Donate coins to ALifeWitArt.
Juice
Cancel
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 ALifeWitArt in portal Simon & Schuster

Isolating the Orchids

Love is sand. Through a filter screen, it is dry and white; its tiny particles of broken rubble and jagged edges of rock and crystal are, collectively, an aphrodisiac against your skin.  And, like sand, love is warm. It is the blue horizon offering comfort. But it is also salty, like flesh in humidity: love suffocates like our pores in the heat, it must keep moving. Sand exfoliates, gently, but it is swift. Love's caress is temporary, swept away sporadically by the rhythm of the next wave or gust of wind. It is gone and it remains, sequentially. Like sand, you can't hold onto love. Instead, you spread your fingers blossomed wide like a whore resigning to her reality. To experience the time-lapse. The feeling of your bare feet burrowed in warm sand, but, wanting more, you find yourself so deep that the sand turns cold and damp. And you watch the sand fall. Dry particles of love descend piece by piece. Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. Moments removed before they are realized, slipping through your hands, and carried away by nature. Sand falls camouflaged and greeted with grace by its homesteaded Earth.  Love is constant motion. The Tide. The Moon. Static, it is the pulse of humanity. It is immortal and it transforms.  Love is reincarnated with an eternal return.

Love is sand traveling, it changes direction and it spreads. Indefinitely.

***

She raced into the stall against the staccato pace of her heartbeat, and the force of her entrance hit back with the fist of its phonebook door. Her eyes were shifty, as though eluding a predator. But it was when she was avoiding her own eye contact that her knees collapsed. 

She fell banged against the cold tile, bloody and weak, seemingly deboned. But as she erected the porcelain lid like a soldier sworn to secrecy, she felt centered and peaceful.  The grit of her circumstances moved her to gain her composure, and, with an almost AHS affect, her fingers moved like satin past her tongue. 

They were bitter symbols of theistic penance, yet sweet like His touch, scratching just right against the back of her throat. Her nails tickled and aroused her, although she quickly grew dark beneath the shadowed cape of her shame. Before her, she watched the water transform into a barrel of aged bourbon frothing at the surface: poured too fast and seizing all oxygen along the way. The bubbles of her purged disdain broke with the sound of voices lashing back in tongue.  

"My blood is your wine," she murmured under her breath, as she closed her notebook and tied the tourniquet. She pushed away from the desk with a metaphorical force that exasperated her rejection, and she exhaled an uneven scale of relief. She felt satisfied, but empty, reaping the theoretical effects of an exorcism.

As she sat, her skeleton twisting uncomfortably in its skin, a chesty bird with a crimson sternum appeared on her windowsill. Its nondescript grayness blended into the monotony of the day, and she considered clapping it away.

When they first learned of his death, the news was carried by a bird squawking overhead. "Always remember to clap-away the birds, Eve. They are bad omens. They deliver bad luck."

As the familial superstition drained from her self-talk, respect for the bird and its smart eyes ascended. She found herself intrigued by the creature's unabridged attention, the way it invited her, so she continued to reminisce. She spoke out loud:

“When I was a girl, I would stand on a thick mound of ivy gathered near my father's koi pond. It grew wildly, and without intention. My mother warned us that the rats nested there, but, I was fascinated by its taboo maze of hidden shelter. To me, it was a sanctuary in nature, built with love and in protection for a special community. I longed to be a part of it.

One day, as I stood upon its tangled mount with imagined strength, I instinctively realized that it was by no accident that my parents named me "Eve." And, as though in response, the ivy began to yawn. It stretched its languid arms, bridging the space divorced between Man and Earth, and its tentacles climbed my legs. Its vines were charmed snakes, with red eyes and hissing tongues, they coiled tightly around my thighs until resting swaddled around my basin womb.

I resigned to the magical essence, and sighed until my lungs were hollowed. Then, gazing upwards, I looked into the eyes of an elderly Oak. And I inhaled Him. My eyelids curtsied closed in receipt of the tree's paternal blessing of compassion, and I was accepted.

