I went to a baseball game recently. Mind you, I am not a sports fan, nor was I looking forward to this particular outing. I had even tried to back out at the last minute. However, I am really glad that I went. This is why.

For charity, there is a fundraiser the stadium sponsors. After the game, there are large targets placed around the baseball diamond. Fans are able to purchase a tennis ball and write their name on it. Once the signal is given, the fans get to throw these balls. The ball that lands closest to any particular target wins that prize. Everyone seemed pretty excited about this event.

Also of note… there is a net erected around certain sections where we fans sit. It is there to prevent us from getting hit with a wild foul ball during gameplay. This net is not lowered for the charity event. Depending on where your seat is, this net could present a problem.

For the guy in our section, a couple of rows in front of us, this problem became distinctly his.

The man’s first throw bounced off the net about midway and came back to him. His second throw was not much better and bounced away. He ran after and clumsily retrieved it from under someone's seat. People began to point at him. They laughed and booed.

This stranger's continued failures began to reveal an interesting cross-section of humanity within our microcosm:

The hecklers (the loudest, of course):

“WEAK!”

“Stop embarrassing yourself!”

“Guess who's dad never played catch with him?”

The analysts:

“He just needs to move back about 15-20 feet.”

“His mechanics are all wrong— he'll never make it over.”

The commentators:

“Well folks, it looks like he is going to try again. Unbelievable.”

The encouragers:

“He's got this! He's gonna make it this time.”

Then, right around his twelfth attempt (and failure), something in our section palpably shifted. We were now invested in this stranger. Maybe we began to see him as a fellow human trying his best, as awful and humiliating as that was. Perhaps his public struggle somehow became representative of our own personal struggles, whatever they might be. I don't know, but for some reason, it now mattered that he succeeded at the daunting task before him. He could not give up. We wanted— no, we needed him to not give up. Pretty soon, even the hecklers were on their feet, loud as ever, but now earnestly cheering for him.

Finally, the man threw the ball just enough to clear the top of the net. It fell over and unceremoniously bounced in the orange dirt far behind home plate. The ball landed nowhere near the targets where he might win a prize. But to us? He had just won it all. It was glorious.

We went absolutely crazy. You’d have thought we were Houston's control center during the moon landing. Our entire section exploded in cheering, stomping, and clapping. Beer was sloshed from raised cups and high-fives were given all around. The professionals we had all paid to watch play were forgotten. We had just witnessed true greatness.

Many made their way over to the tired and embarrassed looking man to shake his hand and pat him on the back in sincere congratulations. Later that night, as we filed out of the stadium, I couldn't keep from smiling. I left feeling like we, as a whole, had somehow won.

Yes, we had won. Big.

On looking through those you are following, I find it no wonder that you feel left out of the site’s community. You have failed to follow it’s most active, creative people. I am truly surprised that you have stayed active yourself for as long as you have without identifying it’s players.

I was originally glued to the site by a story dctezcan posted long ago, and then quickly deleted. It was a riveting, frightening post that made me aware that I had found a writing site with ballsy writers producing courageous content. The story enthralled me, while also leaving my skin crawling, and shamed by my gender. I thought it was one of the best short pieces I had ever read, and I have read a lot.

I love the challenges and witty rhymings posted by EstherFlowers1.

Mfrobs writes in a down home, long ago style that I love.

Posey writes, in my humble opinion, the best poetry on site. Every one of her poems is filled with a beautiful, nervous tension that leaves me wanting more, and less.

Mazzmyrrheyes’ structured stylings alone are worth an account on the site.

I have followed along as CatLady1 has grown into a creative, fun-filled storyteller.

rlove327 is an intellectual, and exacting stylist.

It is tragic for us readers that Undermeyou went to work for the site and is now depriving us of her energy, and angst.

I love sandflea68’s sixty-nine tales of dead men, JimLamb’s three word critiques, and Mnezz’s constant and instantaneous support and reposts.

I visit regularly for anarosewood’s dismantling of the night skies, and Mclarice’s putting those stars back together.

TomJonas tells a great story.

But mostly I fail to see how you can enjoy the site without following BonnieBoo, who does a little bit of all of the above, and does it all with a big heart and a twangy, mid-western, apple pie style.

Apologies to those who are deserving to be mentioned, but here it is for me.

