(a collaborative Prose tale, created as three simultaneous round robins)

by @MeeJong, @dustygee123, & @ChrisSadhill

The Beginning

It all started so innocuously.

Until you brought up the story about my Aunt Hilda.

That’s when it all went south.

I sought to steer the conversation in a new direction.

"So, what do you want for dinner?"

“I never planned for that, all I have are these Oreos,” she said.

“Dinner, first!” the parent in me blurted.

That pistol in my waistband was whispering my name.

After a moment I concluded I’d be better off waiting for that.

“I’ll go grab a pizza from that spot you like, then we’ll dig into the Oreos for dessert.”

I knew if I didn't step out the door, I was going to do something I couldn't take back.

So I walked out to order an Uber Eats and clear my devilish mind.

The devil was in full force tonight though, and the fresh air only brought fresh madness.

It was time to call that bastard in North Korea.

It was time to do what was promised.

Having made that decision, I came back inside and decided it was Oreo time.

The Middle

When I opened up the Oreo, it just didn't look right.

I licked it anyways.

I began to suspect you had tampered with it, but I had to be sure.

I knew right away when my tongue began to burn that I was about to go on a trip.

I wasn’t sure how long it would take, so I needed to get to a safe space.

I made the mistake of calling my Aunt Hilda.

I listened to her ramble on about the Korean War or something until it hit.

I was hearing the air distort around my ears and seeing particles of dust grow and then shrink again when the doorbell rang.

"Uber Eats!" I heard a young man say from the porch.

Who knew they delivered to the White House?

“Wrong house,” I growled in the direction of the door.

Where was a Chief of Staff when you needed one?

Hell, where is the White House Physician when you need him?

I opened the door to find myself face to face with the muzzle of a Colt .45.

I turned, grabbing the bourbon sitting on the side table, downing it, then throwing the glass into the face of the fake Uber driver, before grabbing the gun from my waistband.

The Ending

If I knew this was my fate, I would have planned better.

Perhaps I would have foregone that third bourbon.

Or at least left the pistol in the car.

Now I have to decide which one of my aunts I want to live, and which one will die.

No one expects to have a Sophie’s Choice moment on a Saturday night.

But then no one expected a broken businessman with a terrible toupee and a misogynistic demeanor to win the Presidency either.

Fuck it, I might as well pass the package around.

I downed a fourth bourbon and prayed that was the decision I would regret in the morning.

The Oreos I had for lunch seemed like they would at least be the second regrettable decision.

I felt around my waistband to prepare for the heat I was about to deliver.

I wished for the hundredth time Aunt Greta hadn’t come over.

"Greta," I said, "did I tell you about what happened to Hilda?"

“What do you mean?” she tilted her head with curiosity.

“She got in some trouble with the Mafia, and owes them serious money.”

"Shit. Order us a pizza, and you can tell me all about it."

I look down at my phone to pull up the app to order for the second time today.

“Ok, I am not really that Hungry, but what toppings would you like?”

I didn’t hear a response for a few moments.

Drawing my attention away from the phone, there was Greta pointing her compact pearl-gripped berretta straight at me.

This was a seriously bad trip.

“I want Pepperoni with a side of your head, extra cheese!” She smirked as she delivered a chunk of metal to my chest.

<end>

But I need to get it out.

2023-05-15 A Letter I Will Never Send My Children

Dear Abacus and Samurai:

Ab, you will be 20 this year. Sami, you are 18. I am so sad and disappointed in how Mother’s Day culminated. I hear you saying that it’s all my fault, and I’ve lost your trust and desire to engage in meaningful discourse. And that for the sake of what values your father has taught you, you only continue to engage me out of obligation but no desire for a relationship past the surface. You don’t value my counsel or presence beyond this farce of filial duty. You will show up as required and allow my presence only if I refrain from trying to peel that delicate top layer and stop trying to heal what has been damaged.

Abacus your rage is a scary combination of your father’s and mine. I hope you age out of it like we did. Verbal discourse was never my forte. I’m sure that’s the biggest reason I am still alone after all these years. Well, maybe not, I have plenty of flaws from which to choose.

It’s an impossible feat though, to move forward when everyone is so unwilling to hear me. If you had any idea what it’s been like to be a single mom these past 15 years, with little to no support except my friends. The things I have gone through and done to protect you, I hope you never know.

I try to explain things, to offer you my perspective, and you tell me I am being defensive. You see a tear or hear the shake of my voice because of the depth of the love I have for you, and the sadness I feel about the way things have turned out, and it’s another brick in the fortress you feel you need to build to shield yourself from my emotions. I cry and I’m being manipulative.

I get angry because you tell your father about what happened and he calls me and tells me not to speak, just to listen to him, that I have nothing of value to say and just have to hear him play “knight in shining armor” to you - to rescue you from my emotions - my hurt, pain, and sadness. And I am playing “the victim card”.

After struggling for 13 years as a single mom, you bring another child into my home. Well, a young adult. Unquestioningly, I take her in. So now, I have four children, except one isn’t actually mine, so I honestly don’t know what to do when there is a conflict there. I’m not her mother. She doesn’t pay rent so I’m not her roommate. And these are exactly the kinds of situations I find so difficult.

Yet I am judged and blamed for not treating her as one of my own. Although based on what you’re telling me, she’s lucky, huh?

