She breathes soft, with parted lips,

And I'm holding her lungs

As she dreams,

Taking drags of her exhales and

Twirling her secrets with my fingers,

Conducting a ballad for ghosts.

And the rhythm matches her pulse.

And I can't stop taking shots

That smell like her hair,

closing my eyes around the memory of this.

Trying to zipper her heartbeats into me.

If only secrets could fall dead like fall,

I would walk walk

On the voices of nightmares,

And squish fireflies into her hair,

so her dreams can make the light

Flicker.

But the strands grazed by my touch

hide even the brightest of dawns.

And the morning will erase it all.

And show the guts matted on her skull.

And when it rains, I'll say a prayer,

For innocence as it's washed

Into the dirt,

Like moonlight turned

To threads,

Streaking across the body of earth

As though to stitch the wound.

There will be

A canyon reflecting her face,

A reminder for angels that it is possible

To

Heal.

And I'm drunk

On the tears she plucked from her heart,

tripping like those who sleep in alleys,

And I will join them.

And live off

The electronic clicks she makes

When she blinks.

Because my hands

Crave that moment

Of eyelids eclipsing sun,

Of lashes that blanket

Full moons

And drown the sound of wolves

As they hold tongue,

Standing in awe

Of her footprints, deciding

that they followed the wrong trail,

Chasing the kill,

And missing flower.

I stand unsurprised,

Caressing the shadow

Of her,

As she replaces dawn

So I will build a pulpit in my heart

And tell the tale of fingertip

And flesh until I believe

That her outline

Makes perfect sense

Of the havoc,

Chapter and verse pinpointing treasure.

Like coordinates.

And me,

Sailing to discover

places lost long ago.

Where my death becomes a rudder

And guides me past the tides

holding her,

As all my intention

snakes along the shore,

hoping to pull her into me,

That there would be no blade of sand

That separates,

And if only for a while

my current would carry

her weightless into the deep.

And our love will salt the sea,

and she will break the fangs of sharks

to a dust she'll wear as glitter,

and we will dig beneath the ocean

and I will shatter coral and stone

to clear the currents,

and watch my blood become clear

as it fades like smoke into the liquid.

And we will chew the rust of treasure

and gold

as decay creeps like mercy

over the surface of coin and crown,

because down here,

everything will fade beneath her,

and her splendor

will make every sunken ship

forfeit hope of rescue,

for who would dig further

than her reflection?

So I will sever the neck

that is not there,

and orphan the octopus

for need of ink dark enough

to make a map,

that her eyes would see the path to shore.

and the massacre will lead her to safety.

And I will drag her beyond horizon

to a place where rescue is impossible.

Where she will tame volcanoes with a smirk,

where she will bleed the magic of paradise

like a vein needing rest,

an undoing of logic into mayhem.

I will trap that conquered earth

into my heart,

she will resurrect sand to stone

by merely looking,

I only hope,

to be caught within the gaze.

And when it's too dark to see,

I'll connect the dots hanging from heaven

as stars that dangle

like a necklace around an angels throat,

and follow her freckles

into the sky,

to a place where everything

reminds me of her face.

She'll pretend she doesn't notice,

but I will rip the canopy of clouds

until she has room to stand above it,

and see,

the shadow of her is a premonition

of all that shines.

And from this perch,

she will rain down love with furry,

and scratch the dirt with empathy,

and I will stand in awe

as all her prayers change

from vapor to concrete.

And I'll become a scribe,

using my skin in place of parchment,

writing the saga of her soul,

where no beating chest fails,

and the screams of devils flee

the halos raining down from her eyelids.

And death would beg for mercy,

fearful of a world that bends

beyond reason and doubt.

And we will follow her tears

back into the soil,

like starting over,

and her footprints will give way to dawn,

and she will tell the broken

how blemish became beacon,

and every little belly will feast

on ink and blood and broken soil,

and every mother would know

the secrets that pierce heaven,

and every babe would drink

like tomorrow is certain,

and every father would rise

like blood in water until the smoke

became bread,

and she would carve her tombstone

with prayers,

telling of a journey that took her

beyond the brink of death

and life,

into an abyss where heaven

waits in such a heart as hers.

