Staying.

My mind is a dangerous place. It recycles words of anger spoken by others. It replays my mistakes on a reel, projecting my failures on a screen for my continuous viewing. Reminding me why I am not good enough.

It whispers words of doubt and hate, sinking me to a vulnerable state of self-destruction. A battle ground that is desolate and dark. Waging war on myself without a flag to surrender.

I allowed the negative views of others to penetrate my mind and become my internal voice. It took years to decipher the difference between how I felt about myself versus what I had learned to feel about myself. Seeking validation in others that would only act as a temporary life preserver. No one could come to my rescue because I had buried myself so deep, only I knew where to find me.

Years of tearing myself down drove me further into hiding. Making access even harder. The part of myself that longed for life and self-love had become almost obsolete. The part of me that knew what joy felt like, how to love and live was disappearing and my fight to bring her to the surface was fading.

No one and no things were going to pull me from the rubble. I had to learn to live for me. Reaching my hand through the debris that had piled up through the years and pull until I could breathe.

Loving myself has been the hardest part of my life. I would give it so freely to others. Feeling that my worth was contingent on what I provided those around me, instead of seeing any value in who I am.

The moment I felt like I was no longer contributing I would crumble and find myself once again fighting to stay.

I didn't want to love myself. I became comfortable with the darkness that lingered over me day in and day out. It wasn't until I became a mom that I realized how important establishing a kind and nurturing inner voice was. If not for me, then for my children.

When I softened for them, I found the small child that still lived inside my shell of a body. The one hiding beneath all the anger. Fearful and timid to come out into a world that seemed so cold.

What do you say as a mother to a terrified child that needs someone to protect and love them? "I love you no matter what." When I learned how to unconditionally love like a mother, I learned how to parent my inner child and love her too.

We all have a journey to take within ourselves. Some need to be humbled, some need confidence, others need to believe they matter. But loving myself and choosing to stay was the hardest part of life. Above all the materialistic things. Above all the struggles through relationships and parenting. My hardest battles came from within.

Formed in the womb of another,

from cells split by two.

My skin was that of my mother,

and from there I grew.

My ears perked and learning,

yearning for truth.

Taking in and absorbing,

all through my youth.

Beliefs of those who surrounded me,

coming into view,

it wasn't until I was drowning,

that I reached for something new.

Shedding the past that had shaped me,

I needed something true.

My reflection staring blankly,

"You know this isn't you."

My face resembled only my past.

If this was all I was,

I knew my life would not last.

I pulled layer by layer,

until all that was left was raw.

Revealing all the underneath,

the part I never saw.

A new face that elicited conflict,

when brought into the light,

but a face that I wore with confidence,

eyes with clear sight.

Courage triumphed comfort,

in a thirty-year fight.

Now I wear what fits,

and it is skintight.

Although outgrown and old now,

the layer that came before,

still holds a place in my life,

that I can't ignore.

I will hold onto who I am,

and who I was back then.

It took each layer to help me,

emerge from within.

I turn inside myself to seek comfort and guidance. Longing for peace and solitude in an environment that is mind numbingly loud. I match the volume of the noise around me. Learning as I go that the loudest and the largest in the room get their needs met. I step out and project my voice, knowing I will never be the largest in the room. Compensating, I match the tone set by others before me. Appearing to be charismatic, thick skinned and personable. Wearing a smile on my face that says, "I want to be here." While I strangle the life inside me that is still seeking solace from within.

Are we born one way or the other? Is it nature or nurture that sets our distinct characteristics that deem us introverted or extroverted? As humans we are social creatures, pack animals that long and thrive from social interaction. Each requiring different relationships to support our journey through life. Some more discreet while others boast loudly together, all meeting their needs of companionship.

One might see me as an extrovert. Willing to engage in small talk and group discussions. Leading with thunderous directives from the pedestal of confidence. When in fact I have learned these traits for survival. My defense system setup against the pack that howls together in victory at the expense of the silent.

