On Stun
We can make that
Sandstone sparkle...
We can spur that
Grit to shine...
Tho it won't make
Any difference
If by your guidance,
Or mine...
I can merge,
And thaw,
And vanish...
...You can steal off
With a kiss...
In my tarnished
Self securing...
Tho descended...
...I exist.
Yawning, and
Agape to crisis!...
...The magpie on
A pole collects
Anything that's been
Signed over...
...Seizes with her
Keen reflex...
We can make that
Sandstone sparkle...
We can spur that
Grit to shine...
Tho it won't make
Any difference
If by your guidance,
Or mine...
We can crack the
Conversation...
...Pluck the jewels
Out of her hand!...
Waking now,
Distressed, and fragile...
...Rising up from
The beach sand...
Kicking what's become
Commitment...
...This contract now
Lives and breathes!...
We can make that
Sandstone sparkle...
...Or go damned to
Obscurities
That always tend to
Aggrandize...
...Mushroom up
From hemmed in
Corners...
...Assail my clock,
Batting your
Eyes...
©
2017
Bunny Villaire
A longing tree condemns.
A solitary tree stands quietly, on top of the Northern crest.
It stares out onto the frozen river.
It's rough bark protecting it from the crisp winter air.
Though conserved, the pitch pine needles still shiver,
as the Oak withstands the Summit.
Day dreams of faraway trees in torrid terrains flow through its branches ....
And just as they are whisked away,
an aroma of longing snaps back a bough ~
a cutting rejoinder into the mouth of the tree.
For the unattainable desires of a tree can kill a Mountain.
~Jessi (image and poem)
Friday Feature: @Harlequin
A week has shot by once again - awesome! It’s Friday, and that means it’s time for many people’s favourite thing: Friday Feature. This week is a doozy! We meet and find out about a Proser that many are intrigued by. Ladies and Gentlemen, we give you @Harlequin
P: What is your given name and your Proser username?
H: It is difficult to imagine anybody seriously naming their child “Harlequin” without laughing. However I must admit, if I ever were to have a child, it’s likely they would be cursed with something just as strange if not worse, probably to their immense embarrassment growing up. But at least I’m consistent.
Endeavoring to bring more color into the literary world, as well as illuminate some philosophies that intertwine artist and creation, I renamed myself Harlequin Grim, and I prefer to keep that the mask behind my writing. The name illustrates a recurring motif in my life that intrigues me endlessly: the tricky dance of persisting within dualistic natures constantly affecting our lives. Inspired, empty, living, dying, etc.
On Prose, it is simply Harlequin.
P: Where do you live?
H: I reside in Portland, Oregon, where it doesn’t ever seem to stop raining, and the trees, consequently, are ever sprouting. Moving here was a hasty retreat from its antithesis: Southern California, where I grew up.
P: What is your occupation?
H: I wish I could say what pays for my expenses is a job related to literature, or at least a professional gig as a court jester, but the former is in development while the latter is outdated by a handful of centuries (I really missed the boat). Although I write as much as I attend my day job, currently I work at a quaint neighborhood café, pulling shots from an espresso machine that is nearly triple my age. At home, I push my sleep schedule to its edges, pursuing my writing after the daily rush.
Oh gods … I’m a cliché, aren’t I?
P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?
H: Devout. Multiple times since I started, I have attempted to distance myself from writing, only to be stunned by how it seemed integral to me living happily. It became a blessing as well as a curse, something positively affixed to me. Overtime, it has become more and more difficult to imagine a life without stories constantly evolving in the back of my head. Not giving them the time to express themselves feels torturous. This isn’t all that glamorous, but if I am being entirely honest, I am more temperamental when I haven’t written in a few days.
When I was first introduced to creative writing, it was purely for the sake of escapism. As years wore on and I grew into thicker skins, my stories became less about ‘venting’ and more about expressing, reflecting, and articulating my philosophies through the actions of my characters.
