He was my closest friend back then. Always ready with a joke, and that endless smile of his that was reassuring in dangerous times. His name was William and he was a private soldier in my section. We became friends almost the moment we met, and were seldom apart.

The streets of Belfast at night were not for the faint of heart with frequent shootings and acts of murderous violence. We patrolled in section strength and were always alert for trouble. But that particular night was going to be very different, if only we'd known.

I trusted Williams reactions so I had him on point as we moved cautiously through the shadowy streets, silent we moved, conveying intentions only through hand gestures and with weapons loaded and ready.

Something caught Williams attention and he signalled to pause, I hurried to where he was crouched as he pointed out two shadowy figures about 50 metres ahead, just kids smoking I reassured him, and motioned for our patrol to move on.

I returned to my slot, mid-section as William gave the thumbs up, no one saw the tripwire as his boot pulled it taut.

The blinding flash and thunderous impact of the blast threw us to the floor, no one moved for a few moments. I gasped, checked I was okay, and checked the section.

Man down. It was William.

I ordered everyone into cover and grabbed the handset from the signaller, "Contact, contact, wait out", they would know instantly back at HQ that we'd found trouble, and other troops would be heading for our location almost instantly.

I inched to where William lay slumped over his rifle, he was unconscious, I gave the order "Watch and Shoot" and the rest of the section adopted firing positions, I tended Williams wounds as best I could using the pitiful bandaging that was issued, but the shock had set in quickly and he was sinking fast.

He died of his wounds three hours later and I cried like a kid.

Three days later and I was called to accompany my commanding officer to the morgue. Together we had to formally identify the body. I was given his dog tags, his bible and medals to prepare for his mother.

He lay as though asleep, though his head wounds were extensive. I noted that he was unshaven. Odd that even after life has exited the body, hair still grows a while. I said a silent farewell and we turned to sign the paperwork confirming victim ID, before heading back to base in silence, he was everywhere, all around us, laughing and my hands trembled with emotion.

I volunteered to attend his funeral and to be the one who gave his parents the knock. The Knock was the hardest part of all as I stood outside Williams home and tapped on the door. His mother greeted me, her face lined in tears as I handed over his personal possessions, all laundered, pressed. She clutched his medals and beret to her breast as I stood before her unable to hide my own grief.

Yet he was there also, holding her in silence. He gave me that smile and hugged his mother as she wept.

I wish that I was someone else

someone lucky by chance

or just somebody

that had another life

reborn clean and new

unaffected by life's tricks

I wish that I was someone else

maybe some young lover

awakened by that first kiss

or some brave explorer

stumbling across some

new species of butterfly

I wish that I was someone else

perchance a wealthy man

with servants hanging on

the slightest wish

anyone

except myself would do

I watched you fly

Above all things

Until you stumbled

And broke your wings

How far you've fallen

From your throne

A terrible habit

You won't let go

Good day to you all fellow Prosers, I am Yowwa, and this is a brief overview of myself, my likes, talents, idiosyncrasies and personality. I humbly trust that these revelations will in no way deter you from reading my stuff. All comments, criticisms and observations are most welcome.

Firstly, Yowwa is not my actual name, nor is it a nom de plume. It originated a few years back when I was visiting friends, and their daughter (Chanade) who was aged just two at that time, decided to call me it. It sort of stuck, and even though she is now almost five years old she still calls me, Yowwa.

My actual name is Stephen Owens, or Stevo as I prefer, but I answer to Yowwa just as well.

Secondly, I have two hidden talents that I bring out at parties. I am a cartoonist and pianist being naturally gifted at Art since an early age. As for my musical talents, I was taken in by a Franciscan Friar while I was still at school and taught to read music. I became quite good at it and was often called upon to play at Weddings, funerals and such. Unfortunately after I left school I commenced Military service which lasted some fifteen years, during which time my piano skills deteriorated badly. I can still hammer a tune on the ivories, but reading music is now a thing of the past.

Thirdly, I have a huge dislike for gossiping, bad table manners and violence of any sort. I cannot watch any form of violence, even in movies or video games such as Call of Duty. Odd I know given my military background, but I've seen quite enough thank you.

Lastly, I have many failings chief of which is my intolerance for any form of bullying. Some may say that's a good thing, but I believe that bullying is a natural human trait ingrained in us (and most animals), that drives us to rise in the pecking order of our peers by asserting ourselves on others. But it is a trait I abhor. The thing is, if I grab a known bully and give him a thick ear then I am no better than he. I hate it.

