Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

What does dating a mortician, roadkill shoutouts, Shakespeare, tons of talent new to the site and our resident legends, a bad haircut, and over the counter flu meds have in common? The answer needs to be, "Nothing," but in today's video, each of those elements, and a few more, collide into each haiku in our last Challenge of the Week being read, after introducing the new Challenge of the Month, with a bit of pizzazz on this one.

Here's that link.

https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14207

And here's the link to the video on The Prose. Channel. I know for sure I dropped or misread a few words or usernames, but show mercy, if you would. I'll tag some of the writers in the comments, and a few writers new to Prose.

And, to them, from us: Big family home here. Pick a room, and walk downstairs for the feast, whenever you feel like it. Welcome home.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-FIElCwRN3Y

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

They bled from the moonlight

opened up like a murder victim

belly to throat with their high

pitched squeal no yellow tape, no warning of danger, just teeth glistening

above the din illuminated

by an October street lamp

you told me not to worry

they wouldn’t swoop down

lay eggs in my hair

another halloween lie

you wanted to make sure

I knew

but when they swooped down

like kamikaze pilots targeting

I ran like Hell

and to this day, I’m still running

Dying, for me, was a beautiful experience.

I know that sounds crazy, blasphemous even, to describe such a tragic thing, a viscerally sad thing, in such a dissonant way. You might wonder if I was depressed. And truly, I wasn’t. In the end, despite everything, I was stupidly happy. Still, if I was being completely and truly honest, dying, the actual act of it, not the pain or the ragged breathing, no, the actual process of letting go… that part. That part was bliss.

Let me tell you about my life, before I ask you to celebrate in its ending.

It wasn’t a particularly spectacular existence, some might even call it boring, run of the mill. A life that could be mistaken for a thousand others. Of course, to me, at the time, it was everything, the only thing.

I was born in a small Midwestern town, raised in typical Midwestern niceness, by a father who was strict and distant but did his best, and a mother who was a tad too religious but who did all the mothering things with unmatched fervor. I was clothed in clean clothes, my feet adorned with shoes that were sensible and fit well. I was loved and scolded and hugged in all the typical ways. I had two sisters I constantly squabbled with, banging on the shared bathroom door, hastily getting ready for the day in a panic, somebody always holding up the one hairdryer, using up all the hot water.

I loved, oh yes, I loved. Roman, that was his name. I remember thinking his name had that unique way of rolling easily in the curl of my tongue, passing effortlessly through my lips, like I’ve said his name all my life, or that I’m meant to, for the rest of it.

He was brilliant, my Roman. I met him at university, studying astrophysics. He had grand ideas and even grander dreams. He loved life but at the same time was disillusioned by it. He said to me once, using his hands to gesture into space: “It’s not possible, you know, that this is it. There’s more to this, more to everything, we just can’t see it.”

You would think it would hurt, the way he said it, the way he longed for something more than us, more than what I could give him, but it didn’t. Because I knew what he meant, I felt it too.

There was something in between the empty spaces, he told me, between the tiniest of particles. An answer to everything.

I never found out what he meant, neither did he. He died shortly after his twenty-fifth birthday, before he was able to finish his research, before he got to meet his daughter, at that point still the tiniest clump of molecules gestating inside me.

I remember the pain of that moment. How the world became dull and gray. How I went to sleep too many nights hoping to never wake up again. But day after day I woke up, and I would go through the motions, and I would go to work and my prenatal appointments, smiling at my doctor, telling him yes, yes, I’m doing okay. It’s hard, but I’ve got my sisters, you know, and my mom…

Then I had my daughter, and at once the world had color again. She had Roman’s eyes, almond shaped and deeply brown, thick dark lashes swooping downwards at the sides. I swear she looked at me in the exact way Roman did, with that exact slight raise of the brows, the slight curl in the lips, and I remember weeping.

I named her: Aster. Star. The only one that mattered in my universe, my sun.

We had a simple life, our little family of two. We fought a lot, in the way all mothers and daughters do, Aster having the quick wit of her father, the stubbornness of her mother. She broke my heart a million times when she was a teenager, which we mended as we both grew older. Then as quickly as she came into my life, she left. I understood. She had to build a life of her own, having met her own star, her own universe.

And it was good.

“Mom?”

She’s finally here. My star. “Aster.”

Large dark eyes stared down at me. She was older now, my star, smile lines having formed at the corners of her eyes. Have those always been there? They must have. Aster always smiled with her eyes.

“Hey mom, it’s okay. We’re here.”

