I imagine getting into gardening at the age of 71. Tending to your garden whilst breathing in the warm, fragrant summer air with all the flowers in bloom has a very relaxing and satisfying feel to it. Turn this into a metaphor and it could signify watching your kids and their kids bud and blossom with the passage of time. I also imagine I'd be spending a lot of time in parks. There's this one near my home, it's called Hilal Park and it's beautiful. It's always buzzing with people laughing and chattering away with their loved ones yet it's something about the infrastructure, the way that the park itself is built on layers of rock that makes one feel peaceful and connected to nature. So yeah I think I see myself sitting there with a bunch of old ladies, chatting away about life and what it's become.

he did have a dream

of becoming a

writer

in his youth

but youth doesn’t last

forever

One day he grew up

and had to pick

a real

job. He studied journalism

and became a reporter

It was today’s task

that reminded

him of

the old dream. He had to

interview unpublished writers

A lot of them

and the general

question

was

“Why do you write?”

The answers he

got were

quite diverse

“I don’t know,” said one

writer. “I’m just trying to

recapture the feeling I had in

childhood when

my mother used to beat me

until I fell unconscious

and dreamed that

she loved me.”

And another said, “I’m not

sure. I just write

because I can’t

do anything else in life.”

Another said, “I’m still trying

to write the perfect

suicide note to leave

behind. I swear to God, I will

not kill myself

until I write it! That’s

what makes me a writer.

It’s stubbornness.”

“Me? Oh, I’m not a writer. I just

jot down elaborate

torture scenes involving

my ex-husband. If you’ve

read ‘The Room’ by Hubert Selby Jr

you know what I’m

talking about. But nah, I’m not

a writer. It’s just my… way of…

yeah, I’m not a writer.”

“I keep trying to put my dreams

into words. That’s the

kind of writer

I am. Not much of a writer. I

mostly dream about being

raped by my little sister while

our parents are

watching TV in the living room.”

“Who told you I’m a writer?

Well, I mean,

I write stuff, but honestly it all started

because I wanted to impress

some girl. It didn’t work,

of course, she went with another guy.

Since then I discovered that

I’ve a cuckold fetish and all my stories

portray it. I’m not

proud of my work.”

“I’ve seen a man die

before my eyes

when I was a kid. So logically

I started writing

stories about soap carving. I don’t

wanna talk about it. Thanks.”

"I suffer from quite

a nasty

case of claustrophobia. Every time

I come out of

a closed space I get this

inexplicable urge to write. But yeah,

it happens only when my issue gets

the better

of me. I've only written about

six thousand pages or so."

“I killed eight men.

That’s all

I gotta say. Thanks.”

“Well, I guess it all started with

little animals. I loved

to place them in extremely small

cages and then just

watch them day after day

as they grow thirsty and hungry

and desperate. I started writing down

the evolution of their

misery. I grew out of it

when my mother had an accident that

left her paralyzed.

I watched her then. And I learned

a lot. Now I can create

fictional characters that go through

the same. I’m quite good at it.”

“My neighbor has a mentally

ill daughter.

She’s quite cute and… you know,

writing fiction is the only

way I can live

my fantasies with her. Oh, I’ve written

so many thousands of

pages.”

“I’m a porn addict. It’s gotten so

bad that I can’t get

hard with real women

anymore. The only thing that gets me

hard now is

imagination. I write about

the times when I heard

my mom

having sex in her bedroom

when I was a child. The fact that she

wasn’t doing it

with my dad… somehow gets

me hard. So that’s why I

write.”

“I have… restriction orders. The only

way I can reach

the people I want to

reach is through

writing. I’m not happy about it.”

“Why do I write? Well, how else

can I explain

what it feels like to be buried

alive? I mean literally.”

“I am The Holy Spirit.”

“I’ve been abducted by

aliens. Multiple

times. It’s going to happen again.

I know it. I’ve nothing

against it. They

are working on my

brain. This is a blessing. I am

the chosen one. Have you

read my writings? You

should, before I get

published and they censor me."

“Are you kidding me? Why do I write?

Hey, you really don’t know

who I am? I am the woman

who died and came back to life. If

someone has something to

say… that’ll be me. Have

you read my books? They're all online!”

“Huh, why do I write?

Because fuck you, that’s why!”

“Honestly, man, I don’t

know.”

“I actually don’t

write.”

At the end of the

day

the reporter

remembered why he never

made it as a writer

himself

and the next day

he interviewed more

unpublished

writers

***

INSTAGRAM:

https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/

Erato my muse, my love, my quiet sorrow,

you sing your sweetest song like dreams to me,

and when the evening stars foretell tomorrow,

your artful words set thoughts and verses free,

and as the shadows fall and darkness grows,

I see your shining eyes in morning’s sun;

the sunrise fills the world with color’s glow

and as the daylight spreads, the shadows run.

I hear your song in birdsong, chirps and tweets;

I see your light as flowers’ colors gleam,

and sense your power through the mountain peaks.

I hear your secrets rumbling through the streams,

and when I close my eyes you whisper clear

in thoughts and memories, smiles and tears.

