Short Story Collection Being Released
Hi everyone!
I just wanted to share that I'll be releasing a collection of short stories on February 1st. Many of the stories in this collection have been featured here, while others haven't. If anyone is interested, you can find it on Amazon here:
https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0CRQZTJM5/ref=sr_1_1?crid=CRDHZ7RB04E0&keywords=theres+gold+in+those+hills&qid=1704751382&sprefix=theres+gold+in+those+hill%2Caps%2C185&sr=8-1
I'm pretty excited about this and I just wanted to thank The Prose community for being the major reason for this collection. Before I joined this community, my writing was directionlesss and you've help me find direction.
So, thanks everyone!
Balms Away originally written June 10th, 2018
Never could this dada adjust to “empty nest” syndrome, despite natural declaration of independence, either of two beloved daughters took, who trod divergent (measure for) measures to attain singular autonomy.
Language usage the perfect analogous engine and tonic re: incorporating therapeutic, holistic, and cathartic personal choice modus operandi vis a vis coping method to allow, enable, and provide adjustment since (the smallest possible) even number of offspring figuratively flew (without being chicken) the coop.
Thus, thy near limitless imagination took refuge in conjuring means to harness this then melancholic feeling.
Sadness oft times (more so in mine recent writing past, which coincided with trials and tribulations of fatherhood) helped expunge, shoe away, and soften hard heart hardening like leaden albatross that weighed upon psyche.
An aha moment arose soothing this inconsolable ache, especially to bear witness when thee youngest poised to graduate from Redmond Proficiency Academy sans the evening of Friday May 26th, 2017.
Courtesy of an over active imagination, this dada could practically will himself to be (and or course not to be living in a Shakespearean hamlet, per chance shaped like a Globe bull omelet, where all's well that ends well as wwe like it) in the presence of those whose absence affects me the most.
Aside from the mental equivalent of a clowning magician possessing wizardry zeal, a secret channel existed for me to experiment as a “guinea pig” to bring wishful thoughts into fruition.
So without further delay (explaining general information about this prosaically protective proud papa), I cut to the virtual paper chase and apply the remaining words to self-taught exploit to travel at the speed of greased lightning.
Whether the weather perfect or inclement, this middle-aged father follows strict safety guidelines.
Additionally, true to the postal employee motto (which maxim faithfully, dutifully, and benevolently taken to heart whenever I did dull liver mail, a job that comprised my working career since age eighteen until forced retirement, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night will stay this fatherly courier from his swift completion of self appointed roundly nada impossible mission to a light like a bolt to Bend, Oregon.
Thus, dexterous fingers intuitively, instinctively, and busily circled round my heavily padded faux santa claus size waist, where the Kuiper belts got buckled, Asteroid clasps cinched, and Dwarf men uber zippers drawn snugly into a custom fit pod like contraption.
Elaborate panels of buttons, knobs, and switches appeared when this air borne civilian ready to blast off into the great beyond.
Aeronautical engineering avocation well versed in the pseudo rigor mortis stasis, sans keeping this five feet and ten inch athletic body rigid for untold hours (yes, or even days at a stretch) amateur astronaut, Cosmo (funneling) naught, and English major trained me to the precautions when a human being approached the velocity of light.
Extraterrestrial futuristic gewgaw hedged intrusion of extreme atmospheric pressure.
Intubation asper nutriment (even though the journey across the celestial vault, would practically clock more than a few minutes), the sheer excitement to surprise the punim compromised an ordinarily hearty appetite.
I would not miss attending the academic achievement of thee offspring fraught with mastering rudimentary particle physics, which aptitude she (who refers to herself as Shay) acquired with flying colors.
Hence, thru thick or thin, hell or high water, this practitioner viz laissez-faire promised himself to take a bold risk.
Ooh, a shiver tingled down the small hairs of my back at the utter pleasant shock of surprise, when this joyously earthlinked capitalone amusing chap would spring out from some secluded spot after the pomp and circumstance of the tearful feted milestone made manifest when this class of two thousand and seventeen exploded with joie de vivre at the special stepping stone.
Though told to thine charmingly fond, indubitably loved, and officiously regaled unpretentiously that neither this conniving father, nor idealistic languorous otherwise rational uber xing abby would attend this once in a lifetime poignant performance, the playful goniff within this overgrown “boy” found schemes to transcend, triumph and trump the travails defying overcoming odds to attain sought after goal.
