I made the world blindfolded, 

I held dreams in my hand. 

I made seas left and right

And scattered commands. 

I made doves for peace

And snakes for war

I created and created 

Till my back was sore. 

But something was missing, 

There was no thought

Nothing of intelligence

I had wrought. 

But intelligence is dangerous, 

Said the voice in my head. 

With thoughts come wars, 

And killing and death.

But I was still blindfolded

So I made just one man. 

One man can't bring harm, 

He certainly can't.

But he cried in the night

And was lonely and hurt

So I made him a partner 

A beautiful girl. 

I witnessed a love

So wondrous and clear

That I wanted to hide knowledge

I wanted to hide fear. 

But my humans were eager, 

They ate of the tree. 

They multiplied the Earth 

And made a fool of me. 

They destroyed my nature, 

They cut down my plants

They were blindfolded also

Deaf to my commands. 

I cry in the night, too 

Wishing this was not so

But I created the world 

And I'm watching it go.

Heat has vanished from my house

I'm so cold my speech is giddy

Teeth are shattering

Feels like Freeze City

My breath has become visible

My cold pale skin isn't looking pretty

Having to put on more clothes

Feels like Freeze City

Buried underneath layers of blankets

Cats curling up to me showing pity

Trying my best to feel warm

Feels like Freeze City

     Falling to her knees, Acirema wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth. Many times she had been beaten, and many times she had gotten back up. Servitude seemed her only reality. Desperation settled in, but beneath each heartbeat nestled the sound of hope. King Dlanod laughed. She expected this.

     "My porridge was too cold. How can you expect me to eat it cold?”

Mustering the strength to stand, the young dwarf looked her king in the eyes as she moved to the bowl. In his anger, he had tipped it over. Hurriedly wiping up the mess, she dabbed the blood from her latest slap as she collected the utensils that had fallen around his routine seating arrangement.

     “Perhaps your porridge might taste better if you hadn't banned all the elves from our kingdom, sire? They cooked. We dwarves are miners and smiths, not short order chefs. Don't you remember the feasts you once had?”

     The orange ogre turned and slapped Acirema to the ground again. The wooden bowl flung across the room, skidding along the way. Shaking it off, the dwarf moved one knee at a time until she slowly collected the bowl and spoon she dropped from his attack.

     “You are not my advisor,” he sneered. “I do what must be done for this kingdom in order to provide peace, security and freedom. The elves, gnomes, and fairies got in my way. You're lucky. I loathe your race. But you do as you're told so I keep them around. Look at this nation now. The orcs, ogres, and goblins shall proposer under my intelligence! Everyone else can get in line or be destroyed.”

     Moving to the nearby window, the dwarf servant peered outside. The second sun was rising. Though she could barely make out the faces of those below her, she sensed something in each person making their way about life ... hope. A glimmer resonated through each step taken. And though many of them were headed to work on the great stone wall King Dlanod enforced as a tribute, the unity his reign cemented among the many tribes reassured her all was not lost. 

     Whips cracked. Chains clanked. But the music they produced formed a new beat in her heart; a rhythm in her soul. She called it freedom. Thinking of her former king, Amabo, she knew a leader could be wise and kind. In this moment she thought of her people.

     Looking back at her beastly ruler on her way to the kitchen, Acirema smiled. Things were changing. Perhaps she wouldn't be beaten down forever. Perhaps, if those people felt the same as she did, together they could make a difference. She rounded the corner and entered the chef’s quarter humming the tune of days to come. For now, she had to make the porridge ...

Well, another entirely uneventful week in the world has flown by and brought us blinking blearily at this fresh Friday. That means just one thing. We focus upon a Proser and find out what we can about them. This week we head to Illinois to meet up and question (without torture) a Proser that goes by the name of @JessicaJohnson

P: What is your given name and your Proser username?

JJ: My given name and my Proser username are one and the same: @JessicaJohnson. Rather boring, I suppose.

P: Where do you live?

JJ: I live in rural southern Illinois in a small town surrounded by farming fields, mostly of the corn and bean variety.

P: What is your occupation?

JJ: My occupational title is Medical Laboratory Technician. I work in a hospital lab running various tests on blood and other bodily fluids as ordered by doctors and nurse practitioners.

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?

JJ: My love for writing arose from my middle school days and an English teacher who introduced me to poetry. One of the first poems she had our class read was The Arrow and the Song by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and I remember wanting to write something as beautiful and flowing as I found that poem. This teacher encouraged me to write and experiment with different forms of poetry, and I have been writing on and off ever since. As I moved on to high school and college, writing became a form of catharsis, and my writing moved to darker subject matter. Writing became a coping mechanism and a release. Today, my writing doesn't stay stagnant in one genre, but rather drifts between the darkness and the light.

P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?

JJ: Oh, how I love books. And reading itself is invaluable. Professionally, reading is essential. The medical laboratory field is a constant flux of change with new diagnostic tests and testing methods to keep up to date on. Personally, I have always loved to read. There is nothing quite like getting lost in an authors words and being transported to their world. To quote George R. R. Martin, "A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies...The man who never reads lives only one."

