Wildflowers
Descending angelic between space
Enveloping memory: warm, fragrant
Vibrant wafts of brilliance orchestrated
In staccato time, beaming beyond
A rainbow on youth’s breath —
Walking barefoot on a summer day
Fresh cut grass and an enchanted garden
Of hope and mystery: nature beckons
With prisms of time reflected in my eyes
Challenge of the Month Winner, and the Next One!
Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.
On the channel, we announce the big bucks boss of last month, and introduce the new Challenge of the Month! Here's the link:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b3tI87rASsg
We'll tag some of the featured writers in the comment section below. To find out who won, check out the video!
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
The Weeping Frog
Long long ago, the world was very different from the one we live in now. There were many things that today are commonplace, and before were only the raving dreams of the possessed, or the drooling undermedicated. Greatest among these differences was the gaping absence of hamburgers.
You see, what we take for granted, and depend on for sanity; a beef patty lovingly grilled, and emplaced between two buns, along with melted cheese, bacon, tomatoes, mustard pickles and lettuce, was a thing which caused many to doubt their mental health, and arouse suspicions of demonic possession, or foreignness.
What people ate back then was frogburgers.
preparation was much as you coukd imagine; They took frogs, stuck them between two halves of a bun, desperately added condiments , vegetables and other forms of culinary camouflage to hide the cruel, cruel fact that they were eating an amphibian. oh, but You must understand that these were dark times. Times of famine and plague, war and ignorance. Perhaps, a frogburger was a result of these conditions, perhaps it was the underdeveloped meat mincing technology, most likely it was just a lack of imagination, and a ready unquestioning acceptance of the familiar.
People ate frogburgers for lunch and dinner, and at times, even for breakfast. It was by no means a food for the paupers of the land; the greatest of kings , the dukes and earls all ate frogburgers as well, though their offeribgs were fourished with garnish and bacon. eating a frogburger was not something to be proud of or boast of (indeed, portraits of the time show the regal personages standing beside fruit, and goblets of wine and never much else), but neither was it a source of shame.
All this changed one day, when one of the least-known monarchs of that dark age, Randolph the second, went hunting.
During the warm spring day, he galloped among the trees of this royal forest, ready to send an arrow through any trophy animal he could find.
Most propitiously, that day, he chose to dismount his steed at some point. Why he did this, is unknown, but what is known, and shall never be forgotten is what followed...
As he stepped on the soft soil, he must have observed eagerly the beauty of nature; the light cast through the foliage, the birds taking wing, mists of his breath as they diffused in the crisp morning air.
And then, his gaze turned downwards.
He saw a frog.
King Randolph, looked at the frog for a long time, the frog looked at him. And then the king saw tears welling from the eyes of the frog. Perhaps they were no tears at all, but merely moisture, beading on the amphibians’ skin, thus giving it the appearance of weeping.
there are other explanation for what transpired. Perhaps frogs at the time were more emotional then they are today. Perhaps the things that the frog had seen and its inability to express and find comfort with others of its kind had brought it to that sad state. Whatever the reason may be, the king was not unmoved. In fact, he began to cry as well.
such is the way with the himan heart, that we often feel in ourselves the pain of others.
And so they stood there in the forest clearing, the monarch of a weak , soon to be conquered kingdom, and the weeing frog. Both shedding tears.
By noontime, the king's mood improved. Lunch was often his preferred time of day. There was merriment and entertainment and much to drink in the castle hall. The king sat down upon the cushioned chair, rubbing his hands in eager anticipation, hoping for some new delicacy to entice his appetite.
The page boy served him a large platter, covered by a dozen expertly made frogburgers. These frogburgers were the best that the kingdom had to offer. artisan cooks and spit boys in the depth of the castle kitchen, worked tirelessly to prepare the frogburger in such a way, that it would offer a new, and exciting culinary experience. Rare spices and condiments were employed, the freshest of vegetables, cheese of exquisite quality was lovingly melted over the forg and rashers of the choicest of smoked bacon, so crisp and pungent were provided for the king alone.
And yet when the king ssw this rich display of cookery, he fell into a muddy gloom.
