trauma is trapped inside emotion

that sits in the cage of my chest

poison ivy pain wraps around bars

that rattles in the storm

behind the sternum-ed wall

screams that haven’t escaped the prison

lay in iron beds hardened with frost

stopping the seep from chest to tongue

from tongue to lip, lip to air

air to echo to ears that hear

that judge, that shame, that watch

down the diaphragmatic depths

desolation punches the dam

stress coils and entwines with anxiety

its shrieks of mimicry – whispers of lies

the “I’m okay’s” the “I’m fine”

the need to turn yourself inside out

to release and shed the shame

the pain, the blame, the ache of emotional agony

the rage, the guilt, the fullness of everything

of emotion, of memory,

of moments you can feel but can’t quite remember

the trap you can’t free yourself from

being inside your body but feeling outside

being an observer, a nothing

outside, you’d never know

outside, you’d think nothing is wrong with me

inside I feel so full

inside I feel so empty

People see my silence on the surface

she's happy, she's calm

inside I’m a storm

external silence – internally violent

a war, battle lines unclear

I’m in the trenches alone

there’s no hope left

I’m a graveyard of hope

how can I feel hopeful

when every day is the same

the same pain, the same war in my brain

each day an attack – again and again

am I insane? do others feel the same way?

how can I continue when all I feel is shame?

I don’t want to die

But I don’t want to be alive

living in this pain

- I can’t even see

a way out of this chaos

there’s no hope, it withered and died

I’ve learned the art of a lie

just smile and say I’m fine

I hold a secret inside dewy palms

– I’m a mess inside

this war in my mind

has me so blind, I can’t see who I’m fighting

I’ll never make it out – It’s frightening

I’m petrified of myself

- I’m the invisible enemy

when I’m gone – left behind – “broken” is my legacy

the complexity of thought has me tied up in it’s devilry

inside my head, I’m running from my captor

who will punish me without empathy

my destiny is written,

there’s no way out,

it’s the death penalty

Choice of words

Choice so obscure

Obscure mind

Obscure line

Line of sight

Line the sky

Sky that fell

Sky of poems

Poems for you

Poems that bled

Bled from soul

Bled for time

Time and laughter

Time well-spent

Spent so freely

Spent with you

You now busy

You now gone

Gone from me

Gone for good

Good things end

Good things die

Die like stars

Die so dark

Dark with despair

Dark falls over

Over my love

Over my spell

Spell is broken

Spell went wrong

Wrong was financed

Wrong plus tax

Tax my patience

Tax my effort

Effort so earnest

Effort was wasted

Wasted rough drafts

Wasted tears

Tears that choke

Tears that stain

Stain the memory

Stain the sheets

Sheets can strangle

Sheets that cover

Cover with soil

Cover a grave

Grave of love

Grave that's haunted

Haunted

Love

CHAPTER I: STIRRINGS

I remembered seeing his face in the newspaper. Something stirred in me when I saw it. Not dissent, no. That was something I could not comprehend. Not then. But something was there. Disgust, perhaps. Or pity. Some revolting emotion that rose like bile and quickly sank back down into my gut where it settled for the next hour. By the time the clock struck 13, I had forgotten the source of my discomfort and moved to the telescreen, which was announcing the current standing of the war against Eurasia. Rations had been increased (praise Big Brother!) and Eurasian casualties were mounting. Victory was clearly imminent.

I turned off the TV that day feeling satisfied. But in my dreams— for rebellion always starts in the subconscious, buried deep below the rote societal rituals and self-imposed boundaries— I heard his name spoken aloud, from the mustached lips of the poster that hung over my bed. Big Brother.

Winston Smith.

When I awoke the next morning, I had forgotten.

There were, after all, larger concerns. Most notably, my job in the Ministry of Truth. A name change here, a date change there. So-and-so is no longer in the favor of the party, and of course we are at war with Eastasia, not Eurasia. What a foolish mistake to make.

There was always, of course, a lingering doubt. I could’ve sworn, just last night…

But such concerns passed quickly. My job of censorship and revision was no more complex or morally wrong than adding a period to a run-on sentence or adding a capital letter to a name. I was an editor. Such things were necessary.

At the end of the day, I’d dump the out-of-date papers into the Memory Holes and go home.

I always slept soundly.

That was the advantage afforded to me by conformity. I did not need to dwell on the moral quandary of changing history, or stress over the ever-shrinking rations. After all, Big Brother had our best interests at heart. And rations were always going up. War was always closer to being won. Wages were steadily increasing… as long as I kept changing the numbers to fit.

Life was good. Big Brother was good. Oceania was good.

