The Urge to Surge when the Verge is Splurged
The Urge to Surge when the Verge is Splurged
August 30, 2024
I own the lake and the vast area consisting of its perimeter. As an investment, it began paying dividends almost immediately. Fed by a small stream, stocked with some of the finest trout and bass in the state, and located remotely from any road or trail, the lake was nothing short of divine.
That is until last Thursday.
I heard its rotors disturb my morning coffee. I noticed its shadow move slowly. It was a drone mapping the contents of nature’s masterpiece. It never noticed me or my Springfield as I was sighting in the harbinger of doom before I scored with the perfect shot. The drone fell among the retaining stones on the north side, crashing into pieces. Using a net, wearing a mask, I retrieved the remnants and cast them into the fire barrel for a proper disposal. In doing so, I bought myself nearly a day before its owner either sent a second drone to recon the area (most likely) or brave the arduous hike required to verify its demise.
This would be a battle I could lose in a war I had to win.
My “NO TRESPASSING” were affixed in various conspicuous places. My entry gates were locked and camouflaged preventing detection. I turned off my generator so as to discourage intruders using a mechanical excuse to parlay a rendezvous. I sat in solitude awaiting the inevitable.
I did not have to wait as long as I thought I would wait.
First, I heard the whistle. Let me rephrase that. I heard her whistle. The tune was “Jimmy crack corn and I don’t care.” Then I saw her as she whistled. She was marching (somewhat) to her pace, most likely, as a measuring metric to estimate the distance she was walking. Her backpack was packed for two (perhaps) three days sans a tent. She carried a fishing pole and a compass.
I had to watch what she would do next.
Once at my lake’s edge, she dropped her pack and removed a notebook and a charcoal pencil. For the next two hours, she began to sketch the glory of my property in all of its midday presence. She was meticulous and thorough, detailing the pussy willows and the waterfowl contained within. No camera on this one. No radio or phone in use. She was a throwback to a quieter time, a more patient time, reminiscent of why I sojourned here in the first place.
By 3 pm, she had discovered my favorite spot for a campfire. Already stocked with kindling, she took it upon herself to help herself and begin her own fire. Out from her backpack came a small cup, a bottle of water, what seemed to be coffee, and the cheeriest greeting toward my location asking me to stop hiding and partake in a delicious french roast she ground herself.
No sense in continuing covert operations. I walked into the clearing and greeted her.
“You owe me for a drone.”
“You are trespassing on my property.”
She smiled at the conclusion of our brief penultimate exchange before initiating another.
“Hello, my name is Eve. What is yours?”
I almost laughed, but remained stoic instead and played along.
“Madam, I’m Adam.”
The Parson said it would take nearly a week for him to find us and complete the ceremony’s paperwork.
“Semicolon Found Dead!”
The Prose author, Dr. Semicolon, has been found, face down, in a pool of jet-black ink. Foul play is suspected. While literature will continue without so much of a speedbump on the written page of humanity, further details are pending notification of next of kin, the theprose.com community.
__________________
I'm thinking of changing to my real name here on Prose. The DrSemicolon monicker was cute but I have enough volume ranging from gravitas to silly to wonder if it's time to just be me, Gerard DiLeo.
Please weigh in with a yes or no or leave your sentiments below. (= COMMENT bait--how can you resist?)
Thanks.
oinkzzz
Pops made some statement about "Really personifying the lipstick on a Pig thing huh?" Ma never wore make up and after that she never did again.
Dad had smeared his bacon around the plate soaking up the ketchup & syrup remains, which he didn't see the irony in.
At his funeral, caused by that same breakfast he was having 2nds of one snowy morning, Mom wore makeup again for the first time in long time.
I haven't seen her without it since
Madness of the Trees, Dive Bar Love, a Couple of Shards, and a Release of Energy.
Four writers were approaching, and the wind began to howl... all around and through episode 58, where they bellied up to the bar, each throwing down their own style, their flavors for your tongues and ears. Absolutely love this episode. Mariah finishes what Dionysian66 starts, with two newer bloods in middle, to bring 58 into full bloom, time lapse style.
