in these tiresome shoes and the wisdom of dormancy-

felines and plundered dreams -

all surround the elixir of forgotten and tomorrow some

fortitudes in musky waters -

sanguine little bird whirling

around lesions silled in

red bricks

standing in oblivion

to krakatoa and orlando

exits and brexits

bullets and rowdy

orbits that sanity cuttles upon

PROLOGUE

There are times when telling a difficult story could be likened to the peeling away of skin or a scab, but some go deeper—like sawing into scar tissue; these stories are accompanied by a sense of unease and unwillingness. For some, that unwillingness had little to do with much else than they’d rather leave it buried—like a bullet too close to an artery. They would rather not delve too deeply into the connotations, for theirs is a simple life unaffected by the ramifications this far. The difficult pieces were merely that—a single stone in an otherwise smooth path.

For me, I followed the path I first set foot on, growing used to stepping from one perilous occurrence to another. So many stones did I encounter, that it would appear that my journey were paved with cutting realities; and it’s not for pain or weariness that I’ve failed to record it until now, but for not knowing how to disclose it.

Where pain brings clarity, the feelings that I had during these times are not the same feelings that I carry now, and even that can warp certainty.

For that reason, I’ve sat with them—trying them out in different lights, wearing them about like a cloak to see how they fit at different times. Occasionally, I would peddle these stories to an interested audience only to find that the full weight of the truth… isn’t always best…isn’t always welcome even—it’s too heavy for those not prepared for its overwhelming weight.

I then curtailed the edges of fact or redacted some entirely to avoid unwanted penalties to my own character as well as those of others. I made the stories more bearable for you.

So, I am going to tell my story the only way that I can at this point: as an amalgamation of truths from others along with my own, compiled by a fearing and imaginative child; through the filter of a resourceful and knowledge-hungry young woman; through the teeth of a seething and angry dog of destruction; and as a recovering human, seeking the end of it all.

You will find no real names in this book. Some scenarios will be watered down, while others embellished to mislead for the sake of those who could be tarnished by its pages.

Why tell this story at all, then? Ultimately—to be clean of it. To be emptied. Having carried the various versions over the years, it has been as a blight keeping those parts of my past alive and writhing beneath the surface. I’ve come to realize that I could never be totally free without finally cutting it out and abandoning it forever to the ether; which brings me here:

Out of all the stories that I know, this one just might be mine…

Chapter 1

My Life as a Dog

It would’ve been a beautiful sight: softly swelling and golden against a blue sky. The wind was warm as it abruptly pushed dry grasses one way then suddenly the other, changing the color-tone of the hills like they were fabric, velvet. Again, it would’ve been a beautiful sight, except for the vast auto graveyard filling the valley; a spectacle in and of itself—stunning, in its own way.

To a small child, the steel monoliths seemed to stretch endlessly, but as these things go, a little vantage would dispel any such notion. Say, if you crawled carefully atop one of the rusted demigods, you would see the necropolis spanned only to the base of the next ridge—a quarter mile away.

There were flecks of paint, dark blue, stuck in the baby skin of my palms and knees. My shins were brown and orange with rust, scrapes, and blood as Kimo laid sphinxlike beside me, licking the bits of iron from me then his own massive paws. I tied my tiny fingers into the thick fur of the shepherd. The pungent smell of him filled my nostrils, but it wasn’t unpleasant; rather, it was reassuring. Even as an adult, I still find the reek of dogs ‘comforting’. If there’s a dog in your life, for me, that’s synonymous with a life being lived well.

Kimo had been the only pup sired by Jack, that King kept; an old black shepherd with keen, bright orange eyes—not unlike the rust on my chubby, child’s legs. Jack was now too old to be running around with the pack and stayed close to King at the wrecking yard office. Kimo was larger than his father—he was the largest shepherd most visitors to the junkyard claimed to have seen. King was offered money for him on several occasion, but he turned all bids down. Not because he loved the dog, but simply because he didn’t want other man to have what was his. He’d soon as shoot the dog himself than let another man take him.

The wrecking yard now had a dozen such German Shepherd dogs at any given time. Even now, several of Kimo’s own half-grown pups sniffed about and inside the doorless vehicle below us while others surveyed those surrounding. One pup gave a low, throaty warning; suddenly, the entire group of them raced passed us like sharks on the scent of blood. They emerged, juggling a rattlesnake and, incidentally, their lives before tugging it apart. Such was life here on the fringes. Wild. Brutal. Beautiful. Forgotten.

