"But I don't want to get off the bed."

"Of course you do. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Then how come you're hiding?"

"It's so much fun to surprise little kids when they try to go to sleep."

"Fun for who?"

"For everyone."

"Well, I'm not having fun. I think you're mean and nasty trying to trick me."

"I'm not trying to trick you. You know exactly what I am."

"Mom and Dad say you're not even real. They never see you when they look under the bed."

"But you don't believe them - how naughty of you."

"I'm not naughty!"

"Then prove it. Just slide down off the bed and put your feet on the floor. I won't do anything you're not expecting."

"Uh, uh. I can already hear your teeth crunching."

"Then put a single toe down - test to see if I'm really here."

"I could call my mother."

"She'll never find me."

"But I'll be safe."

"What a foolish little boy you are. I'm as real as you believe I am. It has nothing to do with her. Try it - one toe."

"I've got my flashlight."

"By all means use it."

"Hmm, I don't see you."

"Then put the toe down."

"Okay, here goes. There . . . ACK -- MOM!!"

-----------

"Honey, did you hear anything?"

"Probably just Billy fussing about that foolish monster. Leave him alone, and he'll get over it. You'll see."

(c) 2017 Miriam Ruff

#horror #prose #challenge

       My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time.

       I was born in Hittisleigh, a small run down town in Devonshire, England. 1689 was known for its cold beginning, and one January night was colder than the rest. Winds were wild outside as my mother screamed in pain, my father at her side. My two older brothers sat in the other room, waiting to be called upon to meet me. When I was finally delivered, my mother wept as she held me. Her name was Elizabeth, my father called Stephen. A single look at my frail body wrapped in wool and my parents chose the name that would one day be placed on my tombstone. From then on, I was named Samuel Bellamy.

       At first it seemed like life would continue in a positive way, but not long after my birth, my mother became ill. Her body could no longer produce milk for me, her arms becoming too weak to carry me. Eventually, her heart gave out and she passed in her sleep. After that, my father turned to whiskey and rum to subdue his emotions. My eldest brother Eric, no older than ten at the time, had to take on a lot more responsibilities than any child should be asked of. My father was in no shape to raise me, so Eric did it instead.

       He would milk the neighbor's Jersey cow and pour it into a leather pouch, putting a slit in the bottom and cover it with linen to create a barrier for my tiny lips to wrap around. He dressed me in his old clothes, too large for my infant body but still better than shivering through the nights with nothing. My other brother, Adam, was merely two years older than myself but still helped out as best he could. He would talk to the cow about how big I was getting, how helpful the cow was being after mommy had gone to a better place. He even held me a couple times while I drank, telling me that he would protect me from anything evil. At least, that were the stories told to me.

       My first memory was the summer of 1693 after Eric met a pretty girl named Amanda who was 15, a year older than him, a few towns over. He and our father were talking about marriage, and of course our father disapproved. He had a bottle of whiskey in his left hand, his right holding Eric’s shoulder either for support or to keep him from walking away. With a swig of his drink, our father looked straight into Eric’s eyes while the eldest stared right back.

       “You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’ll let you marry.” His breath must have smelt like liquor when he spoke, for when he did, Eric’s face convulsed in visible disgust. He brushed his father’s hand off his shoulder before responding, a thing we rarely did while our father was drunk.

       After clearing his throat, he once again met his father’s gaze. “It’s my life, you can’t control it.” A flash of movement happened and our father’s hands were gripping Eric’s collar hard, tightening it around his neck in an uncomfortable way. I felt the urge to intervene, but I knew I would merely get hurt in the process. With fear in my body, I just watched the fight take its course.

      Through clenched teeth, our father gave his reply; “I helped bring you into this world, don’t make me take you back out.” He watched Eric very closely, expecting a very specific response from his eldest son.

       “But-” Another flash and Eric was pinned up against the room wall, his pain shown through his expressions as our father held him there firmly.

       The limited control our father had over his drunken anger finally stopped, and his voice became a thunder directed toward Eric’s face a mere inches away from his. “Do I make myself clear boy?”

       “Yes sir.” Eric’s mumble was barely audible, but it was enough for our father to restrain himself and back away, releasing Eric from the wall. Eric felt his father’s grasp disappear from the collar of his shirt, and corrected the shirt’s position on his body before walking away. He strode with granite features masking his face, a brisk movement in his steps as he went to his room. From then on, our eldest brother rarely spoke to our father. When he did, it was always a “Yes sir,” or a “Right away, sir.” It was like the flame within Eric had been snuffed out, but in reality the fight had ignited an inferno.

       A month after the fight, I had awoken in the middle of the night to the sounds of glass smashing and wood splintering. Wiping my eyes from sleep, I descended the steps of our home to find Adam at the base, staring at our father in disbelief. He had thrown bottles of whiskey around the room, shattering them against the walls and floor. The table that used to sit next to a window was now mere planks of scattered wood throughout the entire house. In the middle of the entire mess sat our father on his knees, a single bottle of rum in his hands, still intact. Beside him laid a perfect piece of parchment, somehow unharmed by the destruction our father had caused. Taking a few steps closer, I noticed it was a letter. A letter addressed to me. Adam must have noticed too, for he crossed towards it through the sea of broken glass lying upon the floor. While wincing in pain, he leaned over and picked up the letter, adamant about not disturbing our father. Once back beside me, he placed the letter in my hands and went to his room, biting back screams of pain with every step he took. For a second I just stared at the letter, wondering what it had said.

