I guess you could say the fuse blew one say, and in the dark, I gave up trying to find a light. I feel as though I'm different. There is no light anymore, except the occasional flickers inspired by someone I loved once. Maybe I still do, so I hit against flint hoping for something more than sparks. I rarely get flames anymore. Nothing ignites me. Nothing makes the connection. The final element is missing. Maybe I am so used to depending on someone to pour gasoline and make me try again, but that time has long passed. No one has the money to waste on me. No one wants to try with me anymore. why would they? I broke the biggest promise I'd made during my first bad mental break. I remember looking in a dark mirror and promising myself I would never be in that place again. But, now when I see myself in the mirror, I see a monster, and I think I've just accepted that she's here to stay.

Edit (#2)

At the corner of 5th Street, and Mayberry, an old man had become quite visibly unglued. The old man was stationed beneath a tree near the cemetery. He was babbling incoherently, and smiling, and frowning respectively, with a wild look in his eye that was directed at no one in particular. Frightened nightwalkers who were stumbling home from the bars glanced back it him in horror, and disgust while he continued to scream out at the dark sky. Spittle ran down his chin, as he never seemed to tire from proclaiming his senseless sermon that no one seemed interested in. The old man reeked of urine, and feces and death. They did not understand his disturbing gestures he was making in his stained black tailored coat. His arm movements were so striking that they seemed to physically mimick Hitler from old war videos, except there was almost a transcendental logic to what he was doing, as if he was restating an ancient rite, or trying to illustrate some symbol of what was to come.

“I see it...It’s got a holds of us now!...The folding fragile figment maitre d in full frontal! FGGHHFug Phil, and the mob he rode in on! Fuck this fan mail mob Mekons, and the side huss jip job when Darrin Dorry was Christ...but now he come full out and fuck figgy!!! Moon mother of my own! Bastard piss blow-hard, hard-hat, semi-costal CCCCIIIGGG!!! Gold as is when it wear me to come out, and try to psyche-blows ’em! No we need to psyche-blows ’em just to make a mirror mole soul taste so we can slip, and relate and reggggggggurrrrritate their piss plastic seal! The Seal is a wand, and what we’res deal wits I tells you, and I know just what what what I...OOOO...you!! Oh, no, you, YOU, YOU, YOU, YOU!!!...I seen Hugh Hop on film and all the crust you can eat at Country gob Kitchen....it’s a real Dandy Darem yarn you hung got, and you would know now and now and now and NOW and NOW and NOW and first and thirst thirty thong type of thought or not theroy....”

*

Chris Potts was out pleasurably wandering on foot, and enjoying the rare qualities of the haunted midnight hour in Nectanebo City. He loved to walk the streets loaded on grass, and do his routine stop by the 5th Street graveyard on his tour through Nectanebo’s furthest reaches. This had been his hometown for thirty years, and he felt like he knew many of it’s dark secrets. He knew about the tunnels under the streets that a supposed secret society traversed at odd hours. He had a feeling he could enter them through Neheb Park, but there really was no need. Tonight was more of just an appreciation of the cities occult aura from a distance of observation sort of deal.

The city seemed surpisedly different at this time of night. It had more bite, and electricity which could spring from any vacant corner at any given time unexpectedly. Chris had his wits about him the best at this time! He became alive, and longed for the discovery of abandoned and haunted recesses that other folks would disregard with a calloused shrug. He came upon the graveyard after crossing the street, and passed the rusted gates in a hurry, so he wouldn’t be seen by the passing cars. Holding his breath, he paused for a minute, hearing a car door slam. When it was silent, he ran past a line of graves, up the hill so he could better view the full moon in all of her preternatural glory. There she was! So terrific, and big as a house! It must have been harvest time, because that moon took up half the sky. It was pale as a polished skull though, which was different then other harvest moons he had witnessed.

Chris could see into every crater, and so he took some time just admiring the beauty and grace of the haunted moon. He then glanced over absently at the shed at the edge of the graveyard, where a fence was seperating the cemetery from a person’s house. A ladder lay against the house, presumbly abandoned after a long day of work outside.

Chris wondered if it would be depressing to live beside the cemetery, or if it would make you more appreciative of your fragile life. He studied the house, with a few lights on still waiting to be switched, and admired the houses’ back garden that gazed out upon the cemetery through the chain-link fence. It sounded, from where Chris was still observing, like someone was in the bathroom, and running water. After another few lingering moments the light went out, and now there was only one light at the back of the house. Absently, Chris unbottoned his shirt pocket, and removed the rolled up Marijuana cigarette from it’s hiding place. Popping it in his mouth, he cupped his hands around the flame. He inhaled the pungent smoke, turning his head back to the arresting moon that robbed him of any other desire but of praise.

