Writing from the mattress

fog bank head

sinuses drained to gums

pulse heavy in ear

filling an old notebook

Saturday night on Central

a waxed-brain drive to the drug store for medicine

sweating in line

the guy behind the counter

looked slightly

touched with

Downs syndrome or

fetal alcohol syndrome

or a premature birth

but whatever it was

he also had an angry look on

his face, a chip on his shoulder,

something to prove

-a little chubby cowboy

in his heart

wanted payback

for something

on some level-

He looked up at me

and asked me if

I was drunk

and if I drove there

a few people in line

looked me up and down

I ignored him while he put

the Tylenol in the bag but

he handed me the bag

and told me he was

serious about

it

was I drunk

I stared down at him:

Why? You want to fuck me?

an old man in line started laughing

but I kept my eye across the counter at his half-frightened stare

and started to feel bad

anyone with a normal brain

would be

able to tell by my color and sweat that I was sick

I waited for the war to rage

but he just stood there with

his mouth half open

wide moon eyes

and a mole sprouting hair

just under his eye socket

I looked dead at it

and something changed

inside me, something in the

heart

a flicker

or a trick of light

a feeling that

his face

was my whole past

staring at me

I smiled at him:

I'm sorry, buddy. I'm just sick, and I need to sleep. Make it a good night.

Back here in bed I can't get that mole out of my mind

and I worry that he's even more aware of it now

and I worry that

I hurt his feelings

and I know it's going

to keep me awake all night

even though it brought

an old man some joy

and showed me

the past is

more breakable

than I thought

it was.

Dearest readers and writers:

We're interrupting your regularly scheduled Prose to bring you this special literary announcement.

Lisa Sullivan, known here as @Lsu11, is an environmental scientist from the Detroit area in Michigan that has -as of this week- joined @unspecific and @JeffStewart as a resident Wordsmith.

We reached out to her today in hopes of learning more about her. What makes her tick? What is it about writing that keeps calling her back?

Here she is, ladies and gentlemen: the honorary Proser of the hour, Lisa "Ls11" Sullivan, with a few words of commencement for all of you...

P: Describe your current relationship with words.

L: "I write more technical reports as part of my job. However, I love creative writing. I try to give voices to those who may not have one.

"I tend to have an underlying message whether it is abuse or war or suppression. I truly believe that everyone should be treated equally and be granted the same opportunities in life and it breaks my heart to see otherwise. I guess I want people to know that they are not alone. That there are others out there that feel the same way and hopefully give them hope.

"I didn't have the easiest childhood that taught me to be empathic to others situations."

P: With more than 600 posts here, how often would you say you're engaged with Prose?

L: "I spend my time sporadically. Usually 30 minutes in the morning, quick check here and there during the day, and an hour or two at night.

"I love reading other people's things. There is so much talent and creativity in this community. I feel like it is such a supportive family. I love it.

"I feel honored and humbled to have made it to Wordsmith."

Once again, @Lsu11, congratulations on this remarkable achievement. We'd like to recognize you for your efforts here, including the subtle steps, large and small, that you're always taking to make the newcomers feel welcome.

It's writers like you that solidify the foundation of Prose. We couldn't be more proud!

waiting for news. Blood work.

sitting here, a bar north of Mexico

save the fucking comments

we all must die.

God or no god.

Personally, I will leave here without

faith, without belief.

I will leave behind bio mass.

a body that feeds the soil

but tonight, in this blink of life

in the moment

I see drunken mutants dancing

with fat, brown women

awful music

on the juke

the words of mine over the years

carry my corpse in a glass coffin

above the freaks

above the damned and the

falsely saved

we're all born for dirt

all of us are here for a flash

and I know this flash

it follows me like a hungered thing

it follows you

your money is jack shit

your home your wife

your adoring faces

all of it is fleeting

but it counts

the love I feel for you

the love I feel for the words

the way I hide behind

phrases and cowardly

poems so prominent

but the truth is

I love you all

I love your hearts

from a young age I

was taught to obey the

rules of old men

the lies

and I rejected this

because the words fed me truth

they burned sunsets with fires

beyond the grasp of Satan

and Christ

and Buddha

and all fiction.

