The parking lot was empty. Detective Claire Ross stood by her car, the cold ocean wind tugging at her coat as she looked across the quiet marina. The fading light of dusk cast long shadows over the town, and the familiar hum of waves breaking against the shore was the only sound cutting through the silence. This place—so peaceful, so ordinary—was a far cry from the chaos she’d left behind in the city. But something felt wrong. The stillness of the town held an uneasy weight, and Claire couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t just the ocean that hid secrets beneath the surface. Ethan Morrow had disappeared here, and if the rumors were true, he wouldn’t be the last.

A week ago, two officers were sent for a wellness check at Ethan’s studio apartment. When no one responded, they forced their way in to find that the place had been ransacked. Drawers were wide open, ripped sketchbook pages were scattered across the floor, and half-finished canvases sat in a cluttered pile. The officers carefully searched the studio with their flashlights. Tucked into a corner of the bathroom mirror, they found a note reading only: “They come in threes.”

Today, Claire had visited the art gallery where Ethan’s latest paintings had been displayed. She had loved sketching before she was promoted to Detective. She would sit curled up on the chaise in her old room and bring to life figures on the page. Now, all she could seem to draw were figures in distress. Bodies in crime scene pictures. Children crying in interrogation rooms. All the images she still saw when she shut her eyes tight.

Claire walked through the door and breathed in the familiar smell of turpentine. A tall young woman with a mess of curls piled on top of her head walked toward her.

“How can I help you?” She asked cheerily.

Claire pulled out her badge. “I’m Detective Claire Ross. I’m here to investigate the disappearance of Ethan Morrow. I understand he has a few paintings here.”

“Oh, Ethan. Yes, he’s quite prolific. Almost everything you see here today is actually his.”

“Do you know him well?”

“He comes in here pretty regularly with something new for me to hang up. This last batch of paintings is all from the last couple months. Let me show you his work.”

She walked Claire over to a large, dark canvas in the middle of the room. Claire had an awful feeling in the pit of her stomach when she looked at it. They say good art makes you feel something. Claire felt cold, felt dread. She took out her phone to snap a few photos.

Claire looked around and noticed the common theme: each painting looked almost normal if you didn’t look too closely, but when you did, you could see three hooded figures hidden in each one. Sometimes they were hiding behind a tree, or in a reflection in the mirror. The one in the middle was the only one that featured them prominently, three cloaks coming out of a dark void.

Claire could hear her heart pounding in her head. She mumbled thanks to the young woman and hurried out the door. She could barely catch her breath once she was out of there and back in the parking lot. Something about those paintings felt suffocating. Claire stood by her car for a while, watching the gray waves lap at the rocks.

• • • • •

The next day, the Detective met the woman who reported Ethan’s disappearance, his ex-girlfriend, Maria. Maria clutched a tissue that she used to dab away the tears in her eyes. Claire placed a reassuring hand on Maria’s shoulder and let her quietly sob for a minute.

“This isn’t like him. He hasn’t been himself,” Maria cried. “He was acting frantic in the days leading up to his disappearance. Muttering about something coming for him. Not just something, they. They’re coming for him. When I tried asking him about it, he pretended he had no idea what I was talking about.”

“Ma’am, was there anyone Ethan wasn’t getting along with?”

“Everyone loved—loves Ethan.” She blew her nose. “Especially me.”

Claire’s phone vibrated and she stepped away to take the call.

“Detective? Ethan Morrow’s phone records just came in. There have been a lot of calls in the past couple weeks to this one number, registered to Professor Thomas Morton. He’s over at the university, he teaches history. Can you go check him out?”

“Can do, I’ll be there in twenty.”

When Claire walked into the university’s staff wing, the faint smell of old books hit her. Old books with a hint of turpentine. She figured either she still had the scent of the art gallery etched in her nostrils, or the art professor had their studio nearby.

“Hey!” A voice called out down the hallway. “What are you doing here, young lady?”

Claire couldn’t stop a chuckle from slipping out. No one had called her “young lady” since she roamed these halls fifteen years ago. She held out her badge as she walked over. The man was elderly, with a thick tweed jacket and a wiry gray mustache.

