I’d been wandering for days. By the time I lost count of them, my paws were rough and torn and I knew every inch of the neighborhood by smell.

That was the worst part about being a homeless mutt.

The smells.

Drool-worthy scents and sounds came from every corner, followed by the blissful laughter of happy parents and children drifting out of the open doors. Always, I would instinctively track down the trail of grease and raw meat into the dark alley behind the cafe and end up with my nose pressed against the huge metal box sitting there. The food was inside it, I was sure, but even though I stretched up as far as I could with my paws on the side of the box, I wasn’t tall enough to get to the delicious smells.

Why did humans put the food they didn’t want in metal boxes just to rot away? Why didn’t they share them with starving, homeless dogs like me? I had to satisfy myself with the crumbs and bits of fallen food scattered around the box and the nearby door. There was never enough to make the gnawing go away.

Almost as terrible as my growling stomach were the frightening yells and shooing and shoes thrown at me for no reason. Sometimes I even had to run away from scary humans with scary-looking sticks who chased me all around the neighborhood. Once, my leash got stuck around a pole and they almost trapped me, but I got away at the last second.

I couldn’t understand. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, was I? But apparently, begging for food scraps at back doors or politely waiting near families eating lunch in the park were considered bad behavior by these humans. It made me feel hurt and confused. How else was I going to find food to eat?

Maybe humans couldn’t be trusted after all.

When I wasn’t hunting after a scent or wandering along the creek in the park trying to stay out of the way of bad humans, I lay in the cool grass next to a towering tree, head between my paws, listening to my stomach make strange noises and watching the busy street in the distance. I studied the people passing by and hoped with all my heart that I’d catch a glimpse of a familiar soft brown head with one little tail popping out of one side and laughing blue eyes. This was the last place I’d seen my small human, and my brain told me that she’d come back here looking for me. I couldn’t stay away for long.

As each day passed with no sight of her, and each night of painful hunger dragged by, my head drooped more and my pattering footsteps turned into aimless stumbling. I started to become dismal, my hope sinking further away. Every time I heard a child’s excited squeal, my ears perked up, only to fall again with yet another dashed hope.

Yes, I was a mutt, but I was a lovable mutt. My human loved me. I knew it. She’d told me that every day, along with suffocating hugs and many kisses to prove it. And I loved her too, so very much. Ever since she’d rescued me from the dog shelter when I was just a pup, she had been my entire life. My whole purpose and reason for living. Every minute she was at home I spent by her side, and every minute she wasn’t I spent staring at the door waiting for it to swing open again.

I’d never stop loving her. Didn’t she still feel that way about me? I couldn’t lose faith in her.

One afternoon, I was sniffing around a picnic table in the park after an abandoned bag of food underneath. I’d scented it from a couple blocks over and my whole focus was zeroed in on that incredible smell. With my head squeezed under the bench as far as I could reach, my teeth finally grasped the edge of the paper bag and I pulled it across the ground until I could see what was inside.

Finally! I’d made a discovery most dogs only dream of. Some kind human had left half a hamburger, a pile of french fries, and an entire hot dog slathered in ketchup for some lucky mutt to find. Today, I was that lucky mutt. My stomach chirped in anticipation and I let my tongue hang out of my mouth happily. I’d hardly eaten anything since the half empty can of tuna two nights ago.

Licking my lips, I opened my mouth, prepared to gobble this feast down in two seconds, when I suddenly became aware of something that my distracted senses had missed before.

A low, threatening growl came from beside the tree to my left. I whipped my head to the side and saw a mangy hound tensed to attack, his eyes cloudy and half-crazed, gray-brown fur matted with open sores, and drool dripping from his bared teeth. His hungry gaze was on the bag at my paws. I glanced around for any human nearby, but it was obvious he was on his own. It looked like this dog had been on the streets for much, much longer than I had.

My hackles rose and my lips automatically curled in response. Maybe it would be smarter to drop the bag and make myself scarce, but I was starving. In a split-second, I made my decision: I’d found this food first, and I was going to defend my property.

Quickly, I glanced around. I saw a part of the park that rose into a sort of hill and had a few rocks perched on top. It was higher up than anywhere else; maybe if I could get there, I’d be able to fight the enemy hound off successfully.