And I will hang my sins until they die,

until every attempt to breathe

reminds me of her sleeping

soft within my arms,

dreaming of a day when all these words

awaken and her hope becomes reality.

I have no knowledge of what will wake

with us in the morning,

but I pretend that whatever it is,

will in some way look like her.

But she breathes soft,

and my hands are full

and my eyes are losing focus,

music beginning to fade within me,

I know the world inside her

will fall before she wakes.

But she's talking in her sleep,

and I hear it all, like learning a language

I'm not ready for.

And soon, her dreams will become braille

and I'll reach for it as one blind,

and my hands will trace her cheeks

and try to learn the pattern of her lips

as they make a map bright enough

to lead me into safety.

       My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time.

       I was born in Hittisleigh, a small run down town in Devonshire, England. 1689 was known for its cold beginning, and one January night was colder than the rest. Winds were wild outside as my mother screamed in pain, my father at her side. My two older brothers sat in the other room, waiting to be called upon to meet me. When I was finally delivered, my mother wept as she held me. Her name was Elizabeth, my father called Stephen. A single look at my frail body wrapped in wool and my parents chose the name that would one day be placed on my tombstone. From then on, I was named Samuel Bellamy.

       At first it seemed like life would continue in a positive way, but not long after my birth, my mother became ill. Her body could no longer produce milk for me, her arms becoming too weak to carry me. Eventually, her heart gave out and she passed in her sleep. After that, my father turned to whiskey and rum to subdue his emotions. My eldest brother Eric, no older than ten at the time, had to take on a lot more responsibilities than any child should be asked of. My father was in no shape to raise me, so Eric did it instead.

       He would milk the neighbor's Jersey cow and pour it into a leather pouch, putting a slit in the bottom and cover it with linen to create a barrier for my tiny lips to wrap around. He dressed me in his old clothes, too large for my infant body but still better than shivering through the nights with nothing. My other brother, Adam, was merely two years older than myself but still helped out as best he could. He would talk to the cow about how big I was getting, how helpful the cow was being after mommy had gone to a better place. He even held me a couple times while I drank, telling me that he would protect me from anything evil. At least, that were the stories told to me.

       My first memory was the summer of 1693 after Eric met a pretty girl named Amanda who was 15, a year older than him, a few towns over. He and our father were talking about marriage, and of course our father disapproved. He had a bottle of whiskey in his left hand, his right holding Eric’s shoulder either for support or to keep him from walking away. With a swig of his drink, our father looked straight into Eric’s eyes while the eldest stared right back.

       “You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’ll let you marry.” His breath must have smelt like liquor when he spoke, for when he did, Eric’s face convulsed in visible disgust. He brushed his father’s hand off his shoulder before responding, a thing we rarely did while our father was drunk.

       After clearing his throat, he once again met his father’s gaze. “It’s my life, you can’t control it.” A flash of movement happened and our father’s hands were gripping Eric’s collar hard, tightening it around his neck in an uncomfortable way. I felt the urge to intervene, but I knew I would merely get hurt in the process. With fear in my body, I just watched the fight take its course.

      Through clenched teeth, our father gave his reply; “I helped bring you into this world, don’t make me take you back out.” He watched Eric very closely, expecting a very specific response from his eldest son.

       “But-” Another flash and Eric was pinned up against the room wall, his pain shown through his expressions as our father held him there firmly.

       The limited control our father had over his drunken anger finally stopped, and his voice became a thunder directed toward Eric’s face a mere inches away from his. “Do I make myself clear boy?”

       “Yes sir.” Eric’s mumble was barely audible, but it was enough for our father to restrain himself and back away, releasing Eric from the wall. Eric felt his father’s grasp disappear from the collar of his shirt, and corrected the shirt’s position on his body before walking away. He strode with granite features masking his face, a brisk movement in his steps as he went to his room. From then on, our eldest brother rarely spoke to our father. When he did, it was always a “Yes sir,” or a “Right away, sir.” It was like the flame within Eric had been snuffed out, but in reality the fight had ignited an inferno.

