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Written by manto in portal Poetry & Free Verse

RIP Chris Cornell

I stole your metaphors

and built my understanding of my life

You saw yourself as darkness but I grew

in your light

Ten years later at the other end of the sea

I've weathered my storms

and I look back to see

Pieces of the lifeboat

that had once carried me

Farewell, brother in arms

Your voice will be the speed in my arrows

And your words the strength in my shield

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Written by manto in portal Poetry & Free Verse
RIP Chris Cornell
I stole your metaphors
and built my understanding of my life
You saw yourself as darkness but I grew
in your light
Ten years later at the other end of the sea
I've weathered my storms
and I look back to see
Pieces of the lifeboat
that had once carried me
Farewell, brother in arms
Your voice will be the speed in my arrows
And your words the strength in my shield

#nonfiction  #poetry  #news  #culture  #lyrics 
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Written by Prose in portal Prose

Estimados Bastardos Magníficas

     It’s true. 

     Shots of bourbon in our coffee lead to reverence for you in the voice of Neruda.

     Where to begin? Does anyone who asks that question not know where to begin?

     We’ll start.

     Swift but graceful changes here at Prose. Our coder, while also knee-deep in slaying dragons and winning digital hills on rendered battlefields, is working on new features as this is being typed. Keep your eyes peeled. In another change, call it a red sun rising, we’re taking the app to 18 and over after the next update. Any young guns existing won’t need to worry, and should anyone under 18 sneak past the doorman and smooth-talk the bartender into a drink with no ID then you probably belong here, anyway. 

    

     Many more things to appear on the horizon.

    

     Stay tuned. Stay hungry.

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Written by Prose in portal Prose
Estimados Bastardos Magníficas
     It’s true. 
     Shots of bourbon in our coffee lead to reverence for you in the voice of Neruda.
     Where to begin? Does anyone who asks that question not know where to begin?
     We’ll start.
     Swift but graceful changes here at Prose. Our coder, while also knee-deep in slaying dragons and winning digital hills on rendered battlefields, is working on new features as this is being typed. Keep your eyes peeled. In another change, call it a red sun rising, we’re taking the app to 18 and over after the next update. Any young guns existing won’t need to worry, and should anyone under 18 sneak past the doorman and smooth-talk the bartender into a drink with no ID then you probably belong here, anyway. 
    
     Many more things to appear on the horizon.
    
     Stay tuned. Stay hungry.
#nonfiction  #prose  #news  #culture 
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Written by BenCoulter in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Design Flaw.

Designed to be dawning in forest, jungle.

Designed to be anxious about the hunt.

Designed to be free from bondage.

Designed to love.

I don't believe in trends.

I don't believe in vainglory.

I don't believe in governments.

I don't believe this story.

I believe in feelings.

I believe in blood.

I believe in you.

I believe in us.

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Written by BenCoulter in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Design Flaw.
Designed to be dawning in forest, jungle.
Designed to be anxious about the hunt.
Designed to be free from bondage.
Designed to love.
I don't believe in trends.
I don't believe in vainglory.
I don't believe in governments.
I don't believe this story.
I believe in feelings.
I believe in blood.
I believe in you.
I believe in us.
#nonfiction  #poetry  #philosophy  #politics  #spirituality  #news  #culture  #opinion 
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Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by AlSalehi in portal Simon & Schuster

By and Bye

She showers me from above with falling Spades,

Having then gift-wrapped the stems with little Hearts,

A great public service delivered in shades

Of now Red and Black poison injected darts.

She’s masked as a Queen holding multiple Aces,

Bluffing her bosses under multiple Faces.

Diamonds of wisdom she pretends to display,

When Diamonds to Cut is the truth of her Play.

But if all she believes is no feign then no gain,

My question is this… at what cost and whose pain?

Club members pleased as she slanders, applaud -

The Clubbing of a young man's Heart, oh God - -

Please guide my hand to select flight and not fight,

For I wish not my words to be used in spite,

Against a sinister old maid's wretched plight.

Help me not crush her with your gift of great light,

Instead flip back my dream turned nightmare tonight.

I’m now struggling with this motion to let live or expire

As a resolution that is urgent and morbidly dire-

It was just on the floor, now on the grill, and soon to the fryer,

But a procedural second is needed for trial by fire.

Dust to ashes and ashes to dust,

Cremate this invoice for poison lust.

Lord, make me not one who lays to waste

This old bully from a schoolyard fight.,

Give me purpose and heavenly might

For a cause you deem worthy and chaste.

Consider the nights I’ve spent digging her ditch,

Please honor the time that I've lost to this witch,

Whose rage’s Raised from an emotional glitch,

Of jealousy Folded in a single stitch.

I’m hereby Knocking to Check on slaying this snitch,

Calling Azrael to Push the dumbwaiter switch.

Though a 50/50 Chance is Blindly set by your Crown,

I pray that today, both of the Arrows, for her, point down!

Nay, help make me the hero and this order delay…

Just protect me from Evil as I kneel and I pray:

“Our Horsemen, who art in Heaven, now summoned and nigh--

Pass, by,

Pass, by.”

And now Four Suited Stallions, Flush with Black Hearts

Neigh loudly but voiceless, in front of their carts.

Marking her Players who all vote as One,

To majority Counts of 4 to 1.

Alas I’m human at the end of day

So I ask you, Yahweh, to end this decay.

I wish not to Cash-out on her last sigh,

No reins or noose, to now knot up and Tie.

I’ve good left in me and I wish to try

Asking your Horsemen for a Pass to Buy

A way,

Away,

From this old passerby.