The incoming dog gave a sharp bark, the message of “this is your last chance to get out of this alive” coming across unmistakably. Lowering my head slightly, I made it look like I was about to show submission, but when the mongrel released his threatening stare ever so slightly, I took the opening and darted as fast as I could in the opposite direction, my teeth firmly embedded in my precious prize.

Weaving and winding my way through the trees and benches, I bounded toward the little hill. By the snapping jaw and pounding paws behind me, I knew the other mutt was right on my tail. I took in gulps of air, my breathing rapid and heavy, and mustering up an extra burst of energy, I pushed my legs harder and cleared a bush at the base of the hill.

At the top, I leapt onto the biggest rock and scrambled to gain traction before my attacker could get the upper hand. I grit my teeth together defiantly and planted my feet firmly, staking my claim on the rock and my tasty prize. The other dog let out a vicious howl, and I knew the battle was far from over. He was really angry now. He circled my fortress a couple times first, looking for any weakness or vulnerability, but I refused to give him an inch. Then he lunged, pushing off his hind legs and snapping at the bag I still had clutched in my teeth. I avoided his sharp fangs and growled menacingly the entire time, hoping I was sending him a clear message that I would stand my ground.

After several minutes, the mongrel narrowed his demented eyes at me, a sort of determination filling them, and then he gave a frenzied yelp and leapt onto the rock, forcing me to the other edge. I immediately lunged back, snarling angrily, and managed to push him off the rock again, but not before his teeth had found my ear and given it a nasty nip. I whined in pain, but there was no time to focus on my wounds now.

As he repeatedly attacked, I felt my strength draining. Once again, he succeeded in getting his teeth into me, this time my hind leg. I started to feel anxious. My stomach still panged in hunger, and I was exhausted and aching from sleeping on the cold ground. I wasn’t used to this life. Could I really hold my own against this seasoned street veteran? A soft whimper escaped my mouth, and I was sure I saw my enemy’s lips curl in an evil smile. He knew I was faltering.

Why not just give in and surrender the food to him? Was it really worth fighting for when I’d only be grumbling with hunger again in a few minutes? I wasn’t sure anymore. I wanted to cry out for my human to come and save me, but I knew she wasn’t anywhere near to hear me. How I longed for my soft warm bed right then, for my human to stroke my coarse brown fur with loving caresses until I fell asleep with a full, happy stomach. Where was she right now? Was she safe? Had she forgotten about me after all? I felt an unfamiliar pain deep inside of me and it made me uncomfortable and confused.

Before I could register that I’d lost my focus and gotten distracted, I felt the air rush out of my lungs as my attacker darted in and flipped me onto my back. Startled, my jaw opened and the precious bag tumbled out of my mouth. I lay back, stunned, and realized that I had lost the fight. I was going to go hungry again.

I watched for the mongrel to grab his prize and escape with it, but he still hadn’t released his threatening stance over me. Panic flooded into me as he leaned down, his jaw bared toward my neck. When I noticed the full-on deranged look in his eyes, I realized that he wasn’t going to be satisfied with simply taking my food. He was out for revenge.

Was he planning to go for my throat? Was I going to die right here and now, without getting to see my little human’s smiling face ever again? The strange feeling of pain inside me sharpened, and I let out another slow, despairing whine.

The mongrel lowered his mouth toward me, fangs dripping, hot stinky breath clouding my face and lungs.

This was it. I was really going to die. I closed my eyes, panting softly, and waited for the snap that would end me.

“Petey!”

A squeal broke into the fogginess that had filled my head. A child’s voice, one that I’d know anywhere.

I jerked my head to the side, looking around wildly and hope flooding me again. My human! She’d come back for me!

The enemy dog jolted at the sudden shout and released his sharp focus on me for a split second. He quickly looked back at me, but it was too late.

I lunged forward, ducking out from under him and landing a good bite to his shoulder. He yelped in surprise and tried to fight back, but I leapt over to another rock and bared my fangs in warning. You just try to pull that one on me again, buster!

“Bad dog! Get away! Get away from my baby! Bad dog!” My human’s frantic screams came from a little ways off, and I turned to see her picking up rocks and sticks and throwing them at the bad mutt. He cowered slightly, but let out a low snarl. Clearly, he hadn’t taken my previous warning seriously. I barked sharply and growled deeply at him again, then cautiously retreated over to my human’s side.