It’s getting dark later

as the sun spreads gold

across the sinking evening

and I feel a big one coming;

I sense a birth looming on the horizon,

an explosion of word pictures,

a night with Erato

and a morning and a day,

and the stars sparkling in the night

are the sequins in her dress,

and the moon is her spotlight

as she dances around me

like a fire spirit,

and I slowly open my mouth

to see what sort of lightning prophecy

seeps out with quiet thunder.

All those pretty horses gallop away, running from the cities of the plain and into the expanse where I cannot see. Before they broke my hold I shepherded them as far as I could, or drove them—whatever the term is for horses. They want a land my borrowed words cannot paint.

I’m abandoned and flatfooted beside my faceless cowboy...

This story had been kicking around in my files for several months before it found the right home: https://lespritliteraryreview.org/2022/06/15/the-title-wouldnt-be-mine-either/ My thanks to L'Esprit Literary Review for publishing my odd little flash fiction.

On isle alone

tan shores gorge

sky blue seas…

Tides travel on

slain beaches, obsidian ridden…

Obscene flames persist

freeing foam roams

grains rife with volcanic relics,

Lava lush as emerald

shards brushed by swooping gales…

Palm trees shredded of

hair-like bark, leaves fallen

cabin fever in Satan's hand…

Death frolics past my lips

carried by journals and dusty books…

Often pioneers patrol dense fields

for artifacts of decades past, some nights

they riot through nuclear winter inland,

Concrete debris, steel demon's

felled, bodies disintegrate,

crismon soil

Where Hellish fruits preside,

germinating in a sporadic pattern,

flames warm polar desert rubble…

I awoke afraid to look out past

vast pardisial landscapes,

Bullets holes and fragile brass

swarmed my watchtower, canvas

tents below flicker, poachers it seems…

Fatal July approaches, June

a phoenix spewing summer solstice

Across alienated rock, I punch

Reinforced walls at times breaching

It's judgmental exterior,

I paint like Picasso,

I bleed like Van Gogh…

Bed sores multiply, I lay down until

I'm ready to eat, sleep fades as I

scroll, invaders below speak

Up every evening threatening to

assassinate me, they throw frags

On my deck hoping to weaken

my war weary fortress, I tell them

not even every nuke left on this

Brutal globe could bring this

concrete monstrosity down,

This is Devil's Den,

A place to dwell, not purgatory,

Barely a means of defense

Whoever was worth saving is

gone

What remains is me.

You look at me

and see a father of four,

good job, somewhat talented writer,

likes to read and drink coffee,

teaches Sunday school at church,

but don’t be fooled;

I’m the one your mother warned you about,

staying up through the wee hours

scraping the outer reaches of my mind

searching for purpose, for meaning

in a world that chews us up and spits us out

like mangled chicken bones,

fighting that urge

for one more drink, one more shot, one more hit,

one more bullet to the head,

with white knuckles bleeding,

howling at the moon and cursing God,

horny as hell,

looking for love in women half my age,

hookers and alcoholics

filling in the cracks in the walls at the bars,

living like a rat

scurrying through the garbage,

looking for any scraps I can find,

like a black hole

that sucks everyone and everything,

all life, all happiness, all goodness

into itself and destroys it,

shattering everything into oblivion and darkness.

But I put my nice clothes on,

stretch my fake smile across my face,

turn my analytical mind away from itself

and towards algorithms and complex problems,

go to my job, go to church on Sundays,

and hope that maybe some of that wholeness

will rub off on me

and not vice versa.

I bring you sad news, fellow writers. I am leaving The Prose. :(

But wait; don't cry! It's only for the summer!!!

I can see the relief on your face. Come on! I wouldn't do that to you!

So, why am I doing this? Because I've got stuff to do.

Things like weddings, graduations, family vacations, writing (and writing contest entries), work, helping relatives (which I have a TON of) and DIY projects. (In other words: LIFE GETS BUSY THIS SUMMER! And yes, to me, this is a good thing. I like being busy!)

Yeah, I know that it's very sad for you.

Now, don't worry; I'll be back in the fall! And maybe, just maybe, I'll drop by now and then to check on what my favorite people are doing. (For example, I have to read any new chapters of Princess Undercover by PhelaTK that come out. If I don't, I'll go crazy!!!)

Other than that, I will be silent.

I might randomly enter a challenge or write a post.

But I doubt it.

There is a good thing about this, though!

This fall, you can get super excited when I rejoin you! :P

Anyway, I hope you guys don't miss me too much. You see, I've got this idea that there's a few people who might, but maybe I'm wrong. :)

(Hopefully I'm not too addicted to The Prose, or this will be extremly painful...)

So, friends and fellow writers, this is...

FAREWELL! (for now)

Sir Riley headed towards a deserted castle deep in the forest. There he waited, for he had sent a note to the villain and they were to meet there.

At noon, he heard a noise. Into the clearing stepped the man that had attempted to murder the princess.

“Hello.” Said Sir Riley.

“Hello, so you found me out.” Said the man.

“Yes.”

The man was…Prince Leos!

“I did not expect you to figure it out so quickly. Though, I knew you would some time.”

“I’m flattered. Tell me prince, why did you try to kill her? You were to have married her.”