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sNQ5DGlyNjI
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/825721/madness-stalks-the-forest-of-your-mind https://www.theprose.com/post/825162/a-beautiful-chaos https://www.theprose.com/post/825117/mumbles-of-a-dissociated-self https://www.theprose.com/post/825004/joules-anomaly
And.
As always...
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Madness Stalks the Forest of Your Mind
Off the
beaten path.
No street lights,
nature has
embraced you.
Solitude has
been found.
Suddenly,
feeling as if
you’re not alone.
The darkness
becomes palpable.
Shadows embody
subtle movements.
Heart rate increases,
breath quickens.
You begin
walking faster.
Trying not
to panic.
It feels like
something is
following you.
Now what?
Dread sets in,
anxiety starts.
Your eyes
say you’re alone.
Yet your mind
says otherwise.
Footsteps echo
in the growing
silence of the night.
As phantoms dance
in and out
of sight.
Each one becomes
more terrifying
than the last.
The mania
of the mind
begins to manifest
in your vision.
Shaping fantasies,
promoting nightmares.
Your mind is
fatally infected
with the delusion
of paranoia.
Now you begin
to question
your sanity.
It feels like
the entire forest
is watching you.
Are those really
tortured souls
in the trees?
A Kaleidoscope World - Take Another Turn
A Kaleidoscope World - Take Another Turn
August 01, 2024
Rick looked at Rita. Much like the work of W. W. Jacobs, The Monkey’s Paw, the two knew this was evil and they were damned for even contemplating using it.
“Should we?” It was such a simple question to ask, yet a nearly impossible one to answer.
Rita looked at her husband of 18 years. They had been rough years, full of lies, financial ruin, drugs, and deceit. She had left Rick more than once, but returned each time because of some invisible draw upon her emotions, leaving Rita bereft of something she could not explain.
Together Rick and Rita defeated all of the problems a couple could bear. Their son died soon after birth, most likely SIDS. Their daughter never even had the chance of being born. She died, in utero, at 7 months, on the way home from her first ultrasound. Rita called Rick to begin her conversation with good news. The paramedic finished the call notifying Rick of where Rita was going for emergency surgery.
Those days were behind the two, but not so far to forget they even existed. Their presence was a glimpse in the rear view mirror of life. Too far to be a constant worry. Too close to not be a worry.
Rita finally answered Rick’s question with a “Yes”.
It was Rick’s hand that held the device. Rita’s hand gave it a turn.
Best described as a mild case of vertigo, the pair awoke. They had both fallen to the floor, not their floor, but a better floor. This floor was clean. This floor was spacious and covered with a fine rug extended (nearly) from wall to wall. Rita remembered feeling the fibers of such a woven masterpiece once at a museum when she was in school. Rick had never even had that.
Once the pair arose, they went about searching the room, then all of the connecting rooms. Apparently, this was a home, an estate of scale suitable for a multimillionaire. They discovered the bedrooms, the kitchens, and the adjacent rooms for work and leisure. They had access to all of the rooms except one. This room was locked. The door displayed a spartan sign denying entrance to all. However, from the door handle hung a small silver chain with a skeleton key. Rita assumed the key would fit the door. Rick whispered that they should not tempt fate.
For once, the two decided to enjoy the gifts someone had bestowed upon them and quickly walk away from the temptation.
For the next 112 days, Rick and Rita swam at their leisure, ate delicious meals, enjoyed their media center, and (for the case of Rick) began reading great works of literature.
However, that door still stood as a silent sentinel to everything that might be. Rick was curious. Rita was adamant. She prevented Rick from even approaching the door. Their life was good, no, their life was great. She was not going to let Rick make another mistake.
But Rick was relentless. He applied arguments from Rousseau, John Jay, Franklin, and Aristotle hoping to erode Rita’s defenses of the door. He wondered that if there was nothing behind the door, then by opening the door, they had nothing to lose. But if there was something beneficial behind the door, it was their duty to discover the contents and apply it to their lives.
“But, what if the door holds at bay, something evil, something horrendous? Isn’t it better to follow directions and never even touch the door? Isn’t it better not to risk all we just gained?”
Rita’s argument was carefully considered and elegantly expressed. Rick should have heeded her concerns. However, even the moth knows the flame will kill it, but the light still compels his proximity to impending doom.