The petals of the surrounding garden lit-up like an orchestra. All around me, nature was stirred. It was alive and celebrating. The sky was awakened in the rush of successive enlightenment, and the Sun churned with an aromatic scent of burnt-orange blossoms. I felt my gut levitate from within the core of my body. And, when I opened my eyes, I was accompanied by a gathering band of deathless souls. It was a celestial choir of consciousness, everlasting."

And as the poppies to the East grew wild against the hillside's piccolo whistle, they sprayed hallucinogens of permanent change onto the breeze. The tapeworm tapestry of intellect swelling within the girl's mind was touched by something. And, that something bore within her a new sense of reality:

Forever flourishing within, but haunting her, just the same.

4
2
2
Juice
23 reads
Donate coins to ALifeWitArt.
Juice
Cancel
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 ALifeWitArt in portal Simon & Schuster
Isolating the Orchids
Love is sand. Through a filter screen, it is dry and white; its tiny particles of broken rubble and jagged edges of rock and crystal are, collectively, an aphrodisiac against your skin.  And, like sand, love is warm. It is the blue horizon offering comfort. But it is also salty, like flesh in humidity: love suffocates like our pores in the heat, it must keep moving. Sand exfoliates, gently, but it is swift. Love's caress is temporary, swept away sporadically by the rhythm of the next wave or gust of wind. It is gone and it remains, sequentially. Like sand, you can't hold onto love. Instead, you spread your fingers blossomed wide like a whore resigning to her reality. To experience the time-lapse. The feeling of your bare feet burrowed in warm sand, but, wanting more, you find yourself so deep that the sand turns cold and damp. And you watch the sand fall. Dry particles of love descend piece by piece. Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. Moments removed before they are realized, slipping through your hands, and carried away by nature. Sand falls camouflaged and greeted with grace by its homesteaded Earth.  Love is constant motion. The Tide. The Moon. Static, it is the pulse of humanity. It is immortal and it transforms.  Love is reincarnated with an eternal return.

Love is sand traveling, it changes direction and it spreads. Indefinitely.

***

She raced into the stall against the staccato pace of her heartbeat, and the force of her entrance hit back with the fist of its phonebook door. Her eyes were shifty, as though eluding a predator. But it was when she was avoiding her own eye contact that her knees collapsed. 

She fell banged against the cold tile, bloody and weak, seemingly deboned. But as she erected the porcelain lid like a soldier sworn to secrecy, she felt centered and peaceful.  The grit of her circumstances moved her to gain her composure, and, with an almost AHS affect, her fingers moved like satin past her tongue. 

They were bitter symbols of theistic penance, yet sweet like His touch, scratching just right against the back of her throat. Her nails tickled and aroused her, although she quickly grew dark beneath the shadowed cape of her shame. Before her, she watched the water transform into a barrel of aged bourbon frothing at the surface: poured too fast and seizing all oxygen along the way. The bubbles of her purged disdain broke with the sound of voices lashing back in tongue.  


"My blood is your wine," she murmured under her breath, as she closed her notebook and tied the tourniquet. She pushed away from the desk with a metaphorical force that exasperated her rejection, and she exhaled an uneven scale of relief. She felt satisfied, but empty, reaping the theoretical effects of an exorcism.

As she sat, her skeleton twisting uncomfortably in its skin, a chesty bird with a crimson sternum appeared on her windowsill. Its nondescript grayness blended into the monotony of the day, and she considered clapping it away.

When they first learned of his death, the news was carried by a bird squawking overhead. "Always remember to clap-away the birds, Eve. They are bad omens. They deliver bad luck."

