DISCLAIMER: I might seem weak, broken, down and out. But I’m resting, rebuilding my strength, gaining back my stamina, and I’ll come back like a Phoenix on fire, stronger than ever before. I’ve defeated depression, addiction, PTSD, many an unwitting bar patron who had the misfortune to insult someone I care about, I’ve defeated heartache and loneliness, rejection after rejection, the pain that keeps you up at night crying and howling at the bleeding moon. I’ve conquered joblessness and hopelessness, gods and demons, weight loss, running, karate, Crohn’s disease, liver disease, bipolar disorder. I’m a legitimate super hero. I’ve beaten it all. I’ve beaten bullies and low self esteem, deaths of loved ones, alcoholism and the pain of not fitting in. They’re all just new notches on my bedpost, scars on my Killmonger chest. I’ll beat divorce too. I’ll come out roaring like a lion breaking out of its cage. So don’t think a little setback will knock me down forever. I’ll just come back stronger and better. Persistence is my middle name. I don’t know how to give up. There won’t be any breaking me. There won’t be any destroying me. There won’t be any stopping me. And one day, when things get really really hard, I might be the one helping you, pushing you along, carrying you if I have to. Whatever it takes. So this is my disclaimer: never, ever underestimate me.

And here I am again

with my mirror image

in female form.

I can’t tell her

how everything she does,

everything she says,

writes, thinks, feels

confirms that she’s the one for me,

that our pasts are linked like chains

running through the haze of time,

that when I’m with her,

all of the wrong in my life

feels right.

All the pain and stacked up sorrow,

heartbreak, addiction, suffering;

it all fades into the shining moment of now.

I can’t tell her

how I want her to stop wasting time

with guys who are no good for her

and start being with the one man

who would do anything in his power,

give up anything

to try to make himself perfect

for her.

Who would drive any distance,

climb any mountain,

run any marathon

to be closer to her.

I can’t tell her that.

So I’ll just smile and say hi,

share a firm hug,

and call her friend,

wearing the most painful mask

I’ve ever had to wear,

hoping it’ll hide the tears.

I always fall

for women who don’t want me

like a dog chasing cars,

a child chasing shadows.

I write my love poems

for muses and angels,

nonexistent beings,

glass dreams that shatter

when a strong wind comes,

so I need to forget false hope,

learn to be alone,

place my love in my children,

try to build a house

with a concrete foundation,

and though I may never find happiness

in the glow of another’s eyes,

in the comfort of another’s touch,

maybe I can at least be content.

Maybe the storms will end.

My life

is a war zone,

a graveyard,

a lagoon of rusting shipwrecks,

and the largest is me,

a monument to disaster,

a concrete tanker

that never quite set to sea.

And all you see

is the part still above water;

you don’t know how

to swim out

to explore the rest.

And it looks beautiful

in the sunset

that colors the water

orange, yellow, pink;

you can’t even tell

it’s dead.

A female fox. Fem Fatale.

Back in the day I was quite a looker, unfortunately. A girl has to be quick witted and aloof in the world of men.

As I got older I acquired certain skills, foxes can be quite charming and charismatic when dealing with certain individuals. How else do you think we slip in and out of situations so easily?

Actually, the fox is my spirit guide, and probably the reason Death and I are friends. In Native American mythology, the fox was the escort for souls to the other side.

I have been dead 3 times and ever since, I have had foxes cross my path.

I would see them everywhere, so I decided to spell it differently and that’s how I came by the name.

Pronounced Vixen. Or Vicksen.

Ash2ash dust to dust. I remind myself to stay humble. We all have a story to tell.

Ash2ash is me to me. I am here for the purpose of challenging myself. I want to learn and create in an environment that promotes self-expression and provides constructive feedback.

Ash2ash because for once in my life I am living for me. I chose to stay when so many times I wanted to leave.

Writing has been an outlet that allows me to take all the angry words in my mind and put them somewhere else. Creating relatable content that others might find comfort in and in turn teach me I am not as alone as I once thought.

Detective Jack Bryson wiped the unholy mixture from his grizzled face. He should have washed out the last of the gin. Or the whiskey. Hell, he should have rinsed the damn thing out when he finished that fifth of vodka. Didn't matter. It all worked the same. Booze was hard to find in his neck of the woods, anyway. He'd take what he could get.

Waste not, want not. Evidence locker wouldn't miss it. Not as much as the Fifth Street Stingers would.

Bryson tossed the flask into his glove compartment and fished out a vial of eyedrops and travel sized mouthwash from his coat pocket. He took a swig of the mouthwash and swished it in his mouth as he leaned back and held each eye open for the stinging drops. This was his least favorite part of getting ready for work. The detective pushed open the door of the county-issued 2029 Camry and spat wintergreen onto the cracked sidewalk. He stepped out of the car, brushed off his trench coat and walked up the stairs to the crime scene.