Somewhere in the middle of high school, I felt an incredible desire not only to connect but to inspire, and similarly, to illustrate characters growing beyond weaknesses so as to embrace deeper strengths, more enriching perspectives. Although I cannot foretell what writing will be to me in the future, currently, my aim is to depict as many intricacies of the human condition as possible, whether they be pleasant to look at or horrifying. I attempt to illustrate what it means to struggle, to grow, to love, live and die, searching for all those cascading layers of meaning bursting between beginning and end.
Ultimately, it is an attempt to show what opportunity dwells beneath the surface of suffering, that happiness is not only within joy, nor sadness in sorrow, and art not only in deliberate acts of creation, rather that all these things interweave in patterns of perception. I choose to perceive living as an art, an opportunity not to be squandered, and writing, my preferred medium for expressing as much.
I wish to tell tales which invigorate us to live as we would craft our characters, in a journey of actualization through conscious living.
P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?
H: Since I see living as a kind of seamless art, it is all quite personal, and since I aim to make it my profession—quite professional. So, any answer will be one and the same.
More superficially, I find I am more articulate during sprees of reading. Typically, after I close a book, I feel more cognizant of subtle details around me. As a result, I challenge myself to be more meticulous with how I speak and act. It helps me envision myself as a protagonist instead of a lost soul.
Beyond that, I do not entertain any delusions of being particularly brilliant or innovative, so whenever I pick up a book, I am hoping to have my expectations pushed, my truths questioned. Simply, to learn. It would be something of a pity to pick up a book for the sake of reinforcing old patterns of thinking.
Perhaps most importantly, it helps me observe through another pair of eyes. It coaxes me from the dusty corners of my own head to instead indulge in another author’s interpretations of reality, making the world that much more dynamic. I suffer greatly from a lack of originality; the works of other artists are crucial to feeding imagination.
P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?
H: Last Halloween I published a fantasy novel, The Lupine Curse, through Amazon. Although I was incredibly excited to have a fully developed work prancing about on the internet for the first time, even before I was finished editing that piece, I was already working on another.
Recently, one of my short stories won a weekly contest through Prose about tyranny. The story was entitled The Remedy. Little did everyone know, it was not a short story at all, but the first chapter of my next novel: The Culling of Casimir! If you will be so polite, kindly imagine maniacal laughter behind that sentence, but ignore the ensuing, embarrassing fit of coughing. Consider yourself playfully deceived, and hopefully excited, since I will be posting the novel by chapters, every Saturday via Prose, starting February 25th. If you read The Remedy, you can imagine how the story has little room for slow expeditions. I must warn you: I am fully determined to shackle you to the pages if you give me the slightest chance.
Aside from The Culling of Casimir, I will be compiling recent works of poetry and short fiction into books that will also become available, not only electronically, but hopefully through prints. The more support I receive, the more I can do to get physical objects of whimsy into the hands of anybody avid enough to receive them.
As always, I will be posting frequently to Prose as well as my website, unless, of course, I am hit by a bus or dragged off into the skies by a gargoyle. You’ll know I’m dead when my words stop sprouting up.
P: What do you love about Prose?
H: There is an undeniable sense of enthusiasm that the creators have for it that has ignited the community to respond in a cyclical relationship of encouraging free expression. I also enjoy the more personal interactions between writer and reader, or rather writer to writer.
P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?
H: The Art of Possibility by Rosamund Stone and Benjamin Zander, applicable not only to writers but anyone who wants to harvest as much as they can from living. For anyone going through a period of darkness or simply looking to add more edge to their vitality, this book is indispensable, something I will read multiple times before I die
P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?
H: My oldest brother always had a way of coaxing out my most ridiculous fantasies, encouraging me to consider philosophies and lifestyles that were either challenging or seemingly impractical. Above all else, he encouraged me to flesh out my individuality, sacrificing conformity for personal expression.
P: Describe yourself in three words!
H: Foolish, ardent, introspective.
P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?
H: “Life is too short not to create something with every breath we draw.” - Maynard James Keenan
P: What is your favourite music, and do you write or read to it?