As the familial superstition drained from her self-talk, respect for the bird and its smart eyes ascended. She found herself intrigued by the creature's unabridged attention, the way it invited her, so she continued to reminisce. She spoke out loud:

“When I was a girl, I would stand on a thick mound of ivy gathered near my father's koi pond. It grew wildly, and without intention. My mother warned us that the rats nested there, but, I was fascinated by its taboo maze of hidden shelter. To me, it was a sanctuary in nature, built with love and in protection for a special community. I longed to be a part of it.

One day, as I stood upon its tangled mount with imagined strength, I instinctively realized that it was by no accident that my parents named me "Eve." And, as though in response, the ivy began to yawn. It stretched its languid arms, bridging the space divorced between Man and Earth, and its tentacles climbed my legs. Its vines were charmed snakes, with red eyes and hissing tongues, they coiled tightly around my thighs until resting swaddled around my basin womb.

I resigned to the magical essence, and sighed until my lungs were hollowed. Then, gazing upwards, I looked into the eyes of an elderly Oak. And I inhaled Him. My eyelids curtsied closed in receipt of the tree's paternal blessing of compassion, and I was accepted.

The petals of the surrounding garden lit-up like an orchestra. All around me, nature was stirred. It was alive and celebrating. The sky was awakened in the rush of successive enlightenment, and the Sun churned with an aromatic scent of burnt-orange blossoms. I felt my gut levitate from within the core of my body. And, when I opened my eyes, I was accompanied by a gathering band of deathless souls. It was a celestial choir of consciousness, everlasting."

And as the poppies to the East grew wild against the hillside's piccolo whistle, they sprayed hallucinogens of permanent change onto the breeze. The tapeworm tapestry of intellect swelling within the girl's mind was touched by something. And, that something bore within her a new sense of reality:

Forever flourishing within, but haunting her, just the same.
#poetry  #philosophy  #spirituality  #introduction  #humancondition 
4
2
2
Juice
23 reads
Load 2 Comments
Login to post comments.
Advertisement  (turn off)
Donate coins to Vyxyn.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Vyxyn in portal Stream of Consciousness

Bonjour!

Today I awakened to cold blustery weather

Beautiful French music playing on my phone

I want to stay under my comforter to stay warm but I know I must trudge on.

I'll make some hot tea that will help.

Bonne journée, mes amis!

6
1
2
Juice
17 reads
Donate coins to Vyxyn.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Vyxyn in portal Stream of Consciousness
Bonjour!
Today I awakened to cold blustery weather
Beautiful French music playing on my phone
I want to stay under my comforter to stay warm but I know I must trudge on.
I'll make some hot tea that will help.
Bonne journée, mes amis!
#nonfiction  #adventure  #philosophy  #spirituality  #opinion 
6
1
2
Juice
17 reads
Load 2 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to JimLamb.
Juice
Cancel
Written by JimLamb in portal Religion

Sunday Meditation: Farewell, my friend

I’m sitting at my desk—the black-stained, wood-grained, L-shaped monster my son gave me. J.S. Bach’s “Concerto for 2 Violins, Strings, and Continuo in D minor, BWV 1043:1 vivace,” as performed by Akiko Suwanai, plays (repeatedly) in the background. It’s my go-to favorite when my mind is murky.

Fueling my hunt-pecking this morning is a piece of baklava from Hellas Bakery in Tarpon Springs—tamed (as it needed to be) by a Keurig–brewed cup of Dunkin Donuts Dark Roast.

Weather.com tells me it’s 77 degrees outside with an 11 mph wind. Seems about right, based on the ripple-waves in my backyard pond.

My wife is visiting my son in New York. That means the lives of our cat and dog are in my hands. (They are doomed.)

It’s been a decent week: Got a haircut. Did some writing. Kept up with my exercises. Saw a few ball games on TV. Pondered my future. Kept an eye on North Korea. Picked out a lovely ring for my wife as a Mother’s Day gift. Ate too much. Watched “Judgment at Nuremberg” on PBS—all pretty much within standard parameters … until last night, when I learned one of my guardian angels died. Her name was Margaret.