I have something to gain from socializing as we all do. But there are few who actually get the real me. The inner introvert that internalizes every move made and feels deeper than the well of my soul that I retreat to, when I am allowed the privilege to withdraw from the crowds.

An introvert disguised as an extrovert all in the search of self-preservation.

Chris slid the picture across the bar and looked at me with cold and calculating eyes.

“It’s happening, Rip,” he said. “There’s no other way.”

The picture showed Melissa coming out of the Bootlegger bar on Main St, looking behind her, waving to her friends. Her smile so natural, and real. Her brown hair blowing in the early fall wind.

“I-I-I can’t.” I said. “Jesus, Chris.”

He sighed, sucking the air deep into lungs, before interlocking his fingers and placing his elbows on the table.

“You remember Randy Geary?” Chris asked. Of course, I remembered him.

“Yeah.”

“That’s how this game started, man. He killed my pit bull, Angel, my best girl. He went around slaughtering dogs in town for how long, Rip? Three, four months, and what did the city cops do? They never caught him. They never fucking caught him. We figured it out in two days, Rip. Two days.” He waved his index and middle finger inches away from my face.

“Yeah, we did, man. We did.” I was still staring at the picture. Her face. God, she was beautiful.

“All we did was figure out where the dogs were being killed, and knowing Annandale like we do, we set up in our old high school dugout, remember? Frankie wouldn’t shut up about how he lost his virginity there to Polly Anderson. Jesus, that girl got around.”

Chris laughed, that big psychotic hyena laugh.

“We caught him walking down Wellington, man. Boom. Just like that, we got him and the Main Street Dogs were born.”

I didn’t answer.

“Right, brother?”

“Yeah” I was still staring at the picture. Chris grabbed it, sighed, and stuffed it into the front pocket of his leather jacket. “Earth to Rip, hello, Earth to Rip.”

“Yeah, man. The dogs.”

“Wearing those masks, man. That was therapy, you know? My mah went to therapy after the old man hightailed it. She said it helped, but all he did was supply her with her own big pharma factory, ya know? Did he ever actually help, or just say, wow, you’re really messed up, miss, here, take all these pills, and you’ll feel better?”

He paused and looked at me. He stared at me the way my father used to when he was angry, demanding an answer to a rhetorical question.

I hated it. He’d say, Rip, are you stupid? And I’d look at him in silence, trying to hold the tears back with sheer will. But he would wait for an answer. He would never just let it go. If I said no, he would scream, Well then why are you acting like it? If I said yes, he would think I was being a smartass. Either way, when he was in that mood, all you could do was pray that time would speed up. And you’d still be around when it reached its destination.

Chris was looking at me the same way, and it was making me feel sick.

“I love her, man. I love this girl.” I finally said, my voice cracking like a prepubescent boy; and I looked at the half-drunk pint of draught to my left. Watching the suds float to the top effortlessly, wishing I could shed my skin, and go live in the glass. Floating. Rising above the bottom. Elevating

“The girl won’t die, brother. She won’t even know you had anything to do with it. She won’t be any the wiser, Rip. You have my word.” His brown eyes looked less psychotic, almost human, compassionate. But that’s what made him so dangerous.

I’d seen him change from cold to compassionate when Rory Macdonald had his way with his sixteen-year-old cousin, or when Damien Wells hit a kid with his car, high on methamphetamines, and look how it turned out for them.

Sure, they deserved it. They did, but now he was grouping Melissa in with these lowlifes. Thinking that she was guilty, simply by association. By blood. Like that was something a person could control.

She didn’t kill anyone, or mess around with a minor, but to Chris she represented something that he hated. The society within a society.

A rich family. The heiress to Roy & Son’s. A nice big home out by Killarney Lake with acres of land and money to burn. A family of dishonest socialites, drowning in a liquidated gold mine, putting people on the streets that had no business being there.

“She’s not like them. She’s not.”

