Greetings Prosers,

Welcome to another installment of Two for Tuesday (or Toofer Tuesday as I like to call it).

It's our aim is to bring two things to your attention each and every Tuesday, as the name would suggest. These could be poems, stories, Prosers, portals or a mix of all of them. As we get bigger and bigger, we want to keep the communication fluid and the transparency continuous; as well as draw attention to parts of, or people within this lovely writing community of ours.

This week @PaulDChambers is sharing two of the Portals that he particularly enjoys.

It’s easy to assume that you’re all aware of the Portals in Prose, why they are there and what their purpose is. However, those new to Prose may be entirely oblivious to them and that’s why he’ll be sharing a couple of them now. We have the Portals in place so that you can browse in as well as post in certain genres. When you subscribe to a portal, that will show on your feed. It’s that simple.

"The first Portal I want to draw everyone’s attention to is the recently opened Introduction Portal. Whether you have just joined Prose or have been here a while, this is where you can tell people as much as you would like to share about yourself and hopefully speed up those follows that we all like seeing pop up in our notifications. An audience for your voice is always a good thing.

The second Portal is the LGBT Portal. As a fully signed up member of the decent parts of the human race, this one means a lot to me because of what it stands for. It offers a place without judgement and without constriction in a world where for some reason or other, humans still believe they have the right to tell people what is right and what’s wrong. Not here. Please, members of LGBT community as well as normal thinking straight folk, write away right away. You are all very welcome."

So we hope you’ll check these out as well as all of, or at least some of the other Portals. 

There’s some great stuff in all of them by some very talented people. It would be a shame if they weren’t read.

Until next Tuesday,

Prose

The might of a man is not 

right of a woman.

It is a circle.

The depth of a man is not

left of a woman.

It is a line.

Split apart and you get two

halves.

She stares at me with that Botox grin

Shallow blue eyes and lashes of sin

Porn queen plastic with wipe clean skin

I pull up at her house, she invites me in

Her sky blue skirt needs little imagination

Pastel pink top reveals an infatuation

Porno pink heels that glide as she walks

And a delicate voice of erotism as she talks

She’s a peek-a-boo tease on a plastic chair

With an all-over-tan and peroxide blonde hair

Her figure-hugging clothes ignite my desire

While pristine plastic fingers set me on fire

She seduces me with a grin so inviting and kind

Wriggling her perfect plastic, pert behind

Playful and erotic I begin to lose my mind

As pink glossy lips marry with mine

She straddles my lap and gyrates to tease

Provoking a show to put me on my knees

She peels off her blouse and adjusts her breasts

Drops her skirt and insists that I go next

She stands before me with soft seductive eyes

Her long perfect legs with suspenders up to her thighs

She pouts, kisses and pauses on an ‘O’

She trails my waist I wonder how far she will go

Plastic hands undressing me, plastic lips ready to devour me

Am I in a dream or have I fallen into insanity?

As I trace my fingers on prosthetic plastic skin

Peeling off her bra I try to place myself within

And while she implores me to play her wicked game

I pull lace from her thighs to see the horror of our shame

Barbie has no pink, moist, inviting working bits

She’s so turned on but lacking her shiny designer lips

Dedicated to Barbie who was 63 this month, I still would like ;)

© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.

I am the Almost Man; I might not do it, but I know I can.

I’m the one sat shrouded in quiet in the dark corner of the pub, under the radar, shunning the nonsense of a self-serving world with its soundtrack of empty chatter. Staring into my flimsy glass of thick Malbec, I’m contemplating how a single squeeze would lead to shattered glass and my open flesh. Red wine mingling with bright blood. Full bodied and vibrant. I could bite down on it should I wish, lacerate where I masticate, ribbons of face leaking over pub table, staining beer mats and altering their normality forever.

All options kneel before me, offering themselves for execution, all day, every day. Choices are defined by civility. We are all only one decision away from fulfilling primal urges rooted in thousands of years of cohabitation and tolerance. Few choose the red path these days, but I’m always looking at its map, poring over its darkened lanes and tracks.

And there, my peace is propelled away by you. Evidently fearful of silence and lacking empathy of those that aren’t; you enter the room to a fanfare of you and stand, the eye within a hurricane of hubris, intent on filling the ears of those unlucky enough to be sucked into your pointless vortex through proximity. Walls of words build and fall.

Air and atmosphere change. Where once was mutual contemplation to the tuneful tock of clock and pop of log; is now terse and tense; tired eyes throughout the room looking away, desperate to avoid the gregarious friendly fire of blanks and trivia.

Yes, I could easily chew on this wine glass, but your flushed face would suit it more. Four strides and one swing of the arm would change that song of yours for good. Let’s see you flap those lips when they’re on the floor. Let’s hear your boasts of achievements only you deem important once your throat is opened up and spurting your life force over the centuries of footfall on the worn wooden floor.

That squeal that cuts through your noise: my chair as I stand swiftly, pushing it away across floorboards with the back of my legs. Time stops, as if knowing a pathway is being chosen, a pivotal moment is unfolding. The Universe holds breath.

Mouth faltered, your eyes lock on mine and I see you shrouded in my red mist of your potential future. The pub hears the beat of my vengeful heart. Fire jumps from burning logs to the tempo and thud of decisions spinning on a wheel of misfortune.

That’s me, the Almost Man; I might not do it, but I know I can. That’s me, winking at you as I march across the silent floor towards you and stop, close enough to hear you swallow. The last of the Malbec is thrown down my gullet, and the glass placed on the bar alongside the decisions I didn’t take. Clock chimes. Wood burns and spits.

I slide through the veil of remaining peace, under the beams that have held the ceiling over generations of drinkers and their decisions, and sink into the relieved night.

I am the Almost Man. I didn’t do it, but I know I can.