An older human female came running over, yelling at the bad dog the whole time and then saying something into a little black thing she held against her ear. I recognized her as a member of my human pack. She grabbed my human’s arm and pulled her back. “Emmy, stay back! That’s a wild dog and we have no idea what he might do.”

“But Petey! He’s trying to hurt Petey. We have to do something.”

“Petey’s okay, baby girl. See, the bad dog is backing away already.”

I looked over at the enemy dog, and sure enough, he was slinking away behind the rocks. A crowd of curious humans had gathered around, and it was probably making him nervous. Finally, he tucked his tail and snuck off in the other direction, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

We were safe. And...my human was here! I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. I turned to look up into her blue eyes and they were wet with something. I didn’t care. I sat on my haunches and just stared at her, taking in her brown hair and her sweet scent and I felt so happy I could burst. My tail began thumping hard on the ground and I realized that I hadn’t wagged it in days. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been happy enough to wag my tail.

My human squealed so loudly my ears hurt and threw her arms around me. “Oh, Petey! What happened to you? I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Why didn’t you wait by the tree like I told you to?”

She waved her finger in my face and I cowered a bit, my ears drooping guiltily. I hadn’t meant to wander off, honest. I’m a good dog, and I really intended to sit there patiently until she returned. But the cafe down the street had been grilling hamburgers that day, and I tried, I really did, to stay put. But when more than five minutes had passed without seeing my human come back, I’d noticed my leash was loose and I couldn’t help going over to do a quick check if they’d be nice enough to share some of that mouth-watering meat with a hungry dog. How was I to know that the mean man would throw an odd-shaped metal stick at me and shout angry words that I’d never heard before? It frightened me, and when I ran away to find my human, I realized I was lost and didn’t know how to find my way back. By the time I did find the place again, she was gone.

Anyway, why did that matter anymore? Here she was, safe and sound, and I was back together with her. Everything was okay again.

She sniffed and buried her face in my neck. “I missed you so much! I was so worried about you. I’m so glad I finally found you.” She planted a huge kiss on my nose, and then looked upset at something. “Oh, Petey, you’re hurt! Mommy, Petey’s hurt. That horrible, evil dog! He’s in so much trouble for hurting you. I hope they catch him and put him in evil doggy prison.” She ran her fingers over my coat gently and leaned down to hug me again. “Oh, you poor baby. I’ll fix you up and make you all better. Don’t worry. I love you, Petey.”

I let out a happy grunt and licked her face. I didn’t even feel the pain of my wounds anymore. The older human muttered something about the vet and shots, but I didn’t care about that, either. I’d go to the vet every day if it meant I could be with Emmy.

My human picked up my ragged, torn leash that had somehow stayed attached to my collar and tugged me gently. “Let’s go, buddy.” I trotted after her, letting my tongue flop out the side of my mouth as I panted happily.

I would follow her anywhere.

At night she breathes, just like me, in and out, sometimes exaggeratedly, and she wonders as I lay beside her half asleep if I am responding with my deep breathing as an answer to hers intentionally. I am. Deep cleansing breaths are a human thing, and I play along just for fun, because there are only so many biscuits allotted to me in a day.

I’m not going to say I don’t need her, because I think I do, but I also think if things were different; if humans didn’t rule the world and I was out there on my own, I’d have a better chance than her at survival. There is something in her breathing that tells me so.

There is this thing she holds in her paws, as if her paws were designed to hold it. It is not quite square in shape, it is longer on two sides, and it makes noise. Bings, rings, and songs that are often different, sometimes repeated more times than I care to hear. I watch her as she shakes her head to it, and moves her fingers swiftly, and wonder if she is instructed to do so, like the way she insisted I shake her paw, doling out treats until I got it right. If she gets a reward, she gives it to herself, from paw to mouth, and I watch and wait, anticipating the stray crumb that may come my way, accepting my fate when it doesn’t.

Besides the intake of food, my human’s mouth is very active opening and closing rapidly throughout the day with sounds unlike my bark projected towards others like her and even me and I do believe she expects me to know what she is projecting, because when I tilt my head from side to side trying to makes sense of it, she seems to think I understand. Let’s just say I aim to please.

And then there are the moments during the day when we just sit, side by side, without that thing she usually holds in her paws, just gazing out at the landscape with fluttering eyes looking at everything and no thing, breathing together silently along with the birds and all the others beyond us rhythmically, and it is then that I suppose she learns more from me than I from her….

Living is only as complicated as you make it.