Isn’t it enough, he thought, to spend the day with concerns of state, with hardships and worries, that we may at least deserve to relish in those rare moments of life whence joy is at hand? that we may grasp it and suckle on that greasy bounty? Why must the life we lead be heaped upon more by the feeling of regret and sorrow, only to then be added to with the final jab of guilt?
So heavily pondered the king.
With the prodding of his ministers and doctors , kibg Randolph tried forcing himself to eat one of these lovingly prepared frogburgers. after all, it was a thing he was most familiar with until now. but he merely slouched in his regal throne, resting his muscular arm upon the armrest, the frogburger held in his hand, far away, and him, hungry no more.
He brooded over the state of the world, and mostly of the injustice that was committed , by all around him, who felt no compunction in devouring their own servings of frugburgers.
By nighttime, thoughts of the weeping frog, and the revoltion he felt, had taken their toll. He could not sleep and felt deep disgust for the world around him.
The next morning, when the courtiers came to attend to him, and to seek his daily commands he flew into a fearsome rage. A wrath so great. it was fueled by both hunger and a hard sleepless night.
“I am the king!” He screamed, and his face reddened. “And from today on, let it be known that the the consumption and even preparation of frogburgers shall be no more!! under pain of death, let those who repeat the offence, of hunting frogs, and emplacing them between two buns with the intention of eating them themselves or with the thought of providing it as food for others be outlawed. let those offenders of this crime be drawn and quartered!! so say we, the king!!"
When asked, by the ministers , what does he propose to serve in lieu of the frogburgers, the king had no easy answers. He was not a cook after all, and such concerns where not the purview of his occupation as master of the kingdom. But come hell or high water, no frogburger shall be allowed to be made in his realm.
The enforcement of his edict was rigorously pursued. No leniency was allowed and no excuse was accepted. All abided by his rule, and dined no more on frogburgers. strangely, there was much nostalgia for thst wretched dish.
It was then , in the desperate search for alternative preparations of food, that beef was tentatively ground along with herbs and seasoning, and fried in large circular shapes, that resembled a frog’s plump body. This attenpt was found to be meritorious and satisfying a great deal more than the yearned for. it was a thing that sent medival europe all astir.
Beefburgers and Randolph the second’s kingdom would have enjoyed a great renaissance of flourishing arts and music as a result, where it not for the conquest that befell it soon thereafter.
Luckily, the making of minced meat, frog-like patties was not forgotten. and the art of hamburger making has remained with us ever since.
A Seat at the Table
It was a Mother's Day. I can't remember the year, but I'm sure it was before anyone had ever heard of New Coke or Max Headroom.
All the matriarchs were there. My mother, grandmother, great grandmother, and great aunt. I can't remember if that one uncle, the son of my great grandmother's sister, was there with his wife or not, but his children were. It's possible he still lived under Pinochet in a country I couldn't identify on a map until my teen years.
I never did understand what took him overseas, but I never really cared much. Still don't.
We gathered at my grandmother's house at the river. Elevated, the mobile home sat on stacks of cinder blocks, and it hadn't been mobile since before Gerald Ford stumbled his into office. I remember playing with the wheels, spinning them as fast as they'd go. Somehow I got my fingers caught in the rim, and I scraped 'em up somethin' fierce. No permanent damage or serious injury, but I remember that it hurt. I can't recall the pain, exactly, and that's a blessing of the brain, I suppose.
Pain is dulled, but hurt never really fades.
Maybe that's the one thing I'd change, if I had the power. Now-me would pull then-me away from those spinning wheels, if for no other reason than to avoid the I-told-you-so's from my grandfather. He loved me in his way, but he was a hard man. The blue of his eyes never softened with age or in memory.
I miss him anyway.
Most family gatherings happened in the home of either my great-grandmother or her other daughter. The daughter had no children of her own and more than enough space; my great aunt loved to entertain. Honestly, I think her husband really appreciated the spotlight of his seat at the head of his fancy table.
This Mother's Day was unique, though, and all the tables were round.
There's a porch that runs the entire length of the old mobile home. It still stands, along with the house, on the banks of that river. From the outside looking in, it's holding up fairly well. It's smaller than I remember, but that's to be expected, I suppose. Lines blur and sizes get fuzzy, but feelings endure. That place is a fortress, a fairy-tale castle built of pine and aluminum along an idyllic clear stream, and the reality of rusted tin and rotten timbers bordering a tea-stained torrent can't compare to memory's impressionist strokes.