“Oh, ma’am, please excuse me. The students love to run around here between classes and muddy up the floors.”

“I’m Detective Claire Ross. I’m looking for Professor Morton?”

The man smiled and reached out a hand. “In the flesh.”

Claire met his hand and he shook hers vigorously. He had a peculiar look in his eye.

“Come, Detective, let’s sit in my office.”

He led her to a small, dark room filled with stacks of old books. The turpentine smell was slightly stronger here. She carefully sat down on the wooden chair in front of his desk as he snaked his way through the stacks of books and into his own chair.

“So, what brings you here?”

The Detective crossed her legs and straightened her skirt. “I’m here to talk to you about Ethan Morrow.”

“Ethan, huh? Smart boy. I was helping him with a little history project. Yes, what sort of trouble did he get himself into?”

“He disappeared. I’m talking to anyone who knows him and might be able to give me some clues to help find him.”

“Oh, he’s a young man, you know how they are. He’s probably off camping or with a new girlfriend.”

“Actually, I spoke to his girlfriend. She seemed pretty concerned. Did he seem… off to you lately?”

“Ethan’s an odd duck. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. He’s probably at home, working on a new painting.”

“Unfortunately, it looked like someone tore his place apart.”

The Professor hesitated and smiled. “These things happen around these parts.”

“What do you mean? Disappearances?”

The Professor got up and gently shut his door. He lowered his voice. “What do you know about them?”

“Know… about what? Honestly, I’m new to this precinct. I just got transferred last month. It was rather… abrupt.”

The Professor leaned back in his chair and shut the blinds behind him. “New in town. So you haven’t been here for one yet.”

“I—I mean, I’ve investigated disappearances before. Usually found them, too. A lot of young people run away. But this seems different.”

The Professor shook his head. “This is different. Seven years ago, a young woman disappeared. She was working on a mural for a local restaurant and then, poof. She was gone. Like she was never even there. Seven years before that, the painter who owned one of the galleries in town vanished.”

“Are you saying there’s a pattern?”

Professor Morton whispered hoarsely. “Yes. Ethan and I were looking into it. But I must warn you. Things are not always as they seem here.”

He stood up and gestured toward the door. “You must leave now, and make sure you aren't followed. That’s all I can say.”

Claire walked toward the door and paused when she reached it. She looked back at Professor Morton and saw how wide his eyes had gotten. His hands were trembling. She knew better than to say another word. Clearly he was sticking his neck out by talking to her, and she didn’t want to wait around to watch it be slit.

The Detective wanted to learn more about the disappearances Professor Morton had mentioned, but she dared not reach back out to him. She didn’t know why, but she felt that it would put him in danger. She decided to head to the town library next to investigate herself, the old-school way.

She exchanged pleasantries with the librarian, who then led her to the archive section. Claire looked through old newspaper clippings until she found them on a shelf almost hidden out of sight: a missing woman seven years ago, another seven years before that, with the line of mysterious disappearances continuing as far as the archives went back. Always an artist. Always a painting of hooded figures or strange symbols completed just prior to their death. Never any closure for the families. These clippings had been filed away in the corner of the room and at the bottom of the file box, almost as if someone didn’t want them to be found.

• • • • •

The Detective headed back to the station. When she got to her desk, she sunk into her chair and rubbed her temples.

Claire felt a shiver up her spine. This was bigger than just one disappearance. This was a pattern. This was almost… ritualistic. What secrets did this town hold? What had Claire gotten herself into when she took this job? Her thoughts were interrupted by a rookie plopping a worn journal on her desk.

“Hey, uh, sorry to bother you, Detective Ross. We found this in Ethan’s studio. It got mixed up in the evidence locker, but I just found it today. I don’t know if you got a chance to look at this yet.”

He scurried away as Claire opened the journal. There were words scribbled manically with mysterious symbols drawn in a heavy hand throughout the pages. She had seen these symbols somewhere before, but she couldn’t place where. She called over the rookie.

“Hey, Murphy! Come over here for a sec. You grew up in this town, right?”

He answered sheepishly, “Yes ma’am, all my life.”