Jack was stopped in his tracks by a fresh-faced police officer. The officer slid into Bryson's path and spoke in a booming voice. "Sorry sir, this is a crime scene. I'm gonna need to see some identification."

"Identification? Alright then, young blood. Scan me. Since you're so eager."

The young man held up a small device. A bright blue light shone across the detective's face.

The bass in the officer's voice lightened. "Detective Bryson. Sorry. Didn't recognize you." The young officer looked down at the flat screen of the handheld device. "Hey, you're an ENTJ? So am I! Oh, nice. My dad's a Capricorn, just like you." The officer leaned in, inches from Bryson's unshaven face. "And don't worry sir. I won't tell anyone about your intox levels."

"What's your name, son?"

"Disher, sir."

"Well, Disher. Why don't we meet up for dinner? Bring your dad. Maybe we can all talk about my hernia. Or the fact that I haven't been able to get it up in three years. Your old man know anything about all that? Sure you saw it all right there on your Scryer."

Disher grimaced, gave a nod of quiet acknowledgement and stepped aside to let the detective through the doorway of the luxury apartment building. Upon entry, Bryson was greeted by a shapely frame and a painfully familiar set of perfectly waxed legs that met the ground with a pair of block heel pumps.

"Angie. What a pleasure."

"Jack. Wish I could say the same." Her coy smirk fell into a slight frown. "You look like hell."

"That mean you think I'm hot?" Bryson said, offering up his best attempt at a seductive smile.

Angie rolled her eyes and lowered her voice. "I'm saying it's 10:30 in the morning and if you're not careful, you'll get suspended again. Or worse. Keep your hands out of the cookie jar, yeah? Teager's been looking the other way for a while. He won't take pity on you much longer." She nudged her head toward a cracked door on the left side of the hallway. "Body's in here."

Detective Bryson followed Angie's clacking steps through the door of Apartment 26. The two stepped through an entryway into minimalist, stark white apartment. Slumped in a cream colored armchair was the body of a slender, unimpressive man with a receding hairline and pale, icy skin.

"The deceased is Charles Carden, aged thirty-seven. Works in a cubicle down at SocraTech. Virgo. ISTJ. No signs of forced entry. "

"Cubicle worker? At Socra? You sure this wasn't a suicide? I heard Socratino runs his people pretty hard. Even the janitors have an engineering degree."

"Blood scans came back completely clear. No markings on the body whatsoever. He's got no records. No health issues. Cause of death is unclear."

Detective Bryson lifted his gaze from the corpse to take a look around the apartment. "Pretty nice place for a cubicle rat. Even at a place like SocraTech. What's his income?"

Angie pulled a small device-the same as Disher's- from the pocket of her blazer.

"Pocket Scry says...about $30,000 a year. Roughly $2500 a month." Her brow furrowed as she examined the apartment with perspective renewed. "Place like this has to cost twice that. No reports of side work, but the records say he's been here three years."

"You check the mounted Scryers in the hallway?"

"First thing we did. Nothing."

"Nothing? Last night was the anniversary of the Bergen Protests. Even the Stingers go out to celebrate. Whole building full of buzzkills?"

"Jack. There's another reason I've called you."

"Let me guess. Your lingering desire for an old flame has become too much to bear and you hunger for his midnight embrace?"

"Jesus, Jack. Can you be serious for a moment?"

"Who said I was kidding?"

Angie lips pursed and her nostrils flared in unison. "Jack. This is the fourth body we've found like this. This month. No discernable cause of death. No evidence. No witnesses. All worked for tech companies, and apparently, all were living well outside their recorded means. Any Scryers nearby were either damaged or their histories were clean at the time of death. Teager called me this morning. I told him you were the best fit for the case. Took some convincing, but he obliged."

Jack's face tensed. "The press know about this yet?"

"No. We are trying very hard to keep this quiet."

Jack looked around the apartment for a second time. He left Angie's side and walked slowly through the spacious flat. He walked into the kitchen and opened the cabinets. Disappointed, he turned his attention to the fridge and swung open the magnetic door.

Angie poked her head around the doorway to the kitchen. "What do you hope to find in there?"

"Breakfast." His response was met with a haughty sigh. Jack closed the fridge, irritated by Carden's poor taste in groceries. As Bryson turned to leave the kitchen, a flash of blue caught his eye. A single sticky note, haphazardly stuck to the wall called out for the detective's attention. Hastily scrawled on the turquoise paper were the words:

ORACLE

2:30

JAMES + 6TH

"Hey, Ang. You know anything about this?" Angie's eyes scanned over the sticky note and she pulled out her Scryer once more.

