Hi Prose Family!

I've been writing on Prose now for a couple months and I realized that I've never asked if there is a specific etiquette, set of guidelines, or duties I should be aware of as a Proser. Do we even call ourselves Prosers? I really should have asked from the beginning. For all I know I am committing sacrilegious blunders every time I post.

So, let me apologize retroactively for any offenses I may have caused in my ignorance. Being that I want to be considered a model Proser I ask the veterans to answer the following questions:

1. Should I thank the challenge poster in the unlikely event I win the challenge? Or is it expected that the challenge winner provide the challenge poster with a nice fruit basket or bottle of wine?

2. Are there any ceremonies I am expected to perform? For example, on the night of the full moon, should I:

a) Strip naked in front of a public library (hopefully no one sees me right before they have dinner)

b) Give myself a deep and bleeding papercut from the first sheet of a freshly opened reem of paper.

c) Use my blood to sign my name on the inside cover of an unread copy of "Lord of the Flies"

d) Douse the unread novel in White Out

e) Finally, set the book aflame while reading aloud page 1 of Dante's Inferno?

3. Do we have secret ways to identify other Prosers and reveal ourselves to possible Prosers such as by using secret code phrases? For example:

Proser 1 Code Phrase: "I think I ruptured my semicolon."

Proser 2 Code Response: "A proctologist can repair that with an Iambic Pentameter."

4. Do we have a secret handshake?

5. Do we have an oath? For example, "As a Proser, it is my solemn duty to decry the evils of the double negative. I will promote literacy. I will hunt down anyone guilty of plagiarism and gut them until they can use their entrails as a belt with the sacred, ceremonial staple remover. I will remember the thesaurus and keep it holy (adjective): sacred, consecrated, divine, venerated, and hallowed. Finally, I will rejoice and celebrate all cleverly used double entendres, expletives, and use of the terms: anal, butt, labia, penis, erectile disfunction, STD, boobs, breasts, doggy style, cum bubble, dildo, vibrator, and gang bang because at heart, I have noticed most Prosers are dirty minded sixth graders."

I am eagerly awaiting the responses to my questions from veteran Prosers. If I have unknowingly caused Prose faux pas please forgive me. Also, because I am scatter brained and lazy I want to say, "Thank you retroactively and/or in advance for all challenges I participate in and awwww shucks to any challenges I might have won or could win in the future."

Yours in Merriam-Webster,

Shallowgenepool

George isn’t expecting to die tonight crossing the street on his walk home, but then again, no one ever truly expects to be flung across the asphalt by a pick-up truck ramming them while they’re debating between roast beef or seafood linguine for dinner. It is quite shocking for everyone involved; he isn’t wearing boxers, so when his pants fly off from the collision it is quite revealing. It is also, undeniably, the most attention he has ever received from others. The accident has been photographed and posted on at least two social media sites and one blog before his body hits the road.

The problem is, George isn’t quite dead yet. He is, for lack of a better term, operating on extremely low battery. Which means, as he floats over the cold road away from his dying body, the liaison is about to get involved. It’s protocol for almost dead humans that meet certain requirements, and this (relatively new) liaison is itching to make a name for himself via George.

“Look at that grumpy mug. Holy Powers, I wish I could take a Polaroid of that,” the liaison approaches George from the curb, dressed as any other passerby and looks up at the floating figure. “How are you feeling, George?”

George scowls below him at the liaison like an egg salad sandwich without tomato.

“Are you an angel or something? Have you come to collect my soul, because it didn’t automatically send to heaven? Technology nowadays; even heaven can’t get the job done right.”

“Not quite, Mr. Ellington,” the liaison chuckles, delighting in the elderly man’s candor. He is even more cantankerous than the research has shown. “You are almost dead. My job, as liaison, is to ensure you make a safe passage between the plains of existence.”