“Have you seen these symbols before?” She handed the journal to Officer Murphy and waited for him to flip through.

“Detective, ma’am, these symbols are carved into the stone and brick around this town. This is above the door to the town hall, and you can find these ones in the stained glass at the church.”

He thumbed through the pages until he reached the last entry in the journal. His brow furrowed. “Uh, Detective? You’re going to want to see this.”

He handed her the open journal. She read Ethan’s last entry:

I know now. How couldn’t I see this before? I know who it is now. I just have to make everyone else know, too. But I have to be careful. They’re coming closer now. I can almost feel their breath on my neck everywhere I go.

She shut the journal and dismissed Officer Murphy. Who was Ethan talking about? Is it the same person the Professor was afraid of? Claire swallowed the fear in her throat. She had no choice but to continue digging. Her mind was screaming at her to turn back now before it was too late. But the Detective in her couldn’t rest without answers.

• • • • •

The next morning, Claire was up before the sun. She could hardly sleep with all the questions swimming in her mind. She was at the town hall just as they were unlocking the doors. She looked up and saw the symbol the rookie had pointed out carved just above the door, like he had said. A man sat in dirty, tattered clothing on a sheet of cardboard right outside with his face obscured by a dark hoodie. Claire squinted and noticed the same symbol drawn on the cardboard, so small she nearly missed it. She hurried inside.

Claire knocked on the mayor’s office door. A voice called out for her to come in. She slipped in and shut the door behind her. There was something familiar about the painting framed above the mayor’s head. Claire gestured to it.

“Is that… an Ethan Morrow?”

The man nodded. “Hello, Detective Ross. Yes, I’m a big fan of his work.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

“He’s also a personal friend. Why, Detective, if I didn’t know better, I would think I’m being interrogated. I take it this has something to do with his disappearance?”

“For now, this is just a conversation. But I’m getting pretty tired of going in circles, and something tells me you know more than you’re letting on.”

“What do you know?” The mayor asked nervously.

“I know about the string of disappearances every seven years. I know it’s always artists. I know about the symbols all around town. And I think you have something to do with it.”

The mayor blinked rapidly. “Oh. Well, I guess you know most of it. But you’re wrong on that last part.”

The door creaked open and the man who was sitting outside was standing in the doorway. He smelled of intense body odor mixed with turpentine. There was something familiar about this man. Claire walked toward him to get a closer look, despite the stench now wafting into the room. She was stopped in her tracks.

“It—it can’t be,” Claire said breathlessly.

Ethan Morrow stood before her, a dirtied husk of the once vibrant painter he had been. Claire spun around to look at both men.

“You’re back! But—how? What happened to you?”

The mayor whispered fiercely, “Ethan, what are you doing out of hiding?”

“I just can’t stand back anymore. And you can’t keep me hidden.”

Claire put a hand on his shoulder. “Ethan, it’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. You’re safe. And we can get you to a very nice hospital.”

He swatted her hand away. “You still don’t get it. I came to warn you. You’re the one who’s in danger.”

She stepped back. The mayor cleared his throat and pressed a button on his office phone.

“Come collect the garbage,” he said coolly.

In seconds, two large men were at the door and hauling Ethan away as he kicked and yelled.

“You won’t get away with this—you can’t! You can’t do this!”

The door slammed shut.

“So, Detective. Take a seat.”

Claire sat down hesitantly. “What’s going on?”

“Curtains, dear. The play has ended. You played your part beautifully. You investigated this case just as we thought you would, went down the very path we laid for you. Since you have about an hour before the ritual begins, do you have any parting questions?”

“What ritual?”

“Those symbols you found are part of how we summon our ancestors. The other part is you, Claire. The thick red essence of life that flows through your veins. Coursing through you as your heart beats out of your chest now.” He inhaled deeply. “It smells so sweet.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Claire screamed as cuffs bound her wrists to the arms of the chair.

“We’re going to… repurpose you. You hadn’t created anything in a while, but the Old Ones were such fans of your prior work. Such energy, such life in your paintings. Your blood will complete the ritual. And with that, we will maintain our pact to continue sustaining our generations of wealth. I, who manage this town during the day, and the others, who rule from the shadows.” He traced a finger across the tear streaming down her cheek. “You were chosen. Your arrival was foretold.”