       Then my legs began to work again, and I walked towards my room in a sluggish manner. Once on my bed, I scanned the parchment for anything I could make out. Eric, like he did with my other brother when Adam was four, was teaching me how to read. Sadly, I had only learned the alphabet and a few basic words. On the page I saw my name, Samuel Bellamy, written at the top. I could also make out a few scattered words like had to go and goodbye. Frustrated with how little I knew, I decided to hide the letter until I could read better. I removed a board in my bedroom floor that was loose from age. Inside, a small space could be reached. I folded the letter with timidness before placing it within the floor, then replaced the board back to its original position. I told myself I would return to the letter when I could, but for now its mysteries were left alone.

       I could no longer feel the beckoning of sleep. Instead, I dressed myself and went down to Adam’s room. He was sitting on his bed wrapping his foot in linen, the glass that was once piercing his skin now on the floor speckled with blood. “I can’t sleep,” I told him as he looked up at me, noticing the awareness in my face. He nodded once and got dressed, then we both left our home through his window. We traveled down the street to the river, oil lamp posts flickering as they illuminated the cobble streets. The moon and stars shone above us, a cloudless night filled with a soft mid-summer breeze. The calm warmth lowered my alertness, and soon we were lying next to the river, looking at the moon through the ripples of water made by the fish under the surface.

       “I want to see the world Samuel,” Adam said as he turned to me, a look of excitement and the hint of an inferno that was found in Eric. “I want to sail the ocean and be a captain. That’s my dream.”

       I looked at him, trying to think of a good response for my older brother. “Will you take me?” I smiled as he laughed at me, his eyes closing and his feet kicking the ground lightly.

       “Yeah, you can come along. I’m captain though.” he said with a small grin.

       “Promise?” I looked at him, the seriousness and hope in my face clear for him to see. He sat up, looked me in the eyes, and swore an oath to me that our dream would one day come true.

       “I promise, Sam.”

                                                    To Be Continued...

Title: The Prince of Pirates

Genre: Historical Fiction, Science Fiction

Age range: 16 - 45

Target audience: North America, Central America, Europe

Word count: 1111

Author's name: Jefferson House

Synopsis: "My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time." After losing his mother at birth, Samuel Bellamy is set on a path in his life that no one could predict. Filled with loss, blame, and a beloved to return to, Samuel must face the test of time in order to return home.

Somehow, it’s already Friday. This is a beautiful thing, as it means we get to hear all about another Proser in our Friday Feature. This week we have one of the most prolific Prosers on here, known and loved by many of the lovely community we have on here. You probably know her as Soulhearts, but you're about to learn much more about her!

P: What is your given name and your Proser username?

S: Soulhearts is the name I have used on all my social media. I was one of those folks that did not trust the internet when I first learned to use it (maybe that was 6-7 yrs ago) haha, don't judge. I can honestly say I am not from the techie generation. I never really divulged my real name and wanted to hide behind a pen name so the name Soulhearts stuck. But because Prose feels like family, I shall break my anonymity and introduce myself. My name is Madilyn De Leon and it's nice to meet you all.

P: Hey, Madilyn! Where do you live?

S: I live in a little corner of a country called USA , a city called Burke in the state of Virginia.

I know we have some Prosers from Virginia so ‘Hello’ to you guys! #represent

P: What is your occupation?

S: I am a stress absorber. I tenaciously bear all the stress I receive from spoiled and entitled customers everyday. Lol! Can you guess the occupation yet? If you guessed retail then you are right. I am a manager in retail for quite some time now and thus have witnessed all the blemished facets of people you wouldn't want to see. I am not complaining though. I like what I do, I just don't agree to the adage "the customer is always right" because most of the time they are not. Sshhhh! This is a secret ok? I don't want to get fired for saying this hahaha. Seriously, customers need to treat retail workers with more kindness and respect. Like the way you yourself expect to be treated.

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?

S: Can I say writing is a twin that I cannot be apart from? A conjoined twin attached to my hip, heart, mind and soul. Sometimes it's like a shadow that disappears at night only to come back in the morning. I loved reading when I was younger. Started at elementary with the Golden books, Enid Blyton, Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, then on my teens with Sweet Dreams, Silhouette and Harlequin Romances. Lol. :) So eventually in High School I was exposed to literature and fell in love with Poetry. Loved the works of the great classics like Shakespeare, Eliot, the Browning's, Burns, Frost, Dickinson to name a few. So from my love of reading, I guess is where my love for writing flowed from. Unlike most of you my dear Prosers, I have not written anything in my life besides maybe a couple of assignments needed for English class back in high school. My writing adventure started around three or four year ago on an app called Heyku (name changed to Ku soon after) I saw it being promoted on Facebook and the name Heyku got me interested because I loved the poetic form Haiku. So I tried it and became one of the pioneers of that app. It was an app where you can only write three lines with a limited word count. Not restricted to writing just Haiku though, the format just looks like it's Haiku because of the three lines. That was where I started religiously writing and posting three lines every day. It was a very friendly community. So very much like Prose. I've met so many wonderful and talented writers there. Some of them are now Prosers too. Their encouragements and precious feedbacks has made my pen more confident through the years. I wrote at first not for anything else but to help me cope with what I was going through at that time. 

