I first met grief on that fateful day.

She sat down next to me

and said she would stay.

Through days and nights

in a fog of tears

Grief held my hand,

and calmed my fears.

In the moments I felt

it was too much to bear,

Grief said, it's okay

it just means you care.

I woke up waiting expectantly.

Grief came every day

to check on me.

She brought over memories

for me to see.

Both good and bad,

I wept bitterly.

She put the memories

back in the box.

And said I could have them forever

if I want.

The next week she only

came over twice.

To see how I was faring

and give some advice.

Go take a long walk outside,

The fresh air will help you,

there's no need to hide.

She left quite suddenly

when I began to walk.

I thought it strange she didn't

stay and talk.

I breathed in the sights

and the smells of nature,

The breeze, tickled pine trees

and rustled fallen leaves.

I felt myself smile

for the first time in centuries.

Later that night

in the dark of my dreams

I woke up to find

grief comforting me.

It's ok she said,

to remember what it was like,

When you still had them

by your side.

A week went by

and grief did not come.

Maybe she was busy

seeing another someone.

She popped into see me

quite a few days later

I told her I was in a hurry

I only had a moment.

That's all you need my dear

be on your way my friend.

We had our monthly

Chats over tea.

I would sob and sob

Over the memories.

Every time she would go to leave

I would ask her,

Please, will you walk with me?

The invite is very sweet, to be sure.

But I think that you'll find

Once I'm out of sight

The world around you

Is incredibly bright.

It was a long time

before I saw her again.

From across the street

she gave me a wave.

As we passed on our walks

Going different ways.

Now and again

I catch a glimpse of Grief.

I feel a small sense of relief

That I don't need her as much

And I'm ok that we're out of touch.

No longer close friend like we once were.

But I'll never forget her ,that is for sure.

Hold your tongue and save your breath,

For I know already you love me most.

As I hold your hand and we fight death,

Now is certainly no time to boast.

Jaws of life try to cut us free

The firemen look worried, even pitiful;

I've always loved you since we were three,

Now the only fire between us is literal.

My last memory of you for which my mind yearns

To forget is your scream as your flesh burns.

A week has shot by once again - awesome! It’s Friday, and that means it’s time for many people’s favourite thing: Friday Feature. This week is a doozy! We meet and find out about a Proser that many are intrigued by. Ladies and Gentlemen, we give you @Harlequin

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

H: It is difficult to imagine anybody seriously naming their child “Harlequin” without laughing. However I must admit, if I ever were to have a child, it’s likely they would be cursed with something just as strange if not worse, probably to their immense embarrassment growing up. But at least I’m consistent.

Endeavoring to bring more color into the literary world, as well as illuminate some philosophies that intertwine artist and creation, I renamed myself Harlequin Grim, and I prefer to keep that the mask behind my writing. The name illustrates a recurring motif in my life that intrigues me endlessly: the tricky dance of persisting within dualistic natures constantly affecting our lives. Inspired, empty, living, dying, etc.

On Prose, it is simply Harlequin.

P: Where do you live?

H: I reside in Portland, Oregon, where it doesn’t ever seem to stop raining, and the trees, consequently, are ever sprouting. Moving here was a hasty retreat from its antithesis: Southern California, where I grew up.

P: What is your occupation?

H: I wish I could say what pays for my expenses is a job related to literature, or at least a professional gig as a court jester, but the former is in development while the latter is outdated by a handful of centuries (I really missed the boat). Although I write as much as I attend my day job, currently I work at a quaint neighborhood café, pulling shots from an espresso machine that is nearly triple my age. At home, I push my sleep schedule to its edges, pursuing my writing after the daily rush.

Oh gods … I’m a cliché, aren’t I?

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

H: Devout. Multiple times since I started, I have attempted to distance myself from writing, only to be stunned by how it seemed integral to me living happily. It became a blessing as well as a curse, something positively affixed to me. Overtime, it has become more and more difficult to imagine a life without stories constantly evolving in the back of my head. Not giving them the time to express themselves feels torturous. This isn’t all that glamorous, but if I am being entirely honest, I am more temperamental when I haven’t written in a few days.