Claire struggled against the cuffs, her breath quickening as she fought to stay calm. The mayor smiled, watching her panic, his eyes dark and cold. “There’s no use fighting, Detective,” he said softly. “The Old Ones demand a sacrifice. And you—” he leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear, “you’re the final stroke of the masterpiece we’ve been creating for centuries.”

Claire’s mind raced, desperately searching for a way out, for any chance at survival. Her pulse thundered in her ears as her eyes darted around the room, landing on the mayor’s phone. If she could reach it, maybe she could call for help. But with her hands bound and the mayor standing so close, she knew it was a long shot.

“Why artists?” she spat, trying to buy herself time. “Why sacrifice us?”

“Because you create. Your talent, your life, your very essence fuels the town’s fortune. The energy of creation, the spark of inspiration—it’s the most powerful force. And once we drain you of that… we’ll thrive for another seven years.”

The door creaked open again, and a hooded figure stepped in, holding a ceremonial knife. The blade shone in the dim light. Claire’s heart skipped a beat. This was it. She was trapped.

But then, just as the hooded figure approached her, the ground beneath them rumbled. The windows rattled, and the room seemed to shift, as if the very air had thickened. The mayor’s smile faltered.

Suddenly, the door burst open. Ethan Morrow, ragged and frantic, shoved the two large men aside and stormed into the room. “Stop!” he shouted, his voice hoarse. “You’ve misunderstood. The Old Ones—they don’t want her. They want you!”

The mayor whirled around, his face twisted with disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

Ethan lunged forward, grabbing the knife from the hooded figure’s hand and pointing it at the mayor. “You’ve misread the symbols. The town’s fortune hasn’t been sustained by the artists’ deaths—it’s been feeding on the corruption of its leaders.” He locked eyes with Claire. “The ritual’s never been about artists. It’s about those who exploit them.”

For a split second, time seemed to freeze. The mayor’s face twisted with rage as the ground beneath them shook again, harder this time. The walls groaned as cracks began to spread. The ancient forces the town had invoked were awakening—angry, hungry.

And they had come for him.

I hear you in the yawning thaw

Of a thousand chilled whispers

Through weeping fields

Of scorched beryl bounty.

Under a fallen sun’s kiss

Dusk’s latent funeral

Is a thirsty sinking light

A humble bow and burn.

The black eyed angel in the courtyard

Is overcome

By the violent bloom

Of rose petal skies.

I’ve returned

Suited in shadow black

To mourn an empty house

Where love now starved

Once lived.

I think aloud

That a house

Was never meant

To be a grave.

Winter leaks

Through the lace

Of my razed soul

Its viper hiss

Boiled kettle steam

Its ear splitting blasts

An ugly and frosted scream

Of cogent volume.

This house

Is both sanctum and storied sadness

And salts the wounds

Of freshwater streams

And rains a teary cascade

All ire and vinegar

Where diver’s depths

Can never reach.

My heart starts to bleed.

I take these weathered feet

To walk again through glass and ghosts

And stir back to life

The symphonic thunder

Of muted dreams

Delivered from the hourglass clutch

Of time’s charlatan beast.

The rustic music box wakes up

Her porcelain chipped dancer

Eyeing the hollowed rooms

In an untamed rickety loop

Spinning weakly

To love’s lost songs of doom.

I think that I must go

And let these memories weep

So I close the sighing door

To let the skeletons sleep.

Uncle Noah’s

Corncob pipe

Steams out smoked sagacity

As he tells me;

“Time is a cumbersome leech,

An evaporating haze

Of television snow,

That was a kick drum assassin

Between the weary flickering bonfire

Of heart bowed eyes;

So the penalty of life

Is being alive”.

But, I answer that I’m not so sure;

“For if life is but mangled symphonies

All bruised and tinny,

Shuddering in the thunder

Of leviathan’s steps,

Who would remember

And who could forget”?

But he retorts

Between locomotive puffs,

And wicker chair cheeps;

“The youth of my sun

Climbed and slept

Upon the lazing floors of cloudy heights,

A shelter from fever

And black dog nights”.