Prior to embarking on near blink oven nigh transportation, a deathly stillness sans pall cast dark shadows where me countenance strove to bask as like a avast limned idyllic patch, now invisible jack hammers chattering within the usual tour de force core of droning heart wrenching torment, which triggered an unstoppable, invincible, and inconsolable biblical geyser of tears streaming down me smooth shaven cheeks.
Sudden pangs of nostalgia for the salad days (yes, they got unexpectedly, maddeningly and frequently tossed – boot lettuce turnip vines frankly zapping this despairing biological beastie cry boy i.e. “sir”) akin to a basket case of one deplorable whimpering, sniffling, and oozing remembrance of fragmentary occasions when the girls erupted (like puppies yowling, yipping, and yawping with dog gone excitement) at the mere mention to spend time at their favorite “sand” playground.
How such simple and basic activities ushered forth an untrammeled vivacity wakening the child within myself (more’n a doe zen full moons ago), a flashback that rent asunder any attempt to activate the podcast, which flashback appeared to predominate a formerly giddy state of mind.
Though disheartened with scattered mental debris (and an importance to validate than vitiate this dismal deep seated depression), an all out attempt (my very mediocre college try) made to launch self into the void.
Just when all hope seemed lost in space at the outer limits of the twilight zone, (and the once in a billion – er…a slight hyperbolic statement… - chance to assimilate, bask cerebrally, divinely evoke fascination gamete hopscotch invoked, journey kindling life manifesting nameless outcome, prithee, queen royally slumbering tonight), the alt-rock totally tubular voodoo wresting yikyak zoomed into warp speed woof out any commands barked into the voice processing gizmo do.
Off went this sole sailor, soldier, and tinker toy spy zipping away into the heart of darkness.
The sheer blindingly crushing velocity (faster than posted speed limit) stretched the starlight into infinity, whereat the vacuum of deep space nine vector of space/time continuum produced Doppler effect, this low-pitched threshold wham could be felt as being heard.
Aside from the fleeing rainbow gathering far into the distant Cosmos, a barrage of hail size residue (possibly from an aborted planet that never materialized, or perhaps one potential “Mother Earth” miscarried), this comfortably numb skull of mine with a neck row feeling immovable like a led zeppelin, tautly tethered torso, nonetheless, a basic human instinct invited a wave of rapturous, luscious, and joyous delight suffused this humble being.
How grand (hen nowhere near the finale) to extol firsthand, this great homogeneous uniformity throughout the vastness encompassing, incorporating, and manufacturing a kaleidoscope of colors that blended into one prime mortally a self coined metaphorical soupy egg drop broth.
The Realm of Gentle Words
In a world where whispers weave the dawn,
And twilight sings of hope not gone,
There lies a path both clear and true,
Where words can paint the world anew.
In this realm, where ghosts might tread,
With careful steps and thoughtful head,
We speak in tones both soft and kind,
In search of peace, in hope to find.
"Real conversations," thus we yearn,
As the stars above us turn,
With words that heal, not those that steal,
In each gentle phrase, a lesson to learn.
For in our speech, a power lies,
Beneath the open, endless skies,
To shape our deeds, our hearts entwine,
With every loving word, a sign.
Here, humanity's dream takes flight,
In dialogues through day and night,
Believing in a shared embrace,
Of every soul, color, face.
So let us talk, with hearts so vast,
Where in our words, the future's cast,
A world where all can coexist,
In the realm of gentle words, persist.
Licking Cats and Toads
Tripping through a crisis
with Mr. Sadhill
I don’t know if I’m worthy
as I take up my quill
Pen strokes of madness
Mr. Mandel evokes sadness
Stabbing his ink into the center
Of an empty page.
I remember one time
when there wasn’t a rhyme
and I couldn’t even enter
simple reefer madness
I stray away,
escaping the confines of my page
writing off the edges
until I’m scribbling on the air
like a madman.