When I was first introduced to creative writing, it was purely for the sake of escapism. As years wore on and I grew into thicker skins, my stories became less about ‘venting’ and more about expressing, reflecting, and articulating my philosophies through the actions of my characters.

Somewhere in the middle of high school, I felt an incredible desire not only to connect but to inspire, and similarly, to illustrate characters growing beyond weaknesses so as to embrace deeper strengths, more enriching perspectives. Although I cannot foretell what writing will be to me in the future, currently, my aim is to depict as many intricacies of the human condition as possible, whether they be pleasant to look at or horrifying. I attempt to illustrate what it means to struggle, to grow, to love, live and die, searching for all those cascading layers of meaning bursting between beginning and end.

Ultimately, it is an attempt to show what opportunity dwells beneath the surface of suffering, that happiness is not only within joy, nor sadness in sorrow, and art not only in deliberate acts of creation, rather that all these things interweave in patterns of perception. I choose to perceive living as an art, an opportunity not to be squandered, and writing, my preferred medium for expressing as much.

I wish to tell tales which invigorate us to live as we would craft our characters, in a journey of actualization through conscious living.

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

H: Since I see living as a kind of seamless art, it is all quite personal, and since I aim to make it my profession—quite professional. So, any answer will be one and the same.

More superficially, I find I am more articulate during sprees of reading. Typically, after I close a book, I feel more cognizant of subtle details around me. As a result, I challenge myself to be more meticulous with how I speak and act. It helps me envision myself as a protagonist instead of a lost soul.

Beyond that, I do not entertain any delusions of being particularly brilliant or innovative, so whenever I pick up a book, I am hoping to have my expectations pushed, my truths questioned. Simply, to learn. It would be something of a pity to pick up a book for the sake of reinforcing old patterns of thinking.

Perhaps most importantly, it helps me observe through another pair of eyes. It coaxes me from the dusty corners of my own head to instead indulge in another author’s interpretations of reality, making the world that much more dynamic. I suffer greatly from a lack of originality; the works of other artists are crucial to feeding imagination.

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

H: Last Halloween I published a fantasy novel, The Lupine Curse, through Amazon. Although I was incredibly excited to have a fully developed work prancing about on the internet for the first time, even before I was finished editing that piece, I was already working on another.

Recently, one of my short stories won a weekly contest through Prose about tyranny. The story was entitled The Remedy. Little did everyone know, it was not a short story at all, but the first chapter of my next novel: The Culling of Casimir! If you will be so polite, kindly imagine maniacal laughter behind that sentence, but ignore the ensuing, embarrassing fit of coughing. Consider yourself playfully deceived, and hopefully excited, since I will be posting the novel by chapters, every Saturday via Prose, starting February 25th. If you read The Remedy, you can imagine how the story has little room for slow expeditions. I must warn you: I am fully determined to shackle you to the pages if you give me the slightest chance.

Aside from The Culling of Casimir, I will be compiling recent works of poetry and short fiction into books that will also become available, not only electronically, but hopefully through prints. The more support I receive, the more I can do to get physical objects of whimsy into the hands of anybody avid enough to receive them.

As always, I will be posting frequently to Prose as well as my website, unless, of course, I am hit by a bus or dragged off into the skies by a gargoyle. You’ll know I’m dead when my words stop sprouting up.

P: What do you love about Prose?

H: There is an undeniable sense of enthusiasm that the creators have for it that has ignited the community to respond in a cyclical relationship of encouraging free expression. I also enjoy the more personal interactions between writer and reader, or rather writer to writer.

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

H: The Art of Possibility by Rosamund Stone and Benjamin Zander, applicable not only to writers but anyone who wants to harvest as much as they can from living. For anyone going through a period of darkness or simply looking to add more edge to their vitality, this book is indispensable, something I will read multiple times before I die

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

H: My oldest brother always had a way of coaxing out my most ridiculous fantasies, encouraging me to consider philosophies and lifestyles that were either challenging or seemingly impractical. Above all else, he encouraged me to flesh out my individuality, sacrificing conformity for personal expression.