That porch is where tables were set and all the guests accommodated. A feast of baked ham and casseroles was served, and homemade desserts followed. I'm sure it was a bit of a pot luck, with everyone assigned general dishes to bring, but I'm equally sure my grandmother and mother did the heavy lifting.
They always did.
I wish the one who was left still could.
That Mother's Day stands out because we sat along the banks of a perfect river on a perfect screened-in porch, enjoying perfect weather beneath slowly spinning ceiling fans in a south Georgia May. Four generations of family gathered in the one place on earth I always felt peace, and the one place on earth I can never really return.
After dessert, we swam in that river, even though it was a little high and a little cold, even for late May. My toes barely touched the sandy bottom, but cousins cannonballed and dove without a care. The floating dock bobbed and bounced under our bare feet as we climbed out and leapt back in again, and laughter echoed in ripples against the live oaks arching overhead.
The cousins remain, scattered across the southeast, now patriarchs or matriarchs in their own right. The dynasty that ruled the castle by the stream is nearly broken; only my mother and I are left, but we've given up our claim.
I've forsaken children, my mother will have no grands, and I know this hurts her. We never really mean to harm those we love, but harm happens anyway.
Pain is dulled, but hurt never really fades.
If I could travel back in time, I'd go back to that day, and live in a place where harm and hurt are distant future concerns.
I'd change things so that I could once more have a seat at the table with the people time has left behind.
Science? or Science Fiction?
QUANTICO, VA. OCT 27, 2022 - Under the Freedom of Information Act, the FBI today released copies of several documents which had been thought lost. These documents were part of Nicolai Tesla’s personal effects, and the papers themselves have been returned to his family and the Tesla Museum in Belgrade, Serbia. Among these documents was an odd communication, written on pages of lined school paper. These pages are, as far as experts can tell, a practical joke. Here is a transcript:
———————————————-
July 12, 1988
My name is Jerryde Willams, but if my plan works it may not matter. Hell, I might even create a paradox that means I won’t exist, but that’s a chance I have to take. The alternatives are just too dangerous.
Let me start at the beginning. I have worked in the FBI’s document offices for the last 25 years, and it wasn’t long after I was hired I found the box of papers.
As a probationary employee, I was often tasked with shit jobs, and the transfer of old financial documents was par for the course. I was working in the archive catacombs below HQ, loading document boxes onto a dolly; it was my job to haul these boxes up to the microfiche room, where the documents inside them would be photographed before they were sent to the burn room for incineration. It was manual labor, and I'd spent weeks shlepping boxes up from the sub-basement.
The last box in the set that day was a little different than the others. The archive tape sealing the other boxes was a dull and faded yellow, but on this one it was darker, almost brown. I turned the box around, and saw the label on the side.
.........[ N. TESLA 10/28/1945 ]........
I was intrigued. Setting the box back on the shelf, I hid it behind some budget boxes from the 1930’s. Little did I know just how fateful that decision would be.
After work, I made my way back down to the storage room where I had been working, and opened the box. Technically, I was breaking the law, but no one cared too much about protecting these old budget and accounting documents, and the security guards never even came down here. I split the tape seal, and inside I found manila file folders, aged and slightly brittle. Some had labels, penned in a spidery script.
Opening one at random, I found pages of hand-written notes and patent-worthy diagrams. I knew almost immediately that I wanted to study these papers in more depth, so that night I began smuggling documents out of the building, knowing it would cost me my job, and possibly my freedom, were I discovered.
It took careful execution; I limited my haul each time to no more than a single folder, or twenty or so loose pages. I got very good at hiding those thin bundles in the back of my pants. Security was pretty lax in those days, and no one ever thought to pat down my ass.
It took me months to complete my larceny, and I finished by tearing up the box itself, and taking the pieces out the same way.
I think it was when I examined the third or fourth set of documents that I realized some of the pages were copies; I recognized the telltale dark mimeograph fluid lines. It actually made me feel better. I wasn’t stealing state secrets or anything, since some of them had been copied, and besides, none of them had been stamped with a security designation.