"No. Nothing like this at the other victims' apartments...James and 6th. That's in the heart of the North End. About two blocks from Tech Row. Scryer says it's a café."

"You been by Charles' cubicle yet?"

"That was the next stop. You think someone at SocraTech knows something?"

"I'm more interested in who's gonna pretend not to know something. Let's stop by the café first."

"Got a hunch?"

"No. I'm hungry."

Truth: the body of real things, events and facts; that which is true or in accordance with fact or reality; a judgement, proposition, idea or belief that is accepted as true.

“We see the world not as it is, but as we are – or as we are conditioned to see it. When we open our mouths to describe what we see, we in effect describe ourselves, our perceptions, our paradigms.” (Stephen R. Covey, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People)

That is, regardless of the visible “facts” of any given situation, we see what we expect to see, based on our perceptions of reality.

There are some 7.8 billion people walking the earth at this moment. Put any two together, have them witness the same scene, and, even assuming they speak the same native language (there are about 6500), chances are they will describe it differently. Highlight different aspects, completely ignore or be unaware of others. Even though the visible facts seem self-evident. I mean, you’re looking at the same scene, how much more self-evident can one get?

If we cannot agree on what is “self-evident” to the eye, how can we hope to agree on that which is evident only to the mind or the heart and must be expressed with words that are filtered by the sum total of our divergent experiences?

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.

Lovely sentiment that, at the time it was written, was much more limited in scope and application than the all-encompassing words imply. And the country whose shackles begat the defense of said truths…disagreed. As did most if not all the world’s governing powers in their own spheres of socioeconomic inequality. And even many of the peoples who would be subject to the new and improved government to which this declaration sought to give rise did not agree with the very broad and beautiful words that were only words and not truths self-evident to any, quite possibly not even the writers. They sound wonderful. Worthy. I mean, who wouldn’t fight to ensure that ALL MEN had the right to LIVE FREE and with the opportunity to seek happiness? (The other side, apparently.)

The Golden Rule has versions across the world’s major religions so one might consider it self-evident. It is, to paraphrase, treat others as you would wish to be treated. Looking around, though, you would think the actual rule is treat others as you anticipate you will be treated, where one is always anticipating the worst.

Truths, like beliefs and ideas, cannot be seen, so the path to “self-evident” is even murkier than agreeing on what we can actually see with our eyes. Ultimately, we make a choice to believe, to accept ideas and truths…or not. And, far too often, even if we profess certain beliefs, and support generally accepted truths, actions belie our words.

A choice.

The only self-evident truths that we have no choice but to accept as true? We are born and we will die. Everything else, as we see on a daily basis, is subjective. Relative. Debatable. Based on so many things that are not self-evident.

Truths today, but maybe not tomorrow.

She thinks herself of average wit

though none can match the rhymes she’s writ

the words she’s birthed to fill a blank

when standard words were rank and stank

the twists and flips of clever lines

inviting even doltish minds

to tumble down the rabbit hole

and swallow bits of logic whole

or gibberty garbledygook

that makes us laugh and throws a hook

that keeps us riveted reading

following where she is leading

teaching while tickling funny bones

conveyed by feathers never stones

always tries to understand

opposing views are never banned

welcomed, digested, dissected

dissent perhaps but respected

never churlish forever kind

no aspiring writers maligned

a pleasure at any hour

the poems of EstherFlower.

I came to Prose to write.

I stay for

the community

I have found,

dare I say,

the friends,

for the writers

who move me

to laughter

and tears,

who inspire me,

make me think,

and feel,

who,

through their

words,

their characters,

the worlds

they imagine

and the

world they inhabit,

let me

SEE them.

I stay

to bear witness

to the tales woven by

gifted storytellers

like

@Huckleberry_Hoo,

@rlove327

and

@SamWebster

whose every next

story

I await with bated breath;

to wordsmiths like

@Mazzmyrrheyes

whose masterpieces

of lyrical poetry

should be mandatory reading,

her work is a treasure,

with every poem

a gem;

I am thankful to have

the ever witty poetry of

@EstherFlowers1

to keep me laughing

or crying

always thinking;

so too,

the rhythmic rhyming

of @fudo who

also tells a great story

(but keeps deleting them);

I stay for the stories

essays

poems

of @BonnieBoo,

@TW, and @finder,

the gutwrenching

pieces

of @undermeyou;

@anarosewoood and

@sandflea68's

poetic flair;

for

@WhiteWolfe32,

a talented storyteller

whose poetry

makes me bleed,

and the prolific

and kind

@Mnezz.

And for

all those

I haven't named

but who have

enriched my life

by sharing

a little of

themselves

here....

It was a

very lucky day

the day

I found

Prose.