He smiled at me and slowly shook his head from side to side. I felt like a child, begging for a snack. Just one more. This will be the last one, I promise, and looking in the eyes of my folks, who knew damn well that I wasn’t getting what I wanted. Beg and barter, and lay down on the ground, their eyes would say. Our minds were made up a long time ago, boy. Chris’s eyes said the same thing. Almost like he pitied me. Almost.

“It doesn’t matter anyway, Rip. It has to happen. The greedy bastard could stand some humility, and a lesson on ethics, man. It won’t even hurt his bank account, and it’ll keep us above ground, right? Listen, I’ll take her to the cottage and call her old man. He might give us what he wants right away. Then it’ll be quick, and you can live happily ever after with the lawyer’s daughter. Okay?”

He paused, staring into my eyes. Reading them and understanding that I was going to try something. I was going to get Melissa out of this town. I had to.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Rip. Don’t try to take off like you’re a character from a goddamn Springsteen song, alright? Just don’t do it. Let her go out to the bar tonight, have a good time, drink a few drinks, eye fuck a few sweaty morons, and when she leaves, and cuts through Bridge road, instead of taking the main drag, we’ll snatch her up quick, no one gets hurt. Okay?”

I shook my head slowly from side to side. Trying to wake up. Please, be a dream, I thought. Please, let me wake up in bed with Melissa softly snoring in the comforting darkness of my apartment. Please. I promise, I’ll never put that stupid mask on again.

Chris massaged his forehead, feeling stressed out, trying to contain his anger, much like my father.

“Rip, I’ll kill her, and you. I’ll kill you both if you screw this up. If you just keep your mouth shut, you’ll have deep deep pockets, man. Just keep your mouth shut, and your payday will be grand. I guarantee it.”

“F-f-fine.” I stuttered, seeing no other way out of the trap that I built myself, the day I decided to let this man into my life.“Then I’m done. Melissa and I are getting out of town. I’m throwing the stupid mask in the garbage. No more vigilante shit. I’m done. I’m goddamn DONE!” I screamed that last word. The few bar patrons momentarily turned in their seats to see what was going on, and Chris waved them off.

“He’s okay, he’s just on the rag.” He said, a few of the drunks laughed.

I left and walked back to my place as a soft rain began to fall from the sky. My hand reached out and let the water drop on the lines of my palm. I wondered what a fortune teller would think that meant. Maybe that the floodgates had opened, and my world was coming to an end.

Melissa was coming out of the apartment as soon as I started walking on the cracked concrete slabs. She was all dolled up. She was different; I thought. She wasn’t like them. Melissa loved me, and didn’t care about the class difference. This woman walked out of my slumlord villa like she couldn’t have been any more at home. Because this was her home. She was my home.

“Hey, baby.” She said, “How was your day?”

I stared at her. Picturing her gagged and bound and knowing that it was either that or we were dead. Simple as that. Two options. Non-negotiable.

“I love you, Mel,” I said. “I love you so much”

“I love you, too, even though you’re acting kind of weird.”

“Sorry.” I placed my hands gently on her cheeks and tried to hold it all back as I kissed her. I held onto that kiss as long as I could, before she backed off.

“See you tonight, and we’ll pick up where we left off.” She winked, and she was gone.

His femme pro temps was a femme fatale, she,

Who worked his worth until worthless was he;

Said she in a tone that baited seductively,

"I'll pay you back in love if you will wait here for me."

He remained, you see, for that enchantress, his she,

And bided his time for that temptress, did he;

But the calendar pages turned unrelentingly,

His years sans wages compounding cumulatively.

Then lo! and behold, the villainess returned fundless,

Having taken and lost his hard-earned abundance.

And she asked for some more, if you can believe it,

So he reached in his pocket, therefore, to retrieve it.

He was crumpled and wizened but all the more wiser

Pretended to fawn, but did, he, despise her;

He found the papers under legal purview

And retrieved, did he for her, the bill that was due.

She grumbled and seethed and reached in her purse

Too humbled, was he, to ride in a hearse

She thought she had trumped him, but he outgunned her, moribundly

And now he's made it all back with a comeback GoFundMe.