The obituary starts this way: “RIEDEL, Margaret B. 94, went to be with her Lord and Savior, whom she greatly loved, April 18, 2017. Margaret was born to Walter J. and Pauline M. Barngrover in Cedar Rapids, IA. She permanently moved to Tampa in 1960 with her husband, Harley.”

Margaret had an AM radio show I listened to when I lived in Tampa back in the 1980s. She regularly interviewed heavy-duty, industrial-strength Bible scholars, like John Walvoord, Charles Ryrie, Dave Breese, Norman Geisler, Merrill Unger, Stephen Olford, Walter Kaiser, and Henry Morris Sr.

The obit says Margaret had a B.A. in Art and Art History from the University of Iowa, taught high school art and home economics courses before she got married. (Her husband died of a heart attack in 1966.)

I called Margaret one of my guardian angels. Why? Because she possessed the rare capacity to encourage and inspire others in humble and creative ways: a smile, pat on the back, lunch after church, a few bucks here and there to help pay a doctor's bill. Stuff like that. Though blessed with many talents—painting, writing, teaching—perhaps her greatest personal quality was hospitality. She made people feel welcome ... at her church, in her home, on the radio.

I will miss her. Deeply.

11
4
13
Juice
50 reads
Donate coins to JimLamb.
Juice
Cancel
Written by JimLamb in portal Religion
Sunday Meditation: Farewell, my friend
I’m sitting at my desk—the black-stained, wood-grained, L-shaped monster my son gave me. J.S. Bach’s “Concerto for 2 Violins, Strings, and Continuo in D minor, BWV 1043:1 vivace,” as performed by Akiko Suwanai, plays (repeatedly) in the background. It’s my go-to favorite when my mind is murky.

Fueling my hunt-pecking this morning is a piece of baklava from Hellas Bakery in Tarpon Springs—tamed (as it needed to be) by a Keurig–brewed cup of Dunkin Donuts Dark Roast.

Weather.com tells me it’s 77 degrees outside with an 11 mph wind. Seems about right, based on the ripple-waves in my backyard pond.

My wife is visiting my son in New York. That means the lives of our cat and dog are in my hands. (They are doomed.)

It’s been a decent week: Got a haircut. Did some writing. Kept up with my exercises. Saw a few ball games on TV. Pondered my future. Kept an eye on North Korea. Picked out a lovely ring for my wife as a Mother’s Day gift. Ate too much. Watched “Judgment at Nuremberg” on PBS—all pretty much within standard parameters … until last night, when I learned one of my guardian angels died. Her name was Margaret.

The obituary starts this way: “RIEDEL, Margaret B. 94, went to be with her Lord and Savior, whom she greatly loved, April 18, 2017. Margaret was born to Walter J. and Pauline M. Barngrover in Cedar Rapids, IA. She permanently moved to Tampa in 1960 with her husband, Harley.”

Margaret had an AM radio show I listened to when I lived in Tampa back in the 1980s. She regularly interviewed heavy-duty, industrial-strength Bible scholars, like John Walvoord, Charles Ryrie, Dave Breese, Norman Geisler, Merrill Unger, Stephen Olford, Walter Kaiser, and Henry Morris Sr.

The obit says Margaret had a B.A. in Art and Art History from the University of Iowa, taught high school art and home economics courses before she got married. (Her husband died of a heart attack in 1966.)

I called Margaret one of my guardian angels. Why? Because she possessed the rare capacity to encourage and inspire others in humble and creative ways: a smile, pat on the back, lunch after church, a few bucks here and there to help pay a doctor's bill. Stuff like that. Though blessed with many talents—painting, writing, teaching—perhaps her greatest personal quality was hospitality. She made people feel welcome ... at her church, in her home, on the radio.