“Oh, so you’re a salesman. You’re awfully young, is this your first gig? Well, no thank you. I’m very happy with my current situation,” George attempts to descend down with the intention of poking his unoccupied body beside him, only to be rudely pushed back up by a wall of air. “Please instruct me on how to return to my body before I start decomposing.”

“You can return to your body at any time,” the liaison kneels down so his jeans would be soaking up George’s blood if he had a corporeal form. “But, I’m here to inform you of your options. There are some advantages to moving to the next place. If you’ll allow me, I would like to take you back to a moment in your past.”

“Sure, sure, I’m assuming this ‘next place’ would be heaven not the other one?” George rolls his whale-like eyes before checking his wristwatch which he realizes hasn’t transferred into spirit form like the rest of his clothes. He squints down to see the time on his body’s limp wrist. “You have five minutes. That should be approximately when the ambulance arrives considering the distance we are from the hospital.”

“Sublime!” the liaison smiles like a child with no screen time limit. The scene briskly changes, and George finds himself in a coffee shop. “This setting should do well. I have also put together a list. Just give me a moment to unravel it.”

“This was my favorite coffee shop, The Mug Stain. Goodness, I haven’t seen this place in ages,” George mutters solemnly.

“Yes, I’m aware,” The liaison digs inside his pants and extracts a long scroll of parchment filled with scribbles that must be his handwriting. He holds it in his hands and reads, “Reason one for moving on to the next place: there are no smartphones in heaven.”

“Are you serious?” George smacks his knee in pure bliss, his ethereal form sitting down casually at one of the café’s tables. “That’s actually really nice. I swear those devices have made people more self-centered than a chimp looking in a mirror. Hold on, there’s one right now. Look at that oblivious fool.”

A youthful man enters the hazy coffee shop his phone held steadily up to his face. Sounds ping from the device indicating he must be engaged in a fast-paced game of some kind. George frowns at him miserably as he bumps into his chair. George scowls, “Excuse me!”

“I thought you would like that,” the liaison’s grin widens. “Reason two: in heaven, there is no internet. If you want to use a computer, to type a manuscript or play solitaire however, you can rent out a desktop in the lounge with a limit of twenty minutes.”

“What? That means I wouldn’t need to remember any more Wi-Fi passwords! Unless,” George peers closer at the liaison with doubt, “You’re not telling me the whole truth. What’s the catch here?”

The liaison face sags at the accusation. “I am a liaison. I cannot lie. This is a list I have procured specifically for you, because I believed it would present the most tempting aspects of heaven to you.”

A study group of college students ambles into the shop and sets themselves up at the two tables beside George. They lay their laptops and phones out amid minor conversation with each other. George snarls as they ask him if he can scoot over so their chargers can reach the outlet under his feet.

“You okay?” the liaison asks, knowing what George’s reply will be, but asking in order to fulfill his job description.

“I’m fine. Will there be social media? My wife started ignoring me once that became a thing. Or printers? They literally never print even when they say they’re printing. Oh, and what about those code doodads they always want me to scan at stores when I forget to bring my phone?” George’s excitement is so tangible at this point, the liaison fears it may unintentionally bring him back to life before he’s made his choice.

“They all are not a problem in heaven,” the liaison assures him, surreptitiously releasing a spray of lavender into the air to calm George down. A siren wails from a few yards behind where George’s motionless body still lies for now. “It appears our time is up, however. Have you made your choice?”

“My coffee shop,” George says solemnly. “What did they do to you?”

The liaison practices the speech he has memorized once more in his head, anticipating another successful transition. As anticipated, George is reacting to the loss of his treasured coffee shop with bitterness and will surely want to leave the travesty behind. Once again, the overpopulation of the planet will be managed by an early acquisition by a liaison. The only part that could make this liaison slightly unsettled (but does not, because he is confident) is the Holy Powers prediction that Mr. Ellington would not be an easy sell.

Underestimated, as usual, he thinks. I really am naturally gifted like mom said.

