Autumn

Found me

In the shade

Of a palm tree

I asked

For more time

In tank tops

And flip flops

Autumn

Laughed boisterously

As a crescendo of colorful leaves

Danced circles around me

Then she darkened

Her gaze

Shortened

The days

And as we parted ways

Whispered

The time has come

To let go

I am a like a fine piece of furniture.

Crafted by hand and built to last.

Upon close inspection you will see flaws.

Flaws, I adorn like badges of honor.

Representing my strength, quality, and resiliency.

I am compliment to any room I’m placed in.

As I can stand alone.

Yet, he is the polish that lays upon my surface.

Providing me with an armor of protection.

That nurtures and conditions my every curve.

Highlighting all of my best features.

Making me shine like new.

when there is just not enough air to inhale

in a single fill of the lungs

you know those days_ rigth?

I got another rejection this morning. Rejections are fine, truly; whenever you send a piece of writing to a publication, a rejection is the expected outcome, and that’s the math of it. I once heard thirdhand of a writer who said she aims to receive a hundred rejections per year, which helped me grasp how this all works. I’ve been fortunate enough to have some pieces accepted for publication, but there will not be some magical “made it” point where my quill develops a Midas touch; each time I see a message from a journal, I say the word “rejected” before I open it, bracing and grounding myself. Rejections are the norm and the price.

That being said, they suck.

As planned, I still sat down to write this morning. I’m a teacher on his last summer day before reporting for work tomorrow; my daughters are with grandparents and my wife is at work, so I need to make some literary hay while the sun shines. The rejection was a cloud, though. It was kindly phrased: “This one didn’t quite feel like a match for us, so we’re going to pass this time, but we enjoyed the read. The ______ made me smile.” It was a nice thing to say and a wholly expected outcome, and yet…

I contemplated killing an hour or so with Netflix.

Instead, I read a few pieces on Prose. @Huckleberry_Hoo made me laugh. @InLoveWithWords made me sad. @AlisonAudrey shared her writer’s dream. And by the time I had read their pieces, language felt vibrant again. I pulled up this lovely challenge by @TheWolfeDen, and I wrote.

I joined Prose in October 2019 because I wanted to write again and needed some help getting unstuck. I have kept using Prose through this morning because I wanted to write again and needed some help getting unstuck.

My thanks, everybody.

First, I want you to know that I love you. I always have, even though I have been unfaithful. Yes, I have cheated on you. I am not proud of it, but I have dabbled with another writing site.

At first it was only a lark, silly flirtations, but I must admit that those flirtations felt good. It made ME feel good, like a beginning writer with a gift. I found complete strangers who were interested in what I had to say. They offered interesting suggestions, and gave interesting analysis. Admittedly, there was the usual fluff, but there was also some sound, helpful advice. I became enamored, and found myself giving them the one thing that I should have reserved for you alone... my heartfelt words.

But then, this relationship is not all about me, is it? We are in this writing thing together. When stripped down to it’s nakedness, I began to see my affair for what it really was; a need to venture away. I needed validation that I am an average, if avid, writer who has no business feeling under-appreciated, and who should want no more from a site than seven likes and a repost. But my affair also made me realize what drew me to you in the first place. That “other site” was difficult to navigate, had uninspiring challenges, and was littered with writing of the poorest sort which I was forced to read and comment on in order to share my voice. Sure, the reactions to my stories fed my vanities, but the site offered little fuel to fire my passions. With all of this, the things that made it seem to be my ideal quickly faded.

Oddly, the thing I missed the most about you during my dalliance turned out to be the very thing that pushed me away from you, Proser. I missed your maddening youthfulness; I missed the anxieties, the rebelliousness, and the ignorance in you that drives me insane when you will not listen to one who has experienced and survived similarly unfledged struggles, and was born through them a different, hopefully wiser person... but who is to say who is right, and who wrong? I know we drive each other crazy, but that is because we need each other to be stronger. You are my yin.

I have learned a lesson. I understand now that my scribblings are nothing without you.

In the immortal words of Forrest Gump, “stupid is as stupid does,” which is why I have written this stupid letter. I have followed your rules, and have paid my dues, so you have no choice but to take me back, or at least to scroll right past my drivel (as the smart ones do), but still I felt the need to explain, to come clean, to wash away the dirt, and to share my guilty feelings.

Admittedly, I have not been the best Proser. I cannot find it in me to hit “like” if I don’t like. I also sometimes disagree when silence would be golden. Even though I might not befriend you for “likes,” know that when you do write something special Old Huck will be there with an encouraging comment. Several thoughtful, well written posts might even win you a follower. And know that in the future, for good or bad, I will step up to your challenges while saving my first and best words for you, and only you.

A Letter From A Loving (if unfaithful) Proser,

Huckleberry_Hoo

and then it loosens slowly

and I exhale into the hungry night,

and it’s midnight on my skin

and there is blood on my tongue,

and it’s the cherries late summer feel

dripping down my skin

it’s you,

burning so good under the sun

The challenge simply stated to write something that begins with "His/Her name was..."

Her name was Lola. She was a showgirl. I want to write something else for this prompt but DAMN all I can think about is this song. At its core, Copacabana is about the loss of love, but its story gets swept under the rug by its upbeat nature. Why is it that we mask trauma and sadness with forced optimism? Or humor? Does it truly make it better?

Do depressed comedians benefit from witty self-deprecation? Do their observations reflect innate wisdom or are they the musings of a mind over-analytical and hyper-critical?

Do we care about the aging Lola and her broken heart, or would we rather dance to Barry’s catchy beat on top of Tony’s grave?

I like to think

I know the English language well,

but it’s no surprise it is difficult to learn.

Some would say it’s not for the weak,

stepping up to the bat

to conquer the knowledge,

and surely it will take more than a week

in bat country to master.

Maybe you could study in a park,

or by a river bank,

or even in your parked car

before going into the bank!

You could study

next to the well in the park,

or on your apartment stairs,

though you may get some stares,

but, oh well- at least you are learning!

Under the bright sun,

or next to a lamp in the evening,

there is no right or wrong.

Soon you will know

just how bright you are,

especially when you practice writing!

Keep up your determination,

don’t let it lessen,

you too can master

homonyms and homographs!

For now, however, my lesson

will come to a close.

he used to roll his eyes at me

when I told him

I was wrapped around his finger.

only now can I agree

how silly that thought was.

plenty of women have wrapped themselves

around his perfect fingers.

the idea of that being what I am,

what this is,

is absolutely ludicrous.

he alone

is the dopamine and serotonin

that courses through me.

he resides in my pupils

that have allowed me,

forced me even,

to find five lights in the sky

traveling through time to scream,

“keep searching for your home!”

he is the salt

he coaxes out of me,

the break in breath before

my exasperated inhales,

the energy absorbed

through a single glance.

and still at times, I find myself

wrapped around his finger,

but he is looking into my soul,

as if he found it again

after all this time.

Beautiful, unforgiving;

as I stand at the edge,

my soul knows

what my mind can not decipher.

Unexplainable magic

engulfs me in the feeling

of weightlessness.

Beneath the surface,

far down below,

uncharted territory bequeaths

lost and forgotten treasures.

Submerging leaves me

salty and fulfilled,

though I know

my voyages of exploration

will forever leave me pursuing...