And

So I let God whisper something solemn to him,

As I walk away

And

Whatever He said,

Was lost to the wind,

And

Carried away.

Tonight @Shells called for a Discord Zoom Write and I am so grateful I was able to accommodate. @Ferryman and @Putski joined and @MeeJong hosted. We started with a word list generated from the theme "Movement" and each contributed three words then each wrote a piece with the theme "Stillness" which incorporated as many of the words in the word list as we could. We then each wrote for ten minutes individually, shared those pieces and chose one piece to write collaboratively to finish.

Here is the word list:

Flow

Leap

Transient

Cabbage Patch

Susurration

Run

Skip

Hokey Pokey

Murmuration

March

Fly

Mashed Potato

And here is the writing:

10-Minute Individual Writes:

Mee Jong

It was midnight when I got the call. The night was dark and stormy, which is both cliche and 100% true. It was that transient time of year when it felt like winter one day and spring the next, then back to winter. Sometimes, both within one day. But I digress.

Everyone remembers those moments which shock their lives into stillness. For me the biggest one was the call on that dark and stormy winter-spring night-morning. I was deep in a dream about being the one starling in the murmuration who was out of sync. Humans were below oohing and aahing and then they saw me and a susurration went through the crowd, what’s wrong with that one? It’s so out of sync, isn’t it?

It was like the bird version of me doing any of the dances my peers were doing. It didn’t matter if it was the Cabbage Patch, Hokey Pokey or Mashed Potato, I was always a step behind or ahead. I couldn’t even do the damn twist.

Man. The call. I swear I’m getting to it. So the call comes in, I was not asleep. I never am at midnight, except on New Year’s Eve when I am supposed to be and everyone else is. Oppositional defiant to the end I guess. But yes, the call. They tell me there has been a terrible accident. Could I get to the Emergency Room as soon as possible? My husband is in critical condition.

I couldn’t take the moment to let my emotions flow. I tried to run to the car but it felt like I was walking backwards. I wished fervently I could turn time backwards, but it wasn’t a movie and I wasn’t a superhero who could affect time.

Ferryman

The murmuration stops mid-flow, holding perfectly in the air above. My heart leaps into my throat, and I expect it to skip a beat, but there’s nothing. No panicky feeling of a hollow chest, no shallow breaths taken in near-gasps. All is frozen, motionless. Shadows don’t creep along singed grass, but they stand stock-still as if marched in and stood at attention.

I notice a fly, as if preserved in amber, perched in a pool of my blood.

I want nothing more than to run away from this nightmare in daylight, but this thought is transient, fleeting, dancing away towards the edge of my awareness.

Nothing moves but my eyes, and that’s when I notice him. He stands tall, shrouded in black, flowing towards me without his feet ever landing in the soil of the cabbage patch he moves through.

I feel more than hear a susurration; the air begins to vibrate with a dread I know instinctively.

This thing is here for me, in this place not so far from my home. Slava Ukraini, they said when I volunteered.

As terrified as I am, I take comfort in the fact that those who lie near me will never see Moscow again.

Putski

I leapt at the disco ball hovering over the floor.

Flying against all odds I cannot reach my goal.

Missing my mark, I perform the hokey pokey on roller skates.

A transient move at best.

Marching forward a susurration distracts my retreat.

I skip across the creek to leap upon the far shore.

My murmuration lost to the flow of the water.

Running into the night,

I celebrate my escape by dancing the mashed potato.

Shells

There was a flow of smoke, just a voided mind. I was staring at the skies, lost in the void. Of the dawn Colliding with the lost moments of midnight and you and stolen moments.

Just fading scenes of whispered words and transient dreams. Roadside bars and vacancy signs against a bleak interstate nod

We were on the run and laughing. Just a leap of faith against a naysayers nod. We smiled as they told us no, a hokey-pokey kinda song and dance. Just you and me...

And a J45 with a broken string.

Group Write in Full (I made slight edits as I was reading through to make the final post but nothing substantive to anything I didn't write, merely slight grammar corrections):

It was midnight when I got the call. The night was dark and stormy, which is both cliche and 100% true. It was that transient time of year when it felt like winter one day and spring the next, then back to winter. Sometimes, both within one day. But I digress.