H: My crux is seeking specific tracks to suit my mood when I am writing, which can sometimes impede the process. Since different scenes desire different songs and genres to guide the mood, my tastes are incredibly broad, but when it comes to deciding my favorite music, it would have to be the bands Puscifer, Tool, and A Perfect Circle in that order. I’d rather not reveal how many t-shirts, posters, and concert tickets I’ve collected for these groups over the years.
Also, yes! The album ‘Lateralus’ by Tool inspired me to create Fenris, the protagonist of The Lupine Curse, so I had it playing in the background for much of the writing process.
P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?
H: “You really don’t have any books?”
“What is a book?”
“All right, everybody gather around the fire. This is going to take a while to explain. You see, it all began with …”
P: Do you have a favourite place to read and write?
H: That place where intuition, diction, imagination and reflection merge, to create a timeless location in which it feels as if there is no writer, only characters expressing themselves with zeal, and hands to record their actions. If there was a specific location that triggered that blissful state, I would seek it out daily. But I can’t honestly say I have a favorite place, in fact, I was a little sad to find my mind blank when thinking about the question. I had to settle for some wishy washy artsy answer, instead. See?
For reading, however, I do, in fact, have a specific place. I had one arm wrapped around someone who enjoys fantasy as much as I do, the other supporting the book. After she fell asleep, I continued reading to the sound of soft snores. I haven’t stumbled across a more perfect place to read since then.
P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you/your work/social media accounts?
H: Ah, it is always so heart wrenching to say farewell! No, no. There are no need for tears. This is not the end.
One of the best ways for Prosers to keep track of my recent work is through my Murder of Crows, a newsletter feature on my website. It contains short stories, articles, and other outlandish artifacts. There, you can get more involved with me … I’ll tell you secrets and such. And for more frivolous following, I have a Twitter as well.
With that, there is little else to speak of besides the tremendous, heaping mountains of golden gratitude I have for Prose. Any dragon would be envious of them. Seeing more support than I ever have before is simply enchanting. Every day, I look forward to seeing what is stirring in the vivid minds of the community. And every day, I look forward to finding more ways to feed inspiration back into it. Thank you for listening, and thank you for your curiosity.
The coming months will be another chapter in a tale, another stride in a journey, and I do sincerely hope you join me.
Fantastic stuff from Harlequin, there; thank you sir, for your candour. Time to step up and like, follow and interact, you lovely Prosers – that is if you don’t already! We’ll be back next week with another delve into the world of someone else. In the meantime – happy reading and writing!
Announcements
I've decided to post this little announcement to tell you all about some of my big upcoming works I'm going to be posting on here. I'm really excited for you all to read them, I hope you enjoy them. As always, criticism is welcome on any of my works. Without further ado, here's the list of stories I'll be posting:
• "The Final Message" [Full Sherlock One-Shot]
• "The Misadvantures of Claire Saint" [the first story story in the series]
• "The Whispers of the Night" Sneak Peak
By the way, thank you all for over fifty followers. I hope you all stick around and come with me on my writing journey and become apart of it. Thank you to anyone who has shown me love and support (huge shoutout to @infiniteflame <3). You guys are amazeballs. x
The Illusion of Change
Actively pursuing change is a form of unconventional warfare. To decide to rebel against the comforts of our daily rituals in order to obtain personal growth, is a relentless battle that challenges every particle of our existence both spiritually and physically. In the Quantum Theory, all changes cause a ripple effect that alters all surrounding atoms, as well as any subatomic matter existing within it. Modifying someones daily lifestyle mirrors this theory because although adjusting one piece might result in a ripple, the ripple can promptly escalate into a tsunami. Comparing these two ideas offers a sublime demonstration of when life’s purest form of beauty is revealed, its complexity. When the act of making a decision in life is analyzed alongside the quantum realm’s premises, the infinite outcomes are the first to be illuminated. The varied outcomes of this chaotic existence is what allows for diversity and diversity is the root of true exquisiteness. Someone pursuing improvement in their daily life can strengthen their ability of succeeding by accepting how incalculable the end may be, along with being adaptable enough to audible if needed. Comparing an attempt to rationalize infinity, only touches the surface of the unpredictabilities. To surrender that the aftermath of a change in one's lifestyle is equally complex to the quantum’s vast principles is not only logical, but appropriately scaled. To accede to the true immeasurability's, one removes all limitations of predictability, allowing the untethered purity of mankind’s greatest ability, unconstrained free will. Proving that the contemplation of “to act or to remain idol” is just the beginning of the infinite possibilities offered to an individual willing to pursue improvement.