In the distance, to the right of the hill he had mounted, Chris could hear a scratching sound building, and rising from some spot in the graveyard that he could not see. It would stop, and then pick up again, within a couple second intervals. The wind picked up a bit, and chilled his back a little. There were ancient trees surrounding him like inquistive monks, popping up amongst all the countless row of graves. Chris thought maybe he would continue his trek around the city, but he was a little apprehensive of the sound he was hearing further down the hill. Crushing his joint out, he decided to chance the exit, and started his descent towards the entrance of the cemetery that led to the street that was dead quiet at this time. On his way to the exit, Chris spied a hill of white in the direction where the scratching sound had issued from. When he approached the naked white figure, he saw that it was a naked woman covered in blood, and dirt. She was laying on the soil near an open grave. The bloodied woman seemed to be in a altered state of some kind. Still unaware of Chris, she was shaking while she lifted clumps of dirt to the sky, and dropped them over her naked breasts in ecstatic movements that seemed to make her smile while the fresh blood on her lips poured down her face. She was quite beautiful, and her serpentine eyes flashed in the night, while Chris watched totally enthralled. He had no idea where this woman had sprung from, but this was indeed a very strange night to behold!

(To be continued...)

Photographer: Seth Brandenburg

Model: Stephanie Cary

©

2018

Bunny Villaire

Somebody once told me their least favorite feeling was waking up and not knowing where they were. At the time, I agreed with her. I could see her face clearly, too: she had graying blonde hair and deep brown eyes, but she did not have a name.

But now I’d have to say that it might be worse to wake up and not know who you are.

I don’t really know what woke me up and I don’t really know what knocked me out. The room was dark and the only sounds came from the street below. I couldn’t see it—I was too high up, I think—and the curtains were drawn halfway, just blocking the view. The room was lit only by the shine of the moon, a kind of faint shimmer that muffled the room and wrapped around every corner. It was a delicate kind of light, nothing like the sun at high noon with its hard-thrown shadows and harsh sting. I wanted to fall into the soft light, but I was cuffed to the bed.

The cuffs were grounding, in a way. The bite of cold metal and irritated skin cleared my head, which was throbbing. I was definitely in a hospital. The smell of bleach and cleaners only covered so much of the soupy sickness in the air. My eyes felt sticky and the roof of my mouth was dry and tasted vaguely of pistachios.

The only sound I could make out was the scuffling of shoes down a near-empty tiled hallway, the nightly news on a TV down the hall, and exasperated whispering right outside.

My own coughing cracked the silence like lightning on a quiet summer night and a man came running into the room.

“Oh my god, you’re awake.” He reached for me and I flinched violently before I could register my own emotions. A strangled “No,” escaped me.

I knew very little right now.

I knew I was in a hospital, at night. I knew my head hurt. I knew my mouth tasted like pistachios. I knew I was cuffed to a stiff bed. I knew that there was a man by my side. I knew that I didn’t want him to touch me.

There was a woman... or a man... who once fought for justice, but, just as often, ran from it. They experienced a lot throughout their both long and short life. They'd had money, and then they didn't any longer. They were happy, but the rain clouds came and brought sadness with them. They liked dogs one minute, cats the next, and, before you knew it, they didn't like either of them, because of allergies--weird, adult-onset allergies.

Anyway, they were politically-engaged, but they were also apathetic most of the time. If it wasn't the cold or heat, it *was* the humidity. Their family meant the world to them, except when they were mad at them or had been wronged in tragic fashion.

And they never removed their mattress tag when they had access to a mattress. The End.

I've spent enough time reading Prose to know what gets the likes, sadly it's not my forte as a writer.

Sex is a stupid activity if you analyse it, you can dress it up in fancy words but really; that goes in there, wiggles around a bit and its done. Some of these stories! Well, two hours! You could have gone to Leeds by British Rail in that time! Oh and the one thats based in an office, what? The phone never rings? The cleaners don't come in( 'just move over sir and I'll vacuum round you, my shift ends in half an hour, can't stand here for two hours waiting for you to finish going up and down' ), modern office furniture isn't built to take the weight of two people doing that! No Cctv in place?

