'I won't forget you,' he says.

And with those few final words, I am gone from his life forever.

But, wait. Let us start again. For this, our story, begins elsewhere.

Benedict Goodnight stands under a key-stoned archway in the cloistered quad of Wallsford Comprehensive and tries not to stare at Sundae Loving. He knows it is not polite to stare. Not that Mistress Loving would notice. Young Master Goodnight does not exist in her world. No more than we exist in his.

But all of that is about to change!

'Are you drooling, Goodnight?'

'Sir?'

'You are. You're positively foaming at the mouth, boy! Are you ill?'

'I'm in love, sir.'

'Love, eh? I wouldn't know the first thing about it. But do carry on.'

That was Benedict's problem. He never had. Carried on, I mean. With anyone. And certainly not with Sundae Loving. His heart was pure, and his thoughts were chaste. She was his Earth and he was her moon. Constantly in orbit. Unable to move away, and equally unable to move any nearer. A satellite love.

'And Goodnight?'

'Sir?'

'Try not to drown in your own saliva.'

Uncommon beauty is commonly overlooked. And while Mistress Sundae could not be considered a classical beauty, her whole was greater than the sum of her parts.

And Master Benedict? He was kind and honest. And the space between his ears was not an empty one. He was neither attractive nor unattractive, but your plain, ordinary, average boy on the street.

This is where I come in. My name is Giacomo Girolamo Casanova. And I happen to know a little something about love.

You will know, already, that I am dead. It happens. People die all the time. But death is not, necessarily, how you might imagine it. A life is not a candle to be snuffed out so easily. Sometimes a small wisp of smoke still lingers.

There are those who can hear me. Those who can see me. And those, though few, who can do both. Ben is one of them. As to whose shadow first crossed whose threshold, I cannot recall. It will suffice to say that we did meet, and were soon good friends.

One night, when he lay in his bed, and I was sitting in a chair by his window, Ben said, 'How do you get a girl to notice you?'

'Clothes,' I said. 'You must dress to impress!'

'Not helpful... Everyone at school wears the same uniform.'

'It is not what you wear,' I told him, 'but how you wear it. A tie is not a noose around your neck. A blazer is not a sack for harvesting vegetables.'

'Ok. What else?'

'Never tuck your shirt inside your underpants. Who taught you to do that?'

'I don't know. It's just something we do.'

'Who is we?' I asked.

'Guys, I guess. Boys?'

'A-ha! Yes! Little boys. Girls do not look at little boys. They cuddle them. They baby them. They bounce them them on their knees. Is that what you want? To be bounced?'

'Well... No.'

'Then you must be a man, and not a little boy. A young man, perhaps. But a man!'

'How do I do that?'

'First, you must think of yourself as a man. To think like a man, you must look like a man. Your hair. Your clothes. We will change everything! Trust me, my friend. You will not believe the difference!'

We began the very next morning. I laid out Ben's uniform while he showered. His body was nothing more, and nothing less, than I expected. Normal. There was nothing un-expected. The usual bits were in the usual places.

'Stand up straight,' I said. 'Do not slouch! Shoulders back! Chest out! Chin up! Now, repeat after me. I am a man!'

'I am a man.'

'You do not sound so sure. Say it. I am a man!'

'I am a man!'

'Better. A penis is not something to be ashamed of. Say it!'

'A penis - '

'No. No. I am a man!'

'I am a man!'

'Good! Get dressed. There is still much to do!'

When Ben was dressed to my satisfaction, I asked him if he was a sheep.

'What? No!'

'So why,' I said, 'do you comb your hair over your eyes? Who are you hiding from? Use your fingers to brush it back from your face. Show the world you are not afraid!'

'You're wearing a wig,' he said.

'It was the fashion when I was alive,' I replied. 'It is not the fashion now.'

'But you still wear it.'

'It suits me to do so. And we are not concerned with my appearance. So, my young friend, what are you?'

'A man?'

'Yes, you are! And do not forget it!'

At Ben's school, I pointed out Mistress Sundae.

'You will walk past her,' I told him. 'You will catch her eye. You will smile. But you will not speak.'

He shook his head. 'I can't.'

'Why not?'

'Her friends are there.'

'So? Are they gorgons to turn a man to stone? Go!'

And to his credit, he went.

He did the same thing the next day. And the next. Every day for a week. And what do you think happened on the Friday afternoon? As Ben was walking out through the school gates? She followed in the dance, of course!

Here is what I heard.

Her. 'Hi.'

Him. 'Hi.'

Her. 'You're Ben, right?'