The present sips his whiskey and throws down his cards. The past bitterly pushes her chips to the present, clenching her fist so hard that her nails dig into her palms. She’s an angry woman, and the present an unstoppable man. You see, the present doesn’t begin until you despise it. No one has to move from the past to be the present. The present isn’t a time concept, it’s a headspace. It’s sitting at dinner and eating your meal slowly, holding your wife’s hand while walking under the stars, popping pills with who you think will be with you forever. The present comes when you’re with the moment, when you chew your green beans and talk about your day over wine with your forever, finally taking notice of how chipped her red polish is, and swallowing your habits with your reckless friends. The presence is every day. The past is an illusion.

Like smoke.

I can smell you.

Taste you.

See you.

and then you fade.

And yet you remain.

invisible.

Lapping at my skin.

Wrapped around my body.

Tangled in my hair.

"If you want to write, read." I have read that quote by many different authors, so I'd say it is great advice. I think when you find a book you really connect with, written within those pages may be the style you were meant to write. (Perhaps this applies more to prose than poetry. To be honest, I know nothing about poetry!)

Stephen King takes that quote a step further. "If you want to be a writer you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot."

And isn't that why we are here on prose? Because we want to work at becoming a writer; because we want another set of eyes to read our writing, and read what other aspiring writers have up their sleeve? Don't be afraid to post! If one person likes what you write, it's a win! Just like they say, practice, practice, practice! And then drop it here on prose!

Another Stephan King quote that is almost spiritual in nature really resonates with me:

"Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy. Getting happy….this book….is a permission slip: you can, you should, and if you are brave enough to start, you will. Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free, so drink. Drink and be filled…

The reason this resonates so much with me, is because writing has been so beneficial to my mental health, so in a way, prose is a life saver. In every challenge there is a creative test and during that process, stinkin' thinkin' flies out the window. Does it work that way for you?

I primarily enjoy the writing style of stream of consciousness and short fiction, first person, with a satirical slant. My personal tips are a work in progress all the time and are as follows:

Formulate your ideas, and find a WOW first sentence. Make the reader want to read more with every sentence.

Find an authentic voice for your protagonist. Become the protagonist. Act out the scene in your mind as you write by asking what-if's.

Think about the reader when you write. Make them feel emotionally connected.

Create a rhythm with your words.

Play with vocabulary and metaphors.

Keep it fun! Many of us have addictive tendencies. Don't obsess! If something really isn't working for you, drop it, at least for a period of time. But that doesnt mean to give up either. There is a fine line. Know the fine line.

Writing began for me by landing here on prose a couple of years ago. My first post was simple in structure and composition. It was @sandflea68 and @Mnezz that were the first prosers to come take a look and press the like button. I thought I had landed on the moon! A heartfelt thanks to them both and for all the other amazing writers here on prose that have taken the time to take a peek at my writing. You are my virtual family!

WRITE ON!

This old book that my friend stole from high school. He had a penchant for stealing things; Catcher in the Rye (two copies), a nylon-string guitar, loot from old lockers. It was all fair game, as long as you could get it home unnoticed. But this old book; The Lord of the Flies.

I just spilt some tea on it, a liberal amount. Accidental of course, but probably the best damage that can be done to a book. Darkened marks bordering the pages, still slightly damp, but soon to dry out and harden; soon to resemble a crispen old map. A lucky strike for the book’s next holder.

Some previous reader has neatly highlighted a passage on page 15. Not my friend; the highlighting is far too perfect, and the passage far too insignificant. Likely a notation by a young scholar, in search of critiqueable technique. Perhaps a guidance from their teacher; “Now I shouldn’t be telling you this, but these lines may help for your exam.”

We would clear out old lockers for detentions; cut off the padlocks with rusty tools that made us feel like men. Inside was a mystery, sometimes empty with nothing, sometimes empty with something. Items that are masked with the enchanting allure of discovery, but soon reveal the reasons they were left behind.

That nylon string still plays well. I strum chords inevitably when I wait in my friend’s room, as he puts on his tennis socks and for a few minutes I savour the refreshment of playing a foreign guitar; it always feels nicer than yours.

her: u coming tmr?

me: maybe idk

her: you sitting behind (somebody in my class)

me: k

her: she isnt happy

me: k

her: kay

me: why r u telling me this huh

her: headsup

me: ahahahhahaa

her: she’s been acting fake lately

me: she complained 2 u, I assume?

her: faking score, faking mad, faakiing friends with (name) and then talking bout her behind her back and me behind my back and (name) and you and (name) iUGWEOh...

me: ...

and that’s surprising how?

i think quarantine broke me to care less abt petty kids

Sometimes our loved ones must die before ourselves.