Do I love you, regardless?

I do

I do because the mutants dance in front of the

bar and a fucking freak asks me for an

autograph

and I tell him I am nothing

but shit

but there's no convincing

a mountain of lies

of images

I remember the ghost of my mother

the ghosts of dead writers

the feeling of them

the way the rabbits run

beneath a Sun so orange

so flawless

you and I, we have a deal, we always have.

But let me break though skin and define

the fear:

I write, and hope it's not shit

I write and send it off with crossed fingers

no matter what it means to me

personally.

Do I love you all?

I do.

Can I admit it soberly?

I can't.

But the rooster flounces

before the hens

and I am nothing more

I am a pile of begging words

and to say anything

otherwise

would be a sick attempt

at something

I can't abide soberly,

in the light

of you.

Everything we are is what

I earn

and from Schopenhauer

through celluloid,

I'll take the heat, climbing the dirt trail

while I wait for what I already know

the diagnosis

I am dying

and I make it to the top of the

cross on the mountain

my breaths short

my failing heart

and mind

and body remembering the

lyrics of Buckley

we share the first name

but he died before me

the lines of his carved in my skin

on top of the mountain I've reached with

one last labor:

As she weeps on my arm walking through the bright lights

and sorrow. Oh, drink a bit of wine we both might go

tomorrow. oh, my love.

I think about the eyes of my dog, and I remember what I said to the doc when he remarked that I was taking the news so calmly:

I'm just thinking of the words I haven't written, the places I won't see. I just want to outlive my dog.

And his confused, stupid face, the doctor, the trained fool. He had no idea what I meant, the intensity.

I stared at the paperwork of the EKG

Anterior infarct -age undetermined

-Negative T-waves -Possible Anterolateral ischemia

Basically, I've had a heart attack in my past that didn't

take me out, but I'm on the edge

my doctor is an unfeeling piece of shit

further tests are needed

I am 44

I am not real anymore

I am side to side with the ghosts of my mother

my father

I am a shell of life

I conceived this space

and a team of young, healthy blood built it

I am successful and close to death

the epitome of irony

but I left this mark

all you writers

from any distance from the

grave:

write and edify

offend

inspire

be free

stop at nothing

know that

there is something counted beyond

the servile hours

and

the mountain from which I write this

Jeff Buckley's Grace blasting through my headphones

while I watch the mountains of Mexico:

As she weeps on my arm

Walking through the bright lights and sorrow

Oh drink a bit of wine we both might go tomorrow

Oh, my love, and the rain is falling

I believe my time has come

it reminds me of the pain

I might leave behind.

I reach the top of the mountain, and I stare over Mexico

I remember the whiskey

the women so perfect of eye

the mercy of the hours

and the song returns in

a morbid reminder

and I remember the words

the tours

the people so astute

that never ceased to amaze me

not to sound incredulous, but the

words grip me at the summit:

And I feel them drown my name

So easy to know

And forget with this kiss

I'm not afraid to go

But it goes so slow.

and I watch the earth from where

I sit, and my heart gets heavier

and if death takes me now

it takes me with a debit

it takes me with words unwritten

and I think back to the fucking fat doctor

with the facial pussy

hitting me with the news

and my eyes welled up for a second

All the words I haven't written. They will have nowhere to go now.

And the fuck looked at me, confused, and I left there to go back to the hotel to be with my dog, to feel his eyes upon me

through me.

To feel again the thought that

I wouldn't die soon:

Regardless.

SEEK GOD NOT SHELTER, the sign read. Stuck to the underbelly of the rusty bridge above them. Dusted with dirt and irony. CHRIST HAS RISEN AND HE NEEDS YOU, another said. COME TO THE HILL. Both signs scrawled in blood.