Chapter One: When Dusk Turns Dark (Excerpt from Game of Death)
With no shoes on, she was small. She had quite a willowy, delicate frame that only added to her elegance despite the fact she was perceived as weak and frail. Her skin was as pale and as smooth as porcelain, making the girl almost look like a china doll, with her short, blonde hair framing her face delicately, not a strand out of place. Her eyes seemed to resemble polished sapphires, glistening in the moonlight, and her lips were ruby red. Her dress draped around her body, fitting perfectly just like a glove to a hand.The skirt was fashioned out of smooth, milky white, frothy organza that reached her knees. A satin sash pulled in her waist, making it looking smaller than it already was. The bodice of her simple yet glamorous dress was encrusted with tiny little gems and beads that caught the soft moonlight and glowed. The girl walked with the grace of a nimble gazelle and was as bewitching as a peacock showing off her beautiful feathers.
The girl, known as Pearl, had never felt more terrified and insecure. All her life, she had spoken every word strongly and surely, each command strong. Now, for the first time in her life she found herself faced with uncertainty.
The moment she’d volunteered for the elemental games, everyone had been so certain that she would return victorious, and had completely disregarded the rest of the competition. And despite all their words of encouragement, she knew that she was incapable of winning. Which was the main reason for her sneaking out in the middle of the night for a calm walk in the woods.
She let out a sigh and leaned against a tree, the scent of petrichor infiltrating her nostrils. Terrified, she thought of the upcoming morning. There would be tears and goodbyes as she departed for the games, no doubt about it, but she couldn’t help but feel that she might never see any of her family or friends ever again.
Suddenly, an arrow nicked her ear as it flew past, thudding into a nearby tree. Pearl was immediately alert. No one from her tribe went hunting this late at night, and there could only be one possible explanation. It was an invasion.
But then, Pearl thought in a moment of confusion, Why aren't there any horses? Where is the army? The soldiers adorned in shining silver armor should have been visible under the light of the moon.
She trembled as she attempted to come up with an explanation. But before she could form a single thought, a tall figure leapt over the brush in front of her, landing with a light thud, so soft she barely heard it. She automatically reached for her knife, but realized that she was unarmed, wearing only a thin nightgown. There was only one option, she realized as the figure nocked an arrow. She turned and fled into the darkness.
She heard the whizzing sound, and she rolled on the forest floor as five arrows sailed overhead. Her thoughts raced as she ran. No archer she knew could shoot that many arrows in one shot, and there was no possible explanation nor reason some other tribe would send a single man to kill her. That's when it dawned upon her that it was none other than an assassination attempt. This one thought compelled her to move faster.
The assassin wasted no time in following after her. They took to the trees, leaping from branch to branch covering ground ten times quicker than their target. In the faint moonlight that shone through the trees, it was clear to see the girl as she fled towards her village, her nightgown a white beacon in the dark night.
Breathing hard, Pearl came to a halt. She spun around, trying to catch a glimpse of her attacker, but there was no one to be seen around. Relieved, she turned towards her village gates, which was just beyond the edge of the wilderness, no more than a few feet away.
And that's when the arrow pierced her leg. She let out a guttural cry as she collapsed on the forest floor, a pool of blood already forming around her. A hooded figure stepped out of the shadows, and Pearl scrambled up, struggling to see her attacker through the tears that formed in her eyes.
“What do you want?” She cried, as the figure advanced. “Help! Help!”
She threw a desperate look to the edge of the woods. Why was no one coming? Could no guard hear her cries?
