Being a father sometimes makes you a superhero. I've seen it myself. I've DONE it myself. I recently watched a video of a father, a rather portly individual, perform a swift and precise physical maneuver that a practiced ballerina or figure skater might have problems pulling off. The burly individual was carrying his very young baby in his arms as he walked up what turned out to be a rather slippery-wet concrete driveway. Somebody had left the hose running. The father's feet slipped out from under him and he fell forward. It was obvious in that instant that he was going to do a full-on faceplant on the concrete and the baby, his baby, would be crushed between the concrete and his barrel-chested bulk. But the father's superhero powers kicked in just in the nick of time, and in less than one second, as he was perpendicular to the ground and about twelve or fifteen inches away from SPLAT, he performed this lightning-fast, horizontal, half-pirouette, his back smacking hard against the pavement, his baby sheltered safely in his arms.

Now, as for me, I had about the most underheroic father a guy could ever have. My father was, in a sufficient number of ways to frustrate the crap out of me for life, an imbecile. And yet, I am told that my father once fell off a tall ladder while holding me, and that he somehow hit the ground entirely upon his own flank with infant me held safely aloft in one of his arms. So my father clearly had the fatherly superpowers, too. But of course, being my father, there is still the issue of Why the hell were you up on a ladder with a baby in your arms in the first place??

My own exploit of fatherly superheroism is a bit more humble than those examples of flying fathers. I didn't fall from anything. And yet I still don't know how I did it, how I pulled it off that fast. It was a thing that just came over me. Whoosh. I did it. I defied the normal speed and reaction of things, I vibrated my molecular structure like The Flash or whatever, and--

ZIP!--Did I just do that?

My wife at the time, the narcissist that I didn't yet know was a narcissist, she had just given birth to our first child. She had undergone a caesarian section. There were a couple complications with the narcissist that caused us to have to stay at the hospital for a few days, but finally, I had just brought them both home.

There is something about pregnancy, the hormones it causes to happen in the female body, that temporarily makes even a female narcissist behave more femininely. Her hair grew longer and thicker. She wasn't as ruthlessly controlling. There was actually a slight softening in her demeanor toward me; there was actually a smidgen of a window of a tiny glance at an actual woman in there. And even this tiny smidgen of a window tapped into my natural protective instinct as a father and husband. It was rare that I ever got to feel that around her.

But here we had just arrived back into the bedroom, and my narcissist-wife, holding our baby girl, walked over toward the bed, and I followed closely behind, not wanting to be at all distant from this little miracle we'd created. I wanted to be as close as possible to both of them, and it was a good thing, too.

My wife, unbeknownst to me, was still suffering from the complications of the c-section-gone-somewhat-wrong. My child's mother, my narcissist-wife, showed me the only shred of vulnerability that she would ever show to me in 13 evil years of marriage to her. She emitted this sudden sigh of distress and immediately lost consciousness in front of me. Like, IMMEDIATELY.

I had one literal second to act. One. Somehow, in that one second, my left arm darted through under her left armpit, my right arm somehow darted around her, sliding between her right forearm and our baby, cradling our daughter for a nanosecond in one arm, then I half-slung, half-slid our baby girl safely onto the bed, then my right arm darted back again and quickly through and under my wife's right armpit, and WHOOSH, all her weight collapsed into my arms--and let me tell you, she is not a small woman by any means of evaluating the sizes of women. I carefully, dexterously slid my limp wife onto the floor, and that took another second or two. I stood there in that bedroom, my baby in a bundle on the bed, my wife out cold on the floor, and I could feel the adrenaline superpowers of The Flash coarsing through my entire body. It was good.

The ambulance was called. The narc would have smacked her head badly against whatever was behind her, had I not been there to catch her. Someone flipped a switch on her body and brain and she had been still standing, but CLICK and she was OUT. Our newborn baby daughter would have been dropped on the floor.

I never did get a "thanks" from the narc for that one, nor for any other one, in all those 13 evil years. That's the thing about narcissists: They're quite consistent and quite predictable, once you figure them out.

But yeah, fathers. You rock. That means me, too.—Despite whatever slanders you've heard about me from the narc (and don't pretend you haven't; she's visited just about everybody by now; they always do).

Boom. Boom.