She turned around towards the hill, her dirty blonde hair cascading over her tired eyes. She turned like it was beckoning her, calling her name through the wisps of wind that whiplashed her skin. She saw them all heading towards the hill, the preachers in white, the others in whatever they could scavenge.

"Are you sure we're doing the right thing?" she asked.

"Yes."

"They say he's risen, why couldn't it be true?"

"Look around."

He watched her eyes move across the landscape like drifting tumbleweed. He watched her see it all again. The empty sky. The pillaged streets above them. The ribcages. Broken. Poking out of the bodies smeared on the ground. The snow melting into murky water, digging potholes into the muddy earth. The sky mimicked their souls. It was sad. Ugly. Gray.

"Do you believe me now?" he asked her.

She looked at him. She felt everything, but she felt nothing. She was hollow. Emotionless. She grabbed his hand.

"There is no God," he went on. "No man with the power to create a galaxy would build a wasteland."

"Maybe."

He looked at her. He wanted to tell her, doubt will kill us. Doubt will kill us before they do. But he didn't tell her.

"Don't say that. You have to believe it. You have to believe me. Do you?"

She gripped harder. Looked back. Pointed towards the city.

"They all say he's risen. All of them. They say he's here. That he's walking with us. Maybe they're right."

"If Christ has risen, where are his footprints?" he asked.

He watched her eyes shift towards the untouched snow stretched ahead of them.

They walked on.

All was gray the next morning. Dirty. Dead. She woke up to silence. The sleeping bag beside her was empty. Cold. They'd camped under an old bridge, shielding themselves from view if one were to pass by quickly. But maybe someone had meandered on by slowly. She was the lookout.

She pushed herself up on her elbows, about to get up and investigate when he showed up, dripping wet. Chilled to the core with icicle hair. He sat down beside her, emptying his socks of the pounds of snow inside them. Finished, he placed his hands back inside his soaked jacket pockets.

"We need to eat," he said.

"You need to warm up."

"I was looking for food."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

He rubbed his eyes, running his hands through his melting hair as he spoke. "There wasn't a single car out there today. Wasn't anything."

She pulled her body up, pressing herself against the graffitied cement wall. GOD IS GOOD sprayed in red. Scratched out ten times over.

She peeked around the wall and stood up. "We have to go, then," she said. "We have to go to the next town."

"Do you know what town?"

"No."

"Okay."

They both stood up, packed their things into their backpacks and pockets. The lighter. The wire. The canteen. The switch knife. The socks. The earmuffs. The sheets and blankets. Sleeping bags on top.

They walked on.

Sometimes they remembered the days before the destruction. They'd reminisce. Drink nostalgia from their canteen instead of the limited supply of clean water they were carrying. They'd remember the smells. Roses. The tastes. Fresh bread. Fresh water. The sounds. Laughter. Music. The sights. The blue skies. The flowers growing between the sidewalks, before they became splattered with blood. They remembered when everything was beautiful.

Other times they would forget.

"What's green look like?" she would ask him.

"Green."

"You don't remember either."

The conversation would end, and they would walk on.

They reached a town a day later, weak from hunger. Running on empty. No different than any other day.

They walked down the lifeless but dirt street, full of bones and skulls and more bones and more skulls. He grimaced. Shifted his eyes towards his naked feet.

She saw the pain reflecting in his eyes. "Don't look," she said.

"They're already there."

"Where?"

"In my head."

She glanced at the bodies then, laying in piles. Hundreds upon hundreds. Laying on top of each other, placed as if built by careless giants trying to make a castle out of a deck of cards on a windy day.

Bones protruded out of each of them in the same place. All ribcages were slashed in half, dangling out of the chests like a man dangling off a cliff. Strings of dried blood clots hung off the ripped tissue, silk gossamer off the heaps.

He looked up, then quickly angled his gaze down once again. His eyes stumbled to words etched into the brown ground.

GIVE BACK TO GOD, it said.

He spat on it. Stamped it out with his foot.

"What's going on?" she asked, turning around.

"More propaganda,'" he said, clenching his hands.

"Don't get angry. Save your energy."

"They want us to praise god."