Like it or not
I’m riding this wave
’cause I’m two hours
into some fucked up shit.
the wave takes me up and the wave drops me down
and I’ve knocked over my ink bottle (right onto the ground)
I hope that Mr. sadhill will help me get back
and is not being lazy with his crazy cat
Well, the cat drank it up, every lick of the ink
And now for himself, he’s starting to think
He reads me a line from one of my works
until he realizes we’re both going to need a nurse
I finally came down, from my toes to my crown
and, while the words I had written will not bring me renown,
I’m glad that I’ve been able to in my writing mind goad
while only on gangha and not licking the back of some toad
Tonight's Prompt: Writing a Collaborative poem about "Tripping through a crisis"
Written by @ChrisSadhill, and @mmandel321
Family Tree
Those freckles
There
Delicate on her chest
Align the moon
And the stars
As mother described them best.
A seed blown far from home
Grew alone
One winter season
A wonder in such weather
It survived without a reason.
A class of her very own
Gardens bloomed around her
Inch by inch
She grew through stone.
The others nearby
Had a mother and a brother
So close and
Intertwining
They grew in to one other.
Oh, how I wished
to be a branch
A thorn
Even a fly.
I would surely blossom
If it were not
But me myself and I.
-Kelly Wiman
{aliento}
a concept, finite:
Sin Cuentas withheld in All
~ wave & particle .
I am I am I
in Palindrome lineage
---Río of Being
...Encantas, silence
the world in one thou' and song
Leaves and needles crawl
Metamorphoses
belong to the Corazón,
bottled, blot; sparrows
what clouds hold heavy,
(in wind all is traveling)
una bebida
*Translation of Spanish & Author's Note:
aliento means breath
(the foreignness I believe speaks for itself)
Haiku 1: Sin Cuentas is the Infinite
the thought is of all as a point in motion, one in many/many in one
we begin (and end) cellular, a spark of light as if--
hence Einstein's wave and particle, illustrating a duality of Existence
(Sin Cuentas is in fact the inspiration "point" of my poem. I ran across it in a children's book "Papi, How Many Stars in the Sky?" and was struck by the Sin in Spanish meaning "without" and Cuentas translates literally to "accounts," but idiomatically the translation is "the Infinite" and so this powerful (in my perception!) link to being born without account of Sin, and Infinitely so! --that is how my mind ticks---in strange gestalt :)
Haiku 2: The dawning of Awareness, I
I as a beautiful most concise Palindrome of thought.
To me it is redundant to say I am, as I is enough. It already exists once marked as line.
It can only grow, or stop, i.e. die. So, again in my perception, the continuity suggests age, and visually a lineage, as that line may be passed. Hence, the subsequent imagery of the river; and a nod to Leonard Cohen, inevitably, as he uses this metaphor liberally, and with apt sexual overtone. Río is River in Spanish, but it harkens to the ear like Royalty, a sound regal and proud. Thus, awareness as a life-giving force, internally, and in generations to come.
Haiku 3: Encantas is to sing.
In truth, I vaguely recalled it as Enchantas and was very hopeful that I recalled correctly, as might be obvious, for the "enchant us" that is alluded to-- I was wrong in that the h was not there, but that made me think of a gap of silence, and I was delighted with that insight! The contrast seems so fitting, as we grow to appreciate our ability to act, and to refrain from action. Thus, turning to the world inside oneself (thou) and outside (in song).
I was charmed by combination of one and thousand, as a single unit/ many simultaneously, and again how thousand can be abbreviated to thou, bringing in the notion of one "you," you, being either singular, or plural. Leaves and needles crawl, is an illustration mentally of the passage of time, evoking I hope, music, writing, visual arts, and in the changing of seasons from the emergence of these, literally, upon the trees in Spring, to their departure in the Fall. (*If you're picking up connotations of ink and vinyl, that is very astute! and intentional.)
Haiku 4: The key in this one is Corazón, meaning the Heart-- and I adore how much it reverberates in English as the core zone!! To me this the center, poetically, where all our changes personally occur. True growth, as it were, spiritually, emotionally-- our point of maturity. The content of our Hearts is bottled; it spills, like Rorschach blot tests, and we can let these visions fly as sparrows (i.e. like live arrows) if we let them go (from the cocoon). The incongruity of the release of a bird, rather than butterfly, did not escape me-- the idea is not to limit our Imagination.
Haiku 5: we are mostly air and water, and emotion, and this I hoped to convey in the verse, "what the clouds hold heavy," much as when we say the sky is pregnant, or the sky will break, and rain will come like tears, heaven sent in the winds (of change). And so, the suggestion of "bebida," which to the English ear suggests a baby, but is in Spanish in fact a drink, and in this case the sip of a final breath (of life/death). To optimistically end:
"Cheers!" to a life (well) lived.