She could feel her heart in her ears. Her chest was shrinking with every breath that passed her lips, one moment her skin would be too sheer to hold her bones. She bolted down the road. A mixture of sweat and tears, drop by drop, streamed down her face. There was no cloud above, but the sting in her chest felt like a flood. Her feet were bleeding and blistered from the concrete. Her eyes didn't bother blinking.

She must make it to that cottage.

The warning had rung out early that morning, while she was getting out of the shower. Her phone vibrated from the notification and fallen from her bedside table. She tripped over the floor to pick it up. When the threat flashed, she felt thunder erupt. This was what she had feared. Every second was late. Her instinct arrived. She sprinted out of the house.

She kept repeating to herself "It's too late", but her optimism kept her going. Hope, logic, reason dripped out like a funnel. She ridiculed herself. She could not be stopped.

The cottage appeared, crumbling, a cruel grey tone. She burst threw the door. Inside, the small rooms were overwhelmingly cluttered, papers scattered on all the furniture. She saw a red stain on them. Some storm had powered through the home; she knew him.

When she made it to the back porch, she saw him. Blood like rain tracing down his bruised back, his hair messed and knotted, a gun in his hand. Sensing her, he turned, his eyes wide from terrors he would kill to un-see. They focused on her, black orbs piercing into her.

For a moment, he smiled. A smile of relief. She un-tensed her shoulders and began to walk towards him. He raised his arm.

Boom.

The dawning sun tinges our deathly pale countenance.

Suddenly, we seem so alive, kinda happier somehow,

The cobwebs, dense thickets of brokenness feel distant.

Away from Yesterday’s snake eyes, ours is us and Now.

We’ve gone far to where Guilt won’t get any entry pass,

Where no shadows of shame nor judgment could stand.

Here, perhaps, we could color the hills, valleys, and sun,

Free from the dictates of the virtuous, codex, nor gods.

Something about abandonment is incoherently human.

Our taking unknown paths, choosing to live as we like,

Such that darkness nor death has no noose around us—

How the Universe spins and stirs shall now be up to us.

I opened the fridge to grab a snack, but all I found was a funnel cake. It was a strange sight, seeing a dessert sold at fairs and carnivals tucked away next to milk and eggs.

As I bit, a cloud of powdered sugar scattered all over my shirt.

This made me look like I had been caught in a sweet storm. Suddenly, a loud thunder clap shook the house, and I felt a bolt of fear run through me. Was this a warning of impending disaster?

I shook my head, realizing I was silly. It was just a passing storm outside. But as I walked back to the living room, I heard a strange sound coming from the kitchen. It sounded like a flood of water, but there were no leaky pipes or overflowing sinks.

Suddenly, I saw it. The funnel cake sprung a leak, and a steady stream of sticky syrup poured out onto the counter. It was like a rain shower of sugary goodness, but with the threat of a sticky mess.

I tried to stop the flow, but it was like catching raindrops in a bucket. The syrup flood continued to pour out, drowning the kitchen in sweetness.

In the end, I had to give up and let the funnel cake run its course.

As I watched the last drops of syrup trickle out, I couldn't help but laugh. It was a silly boogie mishap, but it turned my mundane afternoon into a sugary adventure.

Prisms glisten

with the new hue

of integrity,

capturing compliances

ferocious mannerism.

Totality gleams

with wide eyed teeth.

The warrior

that looks within

glares back,

condemning perseverance

into the void.

Breathe your truth,

couture your freedom.

The sky is everything

but blue

Blue's what you're

withholding on

in the mind's eye

The one tone

you will not let go of

The one to which

you've pinned

so much

ecstasy and sorrow

Maybe it's your favorite?

I know it's mine

and I reflect

it back

to the Gods

And though

on these grounds

my iris sometimes turn

a russet brown

like in old photographs

It is then I note

that I am truly

taking in

the hymnal of the Stars.

03.30.2023

A myth- Sky is Blue challenge @Ola_8

The sky was polite after light was made and let the land go first on the fateful day that color was assigned.

Land chose green and yellow and tried out pink but ended on brown gray green and white and the sky thought she'd get her chance after that. But then Land thought that it should have more options, considering its vast range of formations from sand to clay to dirt.

"I should get all the colors cause I'm all of earth!"

The sky was unsure what to say but then it didn't have to as the late third aspect trickled in and gushed,

"What are you on about? That is simply untrue! I'm definitely bigger and I decide you!"