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what we can look forward to in future posts?

JJ: I have always been a recreational writer, writing about whatever inspires me. Mostly, my writes were for my eyes only until I found Prose. I have, however, been working slowly on a project or two with the idea to publish in the future.

P: What do you love about Prose? Prose is great!

JJ: The community here is exceptional. Everyone is so supportive, offering encouraging words and helpful criticism. I've never stumbled upon a writing community as encouraging and as kind as Prose. I also love the massive amounts of talent here. I believe my writing has improved with my time spent here, largely due to the incredible talent that is so free flowing on these pages.

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?

JJ: I could never recommend ONLY ONE book. Of the classics, I would recommend Bram Stoker's Dracula, Robert Louis Stevenson's The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird. I would also recommend everything I have ever read by Edgar Allen Poe. There are many other classics I have read that I enjoy, but these are my favorites. Of the more modern books, I would highly recommend Easy by Tammara Weber (I have read it multiple times) for the strength and message of the story. I would also highly recommend The Inheritance Cycle by Christopher Paolini, a group of 4 epic fantasy novels that weave a captivating tale of elves, dragons, magic, and all kinds of other awesomeness.

P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?

JJ: My grandma helped instill my love for reading. I remember as a kid sitting on her lap and having her read my favorite stories to me over and over again on a very regular basis. 

Also, the above mentioned middle school English teacher would fit this response for her inspiration and encouragement.

P: Describe yourself in three words!

JJ: Contemplative. Quiet. Curious.

P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?

JJ: I can't think of a quote that sums me up, but this is one of my favorite quotes: "We've all been sorry. We've all been hurt. But how we survive is what makes us who we are." -Rise Against

P: What is your favourite music to listen to, and do you write to it?

JJ: I enjoy just about anything in the rock n' roll genre of music, but I love hard rock, alternative rock, and metal. Recently, I have been listening to a lot of Butcher Babies, Bullet For My Valentine, Halestorm, and In This Moment. But I must also mention my longtime love for these excellent bands: System of a Down, Disturbed, Tool, Breaking Benjamin, Slipknot, Audioslave, Rise Against, Marylin Manson, Chevelle, etc. I do have the occasional softer side that enjoys classical music, or perhaps some Taylor Swift or Katy Perry. But, mostly, in the words of Halestorm, "I like it heavy." As for the second part of this question, I don't generally write to music. However, music has many times inspired me to write.

P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?

JJ: Tell me how this happened! I have a time machine, and we are going to amend this atrocity!

P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you/your work/social media accounts?

JJ: The only other social media account I currently have is a facebook page under my name. I don't promote much of my writing there, but you are welcome to friend me if you can find me.

Thanks SOOO much to Jessica for her time. Follow her, engage with her and read her words.

Meanwhile, c’mon guys. We’re running out of Prosers, so if you like this feature then please suggest people, even volunteer yourselves. Plus, if I (@PaulDChambers) has sent you some questions, then please answer them and send ’em back! If you have and have yet to see the fruits of your labour, then chase me on paul@theprose.com

Prose wants you to feature in future Friday Features. Get busy.

Spikes of fight or flight

flash through his mortal

sac of skin and regrets;

dragging screaming ghosts,

a thousand aborted retorts

and words that befell deaf ears.

The same rictus grin grimaces

back, a thousand-fold from the

hall of mirrors in his oily mind,

assuring all that he is fine.

No, really. These bats flutter

around me, but they rarely bite.

The invisible hair comb

that brushes across

armed shrubs

The thin rope of water

that binds to

grey trunks

The red fleshy fish

that turns upwards

for a breath of air

Bogus beast, demons unleashed

dark depths of netherworld explored

deplored, abhorred, waterboard

He rules the realm as he sits at the helm

Beware Americans, hold on for sanity's sake,

kiss the ass of our newly crowned sheik -

pretend you don't know what's at stake.

Not one of us escapes alive to survive,

to strive, to thrive, to connive, to arrive.

Predator King Trump lies as America dies

but he'll never waver in your favor,

slicks his hair to transform, perform, reform

into phantom of urban legends on history page

stands on center stage, traps us in a cage!

History grovels on its knees if you please,

blood shot eyes kick and scream with his dream

as he watches blood being shed, torture he says, okay!

Unwind, rewind, remind of blasphemy of kings,

catastrophe, politics and greed, planting the seed, 

flailing nations's needs at full speed as we plead.

Curse the stench, breathe fresh air but don't despair

as American souls are sold in cold moves so bold

for fame and wealth and hidden stealth.

Don't interrupt with profane streams of dreams

clean your side of the street, he demeans.

Lullaby of death to humanity plays

as bricks are layered on wall, that's all.

Pacing man, stirring frenzy in air, doesn't care,

cut's off health care except for himself,

stays privileged on his own gilded shelf.

Cavalierly gives go ahead on pipeline

the Hell with Indian spirits so fine.

No funds for planned parenthood

forget birth control, have babies, babies, babies

but don't fund their cost, forget the loss.

Don't let anyone into our fair country

unless they think and look like Trump

a red-haired jackal of all trades, but

master of none, not even one!