       A month after the fight, I had awoken in the middle of the night to the sounds of glass smashing and wood splintering. Wiping my eyes from sleep, I descended the steps of our home to find Adam at the base, staring at our father in disbelief. He had thrown bottles of whiskey around the room, shattering them against the walls and floor. The table that used to sit next to a window was now mere planks of scattered wood throughout the entire house. In the middle of the entire mess sat our father on his knees, a single bottle of rum in his hands, still intact. Beside him laid a perfect piece of parchment, somehow unharmed by the destruction our father had caused. Taking a few steps closer, I noticed it was a letter. A letter addressed to me. Adam must have noticed too, for he crossed towards it through the sea of broken glass lying upon the floor. While wincing in pain, he leaned over and picked up the letter, adamant about not disturbing our father. Once back beside me, he placed the letter in my hands and went to his room, biting back screams of pain with every step he took. For a second I just stared at the letter, wondering what it had said.

       Then my legs began to work again, and I walked towards my room in a sluggish manner. Once on my bed, I scanned the parchment for anything I could make out. Eric, like he did with my other brother when Adam was four, was teaching me how to read. Sadly, I had only learned the alphabet and a few basic words. On the page I saw my name, Samuel Bellamy, written at the top. I could also make out a few scattered words like had to go and goodbye. Frustrated with how little I knew, I decided to hide the letter until I could read better. I removed a board in my bedroom floor that was loose from age. Inside, a small space could be reached. I folded the letter with timidness before placing it within the floor, then replaced the board back to its original position. I told myself I would return to the letter when I could, but for now its mysteries were left alone.

       I could no longer feel the beckoning of sleep. Instead, I dressed myself and went down to Adam’s room. He was sitting on his bed wrapping his foot in linen, the glass that was once piercing his skin now on the floor speckled with blood. “I can’t sleep,” I told him as he looked up at me, noticing the awareness in my face. He nodded once and got dressed, then we both left our home through his window. We traveled down the street to the river, oil lamp posts flickering as they illuminated the cobble streets. The moon and stars shone above us, a cloudless night filled with a soft mid-summer breeze. The calm warmth lowered my alertness, and soon we were lying next to the river, looking at the moon through the ripples of water made by the fish under the surface.

       “I want to see the world Samuel,” Adam said as he turned to me, a look of excitement and the hint of an inferno that was found in Eric. “I want to sail the ocean and be a captain. That’s my dream.”

       I looked at him, trying to think of a good response for my older brother. “Will you take me?” I smiled as he laughed at me, his eyes closing and his feet kicking the ground lightly.

       “Yeah, you can come along. I’m captain though.” he said with a small grin.

       “Promise?” I looked at him, the seriousness and hope in my face clear for him to see. He sat up, looked me in the eyes, and swore an oath to me that our dream would one day come true.

       “I promise, Sam.”

                                                    To Be Continued...

Title: The Prince of Pirates

Genre: Historical Fiction, Science Fiction

Age range: 16 - 45

Target audience: North America, Central America, Europe

Word count: 1111

Author's name: Jefferson House

Synopsis: "My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time." After losing his mother at birth, Samuel Bellamy is set on a path in his life that no one could predict. Filled with loss, blame, and a beloved to return to, Samuel must face the test of time in order to return home.

      Austin, 2014. An idea was born into the streets. Two men walking, teeth dry from the ways of liquor. One stares in front. Downtown festival. Talks to the city ahead, but to the one walking next to him.

     I have an idea for an app. 

    Small city, the grey heat. Overcast no match. No hope to burn off the film from the damage last night. Hotel lounge, hair of the dog. The city had grown, and they were strangers now, each waiting to leave there, one by plane, one by car and dog. Talks of Prose., the font. Talks of why it would work, a family the size of a world. Strangers yet not quite. Revolt against apathy. Earned things, lost in paces too fast to retain soul, to keep their light. Drinks and words, the lobby bar turned museum for the old death of the words eaten by technology. A way out through a way back in. 

     We are all here now. 

     Thank you for being here with us. 

     Thank you.  

It’s Friday, ergo, it’s Friday Feature time. This week we get to meet a lovely lady in beautiful Palm Springs who is going to rock your world. Be upstanding for @AlexWestmore

P: What is your given name and your Proser username?

A: Linda Kay Silva is my real name. My pen name is Alex Westmore

P: Where do you live?