We. I couldn’t see well these days. She must have brought her little boy, my grandson. I squinted at the small blonde head on her lap. She named him… Roman.

I wanted so much to smile, but it hurt to even breathe. My chest muscles struggled to expand. I saw the nurse put a hand on my daughter’s shoulder, shaking her head.

Yes, there was pain, every single muscle hurt, the air caught uncomfortably in my chest, but there was also something else… something light. Suddenly I felt weightless. I knew then it was time to go.

Time at once contracted then expanded, and I could see everything, the future, the past, all possible choices and universes all at once. I finally saw it, what my Roman was talking about, the space in between the tiniest particles, the invisible energy that connects all of us together, in every universe, in every possible dimension. My universe, my stars.

I died then.

And it was beautiful.

I.

that a purple balloon flew outside my window

and i caught the string between my teeth.

then the way that your eyes adjust to the dark,

when you're a little bit nervous,

but i can make you smile.

and you're afraid of spiders, and i of teeth,

but we can pretend we're living a domestic life.

bunk beds and comic books and

you don't eat your peas.

and i laugh when you drop your soda and

spill it all over the table, a sugary pool.

so then bring you back home,

cozy in the night air, enclosed.

five chairs, like you belong, until it's time to go.

II.

that your interests are my interests,

that mine are yours, that we're the same except for some.

except for weddings and apartments and moving boxes.

except for being capable and fun and drunk.

except for not being a child in an adult's skin, like me,

like me, like me.

except we pretend we're kids again anyway,

and i wear a fairy skirt and clip colored pins to my bag.

sometimes i'm anyone because anyone is someone.

III.

that i tell you mundane secrets in the car,

and we scatter across main street like skipping stones,

past candy stores and fuzzy hats and sunglasses for kids.

and the first ride's not enough,

so we go faster.

and there are paint cans and beaded beauties,

and spaceship memories like unheld hands,

because i've been here before.

i didn't get dizzy this time, no one to press me too close.

it didn't rain,

and i didn't miss the memories.

then you drove me home in silence,

with the music just a little too loud.

i lost a pin, i walked in circles, and

some part of me is still screaming, waiting to hit the ground.

No honey drips from lips

It is expelled through clenched teeth

And bleeding gums

While broken fingers

Hunt and peck words

Disavowed to be spoken

A symphony of silence

To tell a story

No one is ready to hear

When someone puts a loaded gun in their mouth and pulls the trigger, the human head opens up like a flower. This flower formation can happen from GSWs to knee-caps and even the groin area, but nothing compares to the head. It’s utterly horrifying to see, but maybe by the time you’re done reading this, you’ll see just how beautifully poetic it can be.

The only reason I know all of this is because I am so privileged to once have had an almost promising career in the medical field, and I was going to eventually specialize in Forensic Pathology after becoming a general surgeon. Fourteen years of schooling sounded like a fucking dream to the nerd I’ve always been. I was the youngest-ever candidate chosen for an exclusive summer program at University Medical when I saw my first and only self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. And just like myself, this person applied and was approved for Full Body Donation—so I was free to do hands-on study of his remains (thank you for your service, Sir).

The first requirements you need for that line of work is a strong stomach and an eager love for the science. However, to keep you there requires a genuine desire to help others. I am an advocate at heart, and the crux of what a pathologist does is give a voice to the voiceless. I’ve always been determined to leave this world in better shape than it was given to me, and this was my way of helping people. Studying those precious former lives under the most phenomenal doctors was by far the best professional experience of my life.

So, of the dozens of autopsies I have taken part in (both in person and through video/photo lecture), one of them, sadly, was this suicide I mentioned. He was a middle-aged male and the cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot into the mouth. It’s not the only suicide I worked on, but definitely the most visually memorable. The pressure a gunshot creates inside this air-tight, fluid-filled compression chamber we carry on our necks forces a human head to open up like the fully-bloomed petals of a lily. Any remaining teeth become forged with pieces of skull and brain because the force and heat of the explosion literally turns any hard matter into the shrapnel of a pressure cooker bomb. Ever observant as I was, they allowed me to remove a tooth I identified that was lodged into one of the petals of the human head flower.

Unfortunately, I never even made it to medical school because life threw too many punches at me at that time [*ba-dum-tee* formerly-abused humor anyone? Eh? Ehh?]. Just joking! I’ve always said, “If I couldn’t laugh at my life, I would’ve fucking killed myself a long ass time ago.” But aside from comedy saving my soul countless times, that suicide case is seared into my amygdala—from the sorrow and duty I felt toward this man and his family, down to the smell of his chewing tobacco still stuck to portions of his gums. Clearly enough to give anyone reservations about that second of bravery it takes to just fucking do it.