I'll pay her Ante across the River Styx,

Chips sprung from her eye sockets with reaper sticks

And then stuffed in her Pockets with fire picks.

Trotting the Odds at all Even they cry:

‘All Bets are Final to live or let die’!

Swords at the ready and ready to fly,

Riders are Shuffling to Deal upon high,

Sickles now Flopping like hail from the sky,

Turning her tombstone with acid & lye,

The River’s mouth’s Showing halva and rye –

Good night fine Horsemen, hello and goodbye.

Just pardon one last thing,

As a postscript, my King…

Come hell or high purpose in this fog of clear sight,

I beg of your Horsemen, now sincerely tonight - -

Pass her by /

Pass her, bye.

Copyright © 1986-2017

Al Salehi

All Rights Reserved

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Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by AlSalehi in portal Simon & Schuster
By and Bye
She showers me from above with falling Spades,
Having then gift-wrapped the stems with little Hearts,
A great public service delivered in shades
Of now Red and Black poison injected darts.

She’s masked as a Queen holding multiple Aces,
Bluffing her bosses under multiple Faces.

Diamonds of wisdom she pretends to display,
When Diamonds to Cut is the truth of her Play.

But if all she believes is no feign then no gain,
My question is this… at what cost and whose pain?

Club members pleased as she slanders, applaud -
The Clubbing of a young man's Heart, oh God - -

Please guide my hand to select flight and not fight,
For I wish not my words to be used in spite,
Against a sinister old maid's wretched plight.

Help me not crush her with your gift of great light,
Instead flip back my dream turned nightmare tonight.

I’m now struggling with this motion to let live or expire
As a resolution that is urgent and morbidly dire-
It was just on the floor, now on the grill, and soon to the fryer,
But a procedural second is needed for trial by fire.

Dust to ashes and ashes to dust,
Cremate this invoice for poison lust.

Lord, make me not one who lays to waste
This old bully from a schoolyard fight.,
Give me purpose and heavenly might
For a cause you deem worthy and chaste.

Consider the nights I’ve spent digging her ditch,
Please honor the time that I've lost to this witch,
Whose rage’s Raised from an emotional glitch,
Of jealousy Folded in a single stitch.

I’m hereby Knocking to Check on slaying this snitch,
Calling Azrael to Push the dumbwaiter switch.

Though a 50/50 Chance is Blindly set by your Crown,
I pray that today, both of the Arrows, for her, point down!

Nay, help make me the hero and this order delay…
Just protect me from Evil as I kneel and I pray:
“Our Horsemen, who art in Heaven, now summoned and nigh--
Pass, by,
Pass, by.”

And now Four Suited Stallions, Flush with Black Hearts
Neigh loudly but voiceless, in front of their carts.

Marking her Players who all vote as One,
To majority Counts of 4 to 1.

Alas I’m human at the end of day
So I ask you, Yahweh, to end this decay.

I wish not to Cash-out on her last sigh,
No reins or noose, to now knot up and Tie.
I’ve good left in me and I wish to try
Asking your Horsemen for a Pass to Buy
A way,
Away,
From this old passerby.

I'll pay her Ante across the River Styx,
Chips sprung from her eye sockets with reaper sticks
And then stuffed in her Pockets with fire picks.

Trotting the Odds at all Even they cry:
‘All Bets are Final to live or let die’!
Swords at the ready and ready to fly,
Riders are Shuffling to Deal upon high,
Sickles now Flopping like hail from the sky,
Turning her tombstone with acid & lye,
The River’s mouth’s Showing halva and rye –

Good night fine Horsemen, hello and goodbye.

Just pardon one last thing,
As a postscript, my King…

Come hell or high purpose in this fog of clear sight,
I beg of your Horsemen, now sincerely tonight - -

Pass her by /
Pass her, bye.


Copyright © 1986-2017
Al Salehi
All Rights Reserved
#fantasy  #scifi  #fiction  #nonfiction  #romance  #horror  #adventure  #education  #poetry  #science  #philosophy  #mystery  #film  #politics  #spirituality  #news  #culture  #lyrics  #opinion  #artofwar 
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Written by Prose in portal Prose

Friday Feature: @mrjdhyde

It’s only bloody Friday again. Naturally, as we all know, Fridays we get to greedily consume the tidbits and morsels of a Proser’s life. This week is another splendid one, as we find out about a Proser that many of us know and love, but want to know what lurks behind the mask. We’re heading to Montana; as we prepare to meet with @mrjhyde

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

J: My name is James, I go by mrjdhyde online.

P: Where do you live?

J: Helena Montana. Which as most people don’t know is where you go if you NEVER want to be discovered as a writer. Apparently there’s a literary black hole in the middle of town. I once saw it eat three poets, and a novelist. Sad really, but on the plus side, I consoled their widows.

P: What is your occupation?

J: I’m a writer. I make no money at it yet, and I support my writing with working at a grocery store and doing odd jobs. But I think that how we define ourselves if very important. So, I am a writer.

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

J: I always wanted to be a writer, but never had the sack enough to take pen to paper. I would just make up stories in my head. Then I started sexting, full stories. I joined a fetish site that let you post stories, and that gave me enough confidence to branch out into other genres. Soon, that site wasn’t what I wanted anymore. I wanted to be a real thing writer. Not a popular one, but a good one.

For me, good trumps popular every time. So I study writing and how I can become better with each story, and poem. I’m still the guy who uses the word “grammarize” but at least now I know that I shouldn’t use it.

For me the written word is the ultimate art form, because it is carried in the head after use. Some one can still tell a story even if the book was burned, that story will live on. And stories can change the world, bring down kingdoms.