A: I live in sunny and often hot Palm Springs, but I was born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area.

P: What is your occupation?

A: I am a Professor of Literature and history. I teach American, World, and British Lit. Sci-fi Fantasy, Women's Lit, and Creative Writing. I also teach American and World History

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?

A: I have always written. Then a friend said, "Submit something." I did and was rejected multiple times before finally getting my first book published. It has evolved in so many ways. I am a much better writer now. I writer tighter prose and with 6 series, I have learned how to plant seeds and tie off loose ends.

P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?

A: Reading is such a great thing. Reading keeps me sharper.

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?

A: I just published my first romance. In future posts, I'll be adding snippets from my other series...I'll be adding challenges...I think this is a great place for writers and readers to come together.

P: What do you love about Prose?

A: I love that it's about writing...not selling. Not a constant me me me or I I I. I have read some really well written pieces, and that's been fun. I believe we are all looking for community or a place to belong in these trying times.

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?

A: Mine. No lol. Just kidding. I think everyone should read To Kill a Mockingbird.

P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?

A: Rita Mae Brown. I read everything she wrote...then decided I should try. Funny story. A few years ago, we met at a conference, and now we are good friends. That's one of the highlights of my life. She is brilliant, and the best storyteller I have ever listened to.

P: Describe yourself in three words!

A: Fearless, Funny, Fighter

P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?

A: The question isn't who's going to let me, it's who's going to stop me? Ayn Rand.

P: What is your favourite music, and do you write or read to it?

A: I'm a classic writer, baby! And no, I do not listen to music when writing. I find it alters my mood which may or may not be appropriate to the scene I am writing.

P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?

A: Books were WONDERFUL. They were like hot chocolate in your hands as you look out over the snow. They were like the fur of a rabbit or the sound of a waterfall. Books were diamonds; some shone, others had inclusions, but all added to our lives. Books had a distinctive odor, a familiar feel. They were, like each being on earth, special in their own right.

P: Do you have a favourite place to read and write?

A: I have written a number of novels poolside on a cruise ship. Yeah, I have a rough life, but someone has to do it, so I pick me. To be writing as you cruise trough the Panama Canal? Sublime. To be writing a book set in Egypt when you pull into the port in Alexandria? Yeah. Pretty fucking awesome.

P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you/your work/social media accounts?

A: I write long hand with a fountain pen because I can write anywhere. There is also evidence that the kinesthetic act of writing does something different to our brains. 

Keyboarding is a very sterile activity, but the fluidity of writing opens many other pathways. I love it, and I have some awesome pens!

Thanks so much to Alex. Make sure you follow, like, love, and do the Prose thang! If you have sent your answers back and have yet to feature, fear not. There are a number lined up for future delectation. If you want to be involved, get in touch with an email and we’ll get the questions off to you.

Oh, how I wish I were a rose,

a flower with aroma sweet;

while I offend the human nose,

because I smell like rotting meat!

A flower with aroma sweet

is not the way my story goes;

instead I’m huge with body heat...

oh, how I wish I were a rose.

While I offend the human nose,

as if to make my shame complete,

this lovely rose beside me grows

a flower with aroma sweet.

Because I smell like rotting meat,

my name is Corpse Flower, not rose.

For roses, sweet perfumes excrete,

while I offend the human nose.

(c) 2017 - dustygrein

** Note: This form is called the retourne, and is another French refrain form with a strict pattern and meter. The subject matter is actually one of the more interesting flowers in the world. Native to Sumatra, the Corpse Flower blooms every 7-8 years, and when it does it smells like a dead body, or rotting meat. This attracts the insects it needs to pollinate, and has given it its unique name. :)

A woman once told me "you can choose your family". Family isn't about cookouts and connections by blood. But rather about the things that you hold. The hand full of people who won't let you down. The ones who come for no reason at all, the ones who came without you having to call. Those who are there day through the day who cares if each endeavor did go okay. Those who would know you without your own face who would fly across an ocean or dive into space just to meet you in the morning or stifle your worrying. Blood is just that, iron and water a bond which to entropy is akin to piss. While those who you love rot in the ground remember the living and keep them around. Those who know you at your best, and endure your faults. Those who would help hide your face when we can't be adults. Who pretend to cherish that whom you love and support your decisions. Who makes time to listen to your stupid delusions. Who sees me naked for that which I am without being taken aback. You are not held back by who your family is or what they have done. You cannot ride on your family's coattails and rest on their laurels. You must go forth, find those who truly mean something to you, and make them your family.

