I feel bad about farting on treadmills.

Actually I'm apprehensive about being on treadmills in general. They’re kinda tricky.

Whenever I hear the squeak of my tennis shoe hitting the back end of the belt and I see the wall in front of me slowly moving back, I start to have a heart attack.

One of my biggest fears, no. I retract that. One of my friends biggest fears, is the fear of publicly falling off a treadmill. I mean what do you do at that point? How do you continue on in society? How do you keep living?

I think if I ever fell of a treadmill (in public), then I should probably go fall off a building. I mean what does that say about me as a person. That I can't keep a normal pace of running? Running. Something as simple as running. An activity people have been doing since…..forever. Since cavemen and shit.

You’re telling me I can’t run with a moving belt beneath me? Give me a break.

But enough talk about my friend, back to me and the concern of flatulence.

Farting on the treadmill makes me feel terrible especially when there's other people running next to me. I know they smell it because I smell it. And there's something extra funky about farting when you exercise. They seem to smell extra, oh I don’t know. SMELLY.

Not sure why, but there have been several moments when I think “That's not me. that's not my smell.”

But it is.

“I’m sorry,” is what I want to say to the health conscious strangers next to me.

“I’m sorry I just farted and you’re inhaling the insides of a rotting carcass. I’m particularly sorry because you’re taking extra deep breaths because you have to because you’re tying to breathe in as much oxygen as possible so you don’t pass out.

But hey, here’s a big whiff of my farts. I promise it’ll put you out of your misery.”

Instead of smelling my poop soup, you might even miss a step and fall of the treadmill which would then lead you to the only possible course of action. Jumping off a building. I mean the public shame of falling would just be too much.

Suicide is the answer.

Then at your funeral I could really explain how bad I felt about farting on that treadmill.

To put it eloquently, Burt was a connoisseur of coitus. To put it bluntly (and more accurately), Burt was a perv fuck. His face was buried in a saucy little publication, a magazine devoted to anonymous love making between public restroom partitions. Therein he found an application to partake in such fleshy encounters. The women pictured were of superior gene pools, only the finest for subscribers of "Glory Hole Gushers".

Three items were required: 1) A copy of a government-issued ID, 2) Laboratory test results confirming venereal disease-free blood, and 3) A photograph of the applicant's reproductive organ.

An expired driver's license and forged lab results (Burt had previously tested positive for gonorrhea, syphilis, and hepatitis A-C) completed 66.67 percent of the task, so close to 69. Before the big photoshoot, Burt glammed up his gonads like a '40s Hollywood movie starlet, primping his pubes and powdering away all unsightly blemishes.

The good news came two weeks later: Burt was in. He arrived at the given address - some nondescript edifice - at the given time. A suit with a ponytail so greasy it was practically dripping led Burt to the sex space. "Have at it, boss," he said.

Burt unsheathed his bacteria-gorged snake and deposited it through the hole in the wall.

A voice from the other side squeaked, "Not so fast, mister." The voice belonged to a leather-plastered woman clutching a giant black dildo slathered in vaseline. "You're coming in backwards. I'm going to need you to turn around." 

Well, lovely Prosers; it’s that day of the week again. It’s Friday. Huzzah! So that means that we peek behind the doors of a Proser that we may or may not know. This week we head to the awesome city of San Francisco (my favourite American city – PaulDChambers) to find out all about a lady that lies behind the sobriquet of @PhynneBelle

P: What is your given name and your Proser username?

PH: Hallo Prosers! Some of you may know you me as Trish, but many of you know me by the moniker PhynneBelle. If you're nice, I'll even respond to Fish or Phone Bell.

P: Where do you live?

PH: I have lived in the San Francisco Bay Area, home of the Six Gallery and the Friday Poet's Salon for the past twenty-sixish years.

P: What is your occupation?

PH: I champion the cause of helpless furballs everywhere! I work in general medicine veterinary practice.

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

PH: Writing and I have been tempestuous lovers through many long years. Yes, I think that's a good way to visualize it. Perhaps we started out as very peripheral acquaintances while I had other creative outlets as affairs--intense infatuations with visual art and fashion, passion-filled dalliances with dance--but expressing and making order of my energetic, sometimes frenetic thoughts and ideas in poetic form has always been this constant, this very sane and centered solitude to which I return.