Water had seeped onto the scene and it wasn't having earth's greedy color scheme.

In those days water was one giant mass and all of earth's land was a single land mass formed of all the dry earth and arguably it took up a little under half of earth's surface that the sky could see. Water was larger and land didn't know as both their views were limited to the space where they dwelled, but the sky had a Birdseye view and could tell that what earth claimed was simply untrue. So it agreed with water and it was earth against the tw.

"Actually there is more of water and less of you." The sky softly stated.

Water heated now stewed and somewhat agitated said,"see land, you aren't the earth wholy."

Land was quiet a moment as it wanted to be hard headed, boldly stubborn with its head full of rocks.

Water was impatient and would be damned before it stopped from interrupting the ground and it rushed rapidly to say,"Fine, you keep all the colors you've already claimed and Sky and I will Get Blue but twice a day you have to share with the sky the full range of the rainbow. To time it... lets make it sun rise and sunset."

The land confused cracked,"That's

more like it; but it leaves you with only blue, what a sucker you are to take only one hue!"

At this water waved and almost aloof ,"That's the thing land, you've made of me an enemy. For the fact that you fibbed i now seek to conquer you. From now on I will divide you down to a few pebbles. The sky is my witness I'll erode you to rubble and then you'll know earth's natural way."

And from that moment forward up to this modern day that is exactly what water has done.

Every river, each lake, or creek, stream, or spray from a gizer or hot spring, down to glaciers melting is all simple the water having not withdrawln its threat, or "promise.

The sky also assists by carrying stratus and cumulus, and all types of clouds to rain over the dry ground.

This old rivalry is no fairy tale cause even now we can see the comraderie of the two elements. How they are still teamed up to this day; and how they have peacefully shared blue ever since.

The End

It is blue because we did it. Bled the sky in faith that rain was what we needed. Once we realized death was required to create, we paid the price of hope. So, the sky is blue. An echo of the bruises of our existence. As every baby stretches skin and leaves a mark, so too we exist within sacrifice. So the sky is blue. And it's fuckin beautiful.

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

In today's video, I went ahead and shot it from my profile. Always good to change it up once in awhile. But I wanted to feature some of the new writers and give thanks to the ones I've admired, and I figured the best way to do it was from a writer, and not the admin, at least for this one. Here's the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=93DI9TdR5DE

And.

As always....

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team.

It was getting colder out and the rodents were coming in for shelter. I could hear the mice running the walls while I tried to sleep. It wasn’t uncommon for me to feel one run across my feet when I brushed my teeth. Meg would chase the sounds of the mice in the walls and I was going insane. I had flies in the room. They would come in from cracks in the light covers and take over the place. One night I spent six hours killing every fly I saw with folded typing paper. I became obsessed with them. I would crouch behind the big stand after I had cleared the room of them and wait for one to crawl out from the ceiling, and I would spring on him and flatten him. I thought I would never get to Manhattan, I thought I would rot there. The car had been on empty for weeks. I had nowhere to go and no money. All I had was the warehouse and I was lucky I had that. I could feel my mind slipping away moment by moment. It had nothing to do with where I was or the lack of food or humanity. It had to do with the morbid process, my incessant repetition of speeding into brick walls, my travels further into failure. My own brother lived close and he didn’t give a fuck. Time came forth and showed me pictures only the dead could see.

I was not human anymore. I hadn’t used my vocal chords in over six weeks, aside from talking to Meg. I was barely surviving. I learned to adapt to Meg’s food but that made it go quicker. My brother in the south end drove over illegally one Sunday and gave me a twenty. When he walked in and saw me he had to stop and put it together. I was ashen, my ribs were showing. He took me out to eat but my stomach had shrunk and I couldn’t put down half a burger without getting full. He bought me a can of coffee and some groceries. I was able to live for a few days off the groceries. All I had was the typewriter. It was all I ever had. He wanted me to come stay with him in the south end. He even said Meg could live upstairs with me. I couldn’t do it. I convinced him that I was fine. I had become so addicted to being alone that even spending the day with him was painful.