I will miss her. Deeply.
#nonfiction  #spirituality  #culture 
11
4
13
Juice
50 reads
Load 13 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to poeticasymptote.
Juice
Cancel
Written by poeticasymptote in portal Tanka

Now Then

this is how it feels

to have one's soul ripped apart

and remain alive;

nothing like the burning pain

waiting to be whole again

9
3
0
Juice
23 reads
Donate coins to poeticasymptote.
Juice
Cancel
Written by poeticasymptote in portal Tanka
Now Then
this is how it feels
to have one's soul ripped apart
and remain alive;
nothing like the burning pain
waiting to be whole again
#philosophy  #spirituality  #healing  #movingon  #sadpoems 
9
3
0
Juice
23 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to WistfulThinker.
Juice
Cancel
Written by WistfulThinker in portal Stream of Consciousness

Worldly Pleasures

I wonder if there was ever truly a time in which I was unburdened by the world; completely unaffected. For, isn't it true that we depend upon this world to survive? Maybe it's a cruel paradox that the place in which life is possible also allows for death.. and pain. Are we truly free to explore every part of this universe if we must always return? And although we like to believe that there's more out there, that there's more places that can sustain life, this is the only place we can truly rely on. Yet, we are slowly destroying it. And soon, there will no longer be enough time, or oxygen, or hope to continue on.

10
2
1
Juice
17 reads
Donate coins to WistfulThinker.
Juice
Cancel
Written by WistfulThinker in portal Stream of Consciousness
Worldly Pleasures
I wonder if there was ever truly a time in which I was unburdened by the world; completely unaffected. For, isn't it true that we depend upon this world to survive? Maybe it's a cruel paradox that the place in which life is possible also allows for death.. and pain. Are we truly free to explore every part of this universe if we must always return? And although we like to believe that there's more out there, that there's more places that can sustain life, this is the only place we can truly rely on. Yet, we are slowly destroying it. And soon, there will no longer be enough time, or oxygen, or hope to continue on.
#poetry  #philosophy  #spirituality  #opinion 
10
2
1
Juice
17 reads
Load 1 Comment
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to PaulDChambers.
Juice
Cancel
Written by PaulDChambers in portal Poetry & Free Verse

ribbonless

blurred ribbons

streaking around me

f a s t motion 

others

succeeding 

continually

their life colours

a twinkling rainbow

burnished things

and perfect lives

creating joyful fences

joy filled offenses

penning me in

and I stand

still

and still

I, stilted and

f a l l e n

I focus

on all that I shouldn’t

and none 

that I should

ears deaf

to proffered help

eyes blind

to gifts bestowed

back turned

black

to a bright future

all I see

in this glossy walled

prison of my 

failings

is the potential

to fail, and flail

flop or die

or

flop

and die

rainbows ringing

singing at

this thing

m y 

     l o w 

            e b b

and reflect

as I cannot

with light

refracted

my life

redacted

18
5
6
Juice
117 reads
Donate coins to PaulDChambers.
Juice
Cancel
Written by PaulDChambers in portal Poetry & Free Verse
ribbonless
blurred ribbons
streaking around me
f a s t motion 
others
succeeding 
continually
their life colours
a twinkling rainbow
burnished things
and perfect lives
creating joyful fences
joy filled offenses
penning me in
and I stand
still
and still
I, stilted and
f a l l e n
I focus
on all that I shouldn’t
and none 
that I should
ears deaf
to proffered help
eyes blind
to gifts bestowed
back turned
black
to a bright future
all I see
in this glossy walled
prison of my 
failings
is the potential
to fail, and flail
flop or die
or
flop
and die
rainbows ringing
singing at
this thing
m y 
     l o w 
            e b b
and reflect
as I cannot
with light
refracted
my life
redacted



#nonfiction  #poetry  #philosophy  #spirituality  #mentalhealth 
18
5
6
Juice
117 reads
Load 6 Comments
Login to post comments.
Advertisement  (turn off)
Donate coins to Vyxyn.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Vyxyn in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Great Day!