"I know."

"Do you know something?"

"You refuse."

"Yes. I refuse. Do you praise a fire for eating the trees? Oceans for swallowing cities? No. And so it goes. One does not deserve praise for turning the world into a wasteland."

She grabbed his hand, tried to calm him down. Rubbed his palm. Looked at his grimy fingers.

"Your ring is gone," she said.

"I lost it. In the last Reckoning."

"How?"

"In the paint jar when I stuck my hand in."

He remembered the feel of it. The thickness of the dye on his hand when he brushed it on his forehead. He didn't want to put the mark on, but blending in was key. Vital. It was the only way to survive.

The whistle blew after that, the high-pitched screech slicing through the air. The men had begun pouring out of the buildings, racing down the streets. He had turned to her, grabbed her by her long hair.

"Cut it off," she had said.

And so he did, in one swift chop. Then they were handed the blades and pointed towards the rebels.

"God needs us," one of men in white roared.

GOD HAS RISEN AND HE NEEDS YOU, the men chanted in reply. One of the men held their arms up high, making the symbol with his fingers. A cross. Two hundred more jutted out into the sky. It started.

And so they charged toward the small pack of rebels, holding their knives high above their heads. He blended in. Had been one of the first to reach them, had been one of the first to tackle the shaking man begging for food to the ground. One of the first to plunge the knife into a chest, to watch the blood bubble up from harmless veins and ooze out of the wound, bursting like a fireworks display neither of the men had witnessed in years.

She'd started pulling him. Yelling into his ear to STOP STOP STOP because WE CAN GO WE CAN RUN NOW THEY WON'T NOTICE and IT'S TIME TO GO and most importantly DON'T BE LIKE THEM. In a split second he'd stood up. She grabbed his sticky hand. They ran.

He fell back into reality as he felt her grip on his hand loosen. He looked at her. Collapsed at her touch.

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's alright," she said. "It's alright. You're alright."

He looked at her. Lifted his lips a little like he used to do.

"Do you want to put the paint on again now?" she asked.

"No."

"It's safer."

"I refuse," he said. "I don't want the sign. Putting it on the first time was a mistake, even if it was safer. I was weak. Wanted bread. Now I want sustenance and Christ is not in my diet. There might be a soup kitchen somewhere near here."

Sometimes she worried he was too radical. Like the others, but on the opposite end of the spectrum. Sometimes she remembered he'd killed a man.

They trekked through the filthy streets towards the innards of the city, peeking into the alleys and buildings. Performing the routine checks. Looting the houses around them and checking for anything useful. Coming up with nothing.

And so they went. Trampling on down the empty road, each step more of a burden than the last.

At the start things had been different. They had worn shoes and mittens and scarves and hats. Had kept crates of vegetables, jars of fruit. They had been exponentially prepared. But supplies dwindled over the course of the years. Thieves. The needier. Shoes wearing out. Until all that was left was a pack full of nothing.

A man in white sat in the ditch of the road ahead of them. Two hundred feet, maybe two-fifty. She looked at him, pulled him off the street into an alley.

"There's someone there," she said.

"I see. He's one of them."

"What do you want to do?"

"Keep going."

"Could be dangerous."

"I'm starving."

They carefully trudged towards the man. He fingered the switch knife in his pocket.

They treaded closer and the man came into view. He was chubby. The first tip-off. Abnormal for times like these. The man rolled his head, caught sight of the pair. He angled his gaze towards them.

They inspected him more profusely. Saw the scarlet cross painted in blood on his forehead. The second sign. The man began to move. Shuffled his stained hands and extended his two pointer fingers. Held one up and put the other over it. Made the symbol.

They were supposed to sign back to the man. They were supposed to silently let him know that they were not searching for shelter, they were not scavenging for a morsel of food, they were not running from the preachers. No. They were supposed to sign, let him know they were heading towards the hill. Making their way to the place where they'd give their heart to the ghost of a ghost.

The man in the street waited.

Waited.

Waited.

He didn't sign.

She didn't either.