Kimo sat here beside me now as a sort of mercy provided of this place. I believed that. Not King’s mercy, for it was King’s own inattention to blame for Kimo’s close call. But rather a mercy only shown to those who were conditioned to never show, never need—but thrived under when given.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rancher could hear them screaming as he ran from the house to the basin of the hill where a single, small shed stood. Pressing the rifle tight against his chest, he ran as fast as his failing hip would allow. As he grew closer, the voices grew fainter. One-by-one, they went silent until there were more. It was then that he stopped suddenly, still holding his rifle close to his chest. The beat of his heart shook his whole body as he slowly settled the wood butt against his shoulder in anticipation. Stepping lightly, he approached the shed. He could smell the iron in the air.

Still keeping space between himself and the doorway, currently obstructed by a dead ewe—he adjusted his eyes from the bright sun to the depths of the shed, and there he could clearly see the blood-soaked demon, illuminated by trespassing sunbeams from old damage to the tin roof. The shepherd stared directly at him and wagged his tail as if waiting for compliments. He’d done good. He had killed them. Every last one of them noisy sheep. And the Shetland pony.

The incensed hobby rancher shot into shed, grabbed the sun-bleached, carved wood handle of the door, and forcefully pulled it shut—heaving the heavy, dead ewe with it. Quickly he slat-locked the door and listened. After a moment, Kimo broke the silence with an escalating, long, painful bellow that made the farmer’s nape skin to prickle. The man turned and ran back toward the house. It was high time someone did something about those Liles’ dogs before they killed again. Maybe next time, a person.

When the authorities arrived to retrieve the dog, he was gone. The rookie and deputy looked for him amongst the dead ewes thinking the gun shot, if as severe as the farmer had indicated, would surely have put the animal down.

Most of the livestock had their throats ripped open. Few were missing anything except their lifeforce. It looked as though the dog had killed for the sake of killing. One ewe’s head was bent backwards with the top of the head resting on its hindquarters, as though it had been peeled back to that point; from the other end, you had an almost clean look into its esophagus. The younger officer pointed out the absurdity, trying to seem tough, until the animal unexpectedly expelled aloud, baritone and breathy crow which spouted gore. Postmortem movement. He had studied it in his classes to get the badge he wore, but knowing the terminology didn’t help the young officer keep his last meal…only pay for it.

His senior, the deputy, ignored this and called him over. He guided the peaked rookie’s attention to a small opening at the corner of the shed. The young man wiped spittle from his chin and asked what it was—indicating the strange buildup clinging to the top of the tin. The deputy pulled the alien entity and it sprung open extending like an accordion made of fresh flesh, hair, and blood obviously fileted from the dog’s body as he had chewed just enough of the tin to then push his massive frame through the opening. The young officer lost the rest of his lunch.

Twice in a day, the dog had evaded death, but it had been over the past few years that they had received many complaints of a huge dog attacking livestock. They were sure it came from the only place within miles with shepherds and shepherds, mind you, with a reputation for their vicious entourage. Locals were terrified to go anywhere near the place, which seemed bad for business in the public’s eye—but for King, the deputy knew for a long time now, it’s exactly what he wanted. So, when he and his rookie partner did not find the dog’s mangled body—not along the road, not on the hillsides—it was last straw to drive to King’s Wrecking Yard to see if, by some ungodly marvel or utter demonic will, that the animal made it home.

“Stay with the car.” The Deputy told him as he slammed his own door.

King heard a voice and peered out the dust-caked window of the repair shop. The deputy had already made it halfway through the dirt parking lot before King flipped the switch from tormented, guilty, paranoid to self-possessed, indignant, and foreboding. He exited the building, shutting the door with a heavy swing.

“Afternoon, Officer,” he acknowledged.

“King.” The deputy nodded, watching his disfigured reflection get longer in King’s sunglasses.

A staple of his. Truth was though, King was an anxious mess most of the time, but his puffed-up bravado, dark tanned, muscular appearance, and sunglasses…they hid much of that…and honestly, as nervous as King was, the deputy was twice as much so for he knew, worse than any cornered, wounded dog—was an anxious addict of King’s magnitude.

“Here for a pickup? Little early.” King stated.

The deputy looked over his shoulder to make sure his partner wasn’t listening.

“We shouldn’t talk about that out here.”

He turned his attention back to King, squinting against the sun.

It was best to get the point as soon as possible as to diffuse the situation before King started creating scenarios in his head that weren’t happening.