“Okay, let’s go to heaven, then,” George stretches his legs out with a grunt, confused why he still feels achy as an immaterial being. He takes a final look at his wrinkled body beneath the coffee shop’s transparent floor to verify he is indeed dead, not just hallucinating, right as a flash covers the scene interrupting his careful examination. He shouts in irritation, “What on earth was that?”

But the twenty-year old woman crouched by his soon-to-be corpse does not reply. Instead, she takes another photo, flash off this time, with George’s body in the background. She uploads the image swiftly to her favorite social media platform, citing something about reckless drivers.

“Are you taking a selfie with my dead body?” George roars.

And this time, she does hear him, because in a fit of rage seconds before George had decided to break through the illusion of a floor and return to his body. In fact, the woman gets the whole thing on video as the seemingly dead man then rises from the street, screams barbarically at her as if she’s in some way angered him and comes right for her cell phone with the vivacity of someone in their prime. Sadly, for her, the crazed, old man smashes her phone to bits beneath his boots before anyone can like it.

It probably would have gone viral, too.

The liaison watches the tragic scene silently from the place between the plains of existence, completely stunned. In spite of all his planning, nothing has gone right, and George is now entirely out of reach. What will his bosses say? He sighs and prepares to travel back to the Office of Transitions, thinking this might be karma for trying to steal a man’s soul ten years too soon.

Meanwhile, George stands in the center of the avenue (still without pants) as vibrant as a spring chicken. The EMTs watch him cautiously, unsure if this is the same man that had been hit by a truck minutes earlier. Lost in their confusion, the emergency team and pedestrians simply watch as the man claps his hands and wanders off. Because he has no social media, no one ever knows his name.

I tell this dream where you strip me bare

and your mouth latches onto my neck.

I tell them how blood pools around your tongue,

and my head swirls like a tornado

as the metallic twang drips into your throat.

I tell them how my skin ignites

and desire coils inside of me

like a serpent.

This starts to sound like a nightmare;

they wince when I tell them that,

in this dream,

you strike my cheek and only then

am I brought to life.

I tell this dream with an abashed glint in my eyes

but when they turn their faces,

I shake with the force of my revulsion.

Is it easier to pretend I am wanton than wanted?

In the dream I don't tell,

I sob into your chest —

heaving like some ugly, reproachable beast.

The worst part is that you cradle my flailing body

and I erupt into something else entirely.

In the dream I don't tell,

I know how it is like to be touched

with feather-light strokes.

Somehow, that is harder to convey than meaty hands grabbing bruised flesh.

In soft embrace of sun, sweet Nature's womb,

The rose doth bask, content its blush to bear;

And unadorned, in all its bated bloom,

Revels 'midst verdant fields both rich and rare.

Yet, tho' beholden to this fervent light,

Regret the rosy face shall find in haste,

When dull embrace comes conquering the night,

And sober solitude, its vital waste.

For soon shall shadows cast in lowering skies,

Like jealous thoughts o'er kindling heart be thrown;

And wretched, wilting, burdened flower sighs -

Its beauty shivering in the cold, unknown.

The rose hath failed to heed Love's subtle chill,

Ere heart of winter doth its longing kill.

They call you a loveliness, but I don’t think that’s true.

Yes, you look splendid in your spotted red coats, with wings poking out in a hint of black lace, but your splendor does hide something wicked beneath.

You are a monster, truly.

A devourer.

A cannibal.

I release you into my garden, not because I like to look upon your colors, but so you will destroy.

I want you to feast on other small green, and white, and red little bodies.

I want you to devour their young until they are obliterated in my small corner of the world.

Oh, how I hate a purposeless insect.

But you are not that.

You are my wicked little friends.

You are the only creature with six legs permitted to crawl along my skin without being promptly batted at or, more likely, murdered without a second thought.

Your friend the mantis is also allowed to live, but never to touch, for her devouring spirit is not cloaked in pretty robes of red– her monstrosity is plain to see. She need not hide her true intent, being such a large, battle-adorned creature. But you are small: lovely.