"Please hurry," Chris pleaded. I could see he was trying to refrain from reminding Blade that someone's life was in a whole lot of danger.

     Blade's calm thought that he was going as fast as he could registered in my mind, slicing through the thoughts of panic that were building up there.

     Chris' face was lined with worry, his eyes clouded over with an emotion I hadn't ever seen there--fear. 

      I'd never seen him this way. And I've been his sister for...as long as I've lived, of course. (Which actually isn't very long.) We get along okay, and don't really talk a lot to each other, but strangely enough, I'm very tuned to his moods.

     Anxiously, Ajax paced beside Blade, keeping an eye on the monitors and panels. The Solstice wouldn't last much longer under the barrage from the siege drivers. The Horror Armada was closing in through the void of deep space, and we were all scared. 

     "Amy's still okay, right?" I asked, nervously. I felt like my head was going to explode. I shouldn't be here. This is all wrong. Pleayus will triumph again, just as he's always done in the past. There's never anything we can do! 

     "As far as we know. We're the only thing that stands between Khan, Pleayus, and her," Ajax responded grimly, for once not speaking in telepathy.

     That didn't help me calm down any. Amy was ultrapthic, and extremely powerful. If Khan or Pleayus got their hands on her, as they eventually would do, things would go down fast. Telepathic abilities can be moved from one mind to another, and Amy was genetically modified so her brain could allow for even more abilities than even the most powerful human Anomaly. Her genetic code would be extremely vital to Pleayus or Khan. And we couldn't let them get her.

     "Oh, dear God, help us," I prayed, as I saw the Horror Armada just less than a few yards away. They were going to disintegrate us. I wasn't scared of what was after death, but the pain of death.

      Ajax froze.

      Not a good sign.

     "My ship's great...but we're outnumbered," Ryker grudgingly admitted.

      The system is very unstable, Blade informed us, sweat trickling down the side of his face. Once again, his soothing voice helped to calm me.

     "Could you upset the system completely?" I asked, as an idea dawned.

      Are you trying to kill me?!Blade demanded angrily.

     "Make the system collapse! Then the fleets weapon systems will be brought offline..." I trailed off.

     "YES!" Blade shouted.

     I clamped my hands on the side of my head. "Ow, ow, ow, ow."

      "Sorry!"

     But he didn't really sound sorry.

     We fell silent again. Below us, a bloody battle was going on between Amy and the Mikara and Khan and Pleayus' separate groups of ground forces. We knew if we couldn't get down there fast enough, Amy's side would lose. I'd never met her before, but the thought of her dying because of our delay was horrendous.

     Blade was sweating profusely (as we all were) as he recklessly tramped through the system.

     Ryker snapped, "Quit the grunting!"

     Blade quieted, and then, suddenly, his eyes popped open, and a groan escaped him. he let his head fall into his hands as a horrendous headache overcame him. 

     "Are you okay?!" his sister Tempest asked anxiously from over by her gunner's position.

      "Yes," he assured her in a grunt.

     "We need to get out of here," Chris said, still pale.

      "Put it in warp drive," Ryker instructed.

      "Sure," Albany acknowledged.

     I closed my eyes for a brief moment, fighting back the nausea at the thought of the blood and gore that goes with every battle we fight. I mean, I'm only fourteen. A telepathic one, but that just means the government expects more of us. At some times, the missions are pretty simple and exciting. Other times, I just want to cry. I want to wake up every morning and be able to lie around in bed, or watch TV. Or go to amusement parks and complain about school. But I can't. I don't have time for that. And now here I am, with a group of extremely powerful teens, all of whom I barely even know. Or trust, for that matter.

     "Sis, get over here," Chris called, and I hurried over, shoving away my thoughts for the time being.

     "Yeah?" I asked, hoping he couldn't detect the quaver in my voice.