The prince laughed bitterly. “Yes, I was going to marry her. But I saw that she loved you, and I could never win her heart.

“The reason I attempted to kill her, I wished to hurt her father, the king.”

“but why did you wish to hurt him?”

“So, you didn’t figure that out? Why don’t you guess?”

“Very well, prince. Is it because he killed your father in battle?”

Prince Leos’ eyes blazed, “So, you know that too! Yes, he murdered my father. I know it was in fair fight, but he should not have done so!”

“He did not know it was your father at the time.”

“So? He killed him anyway. When my father was alive, I had a chance to get the throne. I was my father’s favorite son. But he died and left no will. So, my elder brother has the throne. I hate King Ronald!” Prince Leos exclaimed angrily, “And I hate you, too! You ruined my plans!”

“But it is not because of me that you failed in murdering the princess.”

“I don’t care! I’m going to kill you!”

With that, Prince Leos whipped out his sword, and leapt at Sir Riley.

But Sir Riley had already gotten out his sword and blocked the blow.

Then, began the most stunning and skillful duel ever. Prince Leos sought to destroy the man whom, he considered, to have ruined his plans for revenge. Again, and again he stabbed his sword at Sir Riley, but the young knight’s sword always met each onslaught. Finally, seeing his chance, Sir Riley ran his antagonist through the shoulder. The prince dropped his sword and gripped his shoulder. His face was white with fury.

“Now, prince, you can do something for me. Sign this confession.” Said Sir Riley, panting.

“Never!” screamed Prince Leos, in rage.

Sir Riley placed the point of his sword against the prince’s throat.

“Sign it and I shall not kill you as you so richly deserve.”

“No!”

Sir Riley put more pressure on his sword. Prince Leos went pale. Then he said, ’Very well, if you will let me go free.”

’All right, but I warn you, if I ever see your face again, I shall kill you.”

The prince grasped the pen and paper and quickly signed it.

“Like all murderers you are a coward.” Said Sir Riley, as he took the paper.

Prince Leos glared furiously and would have leapt at Sir Riley, but Sir Riley pressed on his sword.

’Now, get up and ride. Before I kill you.”

The prince mounted his horse and disappeared. Sir Riley gazed after him thoughtfully. Then he carefully folded the paper and placed it in is pocket. He wiped the blood of his sword and then, mounting his horse, he rode away.

* * * * *

“I cannot and will not believe it!” exclaimed King Ronald, “Prince Leos is a perfectly good man, why would he want to murder my daughter?”

“Sir Riley explained it all to me after he had seen the note written by him. He hates you because you killed his father. He might have gotten the throne, but since there was no will, his elder brother has it.”

“Yes, yes. That is all true. But how are you going to prove it?”

“Sir Riley was going to meet the prince and have him sign a confession.”

“Why,” exclaimed the king, “Sir Riley will be killed!”

“I hope not.”

Just then a page stepped in. “Sir Riley.” He announced.

In came the young knight.

“Sir Riley, you made it!” exclaimed Sir Anthony in relief.

Sir Riley handed the confession to the king.

“Prince Leos signed this.” He told the king.

The King quickly read it. He looked up.

’Sir Riley, would you please tell me how this came about?”

“Yes, your majesty, as soon as you release Purvis and John.”

“Of course!”

King Ronald gave orders to release the prisoners immediately.

Then he turned back to Sir Riley.

“Now, tell me your story.”

Sir Riley did so. When he finished, King Ronald sighed.

“I am afraid that I have made a mistake. I am very sorry. But, who gave you the cloak, sleeping powder and sword?”

Sir Riley smiled. He reached out and put his hand on Keven’s shoulder.

“Your son.”

“My son!”

“Yes. He came to my cell and asked what he could do to help. I told him what I needed. He did a good job.”

“Sir Riley, with what do you want me to award you with? I will grant you anything.”

“I want one thing, the hand of your daughter.”

“You want Jewel?”

“Yes, I love her.”

“Very well, if she loves you also, which she has told me she does, you may have her. This matter, dreadful as it has been, has done one good thing. It has freed me of my promise.”

Just then Doctor Harrison stepped in.

“The Princess is asking for you, Sir Riley.”

Sir Riley looked at the king. He nodded. Sir Riley hurried to Jewel’s room. Keven and King Ronald followed.

Sir Riley dropped on his knees by Jewel’s side.

“Riley.” She whispered.

Sir Riley smiled, then he leaned over and softly kissed her.

King Ronald smiled, then putting his arm around Keven, he whispered, “It seems we have gained our Jewel, only to have lost her once more. But, I have gained another son, and you a brother.

The End

(That's it! I hope you enjoyed this story!)

Quilence

/ˈkwī-ləns/

noun

A quiet silence.

Example: “A loud shout broke the quilence.”

Similar: quietness, silence, tranquility, hush, stillness

verb

To order immediate and perfect silence.

Example: “'Quilence!' shouted Jeremy sternly.”

Similar: hush, shush, quieten, silence.

(This is a word that was used often when I was growing up. I believe that my oldest brother was the first to begin using it. Perhaps it is a word other people use; who knows!)