This was the case which also piqued my interest in the funeral business. Any Funeral Director/Embalming Specialist who can put that train wreck back together to resemble anything of the man his family and friends love so dearly, oof... to me, that is art of the highest caliber. Only the most skilled specialists in the world can pull that off well. Most families will opt for a closed casket in these cases, and you don’t get a “body funeral” if you’re signed up for Full Body Donation—but I wanted to be the one-of-a-kind talent who not only performed autopsies to the utmost perfection, but could give families their beloved back, looking beautiful, one last time.

Death wasn’t just my calling to help the world… Death was my life’s passion. I might still have a chance at the funeral business someday—that is, if it’s not me who ends up on that cold, stainless steel examination table first. Death has reappeared in my life, in a bad way, and that fucker is lurking ever closer, each day.

The majority of my physical and emotional scars belong to a single bad man who I will soon introduce y’all to in my darkest tale of woe. This man is solely responsible for the loss of my ability to continue my education and accomplish these dreams I once had. I had to plan nonstop for my escape because he was so cunning. And one day, the plan finally fell perfectly into place because he’d given himself a little too much heroin. He was completely zonked out and nodding off so heavily that I simply walked right out the front door. I told him I was off to send a gift to his mom, which he easily took me up on since he’d forgotten her birthday. He let go of my shirt and I slipped away. I escaped nearly 20 years ago, and to this day, he still finds ways to contact me online.

As long as this bad man stays away, I wish him no harm. But the videos he’s been sending me lately are what struck my desire to start writing again. Not only do I need to finally heal this pain once and for all, but I need to document what he did to me (just in case):

1) My beautiful body, gone.

2) My beautiful mind, gone.

3) My beautiful career, gone.

4) My beautiful life, FUCKING GONE.

This bad man has delusions that I will always be his property. I truly feel sorry for him, but I can never forget what he stole from me. How could I? His torture is all over my naked body every time I look in the mirror. The stalking and obsession seems to be growing, and because he was so smart, I can never call the cops on him again (long story).

So, my only choice was to finally agree to have a gun in our home full-time (specifically, when Mister is gone). Thanks to the Traumatic Brain Injury from this bad man, I’ve been a nervous, stuttering klutz ever since—so not only did it kill my once surgeon-steady hands and ballerina grace, naturally, I was always scared to be responsible for my own gun. However, I have too many lives depending on me now. She’s no Colt .45 with a pearl grip, but she’s definitely a stealthy bitch that’s more than willing to do the job. Her name is “Kiddo,” named after Uma Thurman from the Kill Bill films. Pretty fitting, don’t you think? Well, I’m proud of it—proud of my Kiddo ;)

If he ever finds me again, the play-by-play of what would happen is now also seared into my amygdala—from the fear I feel just imagining seeing him again, down to the smell of his black leather combat boots and body odor. I’ll know he’s here, and the memories will all come flooding back:

It took almost 1 decade to escape him for good. It took 2 decades to have the courage just to write about him. It took 3 decades to meet the first kind gentleman in my entire life. It took almost 4 decades from the day I was born to find self-love. He is NOT taking a single thing away from me again.

But this massive man with his roaring voice will surely be black-eyed and screaming at me. I need to remember what matters. I can’t get distracted or crumble into pieces. I need to remember what Mister taught me:

1) Just breathe and focus on your target, not the gun.

2) Keep your arms strong and grip tightly.

3) Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it.

4) Keep your eyes open, and never shoot to injure (only you can finish it).

If he tries to attack me or step foot into my home, it’s either him… or him. Turns out, I can still contribute to the morgue of my dreams, because Kiddo and I have unfinished business…

*click-click*

1) Heart: for stealing my life’s passion.

2) Lungs: for every time I couldn’t breathe.

3) Dick: for every time he forced me to my knees, screaming.

And just like the first time I escaped his captivity, the last words he ever heard from my beautiful voice, that I still have:

“Shhh it’s okay… go back to sleep…

I’m just going to send your mom some flowers…”

4) MOUTH: for my condolences.

Human Head Flower

A “Those Damn Enigmas” Production

Based on true events, but no one was harmed writing this story.

My mom and dad took full advantage of the debauchery of the 1970's. In fact, I was told that my mom took acid with my dad at an Emerson, Lake, and Palmer concert and a week later she found out she was 8 weeks pregnant will little ol' me. Which explains the bad trip I had in kindergarten (The cow on the Elmer's Glue Paste called me the Walrus. Goo goo g'joob). It also explains my random ability to smell sounds and hear colors.