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

PH: In reading, even genres and stories to which one would normally not be drawn, especially these initially "undesirable" topics or ideas, one's tastes are imperceptibly shaped. The interest is suddenly expanded or constricted to a very definite preference. For me, this easily parlayed into how I approach my own writing; there is an intuitive purveyor of sorts that shapes voice, story, direction, style.

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

PH: Is there every any predictability when comes to my writing? For better or worse, I write what the very moment whispers in my ear. Or what tends to wake me in the middle of the night, insisting on being heard and faithfully recorded. I admit I am being seduced once more into the genius of eloquence within brevity--I'd like to revisit there, see where it will lead. A peculiar notion (peculiar to me at least) popped in a few weeks ago to try out something episodic, something narrative, drawing on non-sequential recollections with a uniting element.

P: What do you love about Prose?

PH: The endless corridors and turns where I happen upon talented new writers. I have yet to discover everyone and that is both maddening and exciting! The like-minded friends I have made; I doubt I will meet a Proser that would be astonished should I ever decide to run away from my daily life, live in a shabby but picturesque cottage in a charming, minuscle village, subsist on toasted dandelions and homemade wine, and write my days away. It would be a plan insane to anyone else but fellow writers.

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everyone should read before they die?

PH: Maus by Art Spiegelman and Noli Me Tangere by Dr. Jose Rizal. Without at least a glance backward, we are devastatingly blind. The future is out of the question. We do it no favors by disrespect to what has already transpired. Lest we repeat the same mistakes.

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

PH: At this very moment, three ladies popped into my mind:first there was my mama, who I have earliest memories of patiently reading to me from well-worn Golden Books. I also remember my fourth grade teacher Miss Ellis. My god, she scared me with her steel wool hair and her strict ways! But at years end, when my family and I were moving away to the Philippines, Miss Ellis gifted me with Carlo Collidi's "Adventures of Pinocchio." 

That book was my security blanket for my first homesick year. Then there was Bea, my mother-goddess, free-spirit, one-woman-fan club at the advent of my adult writing journey. She would supply exactly what was needed at the perfect moment: no nonsense advice, praise (even for the laziest and smarmiest of my writing endeavors!), and feedback. 

Oh, and Iyanla Vanzant! I mustn't forget. Bea was a big fan of quoting Iyanla Vanzant. I think those wise, wild woman ideas still stubbornly find their selves wedged between my words.

P: Describe yourself in three words.

PH: Incorrigible. Transparent. Real.

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

PH: "A mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer." Jane Austen

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

PH: Almost everything! Disney tunes, showtunes, no kidding. Right now, the Hamilton Mixtapes.

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

PH: "Sit down, everyone, and let me tell you a story..."

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

PH: I'm trying to share my writing world with the "real" world, a teensy bit at a time. I can be found lurking on Instagram (@phynne_belle), Twitter ( @PhynneBelle) and Facebook (@PhynneBelle and @WeAreWordWeavers). I've got a little bit of a theme going there, eh?

Thanks to PhynneBelle for letting us in. You know what happens now. Follow her, interact, like and all that business. Do YOU want to be featured? We’re running low on victims (I mean participants). Do you want to find out about another Proser and wish to volunteer them up for scrutiny? Then send us a message on info@theprose.com

Bicycling, in the heat, far beyond our limits, we stopped at the shop to beg a ride home. 

"Take my truck," offered Bill. "Just don't forget to pick me up, later."

Taking the keys, I glanced at May; she winked. We loaded our bicycles. We had Bill's truck! the ratty, spit-and-string 1/2 ton with peculiar wooden bed, that he loved more than his wife...me.

"Let's go take a quick look at that barn I told you about," May suggested. So I turned north instead of south and headed for Ham's farm. Driving up the dirt road that would take us into a former cow pasture, I spotted my inlaws' car, parked...and breezed right by. Down the rutted track, through what was now a Christmas-tree farm, we pulled up close to the lovely old barn.

Spencer Ham built it, planing, fitting and pegging each beam and board. Seventy years later, it was still square and true...beautiful.

Back in the truck, I turned the key..."whirraaa-a--a--". Again...nothing! I've pushed vehicles; maybe I could get it rolling (backwards) fast enough to jump-start. Tiny May would drive. It rocked enough to roll over a bump and started downhill, while May, gear in reverse, foot on the clutch, waited for the perfect moment. Unfortunately, she hadn't closed the door and it found the huge boulder beside the track.

With a crrrunch-grind-shriek, everything stopped.