Him. 'Yeah.'

Her. 'Cool.'

'Do not slow down,' I said. 'Keep walking.'

Mistress Sundae has to skip to keep up.

Her. 'You look different.'

Him. 'Do I?'

Her. 'That's my bus. I have to go.'

Him. 'Ok.'

Her. 'Will I see you Monday?'

Him. 'Sure... Maybe.'

'You were perfect,' I said.

Ben was not convinced. 'I dunno.'

'Wait,' I said. 'You will see.'

Monday morning came. Sundae was waiting at the school gates.

'Hi, Ben!'

'Hi.'

'You're here.'

'Yep.'

'I thought... When you said maybe... But here you are!'

'Here I am.'

'Cool. There's my friend Amy. Come and say hi.'

I never said the conversation was riveting.

On Tuesday they ate lunch together.

On Wednesday they held hands.

On Thursday they kissed.

On Friday they kissed again.

I did not stay to watch. I am not a voyeur.

On Saturday they met in a nearby park.

On Sunday -

Ah... Every day should be a Sundae!

Flavia watched her brother pick up the knucklebone, rolling it around in his palm. They were sitting in the courtyard, kneeling beside a chalk circle. Within the circle were numerous red and yellow marbles, each set spaced differently. Outside the circle, Decimus had about twice as many yellow marbles as she did red, so she watched him with wide, worried eyes.

She wasn't unused to losing at bonedust, but the way he rubbed it in her face always frustrated her. Just once, she wanted to win. He smugly shook the piece in his hand, letting it fall to the ground. "Five."

"How impressive. Maybe you'll have success at more than just rolling the knucklebone," she said politely, her words betraying her tone.

Taking up the knucklebone, she began to shake it in her hand, ignoring the way Decimus glared at her. It was fine, his ego could take a beating. She dropped it, and her lips quirked upwards, satisfied. "Six. It's my turn, actually, but a five is still quite high! Not bad, Deci."

"You're annoying. Just take your turn."

Flavia scooted near her yellow marble and drew a neat, careful shape around it. Her chalk circles were a bit neater than Decimus's, but he was hardly messy. Flavia was fine at drawing them; the issue was with aiming and shooting the marbles. Quietly, she added a few details around the outside of the circle. When she touched the chalk line, the marble shot into her brother's, knocking it and a few others out of the circle. Her eyes lit up and she scooped the won marbles. His demeanor shifted.

"You've been practicing with Khazhde, haven't you?" he asked, eyeing his younger sister. The girl shrugged. She'd been practicing a bit, but not with the help of their servant. Learning natural magic was enjoyable, even if it didn't have the same significance it did for Khazhde. Flavia just enjoyed being thought of and included. "That was impressive."

She blinked in surprise at her brother's praise. "Thank you," she said, smoothing the front of her dress as he went to take his turn. It hit a marble, but not with enough force to knock it out. The practice did prove to be helpful because eventually, she was winning.

"Come right in!" You hear my voice float out the open window of my heart as you approach, and then I appear beside the linen curtains, giving you a welcoming wave. A refreshing breeze blows out the window from the inside, making the gauzy curtains billow a little and the air surrounding my heart smell inviting and slightly sweet, like orchids in May. "I've got the kettle on for tea," I add, and you see me move away from the window toward the door, presumably to meet you as you enter.

From the sidewalk outside my heart, you can see that a golden glow like sunlight brightens the interior. In the same way as the breeze, the light pours through the open window, adding warmth and vibrancy of color to the vicinity. You smile, and glance through the window. In the living room, a tall and well-filled bookcase stands guard over a round, cozy room. An ivy sits atop the bookshelf, green leaves spilling down over the titles. Beside the shelf, a guitar is leaned outside its case against the plush armrest of a sofa, and a few music sheets are strewn across the couch's seat. A small coffee table in the middle of room bears an open journal, an uncapped pen, and a half-drunk glass of water atop a homemade crocheted coaster. Eagerly, you head up the front steps toward the door. Then your head cocks to one side.

Where a brass doorknob should be placed, there is a round head of prickly cactus. Sage green, white tipped, and dangerous-looking, it startles you. "Um," you hesitantly lift your hand to give the door a light rap, and chuckle, "wanna let me in?"

"Oh, it's not locked," you hear me reply. "Make yourself at home." The sound of retreating footsteps follows a water kettle's shrill whistle into the kitchen. You wait a beat, then push on the door. Of course, it doesn't budge. It may not be locked, but it is latched. The doorknob -- the cactus -- is going to need to be turned.

