Let me be one of those circumstances that form part of destiny's yarn ball. We all know this. Destiny likes to sew and whenever its threads get tangled, a new encounter is born. I am able to see that our encounter was just not fate but many knots that formed during our little stroll. Don't set barriers around you; I'm tired of those. Everytime I encounter someone new the barrier of silence forms all around me, and I'm unable to keep going on this riddle. Don't get vanity be one, for it will dissappear in a couple of years. On the contrary, let the heart be a shelter for the birds, like me, who like to fly in the middle of huricanes, mine is one and, I assure you, it is waiting patiently, waiting for you. The only problem is that I don't know how to put the right words in my mouth, and it gets all fuzzy. Love is like when you try to approach a pretty bird, and it suddenly flies away scared. Please understand.

DA 2015

“Girls will be boys and boys will be girls

It’s a mixed up muddled up shook up world.”

Lola, The Kinks.

Those lyrics spun in circles in her head. They danced with the other - the perfect couplet. She smiled a pretty smile and drew on her eyebrows. In front of her was an array of beauty products but she didn’t need any of them. Her face was gentle but well drawn, her lips pouted when needed, and elegant when in repose.

She pushed her hair into the shape that she wanted. It was long and brown, the colour of dairy milk chocolate. She had spent years grooming until now finally she was happy. She pushed her tits together and blew a kiss at the mirror. On her hands she pulled long white gloves and on her feet she slipped sparkling white high-heeled shoes. She stood, twirled, and looked over as someone knocked at the door.

“Five minute warning.”

She walked towards the door and opened it. A man was knocking on other doors, doors with stars on. Her door had the biggest star of all. She tucked, tweaked, and straightened up. She was ready for the lights.

The stage was empty. It was waiting for her long leggy legs to strut and stride. Eager men waited in the shadows sipping hard liquor. Most come alone because they are bent but straight. No one can know of their predilections. But late at night no one judges because everyone is to busy being themselves.

Booze loosens tongues and zips. It leads to groping in the toilets and later head holding in the wee hours. It leads to pissing on walls, car door handles, and on unwary trouser legs. It leaves you where you really want to be and that’s the bitterest pill to swallow. But in the dimly light corners, in the dark secluded recesses, the men sat and watched the empty stage. They were waiting for her.

And on the stage she appeared. The lights dazzling just like her smile. She thrust, she splayed, and she seduced in equal measure. This was the kind of place where you could look but not touch, you could lust but not fuck. The men were free to fuck one another but they didn’t. Most were after breasts, most were after an illusion, and all knew where they would find it. She was on the stage.

Her name was never something they asked. They wanted no link between their day-to-day lives and her. She was their dirty pleasure, their secretive escape, and she was the only thing that made these men a group. In life they came from ever corner of society. That’s the thing about late night strip clubs. There is no class. Just eyes and naked flesh – an illusion, not honesty.

But she was special. In her dark brown voice she sang love songs. She could sing ‘em fast, she could sing ’em slow, and she moved her hips with a rock and a roll. Her dress came off easily and she glided around the poll. She took dollar bills in her thong’s waistband and she batted off the hands that were too curious. In her head she was somewhere else, dancing for more than just money for the bills, but in reality she was in a sweaty strip club dancing with the worst truth – she was the star.

She finished her performance and left the stage. She went back to her dressing room. She removed her wig, her makeup, and her high heels. In their place she put on her clothes, the clothes that she felt she could walk home in. A subtle dress, a long overcoat, and a bob cut wig.

Outside of the bar she stood. The pink lit triple X sign blinked from a busted fuse and rain dripped on her face making her makeup run. Streaks of water were like chinks in her armour. She lit a cigarette and walked off into the nigh, her low heels providing a sombre clack clack.

The rain formed tiny rivers in the drains and slowly they flooded and overflowed. She pulled her overcoat in tighter and sucked the last of the smoke from her hissing cigarette. She threw it into the drain and the current battered, twisted, and overcame the filter tip. Pieces of spent tobacco and paper mingled in a deconstructed mess and then were sucked down, their essence destroyed.

She walked on. Dark alleyways and forgotten city corners twisted and turned as she made her way home. Ahead of her a group of lads stood drinking cheap cider and smoking marijuana. She moved into the gutter to walk around them.

“Faggot.”

One of the young men called after her with a word that physically hurt her. She tried to pass them but they pushed her over. There were lots of them and only one of her.

She tried to stand up, her breathing heavy but not as heavy as theirs. They were hunters, children bored and left up far too late. A boy picked her up and looked straight in her face. Her makeup was all but gone, her wig was hanging haphazardly, and she had lipstick on her teeth.

They stared at each other, both, in that moment, in their own way, honest.

“I’m not a faggot.”

She said it with defiance but defiance is always dangerous to those who feel challenged. The young man pushed her to the floor.

They hit her. She tried to cower in a ball, she tried to ride out the violence but she was overcome. They threw words like punches.

“You like dick in your ass?”

“You’re disgusting, you make me sick.”

But not one of them had ever been brave like she was now. They were showing the depth of hatred, they were showing what it meant to be a Nazi, to be a fascist, to be a racist. Her makeup was running but she wasn’t.

“Yeah I've been fucked,” she cried. “So what?”

They kicked her over and over and over again. They hit her, they spat at her, but she would never be broken.

She blew the lads (a kiss).

So, you're having a bad day eh? Close your eyes, relax, and take a deep gentle breath. Your divine imagination is the key to liberation. Whenever we worry, are fearful, doubtful and angry, we are using our imagination in a negative manner. It takes practice, but you can replace negative thoughts and feelings with positive, joyful ones. One step at a time. Whenever you start to worry, simply gaze into your golden heart, and know that I am there, smiling and waiting for you. Eventually you will realize that every thing that you see, feel, and experience in the outer world is a reflection of your inner states of consciousness. It takes practice. Look within precious Facebook friend. Behold thy spiritual nature. Know that you are soul, child of heaven, eternal, perfect and free. You are the splendour of God's love. Your divine imagination is a window to true spiritual freedom.

Hello again, word-lovers:

Remember our post from Monday? We hinted at the fact that there are a great many changes afoot.

Today we’d like to formally announce that the evolution of Prose is alive and kicking.

You’ll be pleased to know that direct messaging is now available on the web. Look for the message icon at the top right of your screen to connect with fellow Prosers in an instant.

For Prosers on the web, prior to logging in, you will now see a footer at the bottom of your screen. There you will find links to our brand new “About” and “Contact” pages. Additionally, you’ll find a link to one of the most exciting changes Prose has implemented so far.

Introducing…

THE PROSE PARTNER PROGRAM

The Prose Partner Program is an initiative to set higher literary standards on a global scale. Prose Partners are an elite group of our most talented poets, storytellers, and workers of words. As a Partner you’ll have access to exclusive Prose features including Challenges and Spotlighting.

CHALLENGES

Several of you have expressed curiosity and confusion with regard to the Challenge stream. In an effort to make things run more smoothly, we have instituted a change to the system.

To challenge you even further, all Prosers can submit entries but only select Prose administrators and Partners can post them.

SPOTLIGHTING

This is your opportunity as a Partner to curate what you see as the best of the best content on the app. Spotlight suggestions is a privilege granted only to Partners. However, everyone is invited to complete the Partner application process. To learn more about the Prose Partner Program copy and paste the following link into your browser: www.theprose.com/p/partners.

We encourage you to pay close attention to our social media channels. Prose has taken on a more mature look and feel that we think you’ll find more relatable. Be sure to follow us @theproseapp on your social networks to stay up-to-date on all things Prose.

If you have questions or concerns, you’re welcome to send them along via private message here or anytime through our new CONTACT page: theprose.com/p/contact.

We’ll leave you with this final thought to consider:

Why write?

Because Prose.

It's like eating your favorite ice cream on a warm summer night.

It's like that first sip of coffee in the morning.

It's like your first good memory as a child.

It's like a cool breeze on a hot day.

It's like laughing so hard your ribs hurt.

It's like the fresh smell of spring.

It's like pay day.

It's like singing and dancing around when no one is watching.

It's like waking up from a beautiful dream.

It's like a sun shining and bird chirping day.

It's like a good warm hug that changes everything.

Attention all Readers, Scribblers, Scribes, and Wordsmiths!

You may have noticed that you haven’t received your weekly newsletter recently. We’re cooking up an even better batch of content for your reading pleasure.

Before we get into the dirty details, we ask that you consider these words from the late Sir Terry Pratchett:

“Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.”

Since inception of Prose in the spring of 2014, we’ve taken a necessary step back. From this new vantage point we’re able to see further than we’ve ever seen before.

This world of words is evolving. It’s our job to initiate that evolution.

So, where do we start?

We start with the newsletter. “Your weekly peek into a new world of words” will exist no more. In its place? You’ll just have to wait and see.

As the artist Andy Worhol put it, “They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.” That’s just what we aim to do.

If you have the burning desire to see something in particular, let us know. We are open to suggestions. You’re encouraged to contact us via private message here or by using our contact us page here https://theprose.com/p/contact anytime.