*As a personal aside: I chose the Spanish, because my second Mom is in Mexico and her birthday is coming up so I thought I would share this with her <3
corrupted wish
twenty till
rhinestone jaw breaker
thirteen
wishing well wishes
and
a single clock hand.
bristles and cat claws
ten
poisoned irises like
fairy fire
twisted
gnarled roots and fingertips
two
too many goldfish
swim
circles like carnivores.
twenty till
the loose dirt and
vinelike
kiss of moonlight.
Buddha and Bikers and Coffee: In a Bathtub of Gin.
Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.
Happy Saturday, fam. In today's video, we lazily cast a net into the the waters of Prose., and reel in a haul refulgent with beautiful brains of madness and gorgeousness. Just a mellow morning of reading these greats with coffee and the hum of possiblity.
There is nothing finer.
Featured and flounced before you, and waiting at the end of this sentence, is the link to the channel.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=horH5hzrBmI
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Grandiousprickitis: The Disease Worse Than Gonorrhea
Okay, so normally I wouldn't care much about what the Budweiser beer company does. It is my last choice in beer and I've always assumed Budweiser was German for, "Kaiser Piss." Surprisingly, this most domesticated of beers has taken a brave stance and made a transgender person a part of their advertising. Not surprisingly, the result of this inclusive add campaign is that it has ushered in a state of near pandemonium amongst many of those with a more conservative bent. Let's be clear here. This is an ad campaign. It is not an attempt to indoctrinate anyone into anything. From the reaction of many conservatives, it seems that they expect a paramilitary group of LBGTQA members to swoop in and lure these, "Good Traditional Christian Men and Women" into becoming, oh no, ONE OF THEM by exposing them to an endless loop of Will and Grace reruns and Judy Garland records!
Of course this is absurd, but it is just one symptom of a disease that has hit our country lately. No, it's not COVID and its not an especially nasty strain of antibiotic resistant gonorrhea, no it's a new disease aptly, named Grandiose-Prickitis, or GP for short. What are the symptoms you ask? Well, this is a new disease, so there is still much to learn, but thus far GP's symptoms include:
1. Holding to a somewhat unattainable standard which dictates sex is only between a man and a woman, not to be engaged in before marriage, and is a messy, sticky, shameful part of procreation that the couple should seek immediate forgiveness immediately after engaging in the horizontal bop. Of course, sex should also only be had after Bible study, in the dark, and the missionary position is the only remotely acceptable position, thus its name.
2. The belief that there is zero, zip, zilch, nada variation in gender even though gender fluidity is well documented and has existed in the animal kingdom since before we learned to walk erect.
3. The delusional belief that they are 100% sure that their beliefs about human sexuality is correct and it is their God given duty to condemn anyone whose beliefs don't line up with their stick up their ass belief system (the stick up their ass also being a no-no as foreign objects don't belong in the marital bed).
4. The belief that members of the LBGTQA community are incapable of offering anything beneficial to society.
An example of GP symptom presentation can be found in the fact that many conservatives recently got their totally holy and therefore totally unexciting britches tied in knots because drag queens were reading stories to children at the library (and looked FAB-U-LOUS while doing it). Of course, afraid that this would somehow usher in the apocalypse, they through a fit and demanded that the library be boycotted until it no longer allows drag queens to read to children. What is the problem here? They aren't handing out Camp Drag Queen brochures to the kiddos. In fact, many of the kiddos may not have a clue as to the nature of the kind person who is reading them a story at all. They're just happy to be read, "Green Eggs and Ham." As a social worker who serves developmentally delayed kiddos from 0-5 year old, I cannot count how many times I have asked a parent about story time and they admit to not reading to their kids at all. So, as far as I'm concerned, every library needs a drag queen story time because EVERY kid deserves to be read to. If mom and dad won't do it, someone should, and who better than the kind and generous (and once again FAB-U-LOUS) drag queens who understand the importance of reading to children.
It all comes down to this. Those who suffer from Grandiose-Prickitis have no right to run another person's life. They have not been given license to condemn people because they don't agree with how they live. Most importantly, those with GP should never be allowed to hinder or stop the good works of others just because they are different. So, I salute Budweiser and its ad campaign. Kuddos! But I still won't be drinking your beer.