I'll concede sex is an important part of life and with the right person( or people) fun, but to write or read about it? Personally I'd rather watch paint dry.

As for teenage angst, I'm old enough to know that "secret we cannot tell the young" which is -- don't look if you are under 21 -- Once upon a time your parents were teenagers and yes they do know what you are up to, as most proberly they did it.

Worse still parents still have sex, they proberly have a better sex life than you do. Those people that go to BDSM play parties? Swingers groups( they still exist I had to google it) they are parents, maybe yours. And the real killer, you are going to turn into your parents one day, Oh, you say you won't, you'll try hard, you'll be different, but one day looking in the mirror you'll see a little bit, maybe a mannerism, a wrinkle, may be its just a word you used, its started. When I read the teenage whines I'm terrible tempted to say 'just you wait it gets worse', but I don't because I can remember what it was like.

Then failure, why the big deal? We all do it, how many novels have you left unfinished? How many poems have been thrown out? How many times have you said not doing that again and then did?

If you haven't failed you haven't lived, get over it!

If any of this resonates with you, clicky the little heart thing then:-

GO WRITE YOUR OWN NOVEL

It’s a perfect cold day. Perfect because I will be starting my day going to the bookstore I seen last week when I moved here. I get to see the beauty the city is in winter, I get to absorb it all in and the best thing, I don’t have to share. It seems my love for winter is rare. But it’ll start with a new book, then I’ll go home make some hot chocolate, sit by my window that is cracked open, wrapped in my big mink blanket and reading a new book. I stop to take a few photos of flowers, trees, a duck and her ducklings, anything that catches my eyes really.

There it is ‘Raven’s Corner’, it’s cute and rustic. I smile and walk in. I have issues with speaking confidently so I always carry a pen and notebook. I walk to the counter, no one is there but that’s ok I can wait. I write down ‘hello I would like a book that you recommend that has Strong female leads please.’ And I draw a smiley face on there as well.

I look around it’s actually really quite there is one customer that isn’t me, but that’s normal no one appreciates books anymore. I roll my eyes t my own thought and go looking for someone who works here. I see some movements through a few shelves and as I walk around the corner I see this beautiful woman dancing with her headphones in. I step back out of sight just to watch for a while. She moves with happiness and confidence. I lean onto the shelf but my hand slips and I fall knocking a few books off the shelf, causing her to turn around in shock.

“Oh, my gosh are you ok?” She asks as she races over to help me up. I’m ok physically but I’m so embarrassed and I hi to run but she grabs my hand and says “please don’t go.” For some reason her soft velvety voice was calming and I stayed. I slowly turn to look at her and with a bright red face I smile shyly And wave.

I bite my lip and grab my notebook and start writing. Once I’m done I look up and she’s looking at me confused and I sigh and just hand her the note. It reads ‘I’m sorry for the mess I’ll clean it and pay for any damages.’ I’m already picking up the books by the time she had finished the note. “Don’t worry about it sugar. If you know how many times I have knocked books off the shelf you would question why I even own this place.” She laughs this beautiful laugh and I can’t help but laugh with her. “Why don’t you talk?” I freeze and ignore the question and put the books on the shelf.

I turn the page back to the first question I wanted to ask and smile politely. She sends a small smile back and reads it, she looks back at me and smirks “you can always read me” I laugh because that’s funny I shake my head no and point to the books to say I want a book book. “Try Fried Green Tomatoes. It was just a great book, I cried like a little kid, it just has so many women that struggled with life, men and time and racism... The story goes like through 70 years... You would have to read to understand.” The way she explained it was just beautiful and heartfelt. I will read it and cherish it.

“Th.th.thank you,” I say quietly “I’m Raven,” I say with a smug smile. Her eyes open wide a little and I hold my hand out, she takes it “I’m Lucy, Lucy Raven.” I giggle at the coincidence. I take my notebook back and start to write but Lucy places her hands on top so I would stop. I look at her confused and she shakes her head “please don’t. You have a beautiful voice, you should let people hear it. You can start with just me hearing it. I don’t know what made you stop using your voice but please don’t let it continue holding you back.” I bite my lip nervously and nod my head “do you want to be my friend? I’m new to town and besides this being named after me I have I am meant to be here. You and I were meant to meet.” I blush and am shocked with myself for speaking so much. Lucy smiles wide and says “please, I would love to be your friend.”