Now it seems like my writing has a bigger purpose. I always felt so out of place and overwhelmed with the talent I see around me. After all I do not have a degree in writing nor am I an author. But the universe is slowly letting me feel that yes, I can write and that I can inspire others through it. I am proud to say that my Three Lines has made its way in print to Grace Black's Light Lines anthology book for Three Line Thursday, a micro poetry at Into The Void Magazine's 2nd issue, and a poem in another poetry anthology book titled Luminous Echoes. Indulge me in these for these are great achievements for this little fish lost, swimming in a big ocean of words. It's still surreal to see my work in print until now. I only have gratefulness in my heart for the people who saw something good enough in my writing to put it in print.

P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?

S: Reading I think is like salt to a meal. Without reading a person becomes hollow (personal opinion) the meal would be tasteless, bland. Reading brings you to places you have not even seen nor imagined, it lets you experience life in the perspective of other cultures and philosophies. It cultivates a better understanding of people and the world because you expand your horizon and learn to empathize in the process. Reading feeds the brain and makes one a well-rounded individual.

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?

S: I could not say that I have a current literary venture, but who knows? Maybe someday a poetry book of my own. Something I have never really considered or imagined until now. As for my future posts, I shall continue to listen to my pen and let it steer the direction of my writing. My posts will still be mostly micro poetry. This is what I love and what I think do best.

P: What do you love about Prose?

S: What's there not to love? Prose is a haven of ridiculously talented individuals. Not just talented but kind hearted individuals. The community is very supportive. It is a conducive environment for anyone who wants to read, write and or get better at writing. There is something for everyone. You like Fiction? You got it. Poetry? Horror? Erotica? Haiku? Follow the portals you love to get the content you want to see on your stream. I also love how this app has a vision. It is continuously evolving and trying to get better. The team is very responsive to any issue. I was lost when Ku discontinued. Now I am happy to have found a home in Prose!

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?

S: It's hard to recommend just one because there are so many great books out there. But because I have to choose one then "The Prophet" by Kahlil Gibran is a book that I always carry with me. Not carry in my purse ok? Lol but like E.E. Cummings Poem "I Carry Your Heart With Me" it is always in my heart.

P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?

S: If there was a person who made me think that I could write was an English teacher back when I was a junior in high school. She praised my work in front of class. It felt good and it was something that I have never forgotten. I titled that piece "A Rainy Day". It was a short poem about the rain that included frogs, the wind, trees... until now, nature is still very evident in my work. I am alone in this reading and writing life. Not one in my family has the same interest. No one can relate to what I do. So I'm thankful I have Prose, here I find kindred souls.

P: Describe yourself in three words!

S: Passionate, Sincere, and Adventurous. I asked friends to describe me and common answers were Bubbly, Creative and Kind.

P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?

S: Here's a few lines regarding love in Gibran's The Prophet, Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; for love is sufficient unto love. When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, "I am in the heart of God." Try to read at least what the book say about love. It is truly beautiful.

P: What is your favourite music, and do you write or read to it?

S: I don't really have a favorite music to read or write to. This doesn't mean I don't like music though. I actually love to sing. I write best when it is quiet. Writing for me is meditative. I need silence to push my pen to bleed. Some favorite songs of mine are Stevie Nick's Landslide (i'm getting old, sentimental) when I hear this. Lynyrd Skynyrd's Freebird takes me to the sky with its killer instrumental/ guitar playing, makes me head bang! Hahaha! I am dizzy after every time.

P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?

S: Come let's ride this time machine back and change the past, find out why the books are all gone.

It will be a sad world without books, without libraries, without shelfies.

P: Do you have a favourite place to read and write?

S: It would be my room because that is where I usually spend time after all the hustle and bustle of daily life, I write when everything else is still and quiet.

P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about your social media accounts?

S: Follow me on Twitter and Instagram. I am also on Lettrs. Forgive me if I don't reply to friend requests on Facebook. You can always message me here or on Twitter and IG. ❤

What a marvellous interview with the lovely Soulhearts. We feel good. Do you feel good? So now you know the drill. Follow. Like. Comment. Love. Do it all and get in touch with us in the usual ways should you wish to take part or want to nominate someone you’d like to see featured here.

And then I felt my soul crumble...

The pain was worse than the shatter of my heart.

Because I had given up my worth to be loved by the worthless.

I had ignored the truth because being alone scared me too much.

My mind had become my only home but now my thoughts are giving me an eviction notice.

They're tired of you, I'm tired of missing you.

But now the only way I can sleep, is by accepting that I rather love someone I can no longer have

than have someone I can no longer love.#TakeCare