“King,” the deputy looked about himself, “now that dog you got. The big one. Well, it butchered old Bill Owens’ flock. Even killed his goddamn pony.”

“A pony? Huh.” he almost sounded proud as he crossed his arms.

“Thing is, the Owens’ got grandkids and they’re all real upset right now that that dog is still out there. They’re gone want recompence.”

Though King remained wholly unchanged, the air around them stiffened noticeably.

“Now mind you,” the deputy offered, “they’re not asking to press charges,and it won’t cost you a dime,” he paused, “not this time.” But they’re gone wanna see that dog put down.”

“Put down, you say?”

King reached above his ear and found a Marlboro.

“That’s right.” The deputy replied.

King took his time lighting his cigarette, trying to calm his nerves. His face was as placid and unreadable as the stretch of highway that brought them here and it made the deputy uneasy.

“Did it happen to show back up here? The dog.”

“Haven’t seen it.” He blew two columns of smoke out of each nostril. “Could ask my brothers.”

The deputy looked down and took note of the blood trickle trail and large paw prints headed the way of the four garage bays.

“That would be good.”

The deputy saw a young dog peer around the side of the building. Another two shepherds slowly made their way to the covered porch in front of the office door from the opposite direction. One dog laid down, but all three dogs were at attention. Watching. Waiting.

“Uh huh.” The deputy thought a moment, probably weighing the various outcomes should he press the issue. He looked back up to peer at his reflection in King’s glasses again, then over his shoulder at his partner straining to hear the conversation from the passenger side of the black and white Olds.

“Alright then.”

The deputy started to turn away, feeling slightly vexed, he stopped. “Jus’ make sure you put it down, that is if’n it does show back up.” He said this standing with his gun hip pointed toward King, taking great care to not look the man in the eye again. He knew King didn’t like to be told, but the deputy had a job to do—his real job.

“Probably be a small mercy to the thing if’n he’s in as bad a shape as I think he may be. Owens’ are right, you know,” He started back to his car. “I’d be a might bit worried having a dog like that around these kids you got here too...”

King’s hand grabbed the deputy by the back of the neck, snatched his wrist with his other hand, and slammed the officer onto the hood of the car—it was hard to tell if the deputy was screaming from the surprise, the angle he was bent, or the scorching heat of the metal on the flat of his cheek. His partner stumbled out of the car and with a shaky hand, pointed his sidearm at King, who paid him no mind even as he yelled, “Let him go! Let him go now!”

It was then that the dogs descended—snarling, lunging. The young rookie pointed his gun at them, and they backed off, still snarling—pacing and looking for an entrance.

King continued to ignore the young man as though he were but a gnat in his orbit.

“I don’t like anyone telling me how to treat my property,” he gritted his teeth near the officer’s ear, “and I sure as hell don’t like anyone telling me how to treat my kids. Not you. Not any other pig. No anyone. You hear me? If you want to keep this arm,” King wrenched the deputy’s wrist backwards until it was likely to snap, “you will keep your goddamn nose out the business that’s not yours and just keep it to the business we do have. You got me?”

“Yes! Let me up!”

His voice was almost drowned by the barking.

“What was that?”

“Yes! Just let me up! Let me up!”

King flung the rest of the man’s body onto the car. The deputy pushed himself off as fast as he could. His face already had a red welt ready to blister. He held his cheek and got into the car. The young officer, still standing beside the door, confounded over what had just taken place.

“Get in the car, Dicky!” the deputy yelled.

“Well, ain’t we gonna…”

“Get in the fucking car!”

The young man scrambled back into the car as awkwardly as he had gotten out of it. The car lurched into reverse and completed a wide, reckless backward turn before switching gears, and speeding off down the highway.

King watched the deputy go until the dust had settled and he heard the engine no longer. He sighed, then turned and walked directly to the first garage bay. Stepping inside, he looked down at the huge dog, side heaving erratically, reaching for air. The dog, unable to lift his head, peered out the corner of his eye at King. He was dark with blood, impossible to tell how much was his and how much belonged to his kills. King stared at Kimo. Cold.

He started for the backdoor to the office as he said, “If you die you better crawl somewhere where I won’t fucking smell you rot.”

He opened the door and just before he slammed it, muttered, “Stupid, fucking mutt.”

Kimo didn’t die. That night, King gathered the dog up and carelessly threw him into the back of his Chevy short-wide. He didn’t make a sound. King then piled us kids into the cab. We were never alone with Mom. It was the rule. Even if King was out well past what should have been a normal bedtime for a five and seven-year-old. He kept us close.