A ginger poke reveals that this cactus is NOT all bite, no bark. Wincing, you cradle your wounded fingertip. "Elle..." you call, and knock again, a bit harder this time. "Would you mind opening it up for me?"

"Why?" I sound bemused, unworried, distracted by my tea-making. "It's open."

"It's not... open. It's, I can't..." You sigh. "Is this the only way in?"

"Yes." My voice has quieted to a more serious tone, almost watchful. Waiting. My heart holds its breath. What are you going to do?

"Okay..." you say softly. You're not walking away. You're wrapping your hand around that cactus-head, and turning it. Then, as the door swings in, your sparkling eyes are laughing down at me. "I gotta get you a new doorknob," you comment.

I burst out laughing. "Please do. I trust you to pick out a good one. I might still need some help getting the old one off, though."

A gathering of Proser is a concept that brings Reaper much gladness. Especially after the recent resurgence of a challenges depicting a gathering in the proseverse. (Reaper’s all time favorite proseverse story was the Prose University though Reaper can’t recall who wrote it. It was several years ago) As IRL meetings often go Reaper is sure that there will be the typical “Wow your actually really cute!” Or “I thought you were taller,” or “Ha ha! Figures you would wear that shirt, that’s just like you!” “Your voice is different than I imagined,” “ I always thought you were an old man!?” And so on.

As Reaper has spent a good number of years on Prose one thing that Reaper values more about Prose than any other online community it that it actually feels like just that, a community. If you have ever been anywhere on the internet then you are well aware that many online areas are places where people tear each other down without reason. Engage in vicious arguments with no purpose, and take free shots at vulnerable individuals then flee back into cyber space. Its ugly, it’s discouraging, it’s relentless and disgusting, it is cowardly, its insensitive, inconsiderate, judgmental, and the list goes on and on. This degenerate image is what typically comes to mind when people think of an online community and if you have been on Prose more than 5min you’d see that it is the opposite of that.

Here we share some of our most vulnerable thoughts and deepest desires. We share our aspirations dreams and goals. We discuss our brightest ideas, or must outlandish in some cases and trust each other with our babies. We collaborate with people with nothing to gain but perhaps a kind word and a smile we’ll never see. We lift each other up for no other reason than because we want to. We engage in fierce competition with one another then afterwards hold hands singing the praises of the victor with an earnestness that‘s near otherworldly.

In all Reaper’s time as a proser Reaper can only recall one semi heated argument (maybe a 4 out of 10) That Reaper and a fellow senior proser squashed before it got out of hand. But all and all Prose has been the epitome of what a positive community should be. So if we were to come together in person along with the typical IRL shock Reaper is sure there will be lots of long overdue hugging and smiling. Lots of squeals of excitement. A lot of congratulations and pats on the back. There would be heartfelt thank you’s for those who believed or reached out when no one else did. There will be tears Reaper is sure. Lots of overwhelming emotions from feelings that could not be conveyed from behind a screen. There would be laughing from inside jokes and outside jokes alike. There would likely be someone offering to by drinks for all their buddies anteing up from a long forgotten bet. There would be many eager to hear the latest story be it fact fiction or update from a previous situation. There would be the excitement of promising new collaborations budding and brewing from the sea of gathered creative’s. And there would be joy because for a lot of us we have such a strong connection that it feels more like reuniting with family after a long time than it does a 1st meeting.

If someone out their more intelligent, patient, and organized than Reaper ever wants to make this a real thing Reaper is all for it! Reaper can be anywhere at almost any time but one of his absolute favorite places to be is right here with all of you! Cheers to you all wherever you are and wherever and whenever we should meet!

Are you struggling to find the right words to say? Do you have a tough time discerning connotation or denotation? Diction can be taxing – never mind grammar and syntax. With R.E. Feiner, it’s easy! R.E. will let you know when you’re not making any damn sense. It’s like your own personal human thesaurus and Chat GPT in one, without the worry that AI might all kill us one day!

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Side effects may include:

• nausea

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• dissociation

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• hair loss

• burnout

• bibliophilia

• disillusionment

• neck/butt pain

• sensory overload

• feelings of rejection

• constant defensiveness

• selective hearing

• excessive eye-rolling

• anger management issues

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Say what you mean and mean what you say, or you’ll never hear the end of it! – R.E. Feiner

Caution slippery when wet.

It is not what it sounds like. One might find themselves following that disclaimer expecting a provocative end but then you would be disappointed. But now that I have your attention maybe stay and see where we end up.