Get on board the Prose train @EvelynDawn... before you are left at the station!

Adios, and vaya con dios!

When I had been on Prose for a month, I wrote a thank-you note. Having now written 100 posts (which, admittedly, included a one-liner about Pinky and the Brain), I find I have more to be thankful for. (Be forewarned; there is much navel-gazing ahead).

My seven months and counting on Prose represent my most sustained effort to write. I wrote requisite bad poetry as an adolescent, and I tried my hand at some short stories as a college freshman. But I concluded that they were bad and stopped; I filled my schedule with as many lit classes as I could cram, but I never took a creative writing course after that freshman year. A few years after I finished my masters, I took it into my head to write a novel, which I worked on off-and-on for two years, based upon the dates displayed in Windows Explorer. I pulled up that file now and am surprised to see that I wrote nearly 38,000 words of it before I decided it, too, was bad. One day I reread a chapter I had felt good about; I saw only flaws, and I stopped.

Somewhere in there, I also wrote an essay that was my love letter to community theatre and Shakespeare. That one I spent a lot of time polishing, and I actually tried submitting it to a few publications, but it didn’t go anywhere. I didn’t really expect it to, but I had worked hard on it and had hoped it would get read somewhere by the wider world. There was something symbolic about making “Rude Mechanicals” my hundredth post on Prose, though I couldn’t quite tell you what it was.

And I went through a period where I wrote short plays and sent them to various contests, though they also went nowhere. And again, one day I reread something I created and thought, “Why did you ever like this? What quality did you see?”

And that’s pretty much where I was before Prose.

But I learned something on those steps of the road. The aborted novel taught me how to plot out a narrative and develop a character indirectly. The essay taught me what it looks like to work on a piece for real, and with the aid of a trusted friend and skilled editor. The plays taught me how to write dialogue and adapt voice. And since I’ve been writing for Prose – and real people! – I’ve gotten better at giving scenes a sense of place, and at least a little better at finding the sweet spot between obscure hints and beating my reader over the head. And I have learned the value of a community of writers, whose work can inspire me when my efforts feel lifeless and who can help me to feel my words are worthwhile.

For the first time in a long time, I feel a level of confidence in my writing. In times past, and when I first started on Prose, I’d read the work of a writer who had been chosen for publication or a contest victory, and I’d feel hopelessly outclassed. I’d think, “I could never approach that.” Commenters on Prose are kind, though – sometimes (often?) more kind than my work merits – and supportive in a way that prevented me from throwing in the towel and walking away for months or years, like I had always done before.

By the time I finished editing and posted “Rideshare,” I felt pretty good about the story, but the response genuinely overwhelmed me. I did not expect to win the challenge, but more importantly, I did not expect the sort of comments that some of you left. And the unexpected result of this unexpected response is that I feel… competent. I can read some of those works that before left me feeling hopeless and small, and I can think, “maybe.” Those past pieces of mine no longer seem “bad”; they seem immature.

I don’t know that my writing is “mature” yet, but I know I’m going to try again for publication. I’ll submit some short fiction to some publications; there will likely be a self-published short story collection on Amazon some distant day in the future. I’ve got at least one yet-unstarted story idea that I’m excited about like I was “Rideshare.” I don’t expect anything grand to come of it. I don’t know that I belong in the big leagues; I’m definitely not all-star caliber. But thanks to my time and friends on Prose, I feel like I could be a slap-hitting glove-first bench player who might collect a base hit or two with a little luck and a lot more work. It’s a new feeling. And I wanted to thank you all for that.

When I wrote that one-month thank-you I tagged literally everyone who had ever Liked a post I wrote. Not gonna try that now, but I want to tag those who commented on “Rideshare” and a couple others. No omission intentional

Believing the last egg I cracked was cracked right up the middle is my prerogative, that is if there is a middle. If you ask me, the problem with eggs is their lack of structural perfection, so affixing blame to myself for my inability to predetermine the outcome of the break is no different than an eager beachcomber viewing a line in the sand as the tide ebbs and flows, expecting a straight edge.

Some will look at an egg and see the hand of God, a miraculous offering, the spherical elongation released from a chicken's vent; as food for the hungry. All I see is tangible irregularity. And I could eat a dozen. Two dozen. Waste not want not. Cracking them one at a time, releasing the yolk and the albumen flagrantly to sizzle unabridged upon the preheated griddle, as Jose Rameriz pitches a perfect game that I don't watch, and I want more, even after I vomit.