You must be unassuming as you crawl across fingertips and freckled cheeks, for if one knew your true nature, surely such a little thing would not be allowed to live? To feast on soft bodies?

Yes, you look lovely, but the red on your back may as well be blood.

It is at the very least armor.

Perhaps that is why in every iteration of your name, they call you lady.

A pretty thing.

Unassuming armor to hide a hungry monster.

No.

You in mass form are not a loveliness, but rather a lethality– at least to the other garden bugs.

But.

I do know you. Deeply. You and I are not so different, are we?

That is why when I let you out, I found myself alight in genuine surprise…

Because I did not think: Monster. Beast. Cannibal. Destroyer.

I did not smile my usual wicked grin at the havoc you would unleash upon my garden foes.

Instead, as you crawled across the fingertips and forearms of my own little ladies, I could think of but one word:

Loveliness.

I'll play you're silly game. What do you want to hear--that I've discovered the key to happiness and here's what you need to do; that I'm tragically broken and even if you could help I wouldn't accept it; that I've found Jesus and everything's going to be alright... as soon as I die; or maybe that I'm climbing toward forgiveness on a escalator going down into regret? Well, the short answer is yes--they're all true.

We aren't so one-dimensional that any single emotion, or lack thereof, can encompass our entire state of being. Am I happy? Sure, sometimes. Sometimes not so much. Sometimes it's the furthest thing from my mind. Sometimes I'm freakin' ecstatic. Right now, my feet hurt, my fingers are a bit raw, my back is sore, and I've got some chafing that's pissing me off. I'm also sitting in air conditioning, in a nice office chair, and I've got the ability to play chess with one guy in Australia and another in Hawaii, I can read bootleg poetry from people around the globe, research the value of a C.M. Russell painting, execute trades in the stock market without a broker, learn about the Heian Period of 8th and 9th century Japan, and watch endless silly cat videos until I forget about what happened in the stock market. How can I not be happy with all of that? And that's all right her at my desk. Imagine what wonders await if I were to leave the room!

There's a girl who kind of likes me somewhere around here. She's probably thinking about some clever new way to remind to do something for the eighth time without seeming like she's nagging. I can't afford the truck I want, but I can afford to eat pretty damn well. I can hold my own in a conversation with very intelligent people, and I still forget stuff when I go shopping if I don't have a list. I was at Ace Hardware today. Paradise by the Dashboard Light was playing. I was singing along and dancing in the aisles. I cannot sing or dance. I enjoy studying history, but I see it repeating itself. I relocate rattlesnakes for cash and glory, and I cannot stand when I get a rogue hair in my mouth. Life is multi-dimensional.

Happiness is really just a matter of perspective, as are all things. Without an intimate awareness of cold, you can't fully appreciate hot. Without having experienced awesome, you can't fully grasp the depth of true suck. It's easy to get lost in the rabbit hole of self-loathing and despair. Eventually you become sick of it, tired of it; and when you're sick and tired of being sick and tired... then you change.

Happiness is just around the corner. It's in the lost dog you reunite with its owner, in the old man with his walker when you challenge him to a foot race, in the scowling stranger when you compliment his shirt, in a spotless windshield, in a memory of a deceased friend, in an insect whose life you spared, in freshly washed towels right out of the dryer, in a perfectly timed photo-bomb, a phone call to a sibling, a twenty-foot putt that barely misses, a kid carrying her favorite cereal toward mom's shopping cart, a really, really long funeral procession, a proud new father holding his baby, opening a jar without having to use that stupid grippy thing, Old Glory waving perfectly in the wind, an unreasonably large tip for a waiter/waitress. The only place where happiness cannot be found, in fact, is on the other side of the bed. It may look strangely appealing, but trust me, you will not be happy there.

after a line by Aleathia Drehmer

She looked on while one

cracked the eggs and

measured flour, and one tucked

candles into buttercream to light,

and then they sang for me—

daughter, daughter, wife.