I suffer from chronic overextension of my finances, aka poverty, except I never tell you how often I didn’t eat so you could. I never tell you how dire things get trying to keep all the bills paid, because there is enough stress in your lives, and you are my children and I want to protect you. I suffer from seasonal depression, but I don’t want to weigh you down with another worry, so never mention how hard it is for me to get to the other side of each winter alive.

But I’m afraid the thing I protected you from was understanding. From learning empathy. If you had any idea how many times I have almost died, but kept going one more second at a time by thinking of you. And how much it hurts to then be rejected and berated and pummeled over the head with my very human missteps and mistakes. But if I try to say, “My life was hard” I’m guilt-tripping you.

I have given you EVERYTHING I could. I have sacrificed pieces of my soul for you. But I never want you to truly understand. I just want you to love me 1/10th of how much I love you. That’s it.

Love always,

Mom

2023-05-15 The Letters I Will Send My Children

Dear Abacus and Samurai:

I am sorry. I did not realize Abacus was so upset about that exchange.

I hope we can still do our little camping trip with the family this summer, including Kim.

I will not speak of anything which may upset anyone.

Love always,

Mom

Dear Kim:

I am sorry you felt unwelcome in our home. I am a pretty awkward human, and I clearly have not entirely figured out how to adult.

I hope you can forgive my missteps and we can move forward in love.

I never meant to make you feel excluded. Please understand it’s a relic of relationships of my era. It’s clearly a dated practice, but there was an understanding that addressing one half of the couple included both halves automatically. That is the only reason I didn’t think to include you specifically on invites and such.

You are always welcome in my home.

Love,

Mee

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

Happy Mom Day!!!! Our new Challenge of the Week is up and active, and here's the link. This should be some good reading... https://theprose.com/challenge/14006

On the channel today, we announce the CotW, formally, and feature a piece by the beautiful brain of Beccawaits and one from the illustrious Bunny Villaire.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ij-JFI9p_to

And.

As always.

-Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

It is with deep gratitude I write to acknowledge all you have done for me this winter. I know I am not amongst the most prolific, well-spoken or intelligent in the group. I know I don’t read or write as much as others (especially lately). I know I have been largely slacking on my likes, follows and reposts, which makes me feel bad on Discord as I see I am missing some really great content. I know it has been such a long time since I have participated in a challenge and I missed so many great ones, both reading and writing them.

Yet this platform has been like an invisible hand holding mine through my seasonal depression. Each time I venture to share my heartspeak I receive nothing but positivity, love, encouragement and understanding.

This winter was the worst in a long time. I abandoned nearly all of my positive habits which have been my stabilizers over the years. This resulted in me shedding all the tears my dehydrated self (so much bourbon) could muster. Each morning I spent 2-3 hours lying in bed convincing myself to stay alive first. Get out of bed second. And so on and so forth until I found myself washed (most of the time), dressed (all of the time thankfully), and at my desk at work, where suddenly I fit again.

If it weren’t for @fudo, @ledlevee and @putski, I may have not written or socialized the entire winter. If it weren’t for The Prose, I might not have made it through alive.

So if you ever wonder if you make a difference in the world, know that if you read, liked, reposted, followed and especially commented on one of my sporadic posts this winter, you helped save a life. I can’t tag all of you for fear of missing someone and creating a hurt where I am only trying to pay back love, but if you are reading this, I am definitely speaking to you.

And of course my indebtedness to @jeffstewart and @A and @mamba and the other Prose ideators and administrators, known and unknown to me, knows no bounds.

I feel renewed this morning, woke up wanting to enjoy living instead of convincing myself to stay alive, so I know the depression has passed until late fall. And the very first thing I had to do, was say thank you to y’all.

Heartfully,

Mee Jong

I never would have met you

Well, three of you anyway

But here we are writing

My Saturday night away

And I feel better

It's so much nicer

Than working through the night

Or pretending I care about what's on tv

So thank you

For joining

And helping me be

A better

Version

Of Mee

Well, it's a little stabby in the chest area. About a 7.5 right now.

In my ankle - that's a shooting, constant ache. A solid 8.

In my knee it's simultaneously subsiding and being exacerbated. The skin wound is a 4 now but the possible internal damage is at a 5.5, increasing to a 6 when I go up the stairs. Or down.

In my brain it's fiery and just...pressure...so much pressure. If my brain implodes, I really hope someone gets it on camera. It would be so epic, really. But I'm writing so...the pain is subsiding. Such an amazing thing...these words pour out like tears and the relief comes in a wave and probably this is how I learned to type without looking at the keys because hardly can I see through all these tears...

And just like that, my brain is at a 1. With my brain at a 1, the rest of my pain all goes down at least one point. Funny how that works too. But right now, I will ponder nothing more. I will just enjoy the break from the pain.

How does yours rate?

It hurts because I have no right to pain, in a world where others suffer so much more than I do.

It hurts because I don't want to remember, but am told I have to do exactly that in order to move forward in a healthy way.

It hurts because the longer I allow myself to suffer, the less my children can be around me to watch my life happen. My children are the only reason I am alive, know how to love, or have any patience.

It hurts because at its worst, I want to slam my fist into my reflection and use the shards of glass to fashion a new face, one that matches the terror I feel when I look at myself.

It hurts because my childhood friends are becoming afflicted by illnesses over which they have no control and have adversely changed, and probably will shorten, their lives. My illness is mental, and therefore, I should be able to control it, right? Yet every day I make the choice to suffer instead of get better. While my friends don't even have that choice to make. That one is really destroying me right now.

It hurts because I want so much to want to get better.

But I don't.