I have been referred to as a walking, talking oxymoron. I am a liberal conservative. I’m a fire fighter scared of heights. A gay that is too straight to associate with the LGBTQRSTUV community. A feminist surrounded by men. An extroverted introvert. I dream of living in the mountains but hate being cold. A mom that appears and fulfills the role of dad. Dressed in cowboy boots with my wranglers all day, and then slacks and suspenders for a nice dinner and musical after.

My Christmas list consists of DeWalt tool bundles with a nice new pair of oven mitts. I’ll pour your concrete patio and then pour batter for your cake. My Pandora list can shuffle from Frank Sinatra to The Offspring, and I wouldn’t miss a beat. There is more to me than meets the eye. I am deeper than the depths of the ocean and more versatile than a Swiss army knife. Superficially stable with a storm of emotions raging inside. So, if you get close enough you just might find the slippery slope that truly leads to me.

I veer in and out of conversation....a lot. I have friends that have said they need Ritalin just to follow me. Give me a topic and I will cover it but I can and more than likely will get a wild hare and up and branch off into something else or multiple things. I also snort...not coke nor any other illegal substance....but when I start laughing...there's going to be that awkward snort of laughter. I like to think I provide clever insight and anecdotes with a genteel laugh.....in reality, it is talking perhaps too much and too fast, and a donkey girl scout laugh.

Once upon a time, in a world much like our own, there lived a creature both ancient and mysterious. It had been alive for aeons, and its origins were unknown, but it was imbued with powers that made it seem almost magical. It had the ability to transform into many different forms, though it had never taken the shape of a human.

One day, the creature was curious enough to try it. It had heard tales from humans about the wonders of living in a human body, and it was eager to experience them. So it shifted, and suddenly it was a human.

The creature had never seen anything like it. The sensations it felt in its human body were completely new. It marvelled at the strength and agility the body possessed, and the new ways it could interact with the world.

But the creature soon realized that living in a human body was not without its challenges. It was vulnerable in ways it had never been before and had to learn to adapt to its new form quickly. It was especially disconcerting to be in a world that had no understanding of the paranormal or supernatural.

The creature persevered, however, and eventually, it learned to use its newfound form to its advantage. It blended in with the humans and used its special abilities to help those in need. Over time, it came to understand the beauty of humanity and the power of its own transformation.

The creature's transformation was a remarkable one, and it will never forget the journey it took to become a human. It was an adventure that changed its life forever, and it will continue to take it its own way.

Once upon a time, in the realm of language and creativity, there existed a young and ambitious writer named Sophia. She possessed an unparalleled love for words and the power they held to shape worlds and captivate minds. Sophia was a true wordsmith, someone who possessed a deep understanding and mastery of the art of writing.

To Sophia, being a wordsmith meant more than just stringing words together to form coherent sentences. It was a magical craft that allowed her to breathe life into her imagination, to create entire universes with the flick of her pen. She saw herself as a conduit, a vessel through which stories flowed, waiting to be told to those willing to listen.

For Sophia, being a wordsmith was a calling. It was a constant quest to find the perfect arrangement of words, to craft sentences that resonated with readers on a profound level. It was about choosing the right words to evoke emotions, to paint vivid pictures in the minds of her audience, and to leave a lasting impact.

She saw herself as a custodian of the written word, entrusted with the responsibility of preserving the beauty and power of language. Sophia believed that words had the ability to heal, inspire, and transform. She used her talent not only to entertain but also to provoke thought and ignite change.

As a wordsmith, Sophia dedicated herself to honing her skills. She immersed herself in literature, studying the works of renowned authors, and dissecting their techniques. She never ceased learning and growing, forever seeking to expand her vocabulary and refine her craft.

But being a wordsmith was not without its challenges. There were moments when Sophia faced writer's block, when the words seemed elusive and inspiration waned. Yet, even during those difficult times, she persisted. She understood that creativity ebbed and flowed like the tides, and it was her job to ride the waves and continue to write, even when the muse seemed distant.

Ultimately, being a wordsmith was about connecting with others. Sophia believed that words had the power to bridge gaps, to foster understanding and empathy. Through her stories, she aimed to touch hearts, to make people feel seen and heard. She yearned to create a sense of community, where readers could find solace and companionship within the pages of her books.

In the end, Sophia realized that being a wordsmith was not just a description of her profession, but a part of her very essence. It was the core of who she was—a writer with a passion for language, a dedication to her craft, and a desire to leave a lasting legacy through the beauty of words. Sophia, the wordsmith, would forever strive to create stories that would stand the test of time and touch the souls of those who ventured into her world.