A bead of sweat rolls down Fintan’s wrinkled forehead, his eyes burn boldly like kerosene as he fiercely concentrates on transferring his power to his companion. Toivo lays on his side perplexed as the strange buzz ran through his veins, the magic channelled into his bloodstream. Fintan closes his eyes shut as he falls back in soul wrenching pain, his metamorphic strengths have now been depleted from his body. He grips tightly onto Toivo’s hand, motioning him to listen.

“Knowledge is limited to all we know and understand Toivo,” he whispers. “While imagination embraces the entire world and the truth that lies within.” Fintan’s voice is unusual, one of which sounds very old but very wise with his years.

Toivo looks down at Fintan, his brown hair hanging over his face as he squeezed onto his hand. His voice shakes, uncontrollably as he begins to speak what would be his final conversation to his dearest friend.

“But what if I fall Fintan? Your sacrifice would be for nothing!”

“But what if you fly Toivo?”

Toivo looks down, avoiding Fintan’s eyes. Fintan begins to cough, Toivo holding onto him in concern.

“It’s a dangerous thing when man plays with God. Treat it how you would treat fire,” Fintan croaks as his voice begins to soften, his loss of metamorphic powers weakening him to the lowest form before a traumatic ending to what would be a long lived life.

Fintan begins to shrink, shrivelling like an apple left in the sun. His veins pull at his bony neck, strangling him to his death. The glassy look on his eyes is the utter expression of warrior. Toivo shakily stands up, looking down at his companion. The wind harshly begins to swirl from the skies above, lifting up Fintan’s deceased body with it becoming a fine fluorescent powder as it is blown into the oceans protective care.  

“Fintan is the spirit of our souls,” Toivo whispers to himself afraid if anyone was to hear him, a single tear falling down his dirt stained cheek. He clambers into the oak boat that has been resting on the sands grainy surface, allowing the magic to take its manipulative control. The waves take the boat from beneath the ground, sweeping it into the lost and dark unknown.

The ocean waves are demons, ferociously wailing at each other, the boat being propelled into the air as the waves bash together like drummers keeping with the beat. Toivo clings onto the boats oaky side for dear life, praying that he was strong enough. The boat kept following a translucent beam of light in the water, sparkling like highlights in the night sky. He was completely drenched, the salty water painfully stinging his blue eyes. Then he saw it. The Door to Our Lord’s Protectors.

A blue curtain hangs over the frame that is just floating in the water.

“Except it’s not a curtain Toivo,” Toivo says in Fintan’s distinct voice. “It’s only your brain denying the magic is real.”

Toivo takes a deep breath as the boat propels through the portal, into the depths of the what lies in the other world.

The boat completely disintegrates into thin air as Toivo blasts through the portal. The colours are swarming through the skyline, reds and oranges mixing like paint on an artist’s pallet. Toivo begins to transform, his legs expanding muscles flexing, with his arms following their lead. His neck bulges, a mane sprouting of a silky blue. A horn begins to slowly twist from his skull, becoming sharp and a twinkling silver. He stands with his hind legs on the rocky ground, ready to face the dragon that stood in front of him, the infamous Drake from Fintan’s stories.

“So Fintan really did speak of the truth!” a voice bellows from Drake’s demeaning tone, a wave of fire exploding in front of Toivo in a degrading scoff. “For he did find a mortal worthy of his power!”

He laughs evilly at Toivo who stands in rage at the dragon who dare mock his mentor. He begins to strike the ground with his hoof in utter anger, charging at at Drake, the unicorn horn now gleaming as he attacks him, Drake yelling in an anguished pain as he falls to the ground.

Toivo crushes at the dragon and he soars high into the sky, watching the portal wall collapse as the fantastical creature’s swarm into the mortal’s world. He watches proudly as the Griffins and Phoenix’s soar high and the Goblins run like mad men out from their entrapment. For he had proven his worth. His worth of his purpose.

Sometimes our loved one must die before our self for us to truly unlock our full potential.

//Footnotes

For my english assignment this term, I just finished writing this for my draft ahah.