Between my inlaws and the land-owners, we chose throwing ourselves on the mercy of the Ham brothers, who bundled us into their pickup to go jump Bill's truck, by an alternate route.

We escaped clean, sort of. Days later Bill said his parents had seen his truck going into the Ham's upper field, but not coming out... very strange...and his truck door was closing funny, did I know anything about that?

NOooooooo!

Tap. Tap. Tap.

What is that?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Why is she awake?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Maybe she's thirsty.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I hope she doesn't have to use the restroom. It's so cold outside.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I really wish they had carpet.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

LET ME SLEEEEEEEEPPPPPPP!

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Oh my God. Fiiiiiine.

Exasperated, I threw the covers off of me. I need a real job, I thought to myself.

Petsitting for fifty bucks a night sounds great on the surface. Walk the dog a few times. Feed her. Sit on the couch, do nothing, get paid.

But here I am. And I miss my bed. And my boyfriend. And my routine. My anxiety and clean-freak nature have skyrocketed living amongst other people's dirt. Yes, I realize how petty that sounds. Yes, I know I need professional help.

I stepped onto the cold hardwood floor and made my way down from the loft to the main floor. I clicked on the light near the front door, illuminating the space in front of me.

The Tap. Tap. Tap. abruptly ceased.

Tess positioned herself sideways directly in front of me. She turned her head in my direction, and her cataract-filled eyes looked into mine.

Is that fear? Or... No, no, no, no, no, NO, NOOOO!

The sound of liquid hitting the floor accompanied by small farts made my stomach drop.

I was torn between sadness for the old pup who must've had quite the stomachache, anger at myself for not listening to her Tap. Tap. Tap. as a warning that she needed to go out, and the nausea overcoming me as the smell of diarrhea hit my nostrils.

I don't get paid enough for this shit.

"Well, it happened again."

She stands a foot taller than the fence, so that I can see her head, ominously still, but nothing more. Her eyes, somewhere in the center of the visible section of Shirley, are surrounded by pale pink flesh as crumpled as yesterday's junk mail. Trying for a scowl, I guess.

"Aw Shirley, I know you don't like it when T- "

"Dont like it!" her voice rises, operatically, reaching high enough that it almost, blessedly, blinks out of range of the perception of the human ear - almost - but not quite.

 "Eddie, I Have Shit" here she pauses, for dramatic effect, clasping her ankle and yanking her whole leg up towards me, straining to make it visible above the fence line - her foot is important evidence - 

"all over " she pauses again, looking up at me, making sure I am listening with full attention 

"my best pair of jogging shoes." 

She pants a little, and I think, but dare not say, that although her jog may be postponed, there is a perhaps a chance that she is burning some extra calories anyways, from pure inner consternation. 

I look down. T-bone, the source of this unpleasant encounter, wags his heavy tail unquestioningly, and gazes up at me, not even bothering to feign innocence. 

"I'm sorry" I say, although perhaps not convincingly.

Shirley does one of her snorts. I think for a wonderful moment that this is her closing remark, and have actually turned towards the sanctuary of my garage when she blurts out.

"Next time, I'm calling this in."

Now this is menacing.

"Is there an authority that you call about your neighbors dog crap?"

"Well I can't talk more about it right now, I have to go clean my shoe." 

It's Friday again, which means only one thing. FRIDAY FEATURE! This week we head to balmy, beautiful India to meet a Proser we are sure that you are aware of, and if you're not, you soon jolly well will be. Be upstanding for @Confusheyusss

P: What is your given name and your Proser username?

C: This is where the irony of my life begins! My given name means ‘one with no name’ so why bother at all. I have shortened and sweetened it to Ana.

My Proser username is Confusheyusss. Around two years ago I wanted a gmail other than my personal one. Confused about coming up with a unique username while simultaneously reading something related to Confucius made me come up with this. The “she” in there is pretty indicative, for people who are observant about such small things.

P: Where do you live?

C: I live in a small, slow-paced city that is situated right at the center of this magnificent peninsula called India. (It is the largest and the most diverse democracy in the world with booming population. No wonder ‘Kamasutra’ was our gift to the human civilization! Thank God for protection!!) Been living here for the last thirteen or so years. Earlier, during my school years, because of my father’s job we had to relocate to different city every 3 years. He is in Indian Air Force.

P: What is your occupation?

C: Day dreamer, writer, poet, a bum…sometimes all of those at the same time. I know! Such passion and so much multitasking, right? I am an expert; not.