It was soon after that I found some pages that made me wonder if they were all merely hoaxes. The first was a patent diagram for what was labeled a “Crystalline Mechanism for the Focusing and Controlled Release of High Intensity Electrical Energy.” I remembered reading rumors Tesla had been working on the development of a death ray for the military, and that his notes and research had never been found after his death. If what I was reading was real, then the conspiracy theorists were right; this secret research had been found and copies had been made.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I broke out in a sweat. If these documents were authentic, the powers that be would likely do whatever it took to keep them hidden, including making me disappear.
Secrecy became my mantra. I knew I should destroy the papers, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I had been reviewing Tesla's notes and diagrams for a couple weeks when I found a folder that would change everything. It contained a lengthy research paper titled simply TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT. I sat down and began reading around 7:00 p.m. and when I looked up, thoughts whirling and eyes burning, I realized it was almost 5:00 a.m. The mathematics involved were beyond me, and the electronic and magnetic components were extremely sophisticated and complex, but the descriptions were laid out in a matter-of-fact way that begged for exploration and experimentation.
In order to learn more about the necessary subjects, I enrolled in night school, being careful never to complete any courses of study resulting in degrees or leaving an educational trail. I spent over twenty years learning and studying, and then almost four years gathering components. It took me several months and countless tries, but eventually I was able to open a portal into history, one which allowed me to traverse back and forth.
That was last week.
I started focusing the window around in history, careful to observe only. I was well aware of the proverbial butterfly-effect, and the potential for paradox was mentioned several times in Tesla’s papers. That was when I began to consider the implications of the time machine itself. With dawning horror I realized it was very possible that another copy of the research existed. There was no way I wanted this technology in the hands of anyone with an agenda who might change history irreparably.
So I developed my plan.
I am going to open a portal in Tesla’s hotel room on the day of his death. When I see him become unconscious, I will step in and remove the box containing the plans for the time machine. I intend to destroy all of the documents before they can be found by the government agents who will take possession of his papers.
I know this will create a paradox since I did find that box, but like I said, it’s a risk I am willing to take. If you are reading this note and you aren’t me, then I hope you will at least show it to me, and let me know it worked.
———————————————-
Ed. Note: No record of anyone, living or dead, by the name of Jerryde Willams has been found. The FBI denies ever having employed anyone by this name. They also deny that archived documents have ever been stored in sub-basements of any FBI building. We do know that there are several boxes of Tesla’s research still unaccounted for, but time travel machines seem very much beyond the scope of what even his genius could have developed.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
© 2023 - dustygrein
Old Songs and Other Angels
I am quick to confess
my uncertainty in God.
In lieu of proof
I turn to what is seen, and felt.
The Sun lights my way,
Warms my skin,
And provides sustenance
While offering two visible miracles per day.
What better God could be?
What more should be asked of one?
In the absence of another
It is the sun renders a bearable world.
And when needing an Angel from this other God,
Kay, you shone the brightest in His light.
You are my sunshine,
My only sunshine.
You make me happy…
Fatally flawed
June 25, 2025
This will be my final journal entry.
After decades of research and endless hopeful results that turned into dead ends, tonight, at last, I will fulfill my destiny.
Over the last five and a half decades, my entire professional life, I have been developing the technology for time travel. I have lost so many on this journey, but I’ve always known my perseverance would bear fruit.
When I was a youth, I visited a fair with my parents. I was drawn to the fortune-teller’s tent. As I gave her the requisite nickel, she grabbed my wrist and looked at the palm upon which the nickel lay. She let go as if my skin burned her. She spat and said, “You will do what you are destined to do and I will have to live with that knowledge. Get out!”
I was confused, hurt and more than a little angry at the time. But as I grew older, and found my calling, I remembered her words with delight: I would prevail.
Why does anyone want to go back in time? Perhaps to change a single, personal action one has lived to regret? A vigorous No, I reply. What a waste of such a precious gift! First, the change may but inflict a worse fate. But more importantly, to be able to twist the fabric of existence and slip into the stream of time in order to travel against the current - it cannot be for such an insignificant moment in the history of man. For never doubt, each life that walks upon the Earth is but a grain of sand on a beach…if that.