Everyone remembers those moments which shock their lives into stillness. For me the biggest one was the call on that dark and stormy winter-spring night-morning. I was deep in a dream about being the one starling in the murmuration who was out of sync. Humans were below oohing and aahing and then they saw me, and a susurration went through the crowd, what’s wrong with that one? It’s so out of sync, isn’t it?

It was like the bird version of me doing any of the dances my peers were doing. It didn’t matter if it was the Cabbage Patch, Hokey Pokey or Mashed Potato, I was always a step behind or ahead. I couldn’t even do the damn Twist.

Man. The call. I swear I’m getting to it. So, the call comes in, I was not asleep. I never am at midnight, except on New Year’s Eve when I am supposed to be awake because everyone else is up waiting for the ball to drop. Oppositional defiant to the end, I guess. But yes, the call. They tell me there has been a terrible accident. Could I get to the Emergency Room as soon as possible? My husband is in critical condition.

I couldn’t take the moment to let my emotions flow. I tried to run to the car, but it felt like I was walking backwards. I wished fervently I could reverse time, but it wasn’t a movie, and I wasn’t a superhero who could affect the flow of time.

When I finally got to my car door, it wouldn’t open. I fumbled my keys and recovered them twice, but on the second recovery, the world spun beneath my feet. I stood still and earth moved on.

Driving would be beyond me, since standing was a challenge. My sister took my keys, and together we headed towards the hospital.

One misplaced sob, and we're all dead! That's what echoed in my head. I know she was once removed from the grief, but the experience was the same. You have to control and suppress and get done what needs to get done. I simply watched the passing lights from the passenger seat. The thoughts in my head reeling between what was and what could never be again. The ride lasted 10 lifetimes. I just remember stumbling out of the door in the parking garage and signing in at the desk.

***

I'm calling your name but you can't hear me. Maybe, muffled versions of verses I can't hear. I felt the throw, the initial ditch, just a toss from here to there and I'm calling your name...just silence and panic and spider web windshields and I'm fighting to find you and it's static and a.m. stations and I'm calling for my wife and it's blank now and just you and me and....

...stillness. I'm moving, but my body isn't. I looked to see if I am strapped to a gurney or hospital bed, but I'm not. No straps. But I cannot lift my arms. I cannot move my legs. I want to panic, I want to scream, but a nurse catches my eye in that moment, and suddenly I am in a dream. I am an ant, marching in the wrong direction. Away from the anthill. I want to go back to the safety of the formicary. My legs continue to move me away.

***

I’m not ready to face truth. I’m not ready to face anything. My whole body says no, my mouth says nothing. I deny where I am, where we are, where he is, by simply moving in a direction beyond those automatic glass doors. If I refuse to speak, then these things must refuse to have happened.

I do not believe we can stop being whole because someone refuses to acknowledge a stop sign.

And yet, despite my protestations, there you are. Eyes flutter through the invasion of intubation. Every breath forced through man's machinations. If there is a God, did he inspire this? Our past lives allowed lions to eat us or wounds to kill us. This is Shelly's Frankenstein.

***

I called myself home and was met by nothing. I'm nothing without you, broke. Acid ranked escapes fade away.

Broken veins and broken hearts,

Crossroads found and abandoned.

No escape.

I am not good, I may never be.

My heart is withered and it storms.

Ferociously thunderous,

a child of its essence.

Should I reveal its palpitating hesitancy,

a bouquet of shrunken hydrangeas

and fragrant copper peonies,

could the rest permit a season in a crystal ball?

Could the crystalline frames provide considerable insight?

Could the bird’s nest give shelter to your eggs?

Could the shell be too shiny to leave on the shore?

I can only hope that

when the seasons change

the sun burns through my chest for those lost in the blizzard

and the moon shines through my eyes

for those buried in the sand.

