Goodbye ’22
oh you stupid, stupid year. i don't hate you like '20 or '16 .no...i hate other years more than you. MUCH more than you...it's not the crap you pulled for attention, the awful shows of gross inequity.
no. i think now, as your time is ticking down, that you are and always were, a wannabe. you had so much you wanted done, to show the world what a badass you were. but look, you stupid, stupid cow, every thing you did was just copycatting the bigger years. wars you gave us, but stupid ones. the kind that brought us suffering, but its just an immitation. you try to make a plague come back, but it's just pathetic. you had so much effort in doing bad, but it was so tedious and mediocre.
let's face it, the only original thing you could do with everything youbhad going for you, with all the time you had, is to get Will Smith to slap Chris Rock at the Oscars. god... just pathetic!!
the truth is, that i pity you. instead of doing bad, unoriginal things like land invasions in the Ukraine and a covid wave and stupid, awful soccer, you could have done something GOOD!
could you have us come up with a solution to golbal warming? no.
or the much awaited for NEW flavor of soda? (i mean something that is actually new in taste and just new ingredients that taste different and shitty!). again, no!
maybe something funny? no.
maybe something heartwarming for a fucking change?...don't make me laugh..
no.big word for you, 22.
the thing is, you were a petty, low kind of a year. people will never look at you fondly, or with terror. no one will remember the stupid secret documents in trumpland, or the fuel leak on the rocket, or the shelling of a nuclear reactor. no. it's just too stupid to think about.
now, i know what your thinking; "i still have a few more days!" right? you read this and you think you could pull off a massive catastrophe.that would put you on the map of evil years. but remember this; everything you do now, will be confused as something that happned in 2023! people dont remember stuff well.
the ONLY way that you could make a dent on the pretty grary, awfulness that will be our memory of you, is by doing something remarkably good! i can't imagine what. it needs to be BIGGGG! something that gives us all a big laugh, something we will remeber with a smile and a longing tear in our eye, as we brace for the really badass shitty years.
so take this not as an obit, but rather as a last-chance call. common, give us a good show. something.that will give '23 cold feet coming after you.
good luck, though, you're going to need it.
Red
You pour the sun, the
rain, the land itself into
a glass, wring the last
red drop, too precious
to fall aside. Hands toiled
for this moment,
migrant hands for
pennies to the pound,
deft and rapid and
sweating with the work so
the vintner can mash and
measure and blend the barrels
so they taste just so, age
just so, at 55 degrees
for a decade or more behind
the cork you pop to release
the planting, the harvest,
the past to your glass:
sip slow.
The Next Chapter
Greetings fellow readers and writers. It’s been some time since we last updated Prose. Today we’re excited to provide a peek behind the curtains and give you a glimpse of what we’ve been working on.
Over the years, as we’ve added features and functionality to Prose, the app and its codebase have become increasingly unwieldy. As such, we decided to reimagine and rebuild Prose from the ground up. It’s still the same site you know and love, insofar as a Toyota Camry is just as much a car as a Porsche 911.
We’ll have more exciting announcements in the weeks to come; but for now we hope you’ll give the new site a test drive and let us know what you think. You will find the next chapter at beta.theprose.com and we encourage you to share your thoughts at info@theprose.com.
genderfluid but i hate being feminine / nonbinary but i love the way masculine looks on me
Light slips through the blinds, slivers of gold illuminating the room. Chains engraved with dates and memories bind him to his bed, eyes open because there are less flattering things to reminisce about when they're closed.
(Remember that one time four years ago?)
Groggy composure contorts into a grimace. He groans, wiping a sluggish hand over his face at an attempt to clean the memory from his conscious. It does nothing more than cover his vision with temporary darkness, and the memory resurfaces, a hot mess of familiar faces and an embarrassing past self.
Long hair and a terrible fashion sense. Graphic tees and camo pants.
He's found a better style.
(Though, anything could be considered better than the graphic-tee-and-camo-pants combination. Even his birthday suit, because at least he loves his body more than he did all those years ago. He likes to think that it shows with how he carries himself. And the fact that he actually has some meat on his bones, now.)
He shifts, thinking that the smaller movements might give him the energy to actually wake up. His weighted blanket covers his waist, but not his chest, and after an eternity of about two minutes (in disassociation time), he realizes that it's fucking freezing, and lifts a (not actually) fifty pound arm to pull the blanket up to cover him in a coccoon of what he wished was an actual person. Or maybe a cat.