Money makes the world go around and just because of that I have to work for real. For the longest time I have been in Content Creation/Curation. Just a few days back I accepted the Content Manager post for a private firm based out of Delhi. The work is bland and boring and too busy right now. Hopefully, once I get everything settled, I will have more time for myself. (I am seriously lacking in sleep. This answer specifically made me yaaawwwn!!)

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

C: It was during Middle School when I acknowledged my ease with this strange and foreign language – English. I loved reading my course book; the stories, the poems, and the Dramas. I used to finish the workbook during summer break! Ah…young love, I tell you! I remember being especially enchanted with “The Tempest” by William Shakespeare. I was fascinated. That was the first time it hit me; how a few words arranged in a specific manner can be so impactful. My classmates started noticing me, approaching me for doubts and answers.

I remember one incident, which is equally funny and disturbing. One fine day, the Hindi (Our National Language) teacher was giving back our marked test papers. I knew I had done badly. That whole experience used to be so humiliating! My name and my marks yelled out in front of the whole class…ugh!! With my head hung, I collected my paper and upon reaching my seat, went back to munching the bar of chocolate hidden under my desk. I guess she caught on as in the next instant she was glaring at me and yelling! Amidst the chaos and aftermath of shattered confidences, thankfully the students didn’t pay much attention.

She had called me an “Angrez” which is somewhat of an Insult here. It’s a degrading term that means ‘someone who is basically behaving like a foreigner or an English’. In my case, she used it because I was doing poorly in what was supposed to be my language and excelling in English! The very next day, I had ranked first in an English GK Competition. That day she praised me in front of the principal for being so good in English! I was so proud of myself!!

Unfortunately, within a year I had to transfer. In the new school, I was back to my awkward self. Grades slipped and interest wavered. One day, the girl sitting next to me was leafing through my rough notebook. In there she came upon two short poems. I had noted them down from my previous school’s yearly publication. She asked if I had written them. I still don’t know what came over me but I lied and said yes. Those two poems were my saving grace. Somehow words traveled to my English teacher and she praised me in front of the whole class. Shame and guilt had by then festered deeply inside me.

Then I decided if I can just write, the praise isn’t really wrong, is it? It made sense to my stupid brain. So, I wrote. Composed a few poems in the period of a few months. Back then, I believed anything that rhymes is a poem. And my work was infused with forced rhymes and stupid themes! So full of nonsense, really. Gradually though, that need for acceptance faded and I realized that writing for others just didn’t make sense.

I ditched that thin notebook and began writing for myself. I was surprised and overwhelmed by the feeling of gratification; it was the first time I had cried while writing. That euphoria is something as pure as love, I suppose. I cannot give it up. Ever.

What started as a pathetic attempt of a teenage girl craving acceptance and popularity, took form of passion that now keeps me sane. It’s still my saving grace. The difference is today I am not an idiot teenager who would do anything for the sake of acceptance. It evolves as I evolve, as I grow. It is because of writing I have learned to take everything that happens – has happened – in my life in stride; an experience that teaches me something and eventually molds me into a better person than I am today.

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

C: As I mentioned earlier, I loved reading my course book. Later on, I realized there were too many reasons for that. Not just my ease with the language. Growing up in a fucked up, abusive environment, I constantly looked for some kind of escape. I found that in stories. Their lives were so different and something I wanted for myself. During the final exams in tenth standard (equivalent to high school, sophomore year), I remember reading a Film/TV magazine – beginning to end – before finally settling down to study.

Reading is the reason I am not a judgmental bigot today, like too many of my relatives and family members. Reading has taught me empathy and love and acceptance. I feel immense pride in saying that I am an open minded individual who is respectful of others. When you don’t have a person who teaches you to be the best person you can be, I guess literature does an amazing job of it. Every time I read, I learn. That never goes to waste.

My professional life is more about being aware of what goes on all around in the world. So, yes. Reading the news and current affairs kind of keeps me in the running, giving me that extra bit of edge over people who don’t give much importance to it.

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

C: I myself don’t know what my literary ventures will be, honestly! I want to submit a short story for an anthology. It will be published by Bella Books and the proceeds will be going to GCLS (Golden Crown Literary Society). I have been meaning to get to that. Procrastination!!

In my future posts, I can’t say. There will be something about love and romance, most definitely. I don’t really have a specific genre. Basically, I write about anything and everything that makes me think and feel deeply. We shall wait and see, won’t we?

