Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

A quick nod to one of our new talents, whose post is featured in our Exclusive Spotlight showing on the channel. Tune in, and give this writer a couple of minutes of yourself and your ear on this Sunday's high noon, or afternoon, or whatever it is, wherever you are. The link sits just below the period that ends this sentence.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2g1ylrcC7Aw

And.

As always.

-Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

The mother hunched over the washing machine, phantom blow dealt to her insides. White and gray blurred within her watery vision and through autopilot effort, the laundry basket in her hands had been set gently on the ground. A trembling hand clutched onto the cold, straight edge of the appliance as she lowered to her knees, a prayer pose for divinity corrupted. Her hands fell limply into her lap and she rested her forehead on the front of the machine, metal groaning beneath the weight of her skull. Her ankles began to ache, overextended, unnatural in their positioning. She could not move. She would not move. This is where she wanted to be. Where she needed to be. Where she deserved to be.

There was only pain where there should be pleasure. A cold sense of transaction, of chaotic callings guised in latex and lace, conquered flowery warmth. Love was conditional, apparently, but devotion was not. She’d cracked her shell, realizing the beauty in her softness, but her hardened exterior was scattered across the floor and cut her feet with frustrating regularity. Her tenderness was not a gift, but a fee- a price to pay for the life she’d chosen to lead.

She could not maintain her pose and rolled over, back against the machine. The tears were hysterical now. Sticky mucus clogged her nose and mixed with the bitter rivers flowing down her gasping lips. Her head rolled to the side and a memory projected onto the sagging walls of the laundry room.

She was seven, and had picked handfuls of crabapples from the tree in the front yard. She stowed them beneath the rusted lid of a tiny charcoal grill kept underneath the house. Her grandfather discovered what she’d been doing and scolded her. She’d burst into tears, sobbing as she ran into the house. She recalled the obvious shock on Papa’s face as he realized that this was not about apples. He sent her mother in to talk with her as she cried bitterly in her room. They spoke of the neighborhood boy who’d visited that day and took a piece of her around the corner and down the hill. She felt pulled, roped in by the need for his attention and the desire to give him what he wanted. But attention had come and gone, and the seven-year-old was drained, guilty for reasons she did not understand. In the most tender of tones, her mother told the little girl that she needed to learn to say no. He was a grade older than her, and despite the lewd gestures he’d make in her peripherals, she would never meet his eyes in the hallway again.

A montage of groping hands and lingering eyes filled her mind. She was nearly thirty and had been emptied too many times over. If it was not sex that was demanded of her, it was attention. If not attention, ability. Even the pursuit of art and knowledge were not sacred acts. She yearned for innocence, for simplicity. For gentle, tender, worshipping touch void of entitled wandering. To submit as an act of devotion, not expectation. She wanted to feel curious and clean; to know anticipation instead of dread. Had these sweeter moments completely slipped between her fingers or was there still a chance for her to grasp at the remnants of those fleeting days? Could she still find rosy evenings, nights where the only intrusiveness to be found was a touch of a winter chill within the lofty breezes of early spring?

Papa died seven years prior. Her childhood home had cracks in the foundation and leaked when it rained. The crabapple tree dwindled with disease, but there was a dip in the ground where it once stood. She’d twisted her ankle in it more times than she could count, reminded of its existence as she limped to the porch to tend to her swelling joint. She’d withered, dried, and grown anew, a outwardly unshakeable perennial rooted in rocky, unforgiving clay but each bloom seemed to yield less than the season before. Within a mature, fertile body, an waify child cried beneath the shade of the crabapple tree, mourning what could not be changed and cursing all she’d done to wound herself further.

Heavy footsteps descended into the basement and walked into every room except the one the mother sat in. She almost wanted to be discovered, crouched and blubbering on the cement floor, to be found in scary, disturbing ways so that the depths of her were seen and not just discussed- gone over at the tail end of tired arguments that were never really about who or what they seemed to be about. Fate struck, and steel toed boots ascended the creaking steps and the mother was left there with her thoughts, staring into the vibrant eyes and goofy, ignorant grin of a stuffed animal her daughter had forgotten downstairs.

The child would be waking soon, and the mother’s duties usurped her crisis, just as they always had. She wiped her nose on the collar of her tattered laundry day shirt and rose to her feet. She picked up the basket beside her on the floor and dumped her intimates into the basin, careful to avoid pressure on her restless, protruding belly.

Overpriced, dye free, non-toxic detergent. Delicate cycle. Water as cold as it could be. Cleanliness was an exhaustive act.

I tiptoe the line between compliance and rebellion daily.

I will walk the tightrope and then ever so delicately allow one of my demons to drag my foot through chaos.

Brief. But impactful.

Compliance is critical.

But only on my terms.

And.

Rebellion is a necessity to keep the lambs on their toes.

For without rebellion, there would never be a need for compliance.

And without compliance there would be anarchy.

I have no desire to overthrow anyone.

I just like to periodically, remind them that I’m still here.

