Contribute

Ceaselessly

Defeat

Demotion

and

depression

Feed

a

Family

Give

Generously

Healthy

Habits

of

Happiness

Knowledgeably

Knit

a

Klatch

of

Kerfuffle

Live

a

Life of love

Serve

in

Sacrifice

Screaming Sons

Forever Falling

Crack! Crash!

Frowning Fathers

Mourning Mothers

Hum... Hush...

Brothers Brawling

Countries Colliding

Boom! Bang!

Orphaned Offspring

Enduring Enmity 

Tick... Tick...

Pens plundering psychedelic patched pockets of prose passionately

Reverie of revised raindrops of rippled reflected rhythms resonating

Omega of open oceans outpouring onyx opportunities of obsession

Sashaying through scattered sighs and splashes of seductive silence spiraling

Embryonic echoes of ecstasy etching and embracing essence of existence.

He sits in a prison of his making, buried under the weight of unseen shadows, and dogged by mistakes of a past his present self will not acknowledge. A man in fear for his life, in fear of his wife, a man about to take his life, or just a man and nothing but.  He is me, and I am him. A person apart from him, a sole piece of him, and just like him, I am a coward. I fear many things but suffer from an even greater fear: the fear of one’s self. I hide behind a vacuous smile and hollow eyes in fear that expressing my opinions might inflict pain on another. I avoid my feelings as in my emotions is a dangerous place to be. I am afraid that in my constant neglect of honesty and openness I have rendered myself incapable of articulation. I fear that I will never be able to direct my life’s story and not be threatened or guilted into it as I have been all my life. I lack the courage to stand up to the wielders of my freedom, to stand up to the jailers in my mind, and my imaginary oppressors. I believe I am capable of doing so but doubt the righteousness of the act, plagued by a faulty moral compass that presents itself whenever it chooses. I fear the freedom I hope to own as my heart is now fettered to fear.

Shadows slumber

As the sun goes down

I shamble quiet streets

In my nightmare town

A familiar haunt

Of my childhood dreams

Quiet pastel houses

Clock my trek

In the gloaming

Ever West

In search of sun

And home and rest

I call out,

But no one's there

Save empty homes

That sit and stare

I think I am

The last alive

Such life a lie that was contrived

To lure me to this neighborhood

Foreboding future failures

My "coulda, woulda, shoulds"

I stumble on in search of truth

My wanderings but bear no fruit

And though

Despair may scheme

My spirit take

I walk in hope

For when I wake

I'll cast this darkness

Far from me

To stride tall

In the sun...one free

-DeRicki

All other week days pale into insignificance compared to this magical day that is Friday. It’s a day that signals the start of the weekend. It’s the day that people can see a light at the end of the tunnel, that hopefully isn’t some bugger with a torch and more work to do. It’s also the day that we get to read about another Proser and learn more about them.

This week is a prime example of all things Prose. He is a gentleman and a scholar by the name of DeRicki Johnson. You will probably know him on Prose as @derickijohnson

DeRicki lives in Fort Worth, Texas, and describes himself in three words as “Just another passenger”.

P: What is your occupation?

D: Writer, Uber/Lyft Driver and (when I need to make money) Tech Startup Consultant

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?

D: Writing from the heart was always a painful endeavor for me. I'm an introvert, and though my muse called, the thought of exposing bits of myself in ink was terrifying. I began writing poetry in high school, but it wasn't a serious pursuit. My first "adult" job was as a Reporter for New Orleans' Times-Picayune in the 1970s.

It didn't take long to see that newspapers weren't where the really interesting stuff was happening, so in the 80s, I got a job as a computer tech with IBM and worked my way into Managment at a BellSouth subsidiary in Minneapolis, called DataServ. During the last 15 years, I helped several tech companies get off the ground in a small town called Wenatchee, located 2.5 hours over the Cascade mountains from Seattle, WA.

Throughout my tech years, marketing, business/strategic planning and corporate communications writing figured prominently in my work; but, the truly creative writing my muse demanded of me - with increasing insistence - went vigorously resisted.

Last year I moved back to my birthplace of Fort Worth, TX to be near family. I decided to answer my muse. So now I'm driving ride-share and writing. I'm playing at book writing, but getting most of my traction from writing and reading poetry and flash fiction - and establishing a social media network that is helping me grow as a writer, and that will hopefully support my publishing efforts whenever I have something worthy of that support. So far, I've had a couple of poems published in a Three Line Thursday anthology, "Light Lines;" and some flash fiction in a 101words.org e-zine.

P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?

D: Reading has always been important to me. It has been my teacher, my nurturer, my friend and confidant. It takes me places barred from me. It sheds light in dark places that I might see things hidden. And now, reading authors of varying degrees of skill is helping me reverse engineer how to build a potential breakout novel. That's the dream, anyway.

I alternate between reading established writers and newbies, learning a lot by comparing the two groups' product.

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?

D: I like to tell stories. I try to cover a broad spectrum of the human experience in my poetry, and increasingly, in my flash fiction. This year I plan to enter more writing competitions and generally get my work seen by more people. My poems and short stories often reflect concepts, plot elements and emotions contained in my novel, Brindle Beast (2016 release) - as I sort of do A/B testing of different ways to tell the story.

P: What do you love about TheProse.com?