Another month went. On my 29th birthday I locked the place down. I could see headlights outside of my room and I heard someone knocking but I didn’t get up. Insanity had come fast, but it came certain. I didn’t know if it was the years behind it, or if the room was simply the last straw, the snapped end of string with no time left to replace it. I knew that I had lost my mind sometime in the passing week, but coming to terms with it only lost it further. I wanted to be surprised that it had finally found me there in the room, but I wasn’t surprised. The time it took had been well-earned, since the age of 16. The speed of its arrival was only offset by things bigger than the room that I wouldn’t let break me. The room was only there to garnish the grave, what the room reflected was what I’d traded my mind for, to let it go without another fight in me.

I was dead and destroyed, wasted, sorry, lonely and fucked. I had once had women and people who believed in my work. I was once a human with honor and strength and muscular flesh. Now it was gone. Everything was so gone I wondered if it had ever existed. Maybe I was born in the room and everything had been a dream, a neuro-chemical hallucination brought on by flies crawling down my throat and copulating as I slept. I had quit masturbating because it exerted me, and it only made me hungry afterward. I was not even alive. I was a cell in a jar and I was being monitored by giants who had painted this life for me to live as though it was real. I inhaled deeply, closed my eyes and refused to breathe. Not because I wanted to die, but because I was bored with breathing. My body went through a cold wave and then it was dark.

I woke up with a headache and vomit on my chest. Meg was on top of me, licking my face. I was naked, and I reached down and counted the thin muscles that poked out of my stomach. I had eight of them. Eight was a magic number right then. I thought of scenarios with the number eight. If I cut off two toes and two fingers then I would have eight of each. If Johnny had ten apples and Susie ate two of them then how many apples would Johnny have left? Eight, goddamnit! Eight was a powerful figure! I drew figure eights in the air with my finger.

I was 29 years old and I was a loser. I had tried but I had failed. The world was good and sports were good and careers were good and a job meant success and only fools thought they could write. Brad came into my room and told me he wanted money for the utility bill. It was a total of two hundred and eighty-six dollars. I jumped up, and told him there was that number again. I told him I would give him eight-hundred and eighty-eight dollars in eight days. He backed away slowly and said whenever I got some money, that was good enough for him. He told me to take it easy, and he backed out the door. He had his hands up and he bumped his head walking out. I looked at Meg and she cocked her head at me.

I was a freak. I was wasting away by flesh, rotting away by soul. Where were my people now? They were out in the sunshine and they were making love and talking to God and God talked back to them. I was no concern of anybody’s anymore. I was now at the gates of my real self. I was born for the room. I was born to write in the room. Without the room I would blow away and die in the dusty wind.

One night I woke up to the sound of Meg growling deeply. I had never heard her growl like that. I reached back and flipped the light on. She had this huge rat cornered in the room. It was drawn back against the wall, hissing at her. It was horrible. He was big and vicious and his tail reminded me of a whip used to snap out my eyeballs. He took a scratch at Meg and I snapped. He was diseased and hungry and he had the heart of a demon. Then I got it. He was a demon, coming for me to take me away because I had even failed to do that on my own, and the devil was fed up with me. He sent the rat to me to gnaw out my esophagus in my sleep.

I stood and hissed back at him. He was watching me with those eyes and he wanted me. I picked up my typewriter and held it over my head and stepped toward him. He gave me a flash of death and I brought the typewriter down and killed him.

Meg jumped onto the couch when it hit. My typewriter was broken and he was on his back, a claw still ready, but the nerves died in seconds. His face showed pain, remorse to his master for not carrying out his work. I scooped him up and carried him out the door. He was heavy. I walked down the hall and saw myself in the big mirror. There I was, naked, holding this rat. My profile was sick. There were my ribs, and I had a six month beard and long scraggly hair. I saw the picture again and my mind rushed back into my skull. It hit me and I took one more look at the mirror and stumbled back against the wall and slid to the carpet, holding the rat and sobbing. I threw my head back against the wall and screamed. I sobbed and heaved and coughed up yellow and blood on the rat. I cried for him and for my life. I screamed for my mother in Heaven and for my soul, for a way to get back into my body and live again. I screamed at the ceiling and called my fate a worthless whore.

Outside I held the rat by his tail and swung him in circles until I let him go. He disappeared in the darkness, and I heard him thump far out in the grass. Back inside I turned the valve and scrubbed myself with hot water until my skin was red and raw and it pulsed. I spent the next hour bending and screwing my machine back to use.