Crystalline//Free Verse//21+//109//Auria Brown//This, along with many of my other pieces, reflect the struggles and fluidity of mental health. My pieces are words to the feeling and could be helpful to those unaware that they are seen and heard.//The hook immediately sets the tone for the general acceptance over the theme of this poem, leading into a vivid description of what can only be described as what it feels like to not be enough and overall hoping, at the end of the day, that what can still be given, despite, is grace.//Auria Brown is an aspiring writer/English teacher residing in the Ozarks in epic tenure with her mind of malleable stone and quirky conviction. Her main platform is her own two feet and her experience is twenty-one long, long years of life. She is most curious of the world around her, constantly taking in the wonders and beauty of the rurality she calls home. Writing mostly in free verse or prose, she finds solace in picking the seeds from her brain and planting them on blank canvases, watching them grow in the soils of sorrow and blossom for those who know, all too well, where to look. When she is not filling her laptop with grief in the candlelight, she is flooding the piano with songs of such in minor keys. Along with this, she may be found reading tales of realistic fiction, much unlike the heavy realness of her own pen, and escaping to worlds of brave heroines who forge their own paths, defying all odds against them.

A desert rat blasting Scorps made way for episode 44, where a fistful of writers back up the band with their brutal and beautifully told pieces of writing, to follow in the wake of the electric axe echo. Huckleberry_Hoo closes the show with another instant classic from him, a true piece of literature, like the other four before, led by frankgainey, and backed by LDW, parachute, and some new blood with the handle of ClarkDesklamp.

Grab a mug and hit play.

Here's the link to Prose. Radio's episode 44.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1BeZ8ojWeow

And here are the featured pieces:

https://www.theprose.com/post/817826/to-whom-it-may-concern https://www.theprose.com/post/817823/death-by-television https://www.theprose.com/post/817817/killing-time https://www.theprose.com/post/817813/box-of-glass-ceilings https://www.theprose.com/post/817912/a-perfect-garden

And.

As always.

-Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Something in the air felt off, leaving him thankful for the stableness of the bench he rested upon. The bench’s iron had been cast by his father’s father in the long ago. He and his father had twice changed out it’s wooden slats in the not so long ago, just as he and his own son kept them painted against the weather in the here and now. No, it was not the bench. The bench was solid.

And it was not her. He watched her from the bench as she buzzed the garden, happy as any busy bee; deadheading here, weeding there, busy as any happy bee. These were his morning tasks, to wait and to watch, simple tasks which he never minded. Tasks not so frenetic as hers, though today felt different. Infinitely different. He could not place what exactly, yet today undoubtedly harbored some worrisome, as yet unrecognizable difference within it that thankfully was not her, her hovering nature feeling as solid to him as was his bench.

She turned time-to-time, checking, worrying over him even as she smiled kind affections his way. Of course, the smiling was born of the worrying. It made her happy, worrying… the work of it. She always was a worker. It was why she was so fond of him, he had long since ascertained, because he somehow thrived when worked and worried over, just as her garden did. He did allow it, didn’t he? The worrying over? Had even grown to encourage it, as her smile was one more tiny thing amongst all of those other little things she had done and given over the years which made him hers. Yet even as he watched her smile it gloomed, souring over, the initial vestiges of concern crinkling into her worry. It seemed she had finally noticed the difference in the morning as well.

And there was a difference. He could tell it. A decided one. He set to work to place the day’s difference, and he discovered some things. The June sun burned less brassy. The air had tilted strangely towards cool, and the songbirds toward still. Subtle these, but different. Perhaps the difference was in the day itself then, in its staleness, in its lack of breath. Perhaps.

She walked towards him, slowly, younger than moments ago, but no less concerned.

”JB? Are you ok?”

It was silly, but she always questioned, sometimes questioning her questions, seeking affirmation, seeming to find value in his, as though his affirmations were better than any other.

Like now. “JB? Honey?” Always the questions.

He saw no cause for reply, and held no breath to form one. There was simply no affirmation left in him to give to her. She must find her own now, he supposed, as he seemed only able to look on, and to well-wish, happy though he was to see her, and to hear her the concern in her voice.

Happily surprised to hear and see her, that is, being he was gone. And there lay the real difference in the day, he supposed… being gone, and feeling oddly neutral about that.

At his side she took his hand, hers tenderly warm around the stiffness of his own.