The windows were down. The breeze that came in was hot. I could hear the whoosh of the cars passing. The sun still glowing low like an ember on the horizon while the pink sky was slowly forced down by a heavy, dark blue veil of twilight.

I peered through the back glass of the truck. I could see Kimo’s ribs slowly moving up and down with each orange streetlight we passed under.

“Turn around.”

I obeyed.

When we arrived home. Our house, in the middleclass Modesto suburb, looked like any other house from the outside—dirt yard, palms, stucco—but inside it was chaos. It was also hazy, thick with cigarette smoke and stale Budweiser that clung to the furniture, the brown and tan carpet, and stained near the tops of the walls yellow. Bubble-glass windows in the bathroom heavy with mildew, the windows nailed shut from the inside to keep the men of shadows out. No room unscathed from King’s paranoia or the holes it made every wall.

My older brother Logan ran to our mom as she opened the front door. I could see him waving his arms as he explained the situation and see Mom’s eyes growing incredulous with each small flail. She walked quickly towards the back of the truck.

“GET…” my mom stopped at King’s voice. “…back…in…the house.” She slowly backed away from the truck bed and turned back the way came.

“I’ll bring him in,” his voice softened, almost apologetically—like he was a normal father coming home from a rough day at work and had uncharacteristically lost his temper.

King lugged the dog into the house, into the kitchen, then flopped him onto the orange, 1960s metal and Formica kitchen table. Blood crusted fur, eyes caked shut. Mom’s hand covered her trembling lower jaw as her eyes welled up with tears uncertain that she was allowed to have. She stood frozen, unknowing what to do until King told her.

“Bring me the first aid kit.”

J.M.Liles ©️2024

I wanted to be something once, something more than what I am. Now as I look out in this snow covered world I just wonder whose next. I see the mother’s being strung along by their children and I don’t even feel envy anymore. For me to bring a child into this world, would be to throw them into a pit of snakes, not knowing which will bite you next. I still remember the incident that made me this apethetic shell, dressed like a human.

What is fear, I always thought that I didn't know the answer. That was until I took a step back, I always had a fear of killing which took precedent even over my fear of death. The thought to kill another was too much for me to bare. Then my fear of death became a fear of loss. That fear didn’t last long because I already lost everything. I never realized what I was truly scared of until he killed everyone that I care about. Until I was locked in this wardrobe with two knives in my hand praying he doesn't find me, hoping he doesn't hear my breath. As he rummaged through the house he came up to my hiding place and swung the doors open. At that moment my will to live over came my fear of death and drowned out my fear of killing. With those two knifes, I stabbed them in his chest. Again and again and again until I finally opened my eyes. If you’re wondering how the cops showed up. A teenage girl, running and screaming down the street covered in blood. May cause a few concerned neighbors to dial 911. A mid summer night, yet I never felt colder. They wrapped me in that rough blanket and still it felt as if a cold wind was blowing my way. I couldn’t stop shivering. I killed one, I never thought I’d kill another. A man who was forcing himself on me, I blacked out and next thing I know a knife was in his chest the same as that night. Once again the shivering would not stop. After him was another and then another and honestly that feeling went away and it became commonplace though I'm not a mass murderer unless you consider it murder for killing those who harm another. The first time I killed was fear of death the second time I killed was in protection of my self. The third time was in protection of another. I'm not a hero but I may have been called one that night. I saw a man in the early morning in a alley near a local bar. As I looked at his build he is stronger than me clearly but there's no need to fight only a need to kill. I rushed over and grabbed the man off her. He threw me off in a drunken rage, I hit my back on the brick wall behind me. I slid to the ground and the man focused his attention on me, how confidence he must’ve been towering over a helpless woman. But no one ever expects a knife in their abdomen. His look of shock as he fell to the ground was orgasmic, as I looked over to the women. She covered her mouth and ran off. The bitch could’ve at least said thank you. Act like she never seen a dead body before, I’m sure she lies flat like one with every guy she’s been with.