Some people are born with a legacy. They may have grandpa's ears, mom's smile, and dad's lack of penile length and girth. My legacy? I was born on probation, had a training wheels case of sclerosis, and a copy of, "My First AA Handbook" clutched in my little fist. This was the less than auspicious beginning to my life.

I was raised in a chaotic haze of neglect, meth fumes, and counting the days until the welfare check showed up. Somehow I managed to buck my family's preoccupation with burning out instead of fading away. I did well in school, avoided the criminal justice system, and since I didn't become a connoisseur of meth, I kept a full head of teeth.

Still, you can educate the trailer trash boy and take the trailer trash boy out of the trailer park, but you can never take the trailer trash out of the boy. As such, I have never met a psychotropic medication I didn't have an appropriate diagnosis for. I can still tell you the SNAP benefit (that's food stamps to those who grew up in a nurturing environment where parents had jobs and/or put the needs of their kiddos first) to meth exchange rate. I can tell you the horrors involved in trying to digest gov'ment cheese. If you call it, "Government Cheese" you're either too young to remember this colon blocking government handout or had parents who understood that the refrigerator was for more than Stroh's Lite beer and ketchup packets. Finally, like all my family members, I am extremely fertile meaning that before I had myself neutered for the good of humanity my love lava could impregnate with extreme ease. This fertility can be directly linked to the sad fact (and example of Ma Nature's sick sense of humor) that the least capable humans can crank out kids faster than China can crank out knock-off electronics. Ultimately, this insures that CPS social workers, the welfare department, drug dealers, and those employed in the criminal justice system have total job security. It's our humble gift to you and the economy.

In short, cut me off, take the last donut, or STEAL MY ENERGY DRINK FROM THE BREAKROOM FRIDGE and I will make it my mission to insure that my children both date and procreate with your children. Hope you like Lynyrd Skynyrd, because their music will be featured heavily at your kids and my cum fruit's weddin'! Everybody fucking sing! IF I LEAVE HERE TOMORRRRRROWWWW...

TRIGGER WARNING: Sexually explicit and unashamed

Ew, does your asshole have some kind of an STD?

Sorry, that’s just from where he put his cigar out in me.

Ew, why is there a brown mark on your pink pussy?

Sorry, that’s just where I was bit for being fussy.

Um, why are you sitting so strange and formal?

Sorry, I just thought that was the everyday normal.

Um, why would that make you so fearful and sad?

Sorry, I just thought I was in trouble for being bad.

WTF, why can’t you just be more proper and stable?

Sorry, I thought every girl is supposed to love anal.

WTF, who in their right mind has a cum infatuation?

Sorry, that’s just something which feeds my rabid dark elation.

I wish someone could see all the beauty I have inside.

That my scars are merely from what I had to survive.

I close my eyes and pray for someone to save me.

A man who can love damaged goods from actual slavery.

Sweetheart, open your eyes and look at me, you precious jewel.

Mister, are you sure that’s allowed and not against the rules?

Sweetheart, please don’t hide, let me see your gorgeous body.

Mister, are you sure you want something so disfigured and shoddy?

Babygirl, no one has ever loved me the way you can.

Mister, are you sure I’m not just an obsessive fan?

Babygirl, I promise I want you and only you.

Mister, is this a trick or is it really true?

Princess, I love your dark mind, down to your pinky toes.

Mister, you even want my secrets that no one else knows?

Princess, I want all of you because we fit so perfectly.

Mister, are you the puzzle piece made for me, personally?

We discovered shared madness within letters of causerie.

A fine fellow with an aching for my debauchery.

He’ll never be some bullshit definition of Prince Charming.

But to me, this quiet giant is my Gentleman-Dom King.

He loves my wounds and kisses them softly.

He earns my submission no matter how costly.

All my dirtiest deeds are matched to his desires.

When we make love, we light this fucking world on fire.

I was grown by the heartless,

So this body I must dwell.

Now, the Princess of Darkness,

In my own beloved Hell.

These hands, she fills them.

Delicate china,

held by the bull.

Hummingbird feathers

and hollow scrimshaw

decorate the labyrinth,

But she remains unbroken,

bending, instead,

lifting, pulling, pushing us

ever skyward.

The burden too heavy,

clouds too far,

slipping grips and crushing

weights, I fell and I'm fallen.

She moves up,

she moves on,

and I mourn.

I will welcome my Theseus.