She left him then, hurrying away. “Where was more important?” He wondered. “Than here, and now?”

Beyond help, he desired none. The bench beneath him was solidly cast, and the tilted sun was no bother, nor the silence. They were sublime, in fact. The garden needed only her to be absolutely right, to be the perfect garden.

And there she came again; a butterfly, flower-to-flower-to-flower. His butterfly, her smile ever younger than before. Such a little thing, with her glance back at him, that he could spark such pretty concern from such as she.

He wondered that she was here, JB did… still… now, when alone would suit as well. That she could be. Was love that strong? Really? JB looked to her for his own affirmation, even as her eyes looked to him. No, the difference was not in her. She was as solid as his bench.

He marveled then, aware that it would always be so.

Amazed that it could ever be so.

Amongst all this noise

I seek silence

Not from the external

But inside

Where the cacophonous

Clamor of existence

Screams loudest

In the hallowed

Halls of Solitude

With the delusion

Of expectations

I’ve oft wondered in the clam pockets

And dingy dungeons of sleepless sleep,

If paradise is simply an inverted dream,

Spun wild from gold

Now wintered, spent, ingloriously old,

Stranded in quarters reserved to gally

Our spider sly upwards tremble of a crawl

Towards the waking and winking stars,

Where truth condemns her knowing to obfuscated riddles,

That God never intended to give ear to?

The hobbling old man raises a grail to desert lips,

And drinks up to long ago sailed away ghosts,

That parted through time’s

Charmed enigmatic mists,

Only to sink

And never to float.

And he sings off key like a paranoid ambulance scream,

Breathless chaser after chaser,

In between melodic snatches of amnesiac songs,

Sourced from a creaky film reel mind

Feebly roaring through its tentative loop with furious steam,

That always slithers a simmering glimmer

Of head scratching cosmogonal showers,

As his lost echo pulses, dies down and bleeds,

While he hunts through the unearthed glow

Of a dream’s stubborn playful light

Now dug up from a fog shrouded brain,

As it warps, darts and weaves,

Through bent projections,

And dead transmissions

From unswept nebula’s torchlight gleam,

As he asks aloud to God with blithe uncertainty;

“Perhaps paradise is an undreamed dream,

That never was,

Or was it

A dream undreamed,

That bulwarked her beauties

In tedium’s sobered dried eyes,

Where the start of our dreams

Begin at the end of our lives?”

And he drowns deep in scotch,

And whistles a tune,

That charges the air

With hope and with ruin.

And everyone stares

As if this were true;

For if life is a lie,

Then are we one too?

Hi all!

I don’t know how to tag names.

I just wanted to send a very sincere thanks, with hulking heaps of gratitude to all who have taken the time to read my poems, whether you commented, liked them or didn’t.

Just knowing some fellow poets read them really blessed me.

I want to thank Prose and their incredible team for their literary platform, as it has opened me up to some truly daring, cutting edge and inspiring poets. I was also speechless that “Beguiling Eye” was chosen and read on your channel! I shared that with my family and friends like a kid at Christmas.

I’ve completed my first book, 50 poems chosen out of 80, and it’s being professionally formatted by an author friend.

I have zero idea on the next step thereafter:

Self publish or shop it to UK Publishers? (Comments are welcomed on this one ☺️)

Either way, I believe in it, am blessed and grateful that the good Lord gave me the desire and ability to express my heart through words.

If you happen to read this, I encourage you to realize that Prose has offered a home to us; a literary dorm, think tank, social club or the equivalent of hanging with good people, enjoying what’s on our minds and hearts, where no one is too weird or too normal, but everyone can come as they are.

No stuffy pretension, just a wonderfully raw place that has afforded me the kind luxury of excitedly sharing my poems, and the thrill of discovering brilliant poets that inspire me (and I can’t tag, as I don’t know how, but you all are terrific.)

Prose and the community has been a profoundly wonderful find for me, and has encouraged me to move forward in my book, and believing more in myself.

OK, my morning cup of coffee is wanting to prattle me on, but anyhow, a huge thanks.

Be well, be blessed, be happy and never give up.

LDW

xx