D: Initially, I resisted joining an online publishing platform, because I mistakenly assumed it was for "needy" writers seeking outside confirmation of their worth. Well firstly, I didn't realize how important and positive it is to be part of a writing community that understands what I'm going through, and that supports my efforts to grow as a writer. Confirmation and encouragement from other writers here on Prose turns out to be important to me - crucial to my development. Secondly, in addition to those little boosts from bookmarks/likes/follows, and comments that help keep me writing, the Prose community is more than willing to provide serious feedback - constructive criticism that is worth more than gold. This second revelation came to me recently when I was experimenting with writing an "evil" character. Without my realizing the significance of it, one of my replies to a comment opened the door and I received a wealth of wisdom from other writers' journeys on this same path. What was so cool is how the conversation took on its own life, with different opinions increasing the light in an area previously dark to me. I plan to try to encourage this type of discourse in the comments I receive more often, and I encourage anyone interested in developing their writing chops to invite more critical comments and sharing from other writers and readers.

A few simple rules are helping me get the most from constructive feedback: (1) I check my ego at the door; (2) I don't take negative feedback as a personal affront, understanding that some useful info can be buried in less than tactful comments (not my experience here on Prose, yet); (3) I realize that such responses are given from the responder's point of view, and as such may be of varying usefulness to me; and, (4) I resist the urge to explain to the commenter why I did what I did, as the value is in their reaction to what I did, not in me making them understand my intent. I try to just say "thanks" then run back to my bat cave to analyze my "loot."

I owe a debt of gratitude to my online writing friends who persisted until I tried Prose! I love this platform and its citizens.

P: And we love you, sir! Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?

D: Wow. Not going to attempt to press my reading choices on anyone else. I'll just recommend that books that help me better understand others and this journey called life are the ones I love most. I can find this in any genre. Now this is not to say that I'm reticent to recommend a book I enjoyed. It's just that I don't know where anyone else is in their journey, or what story is right for them - right here, right now. I just know, from my experience, they are everywhere. Lastly, I find it rewarding to occasionally force myself to read a book outside of my comfort zone. I'm doing more reviews on Goodreads, Amazon and Instagram, but it's a thin gruel right now. I have a long reading list on Facebook as well, though it contains many of my old favorites, it's not been kept current.

P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?

D: My Mom would read to us as children. One of my fondest memories was sitting on the floor on a rainy summer day while she read to us. I think it was "The Wizard Of Oz." When my Dad realized how much I enjoyed reading, he would bring home books being recycled out of the school library where he was a janitor. At the end of the summer we kids would help him prep the school for opening. One year, as a reward for helping to prep the school, he brought home an old set of The Book of Knowledge encyclopedia. It came with an index crammed with the the kind of questions kids asked, like "why is the sky blue?" and "how do we see in color?" The next summer I locked myself in the linen closet and read the whole set cover to cover - probably explains why my brain is so packed full of trivial facts...

P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?

D: "If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility." -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

P: Favourite music to write and/or read to?

D: Smooth jazz

P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?

D: You guys are f*cked...?

OK - actually, my first thought was hit them with some ironic reference to Bradbury's "Fahrenheit 451," but, of course, no one would get it.

P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you/your work/social media accounts?

D: I am grateful for the many writers and lovers of words I've met as I've built an online presence. The encouragement and advice I've received from so many virtual friends is invaluable.

So there you have it. You’ve drawn back the curtains and spied a while on the life of @derickijohnson and now you must follow and interact. Them’s the rules. As always, we want more nominations for future Friday Features. Nominate yourself or others. You may not feature immediately, but you’ll feature if you’re posting and answering the questions! Send those nominations to info@theprose.com

You were the rain, and I, a flower soaking in your essence, using your tears to wash away the evidence of my sins. Aching for the dampness so carefully teased and so reluctantly distant. The more I had of you, the more I craved. Torrential downpours did nothing to sooth the burn in my veins rooted deep into the earth, the gentlest raindrop kisses did nothing to ease the longing of my pale petal thighs. Floods carried away my ambitions with their tumultuous promises of a future, thunderstorms left me making love to the ground in a bed of silken dirt and hungry worms. But still it was never enough. I need all of you. I would rather drown in your love and never resurface, than to feel the sun kiss my weather worn skin one more time. Of all the deadly sins, I never thought I was Greed, until my dehydrated lips met yours and I vowed to never stop drinking.

Good morning, Prosers,

It’s week seventeen, and you guys just keep on bringing us superb content.

Last week saw us asking you to write your eulogy; we loved reading every piece you placed on our digital desks. To see all of you challenge yourselves as writers and evolve because of that, is a true honor to behold.

Before we get too mushy, let’s have a look at this week’s challenge prompt:

Prose Challenge of the Week #17: You are a superhero, write a piece about your powers and how you’ve abused them. 50 words minimum, 250 words maximum. The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100. When sharing to Twitter, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge

Onto last week’s winner. We had so many awesome entries that this week was an extremely close call. But there can only be one winner, so the decision has been made. The winner of the Prose Challenge of the Week #16 and the lucky recipient of $100 is @AtomDub, with the piece titled “Restless.” Congratulations, we will be in touch to arrange transfer of funds.

Right, that’s all for this week, we’re off to grab our capes.

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.