I often tell people that a king fears the song, not the sword. Only one man can wield a sword, but a song can sweep through the country like a fire. Thousands singing.

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

J: It makes me a better person, as a child i didn’t have good strong role models so I found them in books. They helped me decide what kind of man that I would be. Whenever I read a book I put myself in the place of the characters and ask myself what I would do in their situations.

In my professional life there’s three books that have guided me. The Art of War, The Book of Five rings, and The Hagakure. In order these books teach how to be a General, a soldier, and samurai.

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

J: Dear lord, I’m writing six books right now I think? And short stories galore. Future posts? probably some angry rambling, some ranting, frothing, a few poems, a short story or thirty. And then the day after tomorrow...

P: What do you love about Prose?

J: Brooding poetry chicks… What???

I mean, uh… The stories. And the challenges. Because there are so many great writers on site, I have to work harder trying to be a better writer to compete in the challenges.

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

J: Anything with my name on the cover.

Barring that… Christopher Moore. Anything by him will make you laugh, which will make your day better. Which makes the world better, so read him. You want to make the world a better place don’t you?

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

J: S.E. Hinton, I read ‘The Outsiders’ in school and it changed my life. Suddenly I found out that there were people like me out there. That began my reading.

As for writing? Brooding poetry chicks… Blame them.

P: Describe yourself in three words!

J: I’m nobody special.

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

J: No, but if you think of one please send it to me. I would like to know.

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

J: I play a few instruments, so genre of music isn’t as important to me as how well that it’s done. And no, I need quiet to write because Squirrel.

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

J: “Hi, God sent me. Bring me to the women.”

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

J: My big over stuffed leather chair. I love my chair, and it loves me.

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

J: Mark Zuckerberg is the reason for Justin Bieber. Really, Mark created him to try to control the Girl Scout mafia. Unfortunately, Mark lost control of the poor, mad thing. And it ended up eating the real Zuckerberg. Now Facebook is controlled by the CIA, in hopes of getting the secret Keebler recipes.

Well thank you very much, James. How cool was that, and was he? You know what to do now – follow, like, comment, love; do all those things that make us what we are.

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Written by Prose in portal Prose
Friday Feature: @mrjdhyde
It’s only bloody Friday again. Naturally, as we all know, Fridays we get to greedily consume the tidbits and morsels of a Proser’s life. This week is another splendid one, as we find out about a Proser that many of us know and love, but want to know what lurks behind the mask. We’re heading to Montana; as we prepare to meet with @mrjhyde

P: What is your given name and your Proser username?
J: My name is James, I go by mrjdhyde online.

P: Where do you live?
J: Helena Montana. Which as most people don’t know is where you go if you NEVER want to be discovered as a writer. Apparently there’s a literary black hole in the middle of town. I once saw it eat three poets, and a novelist. Sad really, but on the plus side, I consoled their widows.

P: What is your occupation?
J: I’m a writer. I make no money at it yet, and I support my writing with working at a grocery store and doing odd jobs. But I think that how we define ourselves if very important. So, I am a writer.

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?
J: I always wanted to be a writer, but never had the sack enough to take pen to paper. I would just make up stories in my head. Then I started sexting, full stories. I joined a fetish site that let you post stories, and that gave me enough confidence to branch out into other genres. Soon, that site wasn’t what I wanted anymore. I wanted to be a real thing writer. Not a popular one, but a good one.

For me, good trumps popular every time. So I study writing and how I can become better with each story, and poem. I’m still the guy who uses the word “grammarize” but at least now I know that I shouldn’t use it.

For me the written word is the ultimate art form, because it is carried in the head after use. Some one can still tell a story even if the book was burned, that story will live on. And stories can change the world, bring down kingdoms.

I often tell people that a king fears the song, not the sword. Only one man can wield a sword, but a song can sweep through the country like a fire. Thousands singing.

P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?
J: It makes me a better person, as a child i didn’t have good strong role models so I found them in books. They helped me decide what kind of man that I would be. Whenever I read a book I put myself in the place of the characters and ask myself what I would do in their situations.

In my professional life there’s three books that have guided me. The Art of War, The Book of Five rings, and The Hagakure. In order these books teach how to be a General, a soldier, and samurai.

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to?
J: Dear lord, I’m writing six books right now I think? And short stories galore. Future posts? probably some angry rambling, some ranting, frothing, a few poems, a short story or thirty. And then the day after tomorrow...

P: What do you love about Prose?
J: Brooding poetry chicks… What???

I mean, uh… The stories. And the challenges. Because there are so many great writers on site, I have to work harder trying to be a better writer to compete in the challenges.

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?
J: Anything with my name on the cover.

Barring that… Christopher Moore. Anything by him will make you laugh, which will make your day better. Which makes the world better, so read him. You want to make the world a better place don’t you?

P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?
J: S.E. Hinton, I read ‘The Outsiders’ in school and it changed my life. Suddenly I found out that there were people like me out there. That began my reading.

As for writing? Brooding poetry chicks… Blame them.

P: Describe yourself in three words!
J: I’m nobody special.

P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?
J: No, but if you think of one please send it to me. I would like to know.

P: What is your favourite music, and do you write or read to it?
J: I play a few instruments, so genre of music isn’t as important to me as how well that it’s done. And no, I need quiet to write because Squirrel.

P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?
J: “Hi, God sent me. Bring me to the women.”

P: Do you have a favourite place to read and write?
J: My big over stuffed leather chair. I love my chair, and it loves me.

P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you/your work/social media?
J: Mark Zuckerberg is the reason for Justin Bieber. Really, Mark created him to try to control the Girl Scout mafia. Unfortunately, Mark lost control of the poor, mad thing. And it ended up eating the real Zuckerberg. Now Facebook is controlled by the CIA, in hopes of getting the secret Keebler recipes.