Perhaps one would wish to meet some great minds of history? That at least has some merit: to learn from those who spent their lives pondering questions that continue to baffle those who still take pleasure in intellectual gymnastics. Socrates? Plato? Aristotle? Da Vinci? Machiavelli? Russell? Or perhaps some well-known historical figure? One might discover if they were really as they have come to be viewed. Christ? Mohammed? Alexander the Great? Attila the Hun? Queen Elizabeth I? Louis XVI? George Washington? Benjamin Franklin? Abraham Lincoln? I do not deny the exhilaration one might feel gaining first hand knowledge of some historical personage, but the gift of time travel would be wasted in such a venture. Change would be limited, personal and, therefore, meaningless.
Chatting with a writer whose works have not yet been erased by the passage of time might be desired. Shakespeare? Cervantes? Tolstoy? Dostoyevsky? Joyce? Lewis? Tolkien? Dickens? Twain? Wells? Verne? Huxley? Orwell? Garcia-Marquez? How to choose? And really, why bother? Do they not all tickle the brain with the words they weave to tell the same stories, depict the same situations, describe the same feelings that have plagued humanity as long as stories have been told?
Or maybe one has a grand altruistic gesture in mind. Perhaps erase the existence of some murdering tyrant, despot, or prolific serial killer? Remove the scourge before it occurs? Hitler, Stalin, Idi Amin, Pol Pot, Mao Zedong, King Leopold II. Elizabeth Bathory, Pedro Lopez, H.H Holmes, Dr. Harold Shipman. Alas, each is but an infinitesimal sliver of evil as viewed through the lens of time. What of all that has never been recorded but was? Or that will be.
This evening, I sent my assistants home revealing neither my breakthrough nor my intentions. If I am successful, it will not matter. I will be no more.
I have reviewed the algorithms multiple times to ensure there are no errors. I’ve programmed the portal with the chain of commands that will send me where I can have the greatest impact.
Before the egg. Before the chicken. Before the bang. I will intercept that which precedes all that is.
And I will suggest a rigorous and detailed review of the design blueprints for humanity, for the existing one is fatally flawed.
Challenge Winner and new CotM!!
Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.
Congrats to our CotM winner for January! Ferryman brought home the bacon with the post titled, 'Kept Secrets.' In the video on our YouTube channel, we feature Ferryman, give a nod to the honorable mention, and go into our new Challenge of the Month.
We'll tag the authors in the comments. And here's the channel link, and our new challenge link.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z5tFQhs8V-8
https://theprose.com/challenge/13700
And...
As always...
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
swing and howl back at the gods
The sun no longer
hides behind
hills
because there are no
more hills
There's only
buildings. One
taller and wider
than the
other
Our parents told us
that this city
is growing, expanding
but as far as we
see
it's only
doing so upwards
We are still
young, still harboring
hopeful visions
that one day
we'll leave
and we talk about
these hopes
while sharing beer
and gin
on the curb overlooking
the park
at 9 PM
“If we don't make it out
soon,” says a friend, “we're
all gonna end up
like her.”
His hand is wrapped around
an opened beer can
and a finger detaches to
point over the low
fence
at a girl who sits
alone on
the swing
We all knew her
thought not
personally
just from sight
She came to the park daily
and stood
by herself,
usually on a swing. Not swinging
though. Just standing
still
Long ago
the adults told us
that she was ill
and everyone should just
leave her alone
We did. And we realized
she was ill
when we heard her
howl like a wolf
at night
as she'd start swinging
in the swing
Apparently she only
did that
when the park was
completely empty
And we could
end up like her if
we didn't
make it out by the
time we grew older
Well, I don't know
what to say.
In all those nights
when she went
up and down
and up and down
in the swing
and howled... she seemed
happy
Meanwhile I've seen
people
in better places than
this city
and they weren't happy
one bit
Perhaps it's all
a matter of
finding the right swinging
motion
and howling back
at the gods
I could see myself
doing that.
I could
see myself
doing
that
every night,
indeed
***
INSTAGRAM:
https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/
***
SOUNDCLOUD:
https://soundcloud.com/user-937736610/swing-and-howl-back-at-the-gods