P: Describe yourself in three words!

H: Foolish, ardent, introspective.

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

H: “Life is too short not to create something with every breath we draw.” - Maynard James Keenan

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

H: My crux is seeking specific tracks to suit my mood when I am writing, which can sometimes impede the process. Since different scenes desire different songs and genres to guide the mood, my tastes are incredibly broad, but when it comes to deciding my favorite music, it would have to be the bands Puscifer, Tool, and A Perfect Circle in that order. I’d rather not reveal how many t-shirts, posters, and concert tickets I’ve collected for these groups over the years.

Also, yes! The album ‘Lateralus’ by Tool inspired me to create Fenris, the protagonist of The Lupine Curse, so I had it playing in the background for much of the writing process.

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

H: “You really don’t have any books?”

“What is a book?”

“All right, everybody gather around the fire. This is going to take a while to explain. You see, it all began with …”

P: Do you have a favourite place to read and write?

H: That place where intuition, diction, imagination and reflection merge, to create a timeless location in which it feels as if there is no writer, only characters expressing themselves with zeal, and hands to record their actions. If there was a specific location that triggered that blissful state, I would seek it out daily. But I can’t honestly say I have a favorite place, in fact, I was a little sad to find my mind blank when thinking about the question. I had to settle for some wishy washy artsy answer, instead. See?

For reading, however, I do, in fact, have a specific place. I had one arm wrapped around someone who enjoys fantasy as much as I do, the other supporting the book. After she fell asleep, I continued reading to the sound of soft snores. I haven’t stumbled across a more perfect place to read since then.

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

H: Ah, it is always so heart wrenching to say farewell! No, no. There are no need for tears. This is not the end.

One of the best ways for Prosers to keep track of my recent work is through my Murder of Crows, a newsletter feature on my website. It contains short stories, articles, and other outlandish artifacts. There, you can get more involved with me … I’ll tell you secrets and such. And for more frivolous following, I have a Twitter as well.

With that, there is little else to speak of besides the tremendous, heaping mountains of golden gratitude I have for Prose. Any dragon would be envious of them. Seeing more support than I ever have before is simply enchanting. Every day, I look forward to seeing what is stirring in the vivid minds of the community. And every day, I look forward to finding more ways to feed inspiration back into it. Thank you for listening, and thank you for your curiosity.

The coming months will be another chapter in a tale, another stride in a journey, and I do sincerely hope you join me.

Fantastic stuff from Harlequin, there; thank you sir, for your candour. Time to step up and like, follow and interact, you lovely Prosers – that is if you don’t already! We’ll be back next week with another delve into the world of someone else. In the meantime – happy reading and writing!

My words are mine and no one else’s

Unique and instantaneous

About love pain and the miscellaneous

My words can paint pictures

Some beautiful and angelic

Others spiteful and schizophrenic

My words can bear weight

They can be heavy and win a fight

Fragile like a candle on a stormy night

My words can be this and that

They can be gentle and fun

Or murderous like a bullet shot from a gun

My words can be a fairy tale

Or a whispered truth needing to be set free

Maybe a scream trapped deep inside of me

My words are sometimes all that I have

They are my talent my pride

My Jekyll and my Hyde

-----------------------------------------

© M.Withers/M.Strudwick . All rights reserved.

Both the name The EriduSerpent/EriduSerpent

and any written material is owned solely by the above named.

Permission granted for all written material to be shared but not for profit.

Indeed! Why should lovers need a "special" day to be romantic when hopefully they already are.

It's not rocket science to court each other, and yes even after your married you still court each other!

You see my darlings, it's not the special days of the year that you'll look back on in your life, it will be all those sweet tiny little moments that will bring a tear of joy.