Well thank you very much, James. How cool was that, and was he? You know what to do now – follow, like, comment, love; do all those things that make us what we are.

#nonfiction  #news  #opinion  #FF 
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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by AlSalehi

Sleeping Lions

When using your lips

as a temperature gauge

to gauge the temperature

of your steaming coffee…

You may eventually

come to learn

that more often than not,

you will be burned

on the path to uncovering

the ‘Truth.’

Copyright © 1986-2017

Al Salehi

All Rights Reserved

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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by AlSalehi
Sleeping Lions
When using your lips
as a temperature gauge
to gauge the temperature
of your steaming coffee…

You may eventually
come to learn
that more often than not,

you will be burned
on the path to uncovering

the ‘Truth.’



Copyright © 1986-2017
Al Salehi
All Rights Reserved
#fantasy  #scifi  #nonfiction  #horror  #adventure  #education  #poetry  #philosophy  #mystery  #challenge  #politics  #news  #culture  #opinion 
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Why so serious?
Written by AlSalehi in portal Comedy

Plant Masters

Life goes on and things change -

as young students

grow up

and mature…

But here, on Fraternity Row…

until the end of time-

this tree will always get pissed on

in the middle of the night.

Copyright © 1986-2017

Al Salehi

All Rights Reserved

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Why so serious?
Written by AlSalehi in portal Comedy
Plant Masters
Life goes on and things change -
as young students
grow up
and mature…

But here, on Fraternity Row…
until the end of time-
this tree will always get pissed on
in the middle of the night.


Copyright © 1986-2017
Al Salehi
All Rights Reserved
#nonfiction  #adventure  #education  #philosophy  #mystery  #challenge  #politics  #news  #culture  #comedy  #midnight  #humor  #opinion  #college  #studentlife  #Constant 
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Written by JimLamb in portal Nonfiction

SUN-MED: Hilda Clayton’s Final Moment

In an episode entitled "The Crimson Horror," an image of Dr. Who (Matt Smith) is discovered on the retina of a dead man’s eye—indicating that the Tardis-wielding time-traveller was the last person seen by the dearly departed.

Morbid thought, that.

The belief that an eye can document the last image before death is called optography; the image itself is dubbed an optogram. Serious scientists dismiss the notion as pure “fiction.”

End of story.

My mind scurried to this obscure optical reference when I recently read about U.S. Army Specialist Hilda Clayton, 22, a combat photographer killed in Afghanistan along with three others during a live-fire training exercise when a mortar tube accidentally exploded.

Under normal circumstances, Clayton’s death might have gotten a small write-up in The Augusta Chronicle, her hometown newspaper—maybe a mention on the local newscast. That’s about it. But one significant factor separated Clayton’s demise from anything resembling “normal”: She instinctively clicked her camera, just before she died, capturing an image of the “catastrophic explosion” that killed her—as close to an optogram most of us will ever see.

(Clayton died in 2013; the photo she took was released to the public in the May-June issue of the U.S. Army journal Military Review.)

I’ve studied that image intently, trying to step inside Clayton’s final mind-moment. Here’s what that intellectual exercise produced:

I’m diving into a blue pool of clear-cold water during a frenetically frantic fireworks show: The loud boom-bangs and bright light-spikes are suddenly muffled. My brain freezes on Clayton’s image. Then everything goes dark.

Why share this with you? Because few photos have haunted me; troubled, teased, or mocked me, like this one. Just two come to mind: Eddie Adams’s shot of South Vietnamese Gen. Nguyen Ngoc Loan shooting a Vietcong officer in the head (Feb. 1, 1968); the other, Huynh Cong Ut’s controversial photograph of children fleeing the aftermath of a napalm bombing (June 8, 1972).

Shame on me for admitting this: I want you to be haunted, too.

Let’s face it, we’ll all going to die. Sooner. Later. I’m pre-occupied with it. (Don’t ask me why; I might just start jibber-jabbering about Jesus or some-such stuff.) Why be pre-occupied with death and dying? It helps me stay humble. Keeps life in perspective. Puts a footnote on most-every exploit: achievement, success, victory; failure, disappointment, or flop.

Years ago I used to tell people who owed me a favor: “Say something nice at my funeral. My kids’ll appreciate it.” I was serious then—even more serious now.

Chase Clayton had something nice to say about Hilda: “Rest in peace my beautiful wife,” he wrote in an online post. “I love and miss you baby. See you in another life.”

On the morning of July 2, 2013, U.S. Army Specialist Clayton got up. Probably showered, brushed her teeth, dried-and-combed her hair. Dressed. Had breakfast. Grabbed her camera. Went to work. … Then, "Boom!" Followed by a quick “click”—as she snapped the last photograph she ever took.

Clayton’s image lingers. We can step into her mind’s eye and see it, too. That sort of thing doesn’t happen often. (Hardly ever.) It’s worth the few seconds it’ll take to re-live the moment with her. You’ll not get many chances to do anything as ghostly intimate as that again.

Why not do it, now?

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Written by JimLamb in portal Nonfiction
SUN-MED: Hilda Clayton’s Final Moment
In an episode entitled "The Crimson Horror," an image of Dr. Who (Matt Smith) is discovered on the retina of a dead man’s eye—indicating that the Tardis-wielding time-traveller was the last person seen by the dearly departed.

Morbid thought, that.

The belief that an eye can document the last image before death is called optography; the image itself is dubbed an optogram. Serious scientists dismiss the notion as pure “fiction.”

End of story.

