Journey on a motorbike,

Under a carpet so blue,

The journey of love,

A love meant for two.

Swiftly down the hill,

Her hair tickling my face,

Together in this ride,

We felt the sun’s first rays.

Tea in a village,

Breakfast in a small town

And everyone wondered,

Where this angel had come from.

We rode with the horses,

We flew with the birds

And our love grew in silence,

With unspoken words.

The wing mirror glowed,

As she spread her arms in the air

And my heart pounded,

When she hugged me hard like a bear.

We had lunch together,

The best lunch ever

Our evenings were longer,

Filled with memories that would last forever.

When the traffic lights went red,

I saw people stressed

But it was in those junctions,

When our lips pressed.

“Where to go?”

I asked her chasing the cars

She smiled and smiled,

And we went to the stars.

Hot steamy nights

Heavy night air

Hanging

No clean air to breathe or feel

It’s just hot

No refreshment on the horizon

Just heat

Breezes come but don’t cool

No solace offered

They cause me to crave a hint of freshness

Torturing my dreams

Taking away calm sleep

Causing dreams of winter

Hot steamy nights

Land ahoy,

Land with ploy.

The wind skulks childishly,

The dark stumbles wonderingly.

The bright lives and thrives,

The dark lacks and adapts.

Reaches for riches,

Leaves to live.

Labour for day cut,

Dare refuse be cut.

The daughter floats over,

The laughter skips after.

The trembling foreign hand seeks,

Finds cause for innocence takes it.

The sure rip,

Between lips.

The cry of loss,

Murmurs soft.

Normal people:

1. Pick a reference (or go from memory if they're just that amazing)

2. Outline whatever they're drawing

3. Start shading

4. Add color or finish it up

5. Done!

Me:

1. Picks a reference (I am not good enough to go from memory)

2. Watch YouTube for an hour because picking a reference was very draining

3. Outlines half the drawing

4. Another half hour of YouTube

5. Outlines the other half

6. Runs downstairs for a snack

7. Goes back upstairs holding half the pantry, eats and watches some more YouTube

8. Shades a little bit

9. Downloads a random video game on my phone

10. Shades some more *almost tears the paper because I'm so mad at my incompetent drawing skills*

11. More YouTube

12. Finishes shading

13. More YouTube

14. Final touches *flips drawing over so I don't have to look at my horrible artwork*

21 July 1840

“Mom, have you seen Alisha?”, a small girl, nearly awake, desperately trying to stay straight, asked her mom.

“No, Ashley. You slept with her. She might be in the bedroom.”

“She is not there. I checked.” Her drowsiness was evident in her voice.

“Then, she might be in the garden, honey. Now, go brush your teeth.”

The busy mother could no longer tolerate her intervention. She was a very tall lady, nearing her fifties, but her age was not all evident from her demeanour. She was highly conscious of maintaining her features.

Being a lady of Science, she faced appreciation and criticism to the far extremes. But she always managed to stay resolved.

Their family was quite famous for generations. But, distinct from the category of fame most families belonged to, they proved their excellence in Science.

Henry Beckenbov, seemingly the last Beckenbov that will walk on the Earth, was determined to marry a lady of Science. It took him 35 years of his life to finally accomplish his dream. The particular reason for this chapter in his history was that Henry lacked certain key genetic traits from his predecessors.

As a child, Henry excelled in History, but he always found Science to be his worst nightmare. The concepts of forces and energies horrified him in his nights. But, exceedingly proud of his lineage, and blessed with the curse of being the single child, he was desperate in staying on his decision.

And then, in December of 1818, Henry’s eyes finally met with the woman in his dream. Her name was Elizabeth Turner, who had an exceptional talent in Physics, and she was everything that Henry required. Years of persuasion ultimately convinced the physicist to accept the historian, and their beautiful story thus began.

But, his years of longing finally turned out dreadfully wrong. Three years later, Henry and Elizabeth found themselves to be the parents of two daughters, and Henry was in a very pathetic state. But, he still managed to be a good father for Alisha and Ashley. They loved him more than they loved their mother.

It was contradictory since history was never fascinating, while Physics always demanded curiosity. But, Human Psychology was more intricate than forces and energies.

Henry had now attained his seniority. He was over 55, and greys had nearly defeated the blacks. And being a historian, he found himself to be an informational archive. He was proud of the quantum of knowledge he had attained in his life. He believed that there was nothing more substantial than knowledge.

His obsession with acquiring knowledge was closely followed by his craze for coffee. Though historians are usually tedious, Henry’s unusual intake of caffeine made him more enthusiastic.

On the other hand, Ashley still had not given up on her pursuit. Her drowsiness was now replaced with unusual hyperactivity quite often detected in her age group. Her pursuit now intersected with her father, who was enjoying his second coffee of the day.

“Daddy, have you seen Alisha?”

Submerged in the newspapers, he found the child’s question too insignificant.

“She might be inside the house, honey.”

“She is not there.” Her shrill voice managed to damage core functionalities of Henry’s hearing abilities.

Disturbed, he took his eyes off the newspaper. Not interested in a busy morning, he dismissed the words that were to have erupted. He then altered his voice so that the kid might most probably laugh her lungs out and said, “Check again.”

As expected, the little girl laughed and laughed and made her way to the house.