After that kill, my third kill it seemed to all stop mattering. If the police catches up to me so be it, who am I free for. No family to cry for me and no life worth living. But I continue for my family who couldn’t that night. Instead I walk the street, but for what. Maybe I was looking for an opportunity like the one that happened. A reason, any reason to unsheath my sword. Methaphorically speaking. At least I still need a reason. Suddenly my reasons for killing came fast and in a hurry. Someone followed me back to my apartment. A knock on the door as soon as I walk in, I opened it and it’s a woman. Older yet beautiful, high heels, opened toes, white coat, long brunette hair. I’m not a lesbian but I’d listen to the offer tonight. Sadly, she wasn’t here for that, she showed me a picture and asked for me to assassinate a man for her. I was flattered, but I explained I’m not in that line of work, but she stated she saw me kill the man from earlier. As I went to grab my knife, she said she wasn’t going to blackmail me. That man was a piece of shit and the man in the picture is another piece of shit. That shouldn’t be in our world anymore. She just left some information about him and went to walk out. I didn’t even get to see what’s under her coat, hopefully it was nothing. I did yell to her, why ask me. She saw my face after killing that man in the alley. She could tell it wasn’t my first kill and it won’t be my last. Our thoughts coincided I also didn’t think that would be the last time I kill. Her number was on the back side of the photo and I decided to hold on to it. I mulled it over for a long time and called her. I received his information where he likes to go, if he’s married, what has he done in his life. I may become an assassin but I’d rather not kill someone innocent. He turned out to be a bastard, a frequent adulterer, scam artist, and a couple skeletons hanging in his closet. Someone I won’t feel bad for if he’s gone. Once again I asked her why me. She told me that he knows a lot of the people staffed by her and would be difficult to get close. But me, I’m a fresh face, he’d never see me coming. I accepted her contract.

I bumped into him, outside of a bar called Donovan's a fancy place. And I was there outside looking helpless. I know I'm pretty and nothing is prettier to a man than a helpless, broken, little girl. He helped me up and couldn't take my sad face, he invited me in for drinks. Laugh at few jokes, touch his arm a few times. His engine just couldn't take it. He took me back to his where we began kissing on the bed. And as he kissed my neck, he felt my knife kiss his. As I sat there hugging his neck, with my knife inches deep on his nape. I noticed a mirror on the ceiling and caught a glance at the expression on my face. Nothing, a look of nothing. I layed there with him in my arms for a while staring at myself. I knew this was the life that was meant for me. Perhaps the murder of my family was God's way of pushing me this way. What does it matter now. I pushed him off and gather’d myself before calling Valkyrie. That’s what she told me her name was. More of a medusa if you ask me. She told me that people will come soon to clean up the house and my job is done. The payment arrived as quickly as she hung up. That was the beginning of our relationship. From then on was a blur, I went on a killing spree. Contract after contract sometimes multiple a day, I was bored with nothing to do. And this beats walking the streets hoping to find a victim. Some guys bigger, some smaller, a couple women, but at the end of the day no matter how well trained you are, you can’t protect what’s truly vulnerable. I had Valkyrie set me up with some fighting lessons. Might as well look cool while slashing, next thing I knew I became a machine. Never failing a hit and becoming Valkyries number 1 go to. Not to mention a couple $100,000 dollars richer.

But we became more than that, me and Valkyrie became more like sisters. I visited every night at the bar she operates out of. Often telling stories of my jobs. I told her of my past. Of that fateful night that turned me to this life. Of my Parents and siblings being killed, of me hiding like a coward. Only fighting back when my life was in danger. How I killed him and the reason I only use a knife. After that night, she really took me under her wing. I think she saw something in me that reminded her of herself. She became protective of me only contracting me with people she trusts. Thoroughly doing recon on my jobs to give me the most information on the target possible. It felt like I had a family again with her. I truly loved Valkyrie. Loved, because she left me as well.

A regular bar night. Me and Valkyrie were sitting in her back office drinking her favorite wine, it was a cheap $20 - $30 wine. I brought it with me every time I visited. For someone who runs such a fancy place, her taste were like those of a soccer mom. I often made fun of her for it. Valkyrie told me she has no siblings, no children. When she met me, she never thought it would be the night she gained a little sister. Always so sentimental in her drunken state. A knock came to the door, that Gus was coming soon and wanted to meet with Valkyrie. I never trusted Gus, his name and look suggest he’s a sleaze ball, but Valkyrie always put up with him. She wanted a moment to gather herself, It was getting late anyway, I told her I’ll say goodbye to everyone at the bar and then head home. I’d rather not be there when Gus arrives anyway. As I walked out. “Delilah.” “It’s Lilith. So drunk you forgot my name again.” “No dumb ass. Delilah, that’s my name. A name I long forgotten. Call me that from now on. Code names between sisters just seem silly.” “Delilah? A delicate name for a Valkyrie, what would Odin think, I chuckled.” “Get out dumbass. I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Of course send a contract my way if anything comes up.” I walked down to the bar and saw a couple regulars that I’m fond of. We sat at the bar for a while chatting and that’s when I saw Gus walk in. Seeing his face ruined my mood, I said goodbye to them and went to leave. As I began my walk to my apartment, I stopped for a moment. I looked up at the building and thought about what they could be talking about. Then suddenly the room Valkyrie was in exploded. I stood in shock for a moment then someone grabbed me. “Lilith, Lilith!, you gotta get out of here”. I snapped out of it and ran in to the building. I just remember screaming, “Valkyre, Valkyre, Valkyrie.” When I got to the room, I just saw Valkyrie on the floor dead and Gus standing above her. I grabbed my knives from my side and lunged out him in a fit of rage, that’s when one of his guards knocked me out the way. I fell next to Valkyrie. “Delilah, how could this happen. How could I lose another sister as soon as I gain her.” Gus ran out of the room. And I sat there with Delilah’s head in my lap. Surround by fire.