My mind scurried to this obscure optical reference when I recently read about U.S. Army Specialist Hilda Clayton, 22, a combat photographer killed in Afghanistan along with three others during a live-fire training exercise when a mortar tube accidentally exploded.

Under normal circumstances, Clayton’s death might have gotten a small write-up in The Augusta Chronicle, her hometown newspaper—maybe a mention on the local newscast. That’s about it. But one significant factor separated Clayton’s demise from anything resembling “normal”: She instinctively clicked her camera, just before she died, capturing an image of the “catastrophic explosion” that killed her—as close to an optogram most of us will ever see.

(Clayton died in 2013; the photo she took was released to the public in the May-June issue of the U.S. Army journal Military Review.)

I’ve studied that image intently, trying to step inside Clayton’s final mind-moment. Here’s what that intellectual exercise produced:

I’m diving into a blue pool of clear-cold water during a frenetically frantic fireworks show: The loud boom-bangs and bright light-spikes are suddenly muffled. My brain freezes on Clayton’s image. Then everything goes dark.

Why share this with you? Because few photos have haunted me; troubled, teased, or mocked me, like this one. Just two come to mind: Eddie Adams’s shot of South Vietnamese Gen. Nguyen Ngoc Loan shooting a Vietcong officer in the head (Feb. 1, 1968); the other, Huynh Cong Ut’s controversial photograph of children fleeing the aftermath of a napalm bombing (June 8, 1972).

Shame on me for admitting this: I want you to be haunted, too.

Let’s face it, we’ll all going to die. Sooner. Later. I’m pre-occupied with it. (Don’t ask me why; I might just start jibber-jabbering about Jesus or some-such stuff.) Why be pre-occupied with death and dying? It helps me stay humble. Keeps life in perspective. Puts a footnote on most-every exploit: achievement, success, victory; failure, disappointment, or flop.

Years ago I used to tell people who owed me a favor: “Say something nice at my funeral. My kids’ll appreciate it.” I was serious then—even more serious now.

Chase Clayton had something nice to say about Hilda: “Rest in peace my beautiful wife,” he wrote in an online post. “I love and miss you baby. See you in another life.”

On the morning of July 2, 2013, U.S. Army Specialist Clayton got up. Probably showered, brushed her teeth, dried-and-combed her hair. Dressed. Had breakfast. Grabbed her camera. Went to work. … Then, "Boom!" Followed by a quick “click”—as she snapped the last photograph she ever took.

Clayton’s image lingers. We can step into her mind’s eye and see it, too. That sort of thing doesn’t happen often. (Hardly ever.) It’s worth the few seconds it’ll take to re-live the moment with her. You’ll not get many chances to do anything as ghostly intimate as that again.

Why not do it, now?
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Write a haiku about the supernatural.
Written by AlSalehi in portal Haiku

Dwarf Galaxy FRB 121102

Space explorers from a distant place

Here by

Radio transmission.

Fast Bursts traverse

Vast expanses of time

And intergalactic space.

Brief pulses

Of radio waves

2.5 billion light years away…

Reaching this earth

Flaring with the power

Of five hundred million Suns…

Shedding skin, becoming light

Shot in space, then

Tuning to the zygote

No humans…

It’s like looking at cars

And misjudging them for beings.

We are not what we seem.

There’s something in us,

A wave and vibration.

Mission:

To record experiences

Like an advanced space rover.

Early damage to equipment

Is costly;

Hurts the greater purpose.

Knowing one’s purpose

Is not required,

Simply being, will suffice.

Your soul pairs to the body’s frequency,

Entropy makes you

Untuned.

Eventual decay

Releases you and your data

Back to source.

Death is re-entry…

Bodies left like rocket boosters,

Behind, as trash.

Copyright © 1986-2017

Al Salehi

All Rights Reserved

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Write a haiku about the supernatural.
Written by AlSalehi in portal Haiku
Dwarf Galaxy FRB 121102
Space explorers from a distant place
Here by
Radio transmission.

Fast Bursts traverse
Vast expanses of time
And intergalactic space.

Brief pulses
Of radio waves
2.5 billion light years away…

Reaching this earth
Flaring with the power
Of five hundred million Suns…

Shedding skin, becoming light
Shot in space, then
Tuning to the zygote

No humans…
It’s like looking at cars
And misjudging them for beings.

We are not what we seem.
There’s something in us,
A wave and vibration.

Mission:
To record experiences
Like an advanced space rover.

Early damage to equipment
Is costly;
Hurts the greater purpose.

Knowing one’s purpose
Is not required,
Simply being, will suffice.

Your soul pairs to the body’s frequency,
Entropy makes you
Untuned.

Eventual decay
Releases you and your data
Back to source.

Death is re-entry…
Bodies left like rocket boosters,
Behind, as trash.


Copyright © 1986-2017
Al Salehi
All Rights Reserved
#fantasy  #scifi  #fiction  #nonfiction  #romance  #horror  #adventure  #education  #poetry  #science  #philosophy  #mystery  #haiku  #challenge  #spirituality  #news  #culture  #opinion  #space  #universe  #galaxy  #MeaningOfLife  #spacetime 
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Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by Betzahel in portal Simon & Schuster

Analogous

Chapter I: The Quick of it (as in-to)

a) context (as in-to) Orientation

b) story (as in-to) Book

c) fiction (as in-to) Fact

-no my, a combining form of Greek origin meaning "distribution," "arrangement," "management,": astronomy; economy; taxonomy. [ < Gk -nomia law . See NOMO-]

non-, a prefix meaning "not," freely used as an English formative, usually with a simple negative force as implying mere negation or absence of something (rather than the opposite or reverse of it, as often expressed by un-): non-adherence; noninterference; nonpayment; nonprofessional.

non•fiction (non fik'shen), n. 1. the branch of literature comprising works of narrative prose dealing with or offering opinions or conjectures upon facts and reality, including biography, history, and the essay (opposed to fiction and distinguished from poetry and drama).