My day changed course, it wasn’t the perfect I had planned but it turned out to be a better perfect. I gained a friend and over the course of our friendship I gained more confidence, I learnt to speak more she even helped me with dating issues. Lucy and I are great friends and I hope we stay that way.

Four weeks later I’m running as fast as I can to the bookstore, I barge through the door and scare the daylights out of Lucy “Lucy Lucy Lucy. You need to close the store for the day.” I say breathlessly “what’s going on?? are you ok?? what happened?” I smile wide “everything’s is perfect look” I point outside and she looks confused “ITS SNOWING LUCY” I yell as I take her hand and pull her outside “Raven what the heck has gotten into you?” She laughs and I shut the door behind me. “I have never seen snow in my whole life. I woke up this morning and ran all the way here.” She looks me up and down “yeah I can see that. Now go home or you’ll get sick” I look down I’m still in my pj’s and I cross my arms and groan “who are you, my mother?” I roll my eyes playfully “I don’t care. It’s too late for that. I need you to close your eyes and trust me.” I smile with a slight smirk “no way that devil smile is showing Sugar and I’m not going to move from here.” I giggle “don’t worry you don’t need to move.” Lucy reluctantly covers her eyes and I pick up some snow and make a small ping pong ball size and throw it at her “HEY, you little menace. That wasn’t fair.” I smirk “yeah but the snow is” I retort back and Lucy shakes her head “such a child.” I nod and crouch down “build a snowlady with me. Please. Then we can make snow angels.... well I’ll make snow angels you make snow devils” I giggle and next minute I’m covered in snow “gotcha” is all I get in reply. “Warrrrrr” I cry out and we start having a snowball fight.

We spent all morning out in the snow before Lucy went all mum on me and we went inside had hot chocolate and read books wrapped up in nice warm blankets. Lucy is amazing, caring and one of a kind, I was lucky to have found her and even luckier to call her my friend. She truly is magnificent, a queen as she likes to call herself. She really is just amazing.

Everyone's skin is flawless.

It isn't marred by anything except discoloration and acne.

Yet, those horrible things are there. Unseen but not gone.

They are known as scars.

Each one of them has a story behind them.

Some of them have torturous memories, that haunt your dreams.

Yet, some of them are memories that you laugh at when you grow up.

All unseen scars are beautiful.

They exist with whole stories behind them.

Stories that can be heart-wrenchingly beautiful.

That's why I call them beautiful scars.

They deserve being listened to.

My life isn't the best, I barely sleep and I am constantly looking over my shoulder and thinking that I can't trust people for no reason. I don't have many friends, and the ones I do have either betrayed me or slowly got less and less close to me. I'm not trying to look for pity or anything, but I write because I want to get away from reality. I love reading fantasy or writing because it makes me think about something other than how I currently live. I don't like being alone without something to do because I start thinking negativly about myself, or convincing myself that I'm not good enough or something like that. When I write, I put all my energy into it, I put in my dreams, my nightmares, and my true feelings that barely anyone knows about. I mostly write poetry about bullying, so I'm pretty sure anyone who reads my writing can see that I was bullied a lot. But, writing for me is, I guess like an outlet. When someone close to me dies I write non-stop for days. It's just how I cope, I guess.

And why do any of us write after all? I consider writing to be a capturing of the life spring of human language. Strings of poetry, prose, ramblings, a haphazard mixture of all three - these carry volumes of meaning to and from a world deeply craving significance. Of course we require the oceans of vocabulary and the rivers of practical speech to carry our day to day interactions. But oh, bliss of heaven! to tap into those hidden mountain springs of tranquil and ferocious thought..

I write for a need to fling the rawness. A rawness similar to poets like Poe, simultaneously enraptured and terrified by the power of the dark. The rawness of Longfellow and the epic power of his meter (The Seaside and the Fireside). The rawness of dear Lord Byron, sweetly melancholic and aching for all the pain and pride of living..

I write for the sake of unity. At the core of every human soul pangs the longing for something greater. As a Christian myself, I know this ache in me to be the longing for Heaven. All of humanity longs to play an integral part in this human drama, and writers from all ages and nations, centuries and backgrounds, they capture and reflect this exquisitely through the language of the life spring.

I suppose I write, if ever desperately, to keep the "mountain spring" in motion and my scattered mind intact.

There are many reasons why we write to let out pain or grief or to remember the great and happy days. To let our imaginations run wild. Tell the stories we'd like to see come true, write our deepest fears with no one knowing the truth. The real questions is why do we not write, I mean why not?