People like us don’t get funeral’s, not really. A couple people we were close too comes around and we burn their body in a secluded area in the forest. “Valkyrie sat there, wrapped in cloth sitting on top of our made up altar.” I threw the torch onto her and began the process. As she burned I made a promise not to Valkyrie, but to my sister Delilah, that I will find whoever did this to her. And I will cut them for everyday we can no longer spend together. I hear Lillith is the name of a demon as well, that’s perfect, from now on I’ll be the demon that seeks a Valkyrie’s revenge.

She shivers when he touches her.

There’s no warmth in his embrace; there is power. His strength is concrete in a silk suit, and she's helpless to stop his hands from roaming what's his.

She is stripped one button at a time, but she was bare all along.

The pool of her clothes is a reflection of her complete surrender.

"Are you sure?" His whisper holds no promise of tomorrow, only night everlasting.

Her love for him is the hill she'll die on, but she’ll never know the grave’s cold comfort.

She becomes his crimson bride, and sunsets become memories.

This entry comes in the from the dark and often beautiful place known as the mind and heart of one of our legends, with a short and gripping chapter to stand statuesque in the halls of our Emerald Author Challenge. Told with shamelessly naked abandon, it climbs to shine upon the world of words Prose. has become known for as home to many of our living greats. To read this entry and see more as they crop up, and, better yet, to enter your work, just click right here:

https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14633

And here's the link to the show:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gz8VS5YUoyA

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Four writers were approaching, and the wind began to howl... all around and through episode 58, where they bellied up to the bar, each throwing down their own style, their flavors for your tongues and ears. Absolutely love this episode. Mariah finishes what Dionysian66 starts, with two newer bloods in middle, to bring 58 into full bloom, time lapse style.

Here's the link to the show.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sNQ5DGlyNjI

And here are the pieces featured.

https://www.theprose.com/post/825721/madness-stalks-the-forest-of-your-mind https://www.theprose.com/post/825162/a-beautiful-chaos https://www.theprose.com/post/825117/mumbles-of-a-dissociated-self https://www.theprose.com/post/825004/joules-anomaly

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

This entry in our Challenge comes in the from the streets of Brooklyn, and into the life of something easily bent, but beautifully brazen and open to life. To read this entry and see more as they crop up, and, better yet, to enter your work, just click right here: https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14633

And here's the link to the feature on Prose. Radio.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_wgxHGJ8CY

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

The first entry in our Challenge comes in the form beauty, albums, Kiss, Black Sabbath, and on into the work and wonder of New Jersey's finest. To read this entry and see more as they crop up, and, better yet, to enter your work, just click right here:

https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14633

Here's the link to the show.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mauv0jPANsU

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Seven writers bring the metal and mettle to number 57, stretching their fingers across time and space, across verse and touch, into our cores, and the air around the rest. Hot coffee, cold reads, with eight pieces of undeniable beauty to command our attention, and send us away floating.

Here's the link to 57:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HP_J3j0uL5I

And here are the pieces featured.

https://www.theprose.com/post/824709/the-stone-cutter https://www.theprose.com/post/824539/the-blank https://www.theprose.com/post/823998/heroes

https://www.theprose.com/post/823917/the-plover https://www.theprose.com/post/823875/ode-to-a-prizefighter https://www.theprose.com/post/823721/swings-both-ways

https://www.theprose.com/post/823715/uncompromising https://www.theprose.com/post/823328/blue-bird

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Mavia sent in number 56, which features two writers and her signature sound.

Stay awhile, have a drink...

Here's the link to the show.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rk0jDiU7WBw

And we'll link the authors below in the comments.

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team