in a tragedy, captivating those closest to the arch—the audience a cast of specters, with ghoulish eyes and morbid expressions.
"Go, my son," you tell me, its polytonal dissonance startling my ears at first listen. "Dance to your heart's content, for tis a time of jubilee."
I dance.
I sway to, and fro, pivoting and strutting, each movement an ode to Thee. The percussions of footfall bring about their own tune, serenading the audience in such a way that inspired awe and enthrallment.
I am a languished will, a blossom wilted by solar egression.. your light the brilliant encircement of the luminares, the opulence of chandeliers and familiarity & warmth of a mother.
I am a subjugate to their clamor, a jester lulled into their hide, a false sense of security emanating in their secular stares.
I am no man.
I am weak.
You assure me the dance will end. That there will be no encore.
So why, oh, why, father, do I pity their howls and claps?
Succumb to tears in lieu of your admonishment?
Why do my feet bleed, and my arms ache?
Why, when I bow do I feel the compulsion to vomit out the bile in my intestines, as if it's the only way to muster the agony?
Why do I want to do it all over again?