The times you did the dishes together and splashed each other, when he grabbed your ass and said his hand slipped. When you spelled out loving messages with the magnetic alphabet letters on the frig.

"P.S. I Love You"

The loving way he reads to you when you soak in the tub.

The sweet way you remember to fix his collar before he leaves as you kiss goodbye.

You see my darlings it's never about the big moments in our lives together even though they are nice, it's always been about the small moments and how fleetingly precious you find they are when you look back.

We've been married for a very long time.

I don't need prompting to buy roses and wine.

He claims to forget, but I think it's design.

"I don't really like you. I'll have to decline."

Why should I do anything? We've just met online.

The day has origins that are neither cute or divine.

Capitalist pigs exploit it for the bottom line.

"I'll make thee mine, if I can be thine."

"Cut the crap, you sap, I'd rather take strychnine."

She never likes what I get, and I can't stand the whine.

Think for yourself, screw peer pressure, and get a spine.

Whatever you do, please, please, don't be my Valentine.

I'm sick of this fight. 

It's late in the night, 

Monsters in sight 

I tremble in fright

To the voices' delight. 

They close in on me 

I long to be free

A break from this misery

My life is a tradgedy 

From outside, it looks like comedy

All the silly things that scare me.

Maybe I'm right

I'm not crazy! I might

Just be gifted with sight. 

You can't see the frights

That lurk in the night. 

My heart longs to ignite

With insanity's delights,

But now I'll sit tight

And wait for the light.

Too many thoughts rage rampant in my head

i only want to die in the seclusion of my bed.

Negative stigma across this putrid globe

Just a tweak from a shotgun to my frontal lobe.

Who am i kidding? i'm fucking chicken shit.

Pills in bottles, bottles of vodka; that should do the trick.

But if i wake with my head in a vice,

Just stagger toward the kitchen and slice slice slice.

Not the fucking oranges, bread, or 'nanners,

i'll not burn the toast, i know my manners.

But my branded skin will see a new scar,

The greatest relief for my mind by far.

You see, when i burn the world goes away

And the pain is my friend, but it's too fleeting a stay.

So i hide my shame and scabs and pain,

Told i'm acting like a girl, so i do it again.

That was yesterday; I've sunshine in my cup.

Promise of a new start; I'd love to sober up.

Can't explain why the thoughts get so dark,

Just see life as desolate and stark.

i worry all the time about shit i can't control

i worry all the time i'm sinking in a hole

i worry all the time about my stinking life

I worry every time I see a gleaming knife.

Too many thoughts rampantly raging in my brain!

This ain't teenage angst; i've grey hair circling the drain,

If i told you i have cancer would you say get over it?

A pharmacy of meds and i'm still losing my shit.

To the doctor, sorry STUDENT, who took so much

Right side paralysis, double vision- all with one touch

Left my right arm bent up, fingers clenched tight

Curled in a fist, like I was ready and willing to fight

It was my fourth surgery, the first three failing to regulate

The CSF building up in my brain just wasn't quite right

While in pain, I could still speak, ambulate freely and see

Now, because of you, I've forever lost all that was me

It's been years, decades, since your damage was done

And, my life, my acceptance of the "new" me, just begun

I hope, through the surgical procedure, you've learned a lot

Because of you, I will never be who I was-try as I may, I cannot

rose drips 

and diamond eyes 

chandelier love 

dangling on a wire 

of the electricity 

of the pain 

that runs through our history 

dancing ballerinas 

memorize the steps of how this dance ends 

me and you 

body pressed in the cracks of the oak floor

curtains pulled apart 

stripped strips of silk 

bonded around our hands 

charcoal covered roses 

burned by your cigar smoke 

candlelight wax 

dripping 

from the candleholders 

that hold our hearts 

dust flying into the air 

as me and you 

are gliding into the past 

me and you 

a worn out 

tattered book 

that needs to be left on the bookshelf

but every once in awhile 

I am pulling it out 

and I am  trying to find a better ending 

I am pulling out the pages 

and I am trying to find you