As you awaken to this brand new day

Remember this is a fresh clean new slate

Forget about yesterday's mistakes

Don't even think about tomorrow's debates

For now just breathe and enjoy "now".

The rest always falls into place anyhow.

Now go make this your great day!

10
4
2
Juice
16 reads
Donate coins to Vyxyn.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Vyxyn in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Great Day!
As you awaken to this brand new day
Remember this is a fresh clean new slate
Forget about yesterday's mistakes
Don't even think about tomorrow's debates
For now just breathe and enjoy "now".
The rest always falls into place anyhow.
Now go make this your great day!
#nonfiction  #adventure  #education  #poetry  #philosophy  #spirituality  #opinion  #ALWAYSTHINKPOSITIVELOVE 
10
4
2
Juice
16 reads
Load 2 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to brieannekt.
Juice
Cancel
Written by brieannekt in portal Poetry & Free Verse

lotuslove

Savage hearts in bloom.

Conventional life came too soon.

I didn't trust the universe, yet it's

given me a muse for this verse.

Catching feelings so deep.

Underground without a sound.

I loved you from the start as you slowly

Entered my heart.

I don't need "you" to be complete.

You're in me, matching my every heartbeat.

Ego softens as I watch this lotus grow, knowing that you know.

Love kills fear with every dripping tear.

picture source: flowerstock

dreamstime.com

Image: 43237570

6
2
0
Juice
46 reads
Donate coins to brieannekt.
Juice
Cancel
Written by brieannekt in portal Poetry & Free Verse
lotuslove
Savage hearts in bloom.
Conventional life came too soon.
I didn't trust the universe, yet it's
given me a muse for this verse.
Catching feelings so deep.
Underground without a sound.
I loved you from the start as you slowly
Entered my heart.
I don't need "you" to be complete.
You're in me, matching my every heartbeat.
Ego softens as I watch this lotus grow, knowing that you know.
Love kills fear with every dripping tear.

picture source: flowerstock
dreamstime.com
Image: 43237570
#fantasy  #fiction  #romance  #adventure  #poetry  #mystery  #spirituality  #culture 
6
2
0
Juice
46 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to PaulDChambers.
Juice
Cancel
Written by PaulDChambers in portal Poetry & Free Verse

dark ends

oftentimes it feels 

as though I've failed

a multitude of ships 

horizons, gone, sailed

as here, in my struggle 

the twisting and bends

flounders in mazes built

of burning bridge ends

peripherally, all is see

are brash celebrations

success and perfection

'neath joy exclamations

i study scuffed shoes

reflected years refuse

undermine all of it

rust tint glasses muse

it's finite, I know that

yet all seems forever

how easy would it be

to float free 

                          untether

26
4
6
Juice
83 reads
Donate coins to PaulDChambers.
Juice
Cancel
Written by PaulDChambers in portal Poetry & Free Verse
dark ends
oftentimes it feels 
as though I've failed
a multitude of ships 
horizons, gone, sailed
as here, in my struggle 
the twisting and bends
flounders in mazes built
of burning bridge ends
peripherally, all is see
are brash celebrations
success and perfection
'neath joy exclamations
i study scuffed shoes
reflected years refuse
undermine all of it
rust tint glasses muse
it's finite, I know that
yet all seems forever
how easy would it be
to float free 
                          untether
#nonfiction  #poetry  #philosophy  #spirituality  #mentalhealth 
26
4
6
Juice
83 reads
Load 6 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to poeticasymptote.
Juice
Cancel
Written by poeticasymptote in portal Haiku

Left

it is not the fear

that haunts me in the darkness

but the pain that stays

11
2
3
Juice
22 reads
Donate coins to poeticasymptote.
Juice
Cancel
Written by poeticasymptote in portal Haiku
Left
it is not the fear
that haunts me in the darkness
but the pain that stays
#philosophy  #spirituality  #thoughts  #opinion  #sadpoems 
11
2
3
Juice
22 reads
Load 3 Comments
Login to post comments.