But after seeing Winston Smith’s face underneath the headline “Traitor,” my dreams were never quite the same. Day after day, week after week, his face, his name, seemed to haunt me, for reasons that I could not comprehend. I began to call him my Dream-Self, since I could no longer remember why he seemed so familiar or where I knew him from. The newspaper from that day was long gone, sunk deep down into the memory hole. Both literally and metaphorically. My brain was built on short term scaffolding, suspended over an endless pit of long term memories that had sunk into oblivion.

In my Dream Life, as Winston, I saw myself doing things I’d never dreamed of doing. Evil things. Traitorous things. All with Winston’s face instead of my own. At first, I hated him. Feared him, and all that he represented. The dangerous potential that he spawned deep within my own brain.

It was worse than rebellion. Worse than a betrayal of my mind and government. It was a betrayal of my own sense of self. The man named Winston who haunted my dreams was middle aged. I was 25, only a step away from my school years. He was a dissenter. I was… well, at the time I’d convinced myself I wasn’t.

But the key difference between us was the most damning of all.

He was a man.

I was a woman.

How could I see myself in a man? How could I, even in dreams, walk in the shoes of a man nearly twice my age?

It was unnatural, surely. But it was also impossible to deny. Somehow, as imperceptibly as air making its way into a vault, I had become the thing I hated most.

A traitor.

For two months I lived with that vile knowledge. Never acting on anything, of course— I was far too much of a coward for that— but the feelings were there. Alongside a new, forbidden desire.

At 25, the societal pressure to marry began to ramp up. Neighbors, coworkers, family members… all of them would wonder how on earth a pretty girl like you isn’t married yet?

Of course, the answer was always… complicated. Pre-marital intercourse was illegal, of course. But it was pretty much an unspoken rule that it happened. Even the Thought Police didn’t enforce it. It was enough of a threat that we knew they could.

I had quite a few boys try to get away with it. I always vehemently refused. I wasn’t in the mood. I wasn’t ready. We needed to get married first… all excuses, although it took being a traitor to realize that. All my vehement refusals were not, as it turned out, due to my unsealing loyalty to the party.

I didn’t like men.

But it goes deeper than that, doesn’t it, Amy?

Yes. Much, much deeper. With each day that passed, my traitorous mind dove deeper into its self-exploration. All the boys I’d dated… I’d never loved them, had I?

No. I’d wanted to be them. I was jealous of their short hair, the flat line of their chest, the Bob of the Adam’s apple in their throat.

I remembered being seven years old. Holding my father’s calloused hand, looking up in awe at the face of Big Brother.

“I want to be just like him when I grow up,” I’d said. My father laughed.

“Well, you can’t be him. No one can— he’s beyond any other man, after all. But perhaps you’ll find a good husband. One who acts the way Big Brother wants, provides for his family. That’s as good as it gets.”

I hadn’t been able to protest then. Hadn’t been able to explain that wasn’t what I’d meant.

Now, here I was.

A dissenter.

And worse.

A queer.

It was a word I’d heard muttered before. The crudest of insults. There had been many men and women executed on just the rumor that they were queer. Sleeping with another of the same sex? Preposterous. Becoming the other sex? That was truly vile. I’d watched a man executed after he was caught wearing his wife’s clothing. They let his body hang, lifeless, in the square for months. They killed him in his wife’s wedding dress. She was killed, too, but was at least spared the shame and indignity of being left on display.

I’d cheered with the rest as his rope had gone taut. Now the memory of it made me sick. I was just like him. A queer. A faggot. Good for nothing except burning.

Given another year, maybe another two, perhaps I would have dissented. Perhaps I would have shorn off my hair. Perhaps I would have even done the unthinkable and slept with another woman. Maybe I would have died the same way Winston did— tortured into submission before being put down like a stray dog.

But I did not have a year. I had three months. Three months of limbo, of treacherous thoughts and tormented dreams, nightmares of being tortured by a man with a thick brown mustache and a handsome face.

It happened during the Two Minutes Hate.

I always screamed the loudest. I imagined I was screaming at myself. YOU WORTHLESS CUNT. YOU FILTHY TRAITOR. DIRTY WHORE. YOU SLIMY, DISGUSTING, USELESS QUEE—

And then the bombs dropped.

Just that morning we’d been informed that we were closer to winning the war against Eurasia— it was Eurasia again, I noticed now that the names had always been changing— and now the Ministry of Truth was in ruins. My skin felt like it was being bathed in molten silver. Alarms that I’d never heard before were blaring.

The unthinkable had happened. Eurasia and Eastasia had suddenly begun an alliance. We were fighting a two-front— maybe even a three-front— war.

And they had bombed us. The bastards had actually bombed us.