I felt full without a bite.

Was 40 like this for you,

all those decades before?

Your wife and your son (my father

who fathered two in turn),

gathered about a glowing cake.

1964. Your chickens would have

given the eggs, your cows the cream.

You a farmer who had

come home from war,

married, raised my father, tilled

land many miles from here.

You are buried, now,

many miles from here.

I think of you anyway, how you always

touched the ground: feet planted or

hands in earth, solid and knowing,

certain of what you grew.

Have you ever seen someone fall down an escalator? It’s fucking awful, every bit of it. Ever seen how much a human head bleeds? Chances are if you see the reality behind these falls and the aftermath, the rush of people storming over to save someone’s life, you may think twice taking those magic stairs. You may be more careful. I hope to God that you are.

Three days ago, I get back from my lunch break, and someone’s fallen down the up escalator. I haven’t seen the footage, I didn’t see him fall, but there was an elderly man who missed a step, fell backwards, and hit his head hard enough that he started bleeding heavy. When I got back from lunch, they got a defibrillator out, the escalator had been stopped and blocked off as well as the nearby stairway, and right at the top of the escalator, they had him kept as well as they could while the paramedics showed up.

Apparently, no one thought he was going to make it. He was bleeding so hard from his head that he bled through two different shirts they pulled out for him. The guy who brought over the defibrillator thought he was gone, our LP thought he was gone, and even my head manager thought he was gone. By some miracle, the paramedics came just in time, and using a defibrillator of their own, they got the guy back to consciousness. They asked if he knew where he was, what day it was, how many fingers were they holding up, everything. He was breathing and moving his eyes with a pulse when they carried him away on a stretcher. Somehow he survived.

There was a mess to clean, for sure. Have you ever seen how much a head bleeds? Through two shirts, this guy bled, and before the shirts had even come out, his blood had trailed down and hit every single fucking step on the escalator. Every single one. After the guy fell and stopped halfway down, they had it ride him back up to the top so they’d have room to help him out. And while it took him back up, he bled on every stair.

I helped our maintenance guy clean everything. So many streaks of blood, the process took us upwards of half an hour if not longer. It was brutal, and it was reminder, seeing that there, that blood is life. How much of his life had left him on those stairs?

Finally we got it done. He sprayed any small bits we couldn’t fully get to with chemicals to at least prevent pathogens, and the job was done.

So we’re finishing and an older guy comes up to us, seeing that we’ve turned on the escalator again, and asks if we’re getting it open. The maintenance guy said it was good to go, stepped out of the way, and the guy got going up the escalator. I look up to the top.

There’s a fucking sign at the top of the stairs, and it’s right in the guy’s way. If you haven’t experienced that slow motion effect where alarm bells start ringing and everything feels slow as you mentally piece together the unraveling scenes, know the rush when you realize that you are the only fit person that can do something. The hit that you have to do something, or the guy that’s going up could get hurt just as bad as the guy you just saved. I have never been so afraid of the well-being of someone that’s not my immediate family.

I threw the escalator key to the ground and ran up the stairs faster than I’ve ever ran up a flight of stairs before, I grabbed the sign and moved it out of the way before the guy hit it. He thought it was funny.

“Show-off,” he said, and laughed. I laughed too.

When you’re genuinely scared in a setting of people who are simply living their lives, they will never understand you. It’s like complaining of migraines in a room of people who have never had one. When you fear for someone’s life, there is only their life, and the only person that can prevent them from safety is you. I ran not because I had to but because I was afraid. Because what if I didn’t? I wouldn’t be able to sleep that night or even now if I allowed that guy to try and move the sign himself and not fall down.

Please, for the love of yourself and others, please be safe on escalators. I’m not saying that guy wasn’t, but bad things can happen if you aren’t careful, and it’s not worth the pain of falling down. The escalator will not stop if you bleed, it will stop when you get to the top.