Tax, tax, tax the middle class

Trump doesn't pay taxes at all

It's not fair but what does he care?

Trumpty Dumpty sits astride his wall

The bigger he is, the harder he'll fall!

But who will save America after all?

   In times of old, the ruler was king by birth alone. Now, we pride ourselves on our democracy- but can an election produce a tyrant? 

   This man (and now we pause to note the gender; another man rules, a woman was left behind) follows in the footsteps of a thousand killers before him. He says he will build a wall- he even calls it Great- like the Chinese did so long before, back when that tactic could still work. But he does not mean to keep out Mongols, or any army at all: no, this wall is to hold back the victims, to keep poverty away from our clean American soil. 

   But there is a place where even he knows a wall won't work. An airplane can fly over any wall. And so he writes a decree. An Executive Action. Execute. Kill. No more immigrants from here or here or here, he declares, without any real reason. Because he doesn't need reasons anymore. We are post-truth. This tyrannical king had dragged us into a world of alternative facts, where climate change isn't real because he says so, where statistics that disagree with him are lies. The realms he threatens are vast. The most obvious realm, that of these United States, will be affected, yes. But we have handed the world's biggest economy to an idiot, and that will ripple all across the entire world. And still the camera pans out, to the planets that NASA could explore, if its funding was not cut. And even then, the camera pans out, beyond the planets, to the logic and science behind them. The logic that he and his followers ignore, the science they despise. I pray to a god I don't think exists, I pray to an abstraction, that Trump is not the first of many. Because if this trend continues, if from here on out the Truth has no power in discourse, we are doomed. I hope that this is not the beginning of a story. Let us hope that this is but a blip on the path of history- a brief four years when, after looking at the glow the Enlightenment had given us for centuries, we squeezed our eyes shut. 

   I hope this isn't the beginning. But I fear it is. 

The people knelt silently with their heads bowed. A cough rang out from somewhere in their ranks, and as one, they tensed. Knees and shoulders ached, but not one of them dared to move. 

Finally, from above them, a voice rang out. 

"People of Trajim, I have gathered you here today to deliver tragic news. Scouts have told me that the people of Ahalis, people who we once called our allies, are preparing to strike against us. We must rally a defense. However, due to our recent disputes over borders, our forces are dwindled. It is time for all of our able-bodied men to step up, to defend their homes. Rise now as soldiers and defend your families!"

When no one moved, the king whistled sharply. Armored men stormed through the rows of kneeling people. All men, aside from the children and the elderly, were hauled away from the rest. Those left alone remained quiet; at least, until a boy barely of age was lifted to his feet. The woman beside him, his mother, grasped for him, but a soldier smacked her hand away. A low, wordless wail escaped the boy as he struggled to return to her side. "Please!" she shrieked, breaking the silence. "His mind is touched. Without a caretaker he can hardly survive. If he were to fight, he would surely be killed!" 

"And his life will save many others," the king boomed. 

"Will it?" the woman retorted. "I have friends in Ahalis, and from what they say it was you who began the war. A patrol of Ahalian soldiers was found slaughtered on our land." 

A shocked gasp echoed through the crowd. 

"You know as well as any of us that Ahalis will win this war. They have allies, while you have nothing but enemies. And yet still, instead of admitting your wrongs and trying to make peace, you will force innocent people to lay down their lives for you. Such a yellow-bellied king we have. " 

His face red with anger, the king shouted, "Those are treacherous words, woman! You will be hanged for your insolence." 

"So be it. A mother should always outlive her son, even if only by a short while."

The boy wailed again as the guards closed in around his mother. The soldiers holding him forced him to the ground as he tried to rush to her side. 

"Hang me if you wish. Still our enemies will hear of this day, of your actions, and they will know you for the snivelling weakling you are." 

"Silence!" 

"Never. Even when I am quiet, others will not be. You will hear these words every time you turn around until you finally accept them as truth, you snake! Tyrant! Coward!" 

"Guards! Silence this woman or I will have you all hanged alongside her!" 

There was the sound of metal against metal, and then a sword flashed in the sunlight. The woman's mouth was frozen in an angry scream as her head rolled on the ground, leaving a trail of crimson. 

The boy's struggles renewed as he watched his mother's body fall lifelessly. A continuous wail came out of his mouth, growing increasingly louder as time passed. 

"See what rebellion will do?" the king asked, shouting to be heard over the boy's roar. "I am your king, and you will obey. We will fight this war. We will win. however, if you rise against me, you will not live long enough to see our victory." 

The king's crown glinted as he turned and strode back into his palace. His men continued to move through the crowd, bringing forward all of those who were able to fight. Each man who was dragged away wore sorrow plainly on their faces. They knew they were being forced to march into a losing battle: they would never see their families again. 

The people of Trajim let their despair be known to the sky, with the wailing boy as their voice. 

I thought at first, "of course! good looks" Then I thought some more...

My son has moon shaped eyes.  It is called Downs. He's an idiot. But I love him. He has taught me to teach. He has taught me patience. He has reached out and told me how much he loves me. He's a pain in the ass and my best friend.  I'll do anything for him.