The figure laughed, advancing, and Pearl choked back a sob.
“Who are you?” She whispered, staring up into the cold merciless eyes of her killer. She would never get her answer. She gasped as something pierced her lower abdomen. Looking down she saw a knife buried deep inside her stomach. Tears pooled in her eyes, and then she felt something deep inside her give up and turn off. She became limp and motionless, dead in a pool of her own blood.
The hooded figure smirked, before withdrawing a small pendant. She placed it atop the pool of blood and the necklace went from blue to a bright shade of scarlet. She placed it around her neck and a bright flash light illuminated the woods. In the place where the assassin stood a girl that looked exactly like Pearl, blonde hair, green eyes, everything accounted for except for clothing.
She smiled down at the dead body at her feet.
“Isn’t it obvious?” She asked. “I’m Pearl Evelyn Wavecrest of the Water tribe.”
Why She’s Scared of Love
Gasping for oxygen and praying for life is something no one expects to go through. Pain so powerful that it blinds you for a couple of seconds, and in those seconds you wish for death. You want to die. Claire Saint did too, she wanted it all to end. She watched the pleading in her brown eyes in the bathroom mirror, but would then make contact with his brown eyes.
Jayden, the name that shook her to her core. All of the "I love you's", all of the apologies, all of the lies that would spew out of his mouth and then rot where they landed. Never was one good promise kept, but others involving beatings and verbal and emotional torture were. Claire's swollen black eye was flooded with tears as well as the other one which was in proper condition. Jayden twisted her wrist behind her back, all she could hear was "crack, crack, CRACK!" Claire screamed for someone to help. Instead, Jayden released her long brown hair and covered her mouth and said,
"I thought you were supposed to be clever, Saint. You're the best detective there is, right? Well how did you not anticipate me, you worthless bitch?!"
He was right, she didn't anticipate him. In fact, Claire loved him so much he thought his hate and beatings were apart of it. All of the times she let his bullshit slide made her livid. She hated herself for it, she felt so useless and stupid. All of these though swirled around her head, and she started to notice that it wasn't just her tears making her vision go or of focus.
It was also the cut off of her oxygen supply. Her wrist kept bending in ways it shouldn't, and she kept screaming into Jayden's hand. He loved doing this to her, he liked the rush he felt when he hurt her. It was sick and twisted, something happened to him to make him this way. Claire wasn't sure if she wanted to stick around and find out what it was.
"You know, I always enjoyed seeing the look on your face whenever you caught me cheating on you" Jayden hissed into Claire's ear. "But I enjoy doing this even more."
More tears came flooding into Claire's eyes, she began to panic even more. Her fidgeting turned even more violent as she tried to escape his grasp. Claire tried to get ahold of his jeans or his plaid shirt, to perhaps rip it enough for him to be distracted. For her to make her move towards the door of her apartment. Claire's heart pounded and begged with her to survive this.
"What do you think your doing you piece of shit?!" Jayden shouted and released Claire only to greet her with a punch square in the nose.
At that point, Claire couldn't feel anything anymore. Blood poured down her mouth and chin, creating a small puddle below her. Before Claire even had the time to collapse, Jayden snatched her by her already ripped black dress and white cardigan. He threw Claire onto cold, hard floor of her bathroom. Her head made a fast and painful impact with the bathtub, and by then she couldn't see clearly at all. Every sound became more and more distant the more and more her vision went dark.
Jayden huffed and caught his breath, and then started crying. "What have I done? Claire, I'm so sorry."
She felt a tug at her heart, she wanted to believe him so badly. Her mind fought against its reminding her of all of his broken promises. Of his unfaithfulness. Of his malicious intents.
He began to sob and covered his face with his hands. "I'm being bad, I know I am..."
Her heart pounded against her ribcage, she just wanted to be left there to die. He would become even more angry and do worse.
"Claire, I love you."
Those last three words echoed in her head as the world around her spun.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
She blacked out, left to bleed and die.
No, Claire's mind wandered, no you don't.