Seven writers come down with fire to make this one of our favorite episodes in the channel's history. Ranging from new blood to legends, these pieces put our 60th episode out into the world with a grip of steel and blue-lava beauty, mixes of orange, and a touch of evil to keep the thread floating upon the wind, seeable, but unreachable to remove.

Here's the link to the show.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aKWoKWK7nXY

And here are the pieces featured.

https://www.theprose.com/post/826733/i-know-why-bukowski-smiled https://www.theprose.com/post/826842/the-double-headed-scepter-of-doubt https://www.theprose.com/post/826569/tot

https://www.theprose.com/post/826584/the-art-of-love https://www.theprose.com/post/826617 https://www.theprose.com/post/826436/and-i-am-vapor

https://www.theprose.com/post/826316/black-sky https://www.theprose.com/post/827138/swallows https://www.theprose.com/post/827447/in-due-time

https://www.theprose.com/post/827090/people-ruin-everything

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

I came into this world two days late, mad as hell. My parents were nine years too far into their marriage. My mom was two years from an overdose attempt and my father, five years from a decade-long disappearance.

My grandfather-- who would later assume my dad's role-- had the quirk of nicknaming all the babies born into the family. Sometimes it took a while, as he needed time to reflect on looks, personality, and memorable moments. Then he would christen them with whatever he found fitting. But mine came in an instant. As I screeched in my mother's arms, wailing in protest, nostalgic for the void, her father pulled me into his age-spotted arms and I settled, growing silent in his embrace.

I like to think that my soul recognized his, that there was some part of me that carried an innate knowing of the traits we shared. But that's a story for another chapter. If you're the skeptical type, then it's a tall tale for another time. My Papa looked at me, and I looked at him, face still flushed with the remnants of my tantrum. On that Tuesday afternoon in the late Southern spring, my nickname chose itself.

Screaming Redcheeks.

Papa was the only one who called me this, and usually shortened it to Redcheeks, rarely calling me by my given name. There was even a paint stick with SCREAMING REDCHEEKS scrawled onto it with a fat-tipped Sharpie, kept atop the china cabinet for the days in which I lived up to my namesake. My tantrums became expected, routine even. I was set off by nearly everything, even trivial matters like the dog not listening or an especially tricky level of a computer game. I was (still am) argumentative and questioned the validity and authority of everyone and everything.

With my history, I find it strange that others describe me as calm or stoic. I was noted as being a polite, intelligent, and motivated child, though that sentiment decreased dramatically in my teens. Anytime I'm complimented on my nature, a montage of screaming fits, unfeeling language, and brazen manipulation flashes through my mind. I think of the year I smashed all the Christmas ornaments during a tantrum, or the time I threw a dining room chair at my mother. I see my children's worried faces and my patterns repeated within them. Then plays a vision of my marriage on the rocks, with my husband wavering on the cliffside, peering into the depths of Irreconcilable Differences.

My temperament breathes in dualities. There's a consistent ebb and flow, tempestuous currents of mood and mentality. There is understanding betrothed to denial. Warm embraces are frozen in a duel with cold calculation. Within hope lives hopelessness. In the absence of mania, comes depression.

I am Screaming Redcheeks. I am Marissa Wolfe.

Somewhere, within the gray of black-white polarities, there have been touches of silver that slow the pendulum just enough to offer glimpses of what healthy, happy, and hopeful looks like. Just enough to strive for. Just enough to snap the paint stick and depart from the path of rage. Anger is birthed from sadness. Sadness is birthed from pain. Pain roots itself, unyielding, into the grooves of the brain and chokes out the chambers of the heart.

And yet, it has been my greatest teacher. My greatest motivator.

The flame-soaked phoenix wails to the heavens, wondering why she's been forsaken, but within her scattered ashes is the chance to start anew. She reforms, entrenched in her cycles, and cries a different song, more knowing than the one before.

you must be a cosmic energy . made out of a handful of suns

.

I am crying without reason,

again. I am teapotting all over the place.

Every breath is a mess. There is no melody,

or rhythm. Just fusses of hair and tufts of rain.

And the birds are howling.

And the dogs are chirping.

I start to write poems backwards,

beginning with the end. Closure comes

and opens the door, carries the eyes

over the threshold like a bride.

And the trees are cracking.

And the sky is rooting.

No one can justify their chaos,

except science. Disorder means things are working.

I suppose that’s a reason for living.

I suppose it’s alright to drop a glass.

Think about it: who would we be

if it weren’t for our weaknesses?

Our bodies would be so dry.

You’re living in my stomach

Right in the pit of me

Encumbered

Pounding the walls

Disrupting sleep

Gorging

Feasting veins

Fingers, clawing

Desperation, scraping rib cage-prison

Kindling riots, licking heated discord

Peel my husk

Eat me down to pulp

Pull the ache from my mouth

Lift the shadows out my throat

Your hands, oil spills

My skin, toy-soldier alert

My heart, hummingbird wings

My breath, phantom spasms

My breath, provoked

My breath, exacerbate

Heightened

Unending

Interminate

My mind is a cesspool

I like you

wet and heavy

Defining Calm

When the quiet of the universe,

the stillness of nature,

quiet breathing from twin lovers;

and the loudest sound heard are heartbeats.

a memory lasts longer than one single existence

traveling through time and space

its fibers twisting, expanding and ever-changing

coming back to you in a whisper

a silent reminder that you are loved

déjà vu? perhaps

Let

go of

me in all

the ways that

help you

to land

&

hold

on to

me in all

the ways that

help you

to stand.

he said, you light them up.

you dream about touching

him. crumpling his sleeves like

sandpaper. sand

falls across the bed like

his body. which is folding, folding;

you love it unbelievably.

coming home and finding

the door unlocked. you press

into the latch, heart like

shoreline. pounding, pounding;

the rain that is his mouth, his hands

under this night-black

sweater that is too small.

he pulls it up over your head and

breathes more. a little more

than you know he meant to.

what else you know — you never

left home after all.

white noise, sunlight

at the edge of the windowframe,

shrinking back when he

rounds the corner from

halls that also recoil, refrain.

and do not stop him

as he comes to pull your

heaving heart out from in between

your thighs. shaking, shaking;

like being birthed again.

you hold back the evening tide

which is gripping the coast,

struggling against a desire

to rush back out to sea, where all

there is of heartbreak

is waiting, collecting like

silt. of all the windows you might

have touched your tongue to,

this is what opened.

he parts you, parses you, never

locks the door as he leaves.

you came back with roses

and he was holding a pillowcase,

fluttering against the

fan’s oscillating face.

he turns, a little like domesticity,

starts talking about the sun,

how it rose

when you walked in. he takes

the roses. breathes.