There are five barbarians on an island (chief, first servant, second servant, third servant, fourth servant) playing a game. Each of the four servants will first vote on whether the chief stays chief or is burnt alive. If the chief is burnt alive, first servant becomes chief, second servant becomes first servant, etc. In the case of a tie, the current chief remains chief. The game continues in this way until the chief remains chief. Who will be chief at the end of the game?

Hint: Though brutal, all the barbarians are smart: they value their own life first, their rank second. They also know how the other servants will vote.

To win, tell me who won, and also give an explanation. Riddles are no fun if it’s just a foggy lucky guess!

Never had a a clear answer for this one. Let's take another crack Prosers!

Forget me not for I am coming and woe to those that don’t prepare.

Your strength and wit will not suffice to save you from my mighty snare.

If you persist I may abide you and thus make you stronger yet.

But be forewarned cause if I find you, you will rue the day we met.

What am I?

pencil shavings pushed

by youthful breath

huffing and puffing

with the effort

of creation.

"new year's,"

he mumbles,

lips only half aware

of the words

"is the worst."

all the pressure

of reinventing yourself

to be something better

and then being forced

to put those abstracts

into words

by a sixth grade

english teacher

who grades

on political correctness

rather than

grammatical effectiveness.

she watches him

with bloodshot eyes,

kept up by her husband

long into the night

as he tried in vain

to prompt desire

from her hips.

her new year's resolution

was escape

but no one else

could know that.

except, maybe, for the

man down the road

who she'd been

seeing in the dark

for a month.

he would never tire

of watching the stars

but she longed

for him in the sunlight.

the tip of the pencil

has been

ground down into

nothing

left only with

dull wood

and graphite dust

smudged on

desperate fingers.

shadows grow darker

in the schoolyard,

the english teacher knows

that her secret means more

when she's behind her desk

than it does

when she's in her bed

(or someone else's).

the boy knows

that pressures grow larger

throbbing in the background

until his fingers shake

just trying to form

the letter "o"

in

opinion.

for his new year's resolution

is to speak,

maybe for the first time

in his life

about what he thinks,

and not

what someone else things.

and his pressure

threatens to overtake him

while the teacher's secret

threatens her just the same

and when she leans over

his desk

their darkness

collides.

"carter, you know better,"

she says,

the words only half

belonging to her

prompted on

by a misplaced sense of duty

and a splash

of fate.

"opinion

isn't spelled

with an a."

it's not

an a,

he wants to scream.

my pencil broke,

and this is what

was left behind

in its wake,

a memorial

to my rage.

but instead he looks up

eyes vacant

and says

"i bet even your

husband

can't satisfy you."

and she is

blown away

crumbled into dust

by a middle school brat

left speechless

by the force

of her own

realization.

she would never

be satisfied.

and the universe watched

its orchestrated chaos

with eyes

turned upward with glee

and moved on

to its next

disaster.

We always talk about the rollercoaster but never the line. The feet-hurting, yawn-inducing yawn to get to the crescendo that will make life worth doing. This year was the line. I don't remember much of anything of this year except that I had a mental breakdown and that I had to go to a mental hospital. The result has been a hellish three months of trying to get back to some form of normalcy. Even sitting and writing this feels like standing in an 85 minute wait line on a balmy summer day at an amusement park. This year ended with a bang and I am hoping the finish will be better than where I am right now.

Nature was showing off that day. The sky was bluer than a Robin's egg with nary a cloud to mar it. The lake was a brilliant mirror of the sky, the sun, the trees whose leaves rustled softly in the warm breeze. Birdsong filled the air. The ground was soft and warm beneath her back.

The hands around her neck were not.

"Please, stop," she wheezed.

"No talking, " he responded.

"Please, I'm sorry..."

"Of course you are. Now. Too late," he said in a singsong-y voice at odds with his size. Well, and with his actions one might say.

He squeezed until she stopped moving.

Then he sat back against a tree and listened to the birdsong and watched the dragonflies flit across the lake.