With his usual nonchalant stride, Peter shuffles down the front steps in his wife’s fancy gold slippers. His robe flowing swiftly behind. Their private drive is lined with perfectly manicured red and yellow rose bushes, in-bloom, and as flamboyant as he is. That usual pompous smile dons his face as he prepares to grab his beloved Forest Hills Bulletin, which I watched Jimmy from Cedar Street, deliver at 5:30 this morning. It is the same fake smile that I can't stand, while he bends over like an old man with a herniated disk. He winces in pain as he visibly struggles, which is puzzling, as he is only forty-five, an active runner, and health nut. I tap my foot rapidly with impatience for what seems to be eternity until he finally aligns himself upright. He stretches his hips forward, and arches his back to re-calibrate, then takes in one long inhale of the dry spring air and again smiles from ear to ear; But as I sit here eating my dry toast, with no butter, all I can think is, just hold the happy thought Peter, because I know what you did.

I could barely hold back my tears as I cocked the hammer back on my gun. My son, Peter, sat in front of me. He was looking out at the ocean, watching the waves crash over the sand from the log he sat on. The sky was a beautiful mix of golds and peaches and oranges - a perfect sunset. A perfect memory.

He hummed to himself; some theme song from a show that he liked. He’d been watching a lot of shows lately. Ever since the diagnosis, I’d given him unfettered access to the television, even put one in his room when he couldn’t walk so easily anymore. The doctors had told me that would happen. They said that movement would become difficult and painful. And it did. Eventually I had to carry him to and from the bathroom and feed him in bed because any journey would bring him to tears.

He continued to hum as I brought the gun level with the back of his head. He’d always wanted to go to the beach, begging me every summer. But I’d never made it much of a priority, thinking we’d always have next year. But when the doctors told me how quickly he would deteriorate, I realized that I was out of time. There wasn’t going to be a next year, they said. So even though it was fall, I booked us a trip right away.

Hmmhmmhmm. Hmmhmmhmm. Hmmhmmhmm.

I began to apply pressure to the trigger, my finger unable to pull it in one swift motion.

“Daddy?”

I hesitated. “Yes Peter?”

“Thanks for taking me to the beach.”

Tears welled in the corner of my eyes. “No problem Kiddo.”

It became even harder to squeeze the trigger. Memories of our life before his illness raced through my mind. The gun shook in my hand as I began to lose my resolve.

“I love you, Daddy.”

The tears finally spilled out onto my cheeks, running down my face like salty rivers.

“I love you too, buddy. Just hold that happy thought, Peter…”

With that, I managed to apply the last of the pressure necessary to end his pain for good.

I can't begin to tell you,

How good these feel to write,

To finally express my anger,

And let out all of my fight.

I am not one for confrontation,

That's why my parents don't know,

But I think that's okay,

Because out of my anger I will grow.

I'll learn to deal with my past,

Past that I cannot change,

And then I'll move on,

Forgive,

But not forget,

Because I will never be the same,

Without my pain.

I'll turn into a woman,

Eventually,

Start a family of my own,

And learn to set my soul free.

I'll meet someone new,

Someone charming and sweet,

Someone who I like so much,

He'll sweep me off my feet.

I need to let go of this anger,

But I'm not ready to yet,

Because I know when I will,

It will not be pretty.

The time will come,

Too soon,

I'll say,

But eventually,

They'll know,

One day.

I'm supposed to write a poem,

About resilience,

So I'll tell you the story of a girl,

Who got pushed against a fence.

The girl was small,

And weak though she seemed,

She had a fierce attitude,

And really big dreams.

She sat in her classes,

Her eyes focused on the board,

While her mind flew far away,

Imaginative nations at war.

She was teased,

Made fun of,

For her obvious difference,

But she never minded,

She was strange in that sense.

And as she grew,

She came anew,

Too beautiful,

To be ignored anymore.

Yet she stayed away,

From popularity,

For she knew that nothing could be true,

If it relied only on how you're cute.

And that's what resilience is,

At least to me,

Because I see resilience in her,

For taking the teasing,

And I see it in her,

Too,

For not reaching out her hand,

And clasping it in someone else's,

Despite them being her fan.

This girl knew that she could be strong,

She could be brave,

And tough all day long,

Because she had more,

Than anyone else knew,

So she chose to be an outcast,

And into a flower she grew.

As the sun goes down, I start to lose hope

No one to hold my hand as I try to cope

My lame heart burning like a wound in soap

As my the darkness settles on my fur going downslope

My actions are eating me up from the inside

I want to run, but I just can’t hide

If I can just start over to say I tried

Maybe you’d be there by my bedside

How you breathe I have memorized, how you sleep, I count the moments in time, feeling you close to me is the only home I will ever know.

Poems about love always rely on the comfort of cliche but the cliches hold grounds.

I think without you my rivers would dry up, the sun would stay low in the sky and the morning will never rise. Intertwined souls dancing forever in a stream of moonlight, fused together by the thoughts of time slowly passing by with you, a vacation forever in life.