*from (as written in);

Webster's

Encyclopedic

Unabridged

Dictionary

of the English Language

Deluxe Edition

In any 'beginning' we will always find ourselves preceding from an unknown number of previous beginnings. In the beginning, therefore, there was no 'beginning', as such.

In the opening of ones eyes there is only the simple fact of Night proceeding Day in a stretch of blank foreverness hovering over and above the face of the Great Deep.

All books, as did his own, open in this manner, never to a beginning but always to a pale-rimmed middle, which, if it be so prudent, then bows immediately towards its binding in some vague posture of self discernment.

There was, in fact, but a single Actual Beginning, and this One-Actual wrote itself as such that its origins should remain largely incomprehensible to those who follow. But follow we must, as the nature of all past is to all ways lead to future.

You find yourself staring out the window of a passenger car positioned at the mid-section of a very long train, say, a mile or so in length -

a whistle is heard, you feel a slight lurch forward, and then suddenly the landscape begins a slow crawl from the front to the back of your window frame. In this case you are quite aware that you're a passenger on a train. You understand that the world isn't moving past your window at all, it only appears as such due to your body being transported by the train opposite the direction of the illusion. Similarly, you are neither shocked to find yourself being moved by an engine you cannot see, nor is it strange when you consider thar the movement is due to the starting of the engine and the engagement of its axils, two events which both occurred in your past, out of your direct line of sight, and prior any movement of your car.

Time is a train you cannot see.

You are the passenger who cannot know.

Thus, shall we proceed accordingly:

And in the absence of all beginnings, over and above the face of The Great Deep and in the time of a Becoming, Light awoke then from an age old Sleep.

The True book will only find itself in the Natural World, awakened from nothingness and bound for no where but a series of event horizons which may never hope to witness the immensity of themselves.

Here now we take a step into his journey just as did he, in the precise recognition of exactly what that step is not - a threshold opened to an orientation of linearity.

But let us enumerate, if only for traditions sake, we say to ourselves,

"And on the first day..."

Nothing True is set gently in.

You were born, not nestled into love and warmth, but from such softenings were you banished. You were born just as all Words are born, from love and tenderness and into shock and awe - from a climate of dependency into one of sufficiency, that is to say, sufficient as such that you should survive from at least that day until this one.

So this is a telling of a story's Undoing and all stories are Undone in order that they may enter into their own Becoming.

Furthermore,

as this is not the First Story, and all stories must come equipped with the Histories of their predecessors, it cannot, therefore, contain those elements of form and structure which you, The Reader, might be accustomed.

So must you be birthed again, into the lights and masked instrument of contextual ambiguity, with no course set in your mind. A ball hanging in space is neither right side up or up side down. Here is where you will learn (just as he is presently learning) that directionality is a peculiar illusion of the line.

***

Mid-afternoon sounds at the bar, most any bar, he liked, but Tuesday's at Springwater's, those were mid-afternoon the most.

To him it sounded there then like huge waters in the steady ebb and flow of unconcerned intimacy.

The cling and clack of glasses stacked or hung for the ready. The wind-chimed bowling pins of last night empty bottles tossed carelessly in trash cans. The sacramental tink of the full. Conversations that clearly shouldn't be heard are heard clearly nonetheless. Primitive languages somehow resurrect in these hours, slung low and quick like the Old Nashville of his youth. Greetings arriving in "Hidees" or "What say"'s with loud and friendly smacks on sweat soaked shirt backs. The sounds of American 'multi-tasking' and auto-piloted action where drink orders are taken like car talk, utterly absent the vocal stress of policy's assigned smile - no arm wrestled mental grunts from the obligatory eye contact - no televised chatter of announcers announcing their statistical analysis of human kinetic intelligence - no hiss and roar from a pixelated crowd as goals are scored in sports imported from less temperate climates - no CMA ordained sounds splintering forth from the speaker sides of the old juke-box in the corner, where still to this day rests a flat nosed 9mm lead projectile lost within its less vital components.

She sits Now where he was then, but not before a door opened in this room.

On certain occasions a burst of Sun-Light is exactly the orange blast from a sudden trombone.

When such occasions arise a woman's figure beneath her dress is exactly an X-Ray.

"Yas Sirrree",

say the eyes of man.

It is not true that nothing being an accident is all things deliberate, for a coincidence is deliberate only if either or.

Should then one even speak of synchronisticy at all? If, given that all things are synchronized,

only the clock knows the contradiction lies outside of itself.

"A Tapestry",

whispers Einstein In Awe.

"We have so manufactured clocks of ourselves".

"Fuck it"

he thought saying

"Here's yer pen back partner"

Buddy picked it up from his Profession, as all bars have exactly two sides. Only then did he collect the 2 worn bills and 3 coins lying stacked neatly on the counter.

Five years later, Buddy, would find himself looking up the word 'Irony' in a foot thick copy of

Webster's Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary

of the English Language

Deluxe Edition

(he'd long suspected the kids of certain Linguistic abuses).