P: What do you love about Prose?

C: Everything!! When it comes to writing sites, I have been around…I have been very slutty in this respect! And honestly, before Prose, I have always been disappointed. Writers here aren’t just talented, they are decent human beings! It’s a rarity, I am telling you. Kindness, in this time and age, is a luxury.

The whole hearted acceptance, encouragement, and recognition you guys provide to us writers is way beyond the norm. You interact with us, you include us in your ventures, you keep us informed, and you always put our needs and happiness at the forefront. Do you really think after that, there is anything not to love about Prose?? I fucking heart you, Prose!

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?

C: Come on, there can’t be just one book! Although, I would recommend people to read Paulo Coelho’s select works. At least, once. He will make you frown, scoff, grimace, and frankly, his philosophies will sometimes make you scream “WTF” but there is some sort of complex simplicity to his thoughts that intrigue me.

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

C: No. No unsung hero, no mentor, no nothing! In my life I think I lack people who have the same mindset about writing and reading. It’s scary to see how limited their world is. In a twisted sort of way, I think I can thank my father for everything. If situation at home wasn’t so fucked up, I might be not who I am today. That thought is horrifying!

P: Describe yourself in three words!

C: Bonkers, Empathetic, Foolish

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

C: Personally, I don’t think it’s really possible to sum up a person in a quote. To sum myself up, well, I will have to write a memoir!

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

C: Today they make music which is good but with no sensible lyrics. So, when I am writing something light or humorous, I go with new songs – both Hindi and English. When I want feelings to simply overwhelm me, I go with simple songs with awesome lyrics – this mostly Hindi. And that too, old songs like from the 70’s through 90’s.

In reality, though, nothing is sure as I am too moody to be fixed with a single playlist. So, yeah. It depends on what I am feeling. I never listen to music while reading. Rather, I can’t. It distracts me and I do not like that.

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

C: Oh yess, finally a world where I am the smartest! I will fucking rule this world!!

If it really happens, then I will start a transport service and bring them all back in my time. A world without literature means our intellect is at a standstill and that world is not worth living in.

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

C: This whole thing gives an impression of a self-absorbed idiot. I don’t want to bore the readers further. Although, if – by chance – you want to follow me or befriend me on Prose, you can do that or you can simply message me. If you want to, you can look me up on Facebook and Twitter. My username is the same as here.

Awesome stuff! Thanks to Ana for her smashing answers. Do that Prose thang and follow, interact and love. You know it makes sense!

        Horny Santa was feeling very unsatisfied. 

        He frustratingly stuffed his mouth with cookies while grimacing down at eleven elven assembly lines, swigging a green goblet of extra-spiked eggnog. Production today is down three and a half percent. My plan was to end the day on a high note. Fuck this shit. Horny Santa always loved being ahead of production schedule and always loathed being behind it. Whatever. He finished his remaining cookie and eggnog. Day's over.

        Horny Santa returned to his bed chamber to find an escort, one Mistress Claus, lying on her chest, wearing nothing but a sparkly, red-and-green g-string. She turned the other way around and smiled devilishly. "Why hello there, daddy."

        "HO-HO!" daddy exclaimed. "Even though you've been such a naughty little girl, I literally decided, fuck it, and got you an early Christmas present."

        "Daddy! You shouldn't have!"

        "Oh, but I did. And you know I'm the boss." Horny Santa proceeded to pull an eight-inch nutcracker out of his pocket.

        "Oh my goodness!" cried Mistress Claus. "It's so beautiful."

        Horny Santa smiled smugly, eagerly, lustfully. "That it is. More importantly, it's useful!" He pressed his finger upon the nutcracker's chest, and its head started vibrating vehemently. Horny Santa walked slowly toward the bed on which Mistress Claus laid, and before she could remove her remaining garment, the jolly man was gently pressing his early Christmas gift against her moistening crotch.

        It wasn't long before Mistress Claus instinctively reached for Horny Santa's own crotch. As usual, that region became rock-hard in less than ten seconds. He swiftly replaced the nutcracker with his nutsaber and suddenly, time and space for him and her became inundated by erotic pleasure and sexual unity. 

*        *        *

        After giving the gift of a fourth orgasm, Horny Santa jubilantly withdrew his pleasure-weapon and let Mistress Claus nutcrack him all over her chest. 

        Horny Santa now felt very satisfied, and passed the fuck out.

THE END