     "Suit up." He pointed to an array of different exo-suits. I choose the one that had something to cover my head. I wasn't going to take any chances with the only brain I've got. 

      He eyed me for a moment, before sucking in a deep breath.

      "No matter what's happened in the past...I love you, sis."

      I smile past the lump in my throat and the tears that threaten to flow down my cheeks, as thoughts of all the silence and mistrust between flood my mind. The words I'd always wanted to say, but never knew how to say them or how he would react to them flowed effortlessly out of my mouth. "I love you too, Chris."

       He grinned, now, looking relieved. Was it possible that he'd felt the same way I had, all along?

      Before I could say anything more, he strapped two long swords on his back. "Let's get out there and kick some butt."

       I grinned in reply. They say there's nothing like a hard time to pull people together or rip them apart. I'm pretty sure it pulled us together.

I gave it a go, a moment ago, as it was almost so, within my reach…

But it ran in a way, as if to sway, from near to away, with lessons to teach.

As we rolled down the mountain and climbed towards the beach,

I shouted out my promise: “My pact I won’t breach…”

I chased her through alleys, past some trash bins,

Then came to a T, on needles and pins…

I looked both ways, then straight out to the sea,

Fearing that she’d drowned - - drowned ’cause of me…

Then suddenly she jumped out from our childhood tree,

Looking tired and breathless while taking a knee…

She spread open her arms and welcomed me in,

She asked for a hug with an upside-down grin.

As I wiped off a tear she said, “lend me your ear,”

Breathlessly whispering, “you have nothing to fear.”

She said, “some things in life are simply not meant to be…”

As she let me down gently with this ultimate plea…

“You fought for me with gusto and unparalleled fire,

But all partnerships, love, must eventually expire…”

“You tried and succeeded in never dropping the ball,

But in the end it is I, who will cause us to fall…”

“You protected me throughout this turbulent stream,

Now let me take this one - - this one, for our team.”

And then she made love to me in an absence of time,

In a position of free verse unhindered by rhyme.

Within all my predictions, I never did see…

That at the end of the night, my dream, could leave, me.

Copyright © 1986-2017

Alan Salé

All Rights Reserved

contact: AASalehi@gmail.com

PoetryByAlan.com

Wednesday mornings are always a busy time at the Starbucks kiosk I work at since we’re right by a high school, and they don’t have class until 9:15 am. Constantly dealing with long lines and impatient teenagers is not a fun way to start off the day, but after a while I’ve learned how to make sure that things run as smoothly as possible and to be patient when things go wrong.

This particular morning, a guy had ordered a Strawberries and Cream Frappuccino with whip cream. He was going to pay with his Starbucks app, but ran out of money and didn’t have enough cash on him, so he started asking his friends for help. None of them were able to, and he was about to cancel his order, when the girl behind him in line offered to help out. He thanked her profusely, she told him it was no problem, and he finished paying. He tried to give her the change from the transaction, but she refused, saying it was no big deal. Then things went back to their usual Wednesday morning chaos.

Seeing this made me think about the significance of actions that you may think are, “No big deal” but to someone else, can actually make their day. Our words and our actions impact others, and this impact can be significantly positive, or significantly negative, especially as you never know what kind of day someone has been having. Sometimes the smallest of everyday acts, such as offering a dollar to help pay for someone’s drink, can have a significant impact. 

I used to be known for being uptight, for taking everything seriously. What life's taught me is that friendship, experiences and personal expression will always rank above material possessions and the stresses of everyday life. In the end of it all, what matters most are the memories of the good days we had and the unique and special people that we've encountered. Knowing this has allowed me to turn a corner in my life and start valuing the people around me and the experiences that I can have. I now know that I don't need to go far away or do expensive things to have fun and make memories, because the best experiences are everyday things made special by the people you share them with. The things that people get wrapped up in like money, power and social status are all stripped away when you die. We must focus on the aspects of our lives that will last after our last breath. This is the artistic expression we leave behind, and the love we give to others that they carry with them as their own memories. Our place in the universe is determined by our legacy, and the final judgment of our lives is seeing exactly what we've done. I'm no longer the uptight one stressing over little things, because I've learned how to find true value and important.