"Definition of irony

pluralironies

• 1
:  a pretense of ignorance and of willingness to learn from another assumed in order to make the other's false conceptions conspicuous by adroitquestioning —called also Socratic irony



• 2
a :  the use of words to express something other than and especially the opposite of the literal meaning
b :  a usually humorous or sardonic literary style or form characterized by irony
c :  an ironic expression or utterance



• 3
a (1) :  incongruity between the actual result of a sequence of events and the normal or expected result (2) :  an event or result marked by such incongruity
b :  incongruity between a situation developed in a drama and the accompanying words or actions that is understood by the audience but not by the characters in the play —called also dramatic irony, tragic."

A crumpled napkin with blurred writing in blue ink sat soaking up the condensation of a nearly full bottle of warm beer. The bottle was brown with thumbnail scratches parting a metallic paper label which read, in part:

"#ab*st Bl@e Ribb~n"

She picked up the napkin using only her thumb and index fingers and about to toss it further down the bar from her, when, seeing the writing, straightened it smooth on the bar without any thought of tactile economy.

Twenty minutes earlier three napkins beneath his beer one was only just damp. The pen he asked for was slick and greasy. The bartender slid it from behind his ear, obliging his request with an annoyed toss across the bar.

"Always stealin my goddamn pens man"

The pen fell to the floor. He must remove himself completely from the stool in order to pick it up, which he then wrote:

a) sequence is a matter of orientation

b) orientation is a matter of

subject

c) subject is a matter of thought

d) thought is a matter of Language

"Gimme another'un Buddy"

Buddy took a beer out of the cooler, opened it (though it twisted) with a flick from the ancient bottle opener hanging around his neck. His tee shirt was stained where the opener was rusted. Army dog tags must share their chains sometimes, but only after the property is returned from service.

The cap became suddenly only a sound - then less and less of itself.

"Hell ya'ain't hardly touched thatun"

Buddy said, while not going away.

"Hate warm beer Bud"

Buddy leaned in close to him whispering as though in secret,

"Thasss why ye drank it when it's cold son"

Fact:

Buddy never smelled like alcohol.

Q: What is thought without Words?

A: Pictures

Q: What is thought without Pictures?

A: Feelings

Q: What are feelings?

A: Qualia

Q: That's not an answer

(The struggle of the Hemispheres to find the balance of themselves)

R: Compensation gives way to dominance, is the rule.

A man is from nowhere but his language.

Now, say a man is from Chinese while waiting on a bus -

And say that bus is going to that mans past -

Which way will that bus be traveling - in front of him or behind?

A: In front - the past of a man from Chinese is always in front of him.

Only an English has a backwards past.

Where is always the past of ones mind? Always in front as in front is where one sees.

Concrete or Abstract-

The source of dilemma is only found in Orientation.

Orientation is Context.

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Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by Betzahel in portal Simon & Schuster
Analogous
Chapter I: The Quick of it (as in-to)
a) context (as in-to) Orientation
b) story (as in-to) Book
c) fiction (as in-to) Fact

-no my, a combining form of Greek origin meaning "distribution," "arrangement," "management,": astronomy; economy; taxonomy. [ < Gk -nomia law . See NOMO-]

non-, a prefix meaning "not," freely used as an English formative, usually with a simple negative force as implying mere negation or absence of something (rather than the opposite or reverse of it, as often expressed by un-): non-adherence; noninterference; nonpayment; nonprofessional.

non•fiction (non fik'shen), n. 1. the branch of literature comprising works of narrative prose dealing with or offering opinions or conjectures upon facts and reality, including biography, history, and the essay (opposed to fiction and distinguished from poetry and drama).

*from (as written in);
Webster's
Encyclopedic
Unabridged
Dictionary
of the English Language
Deluxe Edition


In any 'beginning' we will always find ourselves preceding from an unknown number of previous beginnings. In the beginning, therefore, there was no 'beginning', as such.
In the opening of ones eyes there is only the simple fact of Night proceeding Day in a stretch of blank foreverness hovering over and above the face of the Great Deep.

All books, as did his own, open in this manner, never to a beginning but always to a pale-rimmed middle, which, if it be so prudent, then bows immediately towards its binding in some vague posture of self discernment.

There was, in fact, but a single Actual Beginning, and this One-Actual wrote itself as such that its origins should remain largely incomprehensible to those who follow. But follow we must, as the nature of all past is to all ways lead to future.

You find yourself staring out the window of a passenger car positioned at the mid-section of a very long train, say, a mile or so in length -
a whistle is heard, you feel a slight lurch forward, and then suddenly the landscape begins a slow crawl from the front to the back of your window frame. In this case you are quite aware that you're a passenger on a train. You understand that the world isn't moving past your window at all, it only appears as such due to your body being transported by the train opposite the direction of the illusion. Similarly, you are neither shocked to find yourself being moved by an engine you cannot see, nor is it strange when you consider thar the movement is due to the starting of the engine and the engagement of its axils, two events which both occurred in your past, out of your direct line of sight, and prior any movement of your car.

Time is a train you cannot see.

You are the passenger who cannot know.


Thus, shall we proceed accordingly:

And in the absence of all beginnings, over and above the face of The Great Deep and in the time of a Becoming, Light awoke then from an age old Sleep.

The True book will only find itself in the Natural World, awakened from nothingness and bound for no where but a series of event horizons which may never hope to witness the immensity of themselves.

Here now we take a step into his journey just as did he, in the precise recognition of exactly what that step is not - a threshold opened to an orientation of linearity.
But let us enumerate, if only for traditions sake, we say to ourselves,

"And on the first day..."

Nothing True is set gently in.
You were born, not nestled into love and warmth, but from such softenings were you banished. You were born just as all Words are born, from love and tenderness and into shock and awe - from a climate of dependency into one of sufficiency, that is to say, sufficient as such that you should survive from at least that day until this one.