I remember being in some kind of flying vehicle— a helicopter, maybe, with blades that sliced through the air like butter, or an alien spacecraft, whirring like it was powered by magic. Then I remember soldiers yelling unintelligibly. Then I remember another explosion.

By the time I came back to myself, the only thing I could think about was pain. In my face. In my arms. My feet. My legs. I could see patches of black crust on my stomach. Every inch of skin was either bandaged, bruised, or oozing a nauseating mix of pus and blood.

It was then that I saw the doctor’s faces for the first time.

These were not Oceania doctors. Their eyes were thin, and dark. Their hair was neatly trimmed, but in a vastly different style than the men I’d known from London. Their uniforms were different.

I was in Eastasia.

Hi everyone!

I just wanted to share that I'll be releasing a collection of short stories on February 1st. Many of the stories in this collection have been featured here, while others haven't. If anyone is interested, you can find it on Amazon here:

https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0CRQZTJM5/ref=sr_1_1?crid=CRDHZ7RB04E0&keywords=theres+gold+in+those+hills&qid=1704751382&sprefix=theres+gold+in+those+hill%2Caps%2C185&sr=8-1

I'm pretty excited about this and I just wanted to thank The Prose community for being the major reason for this collection. Before I joined this community, my writing was directionlesss and you've help me find direction.

So, thanks everyone!

You may wonder

And yes, it’s true

I do still

Think of you

But only on the days

When the sky is blue

As it's a reminder

That I’m free of you

He worked it, her body that is, from dusk till dawn. Gliding down, and making her forget even where, & when she was— her head felt so dizzy- spinning in an addicting motion. Her lips quivered with each of his expert hand, ‘nd tongue twistin’ techniques. Her body was in quite a state of an electric frenzy, one that was driving her almost mad with glee. She felt like she was being handled by a god, or some demi-god. Maybe this is what it was like to be jumped in the line with Zeus’ lightning rod. What a crazy shockingly powerful feelin’.

#Travaille-le!

Thorsday 02.11.2023 November ©️

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=kMXBJW1PuU8

Dear Sexy Minds That Rule Our World:

By request, here's a, hmmm, well...a warm and special story about a stroll to the lake under moonlight; contemplation, introspection on a certain level, and quite possibly something else...

Here's the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vnThXeTVNo

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

I've been playing around with the books feature here and I wanted to share what I've made and some brief thoughts as a user of seven(ish) years:

I've been sitting on a stack of writing that I haven't had any clear direction for but knew that I wanted to put out in some way. The books feature is neat because it allows me to do this in a way that is structured and easily customizable. I like to have creative control, and this gives it to me. So I would encourage anyone who wants to organize their work into an easily accessible collection to try it out. This is my first time giving it a go, and my first impressions are generally favorable. There are some technical issues, but I assume those will be addressed in time. There's authors who were way earlier to the game than I was and they are a wealth of information and deserve props for being pioneers. I really love the idea of being able to find a writer and peruse a book they've written and see posts that may have flown under the radar otherwise.

You can post the books for free, for a flat flee or on a chapter by chapter basis. Right now, I have a mix of free content, paid content, and subscriber only writing. Some of my books are for a flat fee, some are chapter by chapter, and others are are now, and will always be free. A high percentage of my posts will be openly available, and my "edgier" (however you want to define that) or more extensive standalone pieces will likely be subscriber only. I will always have this mix of paid and unpaid elements, though there are details to be worked out. I'm still figuring it out, especially with the addition of Lobby, Mezz, and Emerald.

I still have work reserved for traditional(ish) publishing outlets, but most of my stuff is here on Prose. I've set my subscription cost at 3.33. But as I said, I intend to keep a lot of stuff free or at the very least, available at a low cost. As of right now, the books are unfinished, evolving entities and will continue to be updated for the next little while as Prose. continues to fine tune the changes on the site. Some elements of them are free and some are subscriber/purchaser only. Writing is a career for me, so subscription and purchases make a big impact. That said, we live in exceptionally difficult times. So please don't feel obligated to do either. Take care of yourselves first.

Also, if you want to show support to a writer that either can't or doesn't want to put their work behind a paywall, there is a now a tip feature.

I am pulling from a fifteen year old body of unpublished work, so it will be some time before these are complete collections and will be added and subtracted to many times until they are complete. But here are my published projects so far:

Best Of: TheWolfeDen- a collection of popular works, challenge winners, and personal favorites

Goddess- poetry and prose inspired by female spiritual figures

Labyrinth- stream-of-conscious writing focused on self-reflection and patterns of behavior

Gardenia- poetry and prose inspired by the natural world

Stuff and Things- a chaotic collection of random writing

The Sins of Aphrodite- poetry, prose, and creative non-fiction centered around love, heartbreak