(But oh, the voice he's beaten back with a stick starts to mock, you know who you wish was here with you, cuddling and warm in this cold room of yours—)
Another eternity of cringing, flinching away at awkward interactions with her, because who the Hell knows how to act around attractive women? His face burns, but at least the blush warms his body in his room, frigid from winter and a fan left on for gray noise.
The fan. He focuses on it, the noise of the three blades working in perfect mechanical synchrony to pull him back into the lazy river of a thoughtless mind, streams of words that lead to a void that he will never truly recall when he returns from his place in space. An empty canvas painted with invisible ink, and—
And thud goes something outside his bedroom door, and his soul falls back to his bed.
(How poetic.)
The birds sing outside his window, and he lifts his head to watch dust trickle in the sunlight, the occassional shadow of a sparrow greeting him.
South-facing windows were a terrible creation, he thinks absent-mindedly, eyes half-glaring at the sun and its position directly in front of his comfortable bed. Extra pillows piled up in front of the side closest to the window, so when he was completely horizontal, he would (usually) be perfectly hidden from the blinding rays.
Nothing more painful than a south-facing window.
Nothing—
—a quiet puff of laughter, not humorous but awkward, confused; eyes flicker everywhere around the room and you are oblivious, blind because of infatuation, because a confession could never be rejected, not by you—
—alright, maybe there were things.
Guilt grabs and twists his gut into a nauseous concoction, because he was an asshole when he was younger. Being raised by a narcissist does that to someone, but it's not like he isn't an asshole now. It's just different— he's a bitch because he doesn't let people push him around.
He's a bitch because he speaks his mind, and since he's AFAB* (he wished it meant A Fabulous, Arrogant Bastard), people like him aren't supposed to speak their mind. But he does it anyway, even if the repercussions make him add another terrible memory to cringe about late at night when he's trying to sleep.
(Who needs sleep?)
After all, that's what coffee's for.
Coffee. What time is it? The thought repeats, echoesechoesechoes until he finally has the energy to push himself up. Slow, perhaps to delay the inevitable for a few seconds longer. He grabs a sweater, sweatpants, slips them on.
Feels like that's used up all of the energy he has, and he blinks slowly. Moves like a sloth, because don't they move slow to save energy? But he curses at himself, because dumbass, you're not a sloth.
Manages to (finally) get out of bed, finds his phone. Looks at the time.
Then he hauls ass back under the covers, because the inevitable can be delayed for a little while longer.
_
*AFAB = Assigned Female At Birth.
Yes I'm questioning my identity. No I don't care about pronouns, this just always happens when I'm PMS-ing and I felt like writing it out. Yes this is about me.
You may impeach me for this...
...but I had to make some bad jokes for the occasion.
...
Being first is not always the best. I mean, can you imagine having as many impeachments as you do ex wives? And just like the ex-wives once did, the majority of the country is longing for a divorce.
Hey, at least we figured it out faster than they did! (Hey, we don't get those hefty divorce stimulus checks?)
Ivana commented to People magazine on the presidential loss, saying, "I just want this whole thing to be over." Later, reporters debated whether or not that was the first time she's made that sort of remark about her ex-husband.
On January 16, 2020, U.S. president Donald J. Trump was impeached for the first time, for abuse of power and obstruction of justice. However, Trump continues to prove that one of anything is never enough for him. On January 13th of this year, just three days until the one year anniversary of his first...it happened again. This time it was as consequence to Trump egging on the domestic terrorists at the Capitol the week prior. His remarks, reminiscent of an over enthusiastic soccer parent's, told rioters that he loved them, and they were very special. The definition of "special" in this statement was never clarified, but it smelled like snowflakes, shiny pickup truck exhaust, and that one CVS in your area where nobody wears a mask.
I wonder if Melania's jealous--after all, that's one heck of a vow renewal.
I wonder if the kids are jealous--after all, their dad didn't care nearly as much during their custody battles!
you liked the color chartreuse
really, you liked the word chartreuse—it sounded to you like something gutsy and belonging in fairy-tale dreams that birthed speaking frogs and mushroom streams and villains you could smile to, not the buckram collecting dust on its small embossment. you liked the way your stories spun straight from the tongue carried some elegant cadence of their own—unwieldy when told from the backseat but lacking in a way that was coltish and perfect. you liked the way cars on the road late at night sounded as they drove by your window—you liked that there was someone else awake with you.
there’s a picture face down on your desk. and in it you’re flying, next to the birds. they’re seagulls, and you’re all headed toward the ocean. someone might have told you. they could’ve told you the water’s no place for a bird that hasn’t yet learned to swim, but the water found you in other ways, and you were out on the sidewalk when the first drop fell, your chartreuse umbrella a rain saucer, your eyes reflecting diamonds that hadn’t been born yet.
and even now that it’s a bird’s eye view of things, you can’t remember how it used to feel, the soaring.