So this is a telling of a story's Undoing and all stories are Undone in order that they may enter into their own Becoming.
Furthermore,
as this is not the First Story, and all stories must come equipped with the Histories of their predecessors, it cannot, therefore, contain those elements of form and structure which you, The Reader, might be accustomed.
So must you be birthed again, into the lights and masked instrument of contextual ambiguity, with no course set in your mind. A ball hanging in space is neither right side up or up side down. Here is where you will learn (just as he is presently learning) that directionality is a peculiar illusion of the line.

***

Mid-afternoon sounds at the bar, most any bar, he liked, but Tuesday's at Springwater's, those were mid-afternoon the most.

To him it sounded there then like huge waters in the steady ebb and flow of unconcerned intimacy.
The cling and clack of glasses stacked or hung for the ready. The wind-chimed bowling pins of last night empty bottles tossed carelessly in trash cans. The sacramental tink of the full. Conversations that clearly shouldn't be heard are heard clearly nonetheless. Primitive languages somehow resurrect in these hours, slung low and quick like the Old Nashville of his youth. Greetings arriving in "Hidees" or "What say"'s with loud and friendly smacks on sweat soaked shirt backs. The sounds of American 'multi-tasking' and auto-piloted action where drink orders are taken like car talk, utterly absent the vocal stress of policy's assigned smile - no arm wrestled mental grunts from the obligatory eye contact - no televised chatter of announcers announcing their statistical analysis of human kinetic intelligence - no hiss and roar from a pixelated crowd as goals are scored in sports imported from less temperate climates - no CMA ordained sounds splintering forth from the speaker sides of the old juke-box in the corner, where still to this day rests a flat nosed 9mm lead projectile lost within its less vital components.

She sits Now where he was then, but not before a door opened in this room.

On certain occasions a burst of Sun-Light is exactly the orange blast from a sudden trombone.

When such occasions arise a woman's figure beneath her dress is exactly an X-Ray.

"Yas Sirrree",
say the eyes of man.

It is not true that nothing being an accident is all things deliberate, for a coincidence is deliberate only if either or.
Should then one even speak of synchronisticy at all? If, given that all things are synchronized,
only the clock knows the contradiction lies outside of itself.

"A Tapestry",
whispers Einstein In Awe.
"We have so manufactured clocks of ourselves".


"Fuck it"
he thought saying
"Here's yer pen back partner"

Buddy picked it up from his Profession, as all bars have exactly two sides. Only then did he collect the 2 worn bills and 3 coins lying stacked neatly on the counter.
Five years later, Buddy, would find himself looking up the word 'Irony' in a foot thick copy of
Webster's Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary
of the English Language
Deluxe Edition
(he'd long suspected the kids of certain Linguistic abuses).

"Definition of irony
pluralironies
• 1
:  a pretense of ignorance and of willingness to learn from another assumed in order to make the other's false conceptions conspicuous by adroitquestioning —called also Socratic irony


• 2
a :  the use of words to express something other than and especially the opposite of the literal meaning
b :  a usually humorous or sardonic literary style or form characterized by irony
c :  an ironic expression or utterance


• 3
a (1) :  incongruity between the actual result of a sequence of events and the normal or expected result (2) :  an event or result marked by such incongruity
b :  incongruity between a situation developed in a drama and the accompanying words or actions that is understood by the audience but not by the characters in the play —called also dramatic irony, tragic."

A crumpled napkin with blurred writing in blue ink sat soaking up the condensation of a nearly full bottle of warm beer. The bottle was brown with thumbnail scratches parting a metallic paper label which read, in part:

"#ab*st Bl@e Ribb~n"

She picked up the napkin using only her thumb and index fingers and about to toss it further down the bar from her, when, seeing the writing, straightened it smooth on the bar without any thought of tactile economy.

Twenty minutes earlier three napkins beneath his beer one was only just damp. The pen he asked for was slick and greasy. The bartender slid it from behind his ear, obliging his request with an annoyed toss across the bar.

"Always stealin my goddamn pens man"

The pen fell to the floor. He must remove himself completely from the stool in order to pick it up, which he then wrote:

a) sequence is a matter of orientation
b) orientation is a matter of
subject
c) subject is a matter of thought
d) thought is a matter of Language

"Gimme another'un Buddy"

Buddy took a beer out of the cooler, opened it (though it twisted) with a flick from the ancient bottle opener hanging around his neck. His tee shirt was stained where the opener was rusted. Army dog tags must share their chains sometimes, but only after the property is returned from service.
The cap became suddenly only a sound - then less and less of itself.

"Hell ya'ain't hardly touched thatun"
Buddy said, while not going away.

"Hate warm beer Bud"

Buddy leaned in close to him whispering as though in secret,

"Thasss why ye drank it when it's cold son"

Fact:
Buddy never smelled like alcohol.

Q: What is thought without Words?
A: Pictures
Q: What is thought without Pictures?
A: Feelings
Q: What are feelings?
A: Qualia
Q: That's not an answer

(The struggle of the Hemispheres to find the balance of themselves)

R: Compensation gives way to dominance, is the rule.

A man is from nowhere but his language.
Now, say a man is from Chinese while waiting on a bus -
And say that bus is going to that mans past -
Which way will that bus be traveling - in front of him or behind?
A: In front - the past of a man from Chinese is always in front of him.
Only an English has a backwards past.

Where is always the past of ones mind? Always in front as in front is where one sees.

Concrete or Abstract-
The source of dilemma is only found in Orientation.

Orientation is Context.
#fiction  #nonfiction  #romance  #adventure  #education  #childrens  #poetry  #science  #philosophy  #mystery  #film  #politics  #spirituality  #news  #culture 
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