The man stood up. Placed his hands in his pockets. Brought out his whistle. Blew it.

People exploded into the street, all dressed in white. All wearing red symbols on their foreheads. Blood glistening in the sun.

They surrounded them, instructing them as they moved closer and closer. Hands up. Legs apart. Don't move a muscle. I said don't move.

They took their packs and sliced them open, flipped them upside down and watched their precious items plummet into the dirt with a dull thud. They stepped on them, rubbed their sheets into the grime. Poured their canteens into their mouths, gulping the water down like it was their own. One licked his lips while another began the interrogation.

"What were you doing out of your territory?

Why aren't you heading north?

What gives you the right to search for food on your own?

You are not God.

God will provide for you after it's over.

You are wrong. This is what God wanted. Thy will be done.

We are doing this in His holy name.

We all have to make sacrifices. We all must learn to live for Him."

He was out of saliva to spit. The man kicked him to the ground.

"Take this one first. Then the other."

The men followed his commands. One revealed a trash bag, heavy and dripping crimson. The others came forward towards the couple with silver knives. They slashed their clothes and dragged them off. Stabbed their chests, crushed their ribs, carved the hole. Reached in and plucked out their hearts and dumped them in the bag. Pulled out their scarlet blades and wiped them off. Dipped their fingers into their chests until they were dripping rubies. Reapplied the cross on their foreheads, and then

they walked on.

I was baptised a Roman Catholic back in 1952, a time when televisions were tiny black and white things that people crowded around. Trams ferried shoppers to and fro, and streets were full of kids playing postman's knock. Teddy boys stood around on street corners with their hair greased slick, and Elvis Presley blared out from radios in every house.

I went to Church every Sunday, just the same as everybody did, and we wore our best clothes too and bowed our heads as Priests filled us with the fear of God. Every family had to be seen to attend Sunday Services, and morality was held in high esteem, at least outwardly.

Eventually, as I grew into my long trousers, I was volunteered to serve the Church as an Altar Boy, a position which meant I attended Church every morning at 7.00 prompt for morning service, and I felt proud to be so associated as the reflected esteem upon my Mother seemed to please her.

I eventually moved to higher duties as I was taught to read music and was given the honour of moving from the High Altar to the Organist position, were I mastered the fearsome multi keyboard instrument and played to accompany the choristers at weddings, funerals and High Mass.

I believed in God and His Works as fervently as anyone, then I enlisted to the Infantry, and served for fifteen years, during which I was witness to much inhumanity.

After that my faith dissipated along with my skills as a organist.

Now, in this space age world I look about at empty churches, Paedophile Priests, mistrust and violence that pervades our societies, I see beheadings paraded on social media for the sick amusement of the hidden few and I stand before a mirror and look upon the wreckage of our lives and our empty streets and I weep for the days of old.

"What are we doing?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, what is this that we have?"

"Umm..."

"Oh, come on. I know that you're not too good with your words, but we need to talk about this."

"Well, we're dating, aren't we?"

"I believe so."

"What's left to discuss then?"

"Well, I mean..."

"What is it?"

"Do you love me?"

"If I said no, I'd be the king of the jungle."

"Huh?"

"I'd be a lion."

'CAUSE I NEED AN INTERVENTIONIST TO INTERVENE BETWEEN ME AND THIS MONSTER TO SAVE ME FROM MYSELF AND ALL THIS CONFLICT, 'CAUSE THE VERY THING THAT I LOVE'S KILLING ME AND I CAN'T CONQUER IT. MY OCD'S CONKING ME IN THE HEAD. KEEP KNOCKING, NOBODY'S HOME, I'M SLEEPWALKING. I'M JUST RELAYING WHAT THE VOICE IN MY HEAD'S SAYING. DON'T SHOOT THE MESSENGER.

I wish I could tell you

a tale of magic

with dragons and broadswords

with bravery and chivalry

but truly I'm a coward

who clipped her own wings

and used her own talon

to undo the seam of her wrist

and carved out this wasteland

of resentment and pain