Opposite of Nonbinary
Infinity. Every digit, fractorial, and irrational figure known to mankind.
Neon, tie-died, gammarays rocketing faster than an eye can register, making everything whole.
Taylor awoke with a grin. The infinite dreams were always their favorite. When everyone could appreciate the complexities of nature intertwined in a single breath, Taylor felt the most at home.
They stretched, threw on the clothes from the top of their dresser drawers, then hopped down the stairs for breakfast.
"Good morning!" called a voice from the kitchen. "Would you like milk or cereal?"
Taylor raised an eyebrow. "Um, both?"
A snort of laughter came in response. "Both! Taylor you have the best sense of humor. Not like those kids who take things seriously. You're a funny one!" A box of Corn Flakes dropped unceremoniously onto the table in front of Taylor. They gave it a hesitant glance.
"Parents can be weird," they thought to themself. "And it's early." Not wanting to make too big of a deal out of it, they poured a handful into a Ziploc baggie before dashing out to the bus.
----------
On the bus, Taylor wedged into the seat next to their best friend, Brianna. "What are you wearing?" Bri asked, nose crinkling.
"Clothes?" Taylor replied honestly.
Brianne shook her long braids in disgust. "That combination, though?" She gestured at Taylor's black pants and white v-neck.
"We don't all dress like you," Taylor said, waving at Bri's usual get-up of black cargo pants, black suspenders, black crop top, and black hoodie, topped off with black eyeliner and black nails.
"Whatever," Bri shrugged. Taylor looked around the bus. A surprising number of their classmates were in fact dressed like Bri: black shirts, black pants. Even more surprising were the number of kids dressed in all white: white sneakers, white shorts, white polo shirts. Taylor never had anything against black or white. They assumed people always just wore whatever made them happy. This was... unusual.
---------
As they entered the school, Taylor's mind felt foggy. They dug their class schedule out of their bag and blinked. For the entire day, there was only one word written: "Science."
"Bri, this doesn't look right," Taylor said, passing the book over to her.
"Of course it does," Bri responded with a glance. "You're on the science track. What else would it say?"
Taylor grabbed their planner back and vigorously started flipping through the pages. "Science, science, science, science, science" each day was the same. "What if I don't want to be a scientist, Bri?"
"You're on the science track, Tay. What else would would you be?" Taylor thought of art, literature, math, gym, history, music and all the possible futures they'd imagined pursuing in each of them. Tears started to well in Taylor's eyes. They felt as if their entire world had been stripped away. They didn't oppose science per say; it just felt as if they were stuffed into a tiny box that didn't fit. "Hey, I'm here, Tay," Brianna consoled as she saw Taylor's lip start to quiver. "I don't understand, but whatever is going on, I'll be there." She gripped Taylor's hands.
Taylor looked at the polish beginning to fleck away from Bri's nails then up at mass of black and white uniformed bodies in the halls. They nodded. Their stomach grumbled, and they reached into their bag for the crumbled bag of Corn Flakes. "Come on," they said. "We need to go to the cafeteria."
--------------
Fishing coins from hidden crevices in their bag (and Bri's giant pants pockets),Taylor slowly fed change into the vending machine and typed in their selection. Out popped a carton of 2% milk. "Watch this," they told Bri.
Carefully opening all four corners of the carton, Taylor unsnapped their Ziploc and poured the cereal into the milk. Bri giggled, eyes wide with fascination. "Now this," Taylor said, retrieving a spoon. They cautiously dunked the plastic spoon into the milky, cereal goodness and offered Bri the first bite.
"Wow," Bri breathed after a gulp. "That was --"
"Delicious?" Taylor asked.
Bri nodded. "It was crunchy and juicy, sweet and refreshing. It was like the milk and the cereal, combined, both made each other better."
"I like combinations," Taylor said.
Bri smiled, and Taylor grinned back. Taylor reached into their backpack and pulled out a long, multihued hoodie with iridescent stripes, kaleidoscopic spots, and a shimmering checkerboard underlay. They put it on over their white t-shirt and black pants.
"Ready?" Bri asked. Taylor nodded Then, hand-in-hand, they walked to the guidance counselor's office to talk about diversifying their schedule.