Rick just had to open the door. Rita just had to keep Rick from doing so.
On the morning of the 113th day in paradise, Rita discovered a pistol on a table where no pistol had ever been before. It wasn’t there on day 112. It most likely would not be there on day 114. This was an inauspicious turn of events in which Rita knew she must act while she could.
The minute she held the pistol, she knew how to use the pistol. As if her experience was gained from birth, she was confident she could keep Rick from undoing all of the gains they enjoyed.
When she found Rick trying to use the key to open the door, she drew the pistol and aimed for his head. The cocking of the hammer told Rick that Rita meant business. Inserting the key into the lock meant that Rick meant business.
No words were needed. Rita squeezed the trigger while Rick turned the key. If there was another occupant in the house, he could not testify, with certainty, of the sound the door made when opened. He could testify, with certainty, the sound of a discharged 9mm bullet made in an enclosed space.
Paul looked at Petra. Much like the work of W. W. Jacobs, The Monkey’s Paw, the two knew this was evil and they were damned for even contemplating using it.
“Should we?” It was such a simple question to ask, yet a nearly impossible one to answer.
The Auditorium
Vast
Empty
when it’s full
of hollow people
auditory dissonance
Hear what we want
Selective
Echoes bounce
Off wooden floors
solid as any foundation
Built on sand
On the podium
innaccuracies
polished floors
false shine
The soulless
sycophants make
ill wishes
Karmic answers
thoughtless words
rhetorical responses
filled with doubt
Chamber of echoes
peripheral souls
stirring
irrationally within
the auditorium
Swings Both Ways
Imagine my surprise when I awoke to see a door standing in the middle of my bedroom. I don't know if I heard it or dreamt it, but I heard, "If you open it, you'll go anywhere and time you wish."
I got out of bed and approached the door. I slowly opened it enough to see myself peaking at me from the other side. Truth be told, "he" probably saw "himself" peaking in from the other side.
Where did I want to go? Where did "he" want to go?
I realized I was in a very good place at this point in my life. I was raising two happy children, had earned the love of a good woman, and peace and contentment were ours.
"How 'bout you?" I asked "him."
"Yeah," he agreed, "I'm good, too."
"We" closed the door and we each went back to bed.
When I awoke, the door was gone. It never returned.
And then you sense a change
And then you sense a change
July 10, 2024
I woke up.
I shouldn’t have.
Claire wasn’t home. After the fight last night, I didn’t expect her to return soon.
However, Stanley, my German Shepherd, wasn't home either.
Claire’s note was.
Hey asshole. If you ever want to see Stanley again, leave the Beamer in the parking lot and the keys on my receptionist’s desk. Stanley will meet you in the parking lot.
I did what she asked.
She did what she said.
I was drinking a cup of coffee when Stanley appeared. I gave him a treat and walked him home.
That night, the police arrived to give me the grim news about the car crash killing my wife. She didn’t slow down enough to make the turn. The impact caused the fiery crash in which she died.
Stanley and I attended the funeral. I collected the insurance money later that month.
I bought a new water bowl for Stanley.
We keep it in the condo on Lake Geneva.
Stanley seems to like the new situation.
So does Dagmar, my new bride.
This one (gigantic) room has everything that man loved that he wanted to have
as record
in one place
That he had amassed in his lifetime
his voyage
through this life we all take a shot at
In the other room (which is technically still apart of this one but he kept separate) is the things he hates most
When people come through here we usually won't tell them the meanings of the 2 and it's most interesting to us what they make of it all
Some love things from both hate things from both
but the most .. deflating
is when someone has a faint disinterest or unknowingness when experiencing their walk through
a life of someone who collected the things that brought them the most feeling on both ends of the spectrum all in one centralized location a Museum of hatred and nostalgia
The ethereal reminance of a deadman That this still with us soul has less interest in it than the shit particles still in that buried man's pants who insisted on being put 6 feet under with no coffin so that he could become apart of the Earth the dirt
because he didn't wanna stick around in an airtight box waiting for people like them, to burn the world and the things he loved in it to ashes before finally getting released from limbo-
Their notsosunny disposition
encapsulates the beauty of... everything