V is for Vonnegut

Kurt Vonnegut was a renowned American writer and satirist who was born on November 11, 1922, in Indianapolis, Indiana. He was the youngest of three children and his parents were Kurt Vonnegut Sr. and Edith Vonnegut. Vonnegut attended Cornell University, where he studied biochemistry, but he left college before earning his degree to enlist in the army during World War II.

During the war, Vonnegut was captured by the Germans and held as a prisoner of war in Dresden, Germany. He survived the bombing of Dresden, which killed tens of thousands of civilians, by hiding in a meat locker underground. This experience deeply affected Vonnegut and would later influence his writing.

After the war, Vonnegut returned to the United States and began working as a journalist for various newspapers and magazines. He also began writing fiction, publishing his first novel, "Player Piano," in 1952. Over the next few decades, Vonnegut would go on to write many other novels, including "Slaughterhouse-Five," "Cat's Cradle," and "Breakfast of Champions." His works often dealt with themes of war, technology, and the human condition, and his writing style was characterized by a darkly humorous and satirical tone.

Despite his critical acclaim, Vonnegut struggled with depression and alcoholism throughout much of his life. He was also a frequent critic of American society and politics, and his outspoken views often landed him in controversy.

Vonnegut received many awards and honors throughout his career, including the National Book Award and induction into the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He died on April 11, 2007, in New York City at the age of 84. Today, he is remembered as one of the most important and influential American writers of the 20th century.

Mamba

49 reads

Gin and Toxic

Have you ever met a prospective sex partner that you knew would be a Deja Screw?

As the years have whittled away the notches on my bed post (and my will to enter back into the cesspool of online dating!)I can’t help but ask myself, are we all just suffering from PTSexD?

How do we navigate through a post pandemic prenuptial? Have we all become far too comfortable with “no contact” to ever make another true connection?

Is being single the new norm?

I would love to hear your thoughts.

Prose

179 reads

There’s Something About Putski

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

A quick nod to one of our new talents, whose post is featured in our Exclusive Spotlight showing on the channel. Tune in, and give this writer a couple of minutes of yourself and your ear on this Sunday's high noon, or afternoon, or whatever it is, wherever you are. The link sits just below the period that ends this sentence.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2g1ylrcC7Aw

And.

As always.

-Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Challenge

Challenge of the Month XXXVII

Give us one page of a book, story, or poem of yours. If it's a poem, it can be up to two pages. We don't care if it's already something you posted. For the big, fat $100, put up your picked page or poem. Winner will be chosen by Prose.

SMichelle

19 reads

Honor

I am the evil child. The sole child of three who cannot remember bible scriptures verbatim or cite their chapters and verses when quizzed daily. I am the child who had once sneezed while his sister was saying grace. I am the child who once fell asleep during his father’s sermon. I am the child who was regularly tied up and gagged underneath the dining room table.

I used to contemplate what the members of the congregation would think of my father if they knew about what took place in his home. I wondered if they knew that he would start his “teachings” by citing Proverbs 13:24, “Whoever spares the rod hates his son…” -- I forget the rest of the passage - then beat me into oblivion. I wondered if they knew that he gave my brother and sister $1 for each switch they could find – the same switches they would use to whip me with once I regained consciousness from my father’s preceding thrashings. I wondered if they knew that the roses my mother brought to decorate the church were the same ones that she used to lash me with once the roses had died. She thought the thorns drove home that I was a sinner, and made it easier to "drive the demons out of me". I wondered if they knew that my parents, brother, and sister would circle around me and my current corrector as they ceaselessly chanted, “spare the rod, spoil the child… spare the rod, spoil the child…”.

One of my first memories was of my father holding me over the edge of a cliff, telling me that I was destined to burn in eternal fire and that he should let go of me to put the family out of their misery. Throughout my life, whenever I did something that was "against the Lord", my father frequently led me to the edge of that cliff and would threaten to push me off. He would tell me that I was lucky that he was a man of the cloth so he couldn’t do it himself; after which, he would remind me that I was a sinner and should jump off into the pits of hell, “where I belong”.

On the last car ride to the scene of my first memory, I was no longer frightened – I was numb to the routine. We arrived at our destination, and I robotically got out of the car. Although there was no need, my father grabbed the back of my shirt as he pinched my neck and violently ushered me to the brim of the canyon. With the tips of my toes at the edge of the cliff, I gazed down to its depth. What more could I do to gain their love and be accepted as righteous? I looked over at them and they were all stone-faced except for my younger sister. She appeared to have tears in her eyes, although it could have been due to the glaring sun. I turned my head back and lifted up my arms as I thrust my chest toward the openness of the canyon. I did not know anything else that I could do but, wanted nothing more than a crumb of their approval. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath in and as I exhaled I poured what was left of my soul as I pleaded for their acceptance, “Honor thy father and mother” Ephesians chapter 6 verse 2”, then took my final step.