Pusherman, taps on the steering wheel, mountain justice, and a primitive gnaw.
In case anyone has a case of the Mondays, on the show today, in number 26, Curtis Mayfield sings us into three reads by three vastly different talents with one vast thing in common: Each one is their own creator with a style like no others. Top off your coffee, and sail away with us.
Here's the link.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mMz90tLIE5s
And here are the pieces featured within.
https://www.theprose.com/post/812076/memories https://www.theprose.com/post/811802/the-women-in-the-trees https://www.theprose.com/post/812519/the-line
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Debbie Harry’s Heart of Glass, a memory, End Times, murky stars, and back alley dictation.
On Prose. Radio's numero 20, the glue of Blondie opens the show, taking us into the minds of four ridiculously talented writers from the site, from brand new, to still new, and each one with astonishing grace.
Here's the link.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6WnuLuDAnm0
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/810544/the-memory https://www.theprose.com/post/809902/thats-great-it-starts-with-an-earthquake
https://www.theprose.com/post/810700/murky-star https://www.theprose.com/post/810722/lackawanna
https://www.theprose.com/post/810160/im-not-dinner
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
I love peonies.
I love peonies.
I told you this a few times,
like when we walked past the flower shop on 2nd St.
Or at that one wedding, looking at the centerpiece.
I love peonies.
We would joke around about how you thought dandelions were better
I argued they were just pretty weeds
and would never be superior to peonies.
I love peonies.
You complimented my new perfume,
said it smelt like flowers.
It was peonie, but what you said was still true.
I love peonies.
I told you it's because they are so unique
that the flower still looks strong, even though it can be delicate.
You said just like me.
I love peonies.
You gave me a surprise;
you said it's my favorite,
and I'd surely love it.
You got me a bouquet of roses.
I love peonies.
Ghostly Flower
Amidst the murky swamp, where danger lurks
There blooms a flower, a ghostly perk
A rare treasure, so beautiful and rare
A Ghost orchid, with an ethereal flair
Its petals, a ghostly white
Glowing in the darkness of the night
Majestic and otherworldly, it sways in the breeze
Entrancing all those who dare to appease
It's said to be haunted, by a spirit so old
Once a human, now a flower to behold
A tragic story, a love gone awry
But in its beauty, her spirit will never die
She dances among the trees, in a ghostly ballet
Her presence felt, in a haunting way
Her love for the orchid, forever bound
Her essence lingers, with every petal found
But as the moon rises high in the sky
A plot twist, catches every eye
For the Ghost orchid, is not just a flower
It's a guardian, of a mystical power
As spirits of the swamp, try to cause harm
The Ghost orchid, raises its magical arm
With a burst of light, and a whispering spell
It banishes the darkness, and all is well
So let us not fear, this ghostly sight
For the Ghost orchid, is a protector of the night
A symbol of love, and a symbol of might
A flower so divine, in its ghostly light.
Thank you for the Countless High School Essays
Ah, William Shakespeare. The unrivaled grandmaster of the English language. Or, as I like to call him, the original king of overrated.
Yeah, it is true that a lot of his works became a fundamental part of literary history, but come on – this man sure came up with a lot of tragedies. I mean, if he ever wrote a rom-com, it would likely conclude with everyone stabbing each other.
And the guy’s character name skills… “Romeo Montague” and “Juliet Capulet”? After hearing these names, you cannot tell me that he did not let toddlers play Scrabble. And “Othello”? Please, even his handkerchief was crying. Then his dramatic streak… who else could come up with “To be or not to be”? Whoever came up with this probably should find a new hobby – one that does not ruin life for everyone else in his play.
That being said, though, I have to thank him for all the timeless quotes he gave us that became the foundation of our modern life. “All the world’s a stage” – yeah, makes sense considering that his plays are pretty much reality tv shows. Well, whoopty doo, Shakespeare – thank you for drama, tragedy and countless high school essays.
forever
you the moon
delicate waxing waning
at the drop of a mood
predictably uncertain
I the earth
solid grounded firm steadfast
always beneath to catch you
whenever you fell from space
who knew
frail flawed pocked-marked you
could eliminate obliterate plunge
me into an abyss with no bottom
who knew
at that moment we'd stop spinning
frozen in darkness you unmoving
me an unlit pall of my former self
Scopaesthesia
there is no face in the window.
asylum.
a·sy·lum
/əˈsīləm/
noun
1. the protection granted by a nation to someone who has left their native country as a political refugee.
shelter or protection from danger.
2. an institution offering shelter and support to people who are mentally ill.
how confidently i announced
that ghosts were nothing more
than figments
of an imaginative (or perhaps deluded)
mind.
$2,000. help wanted.
i thought,
what the hell? why not?
the cameraman never dies.
it never crossed my mind
that the cameraman
could suffer a fate worse than death.
there is no face in the window.
they even provided me a camera;
some fancy gadget
they ordered off of amazon
that claimed to be able to record
the paranormal.
it was heavy. i figured if a ghost came at me,
i'd go down swinging 300 dollars
worth of equipment at their dead face.
we saw nothing.
honestly, as much of a skeptic as i was,
i've always hoped something
(or someone)
would prove me wrong.
as we walked through the hallways,
grainy, dim-lit footage marking our path,
i found myself hoping:
show me something, anything.
we marched along for hours,
with a kid four years younger than me
narrating the scene.
"12:34 p.m., eastern standard time...
no signs of any activity yet. my name is
kevin schumer, i'm here with my crew
and tonight we are joined by..."
he pauses.
"the cameraman," I finish,
which prompts a few uneasy giggles.
yep, that's me,
the eternal watcher.
i see and i record
for posterity.
there is no face in the window.
we were there until four a.m.
our eyelids had grown heavy.
our livestream had exactly one viewer.
perhaps that was why
i felt like i was being watched.
nothing had happened. no doors
had slammed, no windows broken.
we were alone.
yet i could not shake the feeling...
there is no face in the window.
i drove myself home.
headlights lit up the parking lot.
yellow lines. black asphalt.
then darkness again
as i made my way up
three flights of stairs
to my apartment.
my lights refused to turn on.
a power outage? or had my power
been cut?
i did not know. i was too tired to care.
tomorrow, my check would hit
my account
and then i could solve the problem
of late rent.
i laid down,
in nothing but boxer shorts,
awaiting the release of sleep,
and found that
i could not hold my eyes shut.
a feeling was sinking into my spine
like a numbing injection
and i found myself tingling with
some unseen awareness.
i was being watched.
there is no face in the window.
it has been
three weeks
since i had looked outside
that night
to reassure myself
that i was alone.
there is no face in the window.
yet the feeling did not leave.
it only grew.
more and more, i believed
i was hunted. haunted.
there is no face in the window.
each night i check the door,
the closet, the bed, the window—
wait, the window—
tonight,
(one last desperate cry,
the moment before the mind
shatters)
THERE IS NO FACE IN THE WINDOW.
it has followed me home.
now i will follow it home.
to my sanctuary.
to my asylum.
i am the face in the window.
you will feel me watching,
just as i felt it.
when you look outside tonight,
do not trust your eyes. trust
your instincts.
there is a face in the window.