To end, I must admit that although writing comes easily to me I very much doubt anything will ever come of it, but I love writing so much that I cannot bring myself to stop, and this lovely little app suits me and my casual writing to a T. I am devoted to Prose, and it's users as I see you all as striving to be heard with your beautiful words, wondrous verse and exciting tales.

Writing is as necessary for the soul as breathing is for our bodies, and though I may be physically ageing quite badly, nothing pleases me more than a cup of tea, a pair of slippers and a good read.

Long may Prose, and it's users continue to thrill and amaze.

Thank you for reading.

Why does it have to be this way?

Didn't I love you enough?

I said I'd never leave,

But it didn't matter,

Because I wasn't the one who left.

And when you left,

You took my heart with you,

Replacing it with pain and loss,

And with sleepless nights,

And memories that haunt my soul.

- Michael Hall

The first real hurt put on me was by a group of adolescent bullies. My face stung and throbbed from the impact of a stone wall.

The taste of blood fresh on my tongue. Kidneys crying out after the over-priced sneaker impaling.

That blindside attack put things in perspective for me at a young age. I was ready to die. The brutal laughter of the group was meant to dim my spirits. It fueled a fire that not one of them saw coming.

I healed, I rested, and I grew stronger. Not physically but in a way that I hadn't yet experienced. This would not define my character. Refusing to press charges and submit to other’s means of handling my situation surprised the ’rents but that couldn't give me the satisfaction I yearned for. The demand was that I handle my own.

The hierarchy of the group wasn't complex. As the most well-off and loudest of the spoiled rotten gang this kid took the lead. Followed by some mindless sheep that wannabes look down on he had to go down first. His house wasn't too far from the bus stop where the brutality went down. This morning was going to be it. My leg quivered with adrenaline. The spiked piece of wood slowly splintering in my clenched fist.

He strolled by the bush where I crouched. The demeanor of reckless abandon only adding to my rage. He should be watching his back and I was going to show him why…NOW! The piece of wood protruded from his back like some sort of familiar G.I. Joe accessory. Then the blood started running down. He dropped to his knees and reached back to try to figure out why, where, and how this came to be. “Hey asshole, remember me?”

I screamed as I kicked his ribs. My voice tremored with the rage. Tears filled my eyes. His lackeys heard the ruckus and made their way from the morning gathering.

This is it. I’m ready for you bitches now! The focus on me wasn't a rabble, though. It was a respectful awe. Not being ready for that reaction, I did the one thing that my mind defaulted to at that age and ran home.

The next day when no mention of the incident was brought to my attention I understood…While this may have not made me a man, I was no longer innocent to this level of perception.

Fear is a control that you voluntarily release.

Stay strong.

I have read poetry and fiction in public. It's a mixed blessing. At best, your offering is loved, people want to touch you as if you are spreading inspiration, and they buy your books. The worst part is mustering the calm to assert yourself. On an occasion when I received a standing ovation, my husband and son were in the audience. They wet their pants.

If you are called upon to read in public, be aware it is only a blip in time. Whatever happens is merely a learning experience. Good luck!

Spring smells like the hair of a little girl, scented lightly with shampoo. It smells clean and refreshing, provided you are far from the highway. The fumes of the road tend to carry the odor of skunk.

I think cars should hover two feet above the road like drones. This would eliminate potholes and roadkill.

I love it when the dogwoods and lilacs burst into bloom and spread fragrance on the air. But I have to hurry and enjoy it before the Chem Lawn truck shows up. Some neighbors have weed killer sprayed on their lawns, but I don't. It makes me sick. Imagine how the grass is feeling.

Anyway, if you subtract the negatives, spring is a time to celebrate sunshine and flowers. While we can. The honey bees are gone. We only have bumbles and moths to pollinate. And cotton balls. Yes, I pollinate with cotton balls, going from plant to plant like some friggin fairy as if I could repair the destruction inflicted on mother nature. Enjoy while you can.

Of course English isn't my first language, but broken English is.

I struggle with it, it is a burden. I often find myself searching for differences. I grew up in a small town of Alaska, whose first language of another, and broken English.

There

Their

They're

Affect

Effect

Cue

Queue

Anything

Any thing

Everyone

Anyone.

You name it, it's a struggle leaving me with frustration.

I have dreams, dreams of being an author, a script writer, a novelist.