Tomorrow, when I wake up, the same exact time I woke up today, I will drive my clean car an equal distance between the double yellow line and the shoulder waiting three seconds before I proceed after the light turns green to buy more eggs. Two dozen. Maybe more if they are on sale, opening up the carton with anticipatory willingness only to be deceived. Eyeing every one of the twelve I rebuke the notion of God. There is no perfect egg.

One sip, one look, one taste, one shot,

Then all I had was suddenly not,

I had everything, but didn't know,

Now here I lay, frostbitten in snow,

Wanting more at first inspired,

Left me successful, little to be desired,

Provider of my own family,

A home to which I held the key,

But then enough was not enough,

Advertised happiness actually handcuffs,

Holding me captive, leading me away,

While I smiled and paid bits more each day,

Family warned me, but I didn't listen,

New friends gripped, diamonds glisten,

Wallet stayed out, wallet lost weight,

No need to tempt me, no need for bait,

Spouse and children left, days later I discovered,

Bought a playmate to replace them, easily recovered,

I truly had more now, though not all good,

Troubles, debts, STD's, paranoid attitude,

Dreaded day came, no money to pay,

Shakes of heads, new "friends" scurried away,

Sold all belongings to get one last hit,

Needed so desperately just a little bit,

Don't recall the day I lost the house,

Laid drunken in streets, christened a louse,

No home to return to, a craving to fix,

I headed downtown, for people to trick,

Moments in between, no money to spare,

Sobering up, wondering why I was there,

I'd been happy, comfortable even,

Kids, a spouse to whom I should have cleaven,

My head fills with screaming, I realize it's my own,

Desperate to move, but I'm chilled to the bone,

This moment of clarity comes all too late,

Tears freeze in my eyes, I've accepted my fate,

As I've given up, a light shines through the haze,

An angel has come to save me from my ways,

The light draws closer, shines orange and warm,

I can just make out a figure through the battering storm,

A smile appears, but not one that seems kind,

Chills colder than the temperature run down my spine,

The glow I thought divine to get out of my rut,

Was merely the burn of a cigarette butt,

Hands grab my jacket, tattered and tore,

"You once possessed wealth, but I've always been poor"

He says with a sneer, greed shines in his eye,

"I may as well take this, for soon you'll die."

Too weak to fight, too stiff to clutch,

The lowest reason I owe them this much,

I laugh as he walks away, drifting to dream,

Jokes on him as I see light, a shimmer, a gleam.

Love is an emotion

sparked by chemical reaction

Love is an abstract

but also an absolute fact

Love is intangible

but inherently powerful

Love is our connection

but has no equation

Love doesn't subside

when our loved ones die

Love is eternal

yet lovers are just mortal

Love is contradictory

beautiful, but can turn ugly.

Love isn't a necessity

but without it,

where would we be?

"Let's not fall in love," he said, his voice reverberating off the subway tile and blending in with the crowd.

And you couldn't help but think that this wasn't the place for that statement, that request. You could pretend you didn't hear him at all, but that would hardly be honest. You heard him well enough. But in the subway, of all places? And then you think.

You think the subway is a dirty nasty place, and maybe that he equates it with you and that's why he is bringing it up now. You think, you don't like crowds. You think that maybe he couldn't go a moment longer without deminishing the possibility of connection. Though, mostly, you think about how it's a little too late for him to ask for this.

<b>This</b> being months of time together. You think about meeting in front of the apartment mailboxes. About finding out his dog's name was Ralph, like your uncle from Connecticut. The plans you made for next week. You think about the first time he watched <i>Breathless</i> with you and how you could tell he really liked it by the way he used it hands to talk about his favorite parts. You think about the fact he loves ravioli naked. How his birthday is coming up, soon. You think about his hands: clutching a pencil, scrubbing the wok, tapping laptop keys, making the bed.

How unfair, you think. And its only been seconds. You feel the weight of his gaze growing heavier. As if you were a boat and he an anchor. But you have needs too, you just don't know his and it's hardly right to ask now, isn't it. What do you say, then? In moments like these.

Looking up, you answer: