I hear the strident song of my ancestors.

They must all be drawn to celebrate

these days of waning light, to drop in

like this. Really, it is quite a surprise

to hear their melodies as I have been

so engaged in encouraging them

to just look up, way up, so that

...

Read the full piece later on The Prose blog.

maybe it hasn't

the core is still burning

and the surface

doesn't matter much

as long as gravity

keeps us moving

we've nowhere to go

but up

an inch of gossamer trapped in a galaxy of concrete

a dalliance short and sweet amidst a hurricane of heartbreak

sea glass wedged beneath miles of sand and stone

I have dug deep to build this home

fully prepared to sacrifice my grace if it means saving my only safety

candles were never bright enough to guide me

I will need a bonfire to find what's gone

but you will need no magnification to see what's wrong

a novel

brilliant and lifesaving stacked with a plethora of biased text books behind a politician's desk

the law was not always written

but one day people forgot how to listen

he says he fell in love with the way

I wrote things on napkins

because the texture appealed to me

and I never realized

how romantic I had become

until I felt his lips move

a deck of tarot cards

shuffled in with aces, threes and jacks

I've spent my life telling fortunes

to people who never come back

I've spun spider webs from duct tape and watched as my knuckles bled from greeting the wall one too many times

you have whispered you wish I could tell you

every poem

inked onto my wrist

because I have a collection of words

that have washed into the ocean

but dear fish, if you find them,

please don't ever bring them back

I don't wish to relive black

a love letter slipped between report cards

a star stranded in the city lights

sometimes I take off my glasses

to see the world all blurry

and I think everything looks softer

which is dangerous

when you're around knives

so check your eyes

and remember

everyone is blind

maybe I'll only ever write

one thing worth being read

or none

but it's worth it

to get this shit out of my head

Dear writers and readers,

We'd like to direct your attention to our latest featured writing challenge:

"Why do you write?"

As is noted, the winner of the challenge will have the chance to expand his or her audience by being included in Quail Bell magazine. The QB mission, much like that of our budding writing community here, is one of global open mindedness and positivity. It's also fairly young, having launched in the summer of 2013.

Our staff had the recent pleasure of connecting with the e-mag's founder, author and avid blogger, Christine Stoddard. Her creative repertoire spans to comic writing, documentary, and other media production including stage performance.

Please join us in welcoming she and her readers to the Prose. platform.

For more information on Stoddard and this unique publication, please visit: www.quailbellmagazine.com. Please also feel free to comment below or contact us directly via private message or at info@theprose.com.

I.

i identify as a leech because i do not know how to let go. it's in my nature to clutch everything too tight, to hug everyone so firm that they choke. i give my darlings bruises. sometimes i think i love too hard.

II.

my main talent is turning snowflakes into avalanches. on a good day, i can make a wonderland out of a rabbit hole, but good days don't come around much anymore. nowadays, my prowess is usually wasted doing this: i pick a scab on my wrist so much that my whole arm bleeds. everyone always says, "it's the little things in life," but they always stop mid-sentence to breathe and exhale the bad news. they don't want to tell you that it's the little things in life that drive you mad.

III.

i can spell the word "happy" backwards, forwards, and upside-down with both my eyes closed. i can pronounce it in three different languages. i can rattle off oceans of synonyms for it: ecstatic, elated, overjoyed, cheerful, jovial, gleeful, euphoric. i can spew off the definition of happy ten thousand times over. i know happiness.

but i've never seen it in person.

i hate to be the bearer of bad news,

but chaos increases

and the spiders in your stomach

will spin silk fast enough to catch the lovesick butterflies

and eat them whole

christmases will become more of a bother than a celebration

and your holiday excitement will fizzle into a lethargic apology

there's no use in saying sorry

your words will be stale

your heartbeats will plot a boom and bust cycle

but don't worry

the ghost towns sitting on your fingertips will dissipate

when placed under warm water

you will feel empty

and hollow

and numb

word vomit will fall up your throat

and fuck fuck fuck your mother will melt sunshine into rain

and goddamn it'll hurt because the ones you love the most know how to make you feel the worst

i'm sorry for putting my hand over your candlelight

i'm sorry i can't

braid your hair

like your mother did

when you were nine

all i've ever known is tangles

entropy is a friend of mine