I just happen to but absolutely perfect in every possible way.

Except...

I secretly love the smell of gasoline

I memorized Genocide by Lil Darkie

I like clouds so much they make me cry

I cry a lot but I don't know why

I get stuck in high places

I love seeing faces

Like I really really like staring at people

It's a little bit creepy but I think they're pretty

Well, maybe not always but they're human and that's pretty cool

I like getting dirty

I get tired at three thirty

but I wake up at seven and I can't fall asleep

so I make a mess in my room or draw on my feet

I talk to myself in the mirrors for hours

It was never my fault it was ours.

I write on my arms, I write on my legs

I burn the butter when making my eggs

I overshare, but I lie

I'm obsessed with guessing the time

And... I would rather walk for hours than do my homework

But all that aside, I've no toxic traits whatsoever, you?

It was the 1970s, a time of change and upheaval. I was a nine-year-old girl with long hair, a life of trauma, and a completely misunderstood free spirit. Sitting on a log and listening to Billie Holiday on my portable cassette player, I heard that Lynyrd Skynyrd would be playing in a few hours to the crowd of stoners and hippies that hung out daily. It was the Almond Festival, and the one-street town I grew up in was raging with excitement.

I kicked up my chucks and sat under the shade of a huge oak tree, watching the crowd with radio silence, when I noticed a man walking towards me. He was big and burly, with a leather vest and a bandana tied around his head. He introduced himself as Jake. I looked at his patch; he was the President of the Hells Angels.

At first, I was afraid, but he soon put me at ease. He pulled out a cigar and lit it, filling the air with a sweet heady smoke that flavored the blood still pouring from my busted bottom lip. Corina Couture had caught me off guard in the alley of the Pits earlier that day and punched me so hard I was blindsided by stars. He asked if he could join me, and I shook my head yes. He didn’t ask about my black eye or how I had managed to split my lip. He just began to whisper to me about life, about how things aren't always fair, and how sometimes you have to fight for who you are. I told him that I was the gentle kind, never wanting to start a quarrel, but trouble always seemed to find me regardless.

As we talked, I realized that he was more than just a leader of a motorcycle club. They were a family, a brotherhood, and they lived by their own code. He spoke of brotherhood and taught me that loyalty and honor were everything, and that you had to stand up for yourself and those you cared about, no matter what.

He spoke about the importance of honesty and love, how they had the power to bring people together, to heal wounds, and to inspire change. He told me that Led Zeppelin was one of his favorite bands, and that their music was a reflection of the times. He reached into the pocket of his thick leather vest and pulled out a cassette tape.

He handed it to me and started to calmly carry on about how Led Zeppelin had a different approach to their song arrangements. Jimmy Page’s seminal riff-based rock guitar contributions were probably only intended to serve as an element in a much wider whole in the earliest days of Led Zeppelin, but they would quickly overshadow the more bluesy guitar work of the time and become a style in their own right. The guitar ‘riff’ was really just a way of using a repetitive lead pattern in the context of rhythm playing rather than as a solo, but no one had previously exploited the principle in the way Jimmy Page did. None of it made much sense to me at the time. I asked if the music was a reminder of the struggles that people were facing. He stared at me and softly pinched my cheek, telling me I was different, in a good way, a way that has the power to make a difference in the world.

As we talked, I felt a sense of camaraderie with Jake. He was a tough man, but he had a soft side, a kindness about him that felt like home. We sat there on that log in the park for at least two hours. My lip had stopped bleeding, and I was thankful for the company of someone who really understood me for the first time in my life. He taught me many important life lessons that day, Looking back, I realize that that chance encounter in the park was a turning point in my life. It showed me that people are not always what they seem, and that there is always something to learn from those around us. If you have the courage to shut up and listen. But the most important lesson, never judge a cassette tape by it‘s cover.