“Are all kids strange?” Henry thought loudly.

how dare you prick my finger & lick it & say it tastes sweet after i've cried salty tears into my calluses & color with anguish on my palms when i'm bored & you say that life is beautiful but the most beautiful thing i've seen today is ash that singed my eyebrows & cauterized my nerves & is that why i feel so numb to pain now or is it just that i'm used to life kicking me & singing nursery rhymes as i slip in mud & grasp at absent hands & i lay in the discarded cinders of your love & i cry and watch as the droplets turn to steam on the hot coals before my eyes & you waft it toward your nose & say it tastes like butterscotch & that makes me mad because no matter how much i endure & endure & endure, you'll always say my pain tastes of sugarplums & that can be good, right & whenever i lick my hips, licorice bites my tongue & i wish that i'd at least get an undertone of pepper so i know that the discomfort isn't just in my head

head

head

i.

my seventh-grade classmate slapped me with the back of her hand, inked in slurs

and i stood there and let the words become an iron brand on my cheek.

she spits into my food: “sorry to ruin your lunch—wouldn’t want to ruin the taste of dog.”

the words on my face burn hot. i don’t move to rub them away.

ii.

i bet your parents came to america to work in a california nail salon. i bet they probably cleaned my grandaddy’s toes.

actually, my mom arrived in ellis island, and she waved at lady liberty, and i bet she didn’t know that lady liberty’s a filthy snake and a liar

i bet your parents are proud that this great country even allowed them in

yeah, i bet they are. i bet it’s everything my dad imagined when he starved, drifting in the pacific and i bet he really liked being called a yellow gangster and i bet he felt real welcome when he wasn’t allowed in some restaurants and i bet it was way better than his family’s life being threatened by some men in red uniforms back home.

iii.

i wore a face mask in public last weekend and a man told me to bring the chinese disease back to where i came from. i wondered if i forgot to wash off “alien” from my forehead that morning

he spat on me, so i used his spit to rub his slurs off my cheek

he ended up breaking my nose, and i heard the noise of my bones snapping, and it sounded like: “chink, chink.”

iv.

well, i mean, america spits on people like me and 

america spits on people who don’t really behave all that right

and america kinda spits on everything that makes it scared but

i think you know that. i hope you know that.

but it’s just, selfishly, all i can think about is me, and that

america spat on me last weekend. and i don’t really think i liked it all that much.

I am a female with attention deficit hyperactive disorder- primarily inattentive. For some reason, after days upon days upon days of being absorbed in screens, junkfood, and depression, I woke up today and looked up writing contests. I rarely finish anything that I start and I have not written much at all- I did take a class in college in order to prepare me to teach kids how to write and I loved it but it was just an elective course in the journey of preparation to help me learn to teach all subjects. I found this site and was instantly drawn to the freedom of expression and sense of community (as well as the numerous prompts- like candy!- to help get me started- (something that is often near impossible for me).

How did I find Prose? I am unemployed at the moment and saw a movie not long ago where a woman in the 60s and 70s turns to write-in contests to support her family and her alcoholic husband. I am not in a dire situation by any means, but it fascinated me. I researched to see if anything like that still existed and lo and behold. My motivation is definitely not money-I just know I have so much in my mind to be created and that I want to create- I just have trouble producing. I have only been on the website for maybe an hour and I am already feeling so much joy ..and relief? in a way? I think the spontaneity of answering a random challenge and just writing out whatever comes to my brain as soon as it’s there is what is so appealing to me. I’ve already submitted 5 entries and can’t wait to answer more challenges and prompts, as well as, get to know people in the community. I hope all of you have a wonderful, creative, and fulfilling day. :)

All they found was her scarf. The article, with its stripes of joy lay quietly at the knees of a young cypress. Layered with bold sections of royal blue, kelly green, and a bright sunshine yellow, it stood out quite starkly against the muted autumn backdrop- almost as if the accessory was all that contained life, unlike the actual living things that surrounded it. The early morning fog had not yet dissipated but hung in gentle whisps above the river. After sending word, the volunteers solemnly looked on at the scene, wondering and silently doubting if she would be found alive. Yet, despite the discovery, there was a veil of serenity over this place; an energy radiated from it that begged one to stay.

“... and when I clap my hands three times, you will cease flapping your arms up and down, and stop clucking like a chicken.”

Clap - Clap - Clap

It is strange to find yourself so suddenly awakened and alone upon the world’s stage with no idea how you came to be there, to be standing before a billion eyes and ears that restlessly watch and wait. “What to do?” You wonder. “What to say?”

Your mind works stiffly, like muscles that have been long asleep. You need time to think. You need a diversion to buy some time, so you begin to dance lightly, slowly... an old soft shoe. On the curtains behind you the dazzling spotlights cast an eerie shadow partner who keeps perfect step to your taps, kicks and twirls. Nervous laughter ripples through the crowd, quickly followed by scattered shouts of angst and frustration, with the occasional long and drawn out “BOOOO” emanating from mouths bravely hidden in the deepest dark of the back rows.

The crowd is impatient, so you quit the dance. You look out at the throngs, but you whisper your question to them inwardly, “What is it that you want, then?”

As you stand before them gazing into the many eyes the answer reveals itself, or perhaps you knew it all along?

They want the answers, the answers to the hard questions. They believe you have those answers... and perhaps you do. You have spent a lifetime searching them out, digging for nuggets of wisdom in the strangest, most illogical of places. It is no simple thing to find those nuggets, so you can easily understand why the masses hunger for them, and why they beg to be handed them on a platter.

You think then to give the answers to them. Why not? What is it to you, after all? But as you begin to speak your voice cracks, so you stop. You see their blissfully ignorant, and skeptical faces shining through the footlights. You realize that, even should you give them the treasured secrets, your truths will not be believed. The true “pearls of wisdom” are too subtle, too obviously simple to be understood by those who have not sought them out themselves, just as a fortune is soon squandered by he who did not earn it.

So you stand before them, those ignorant, arrogant faces; faces too young, too “busy,“ or just too lazy to put in the work that the learning takes. They are faces that want easy answers to the most difficult questions, so that they can then as easily reject those answers as coming from someone old, and archaic... someone out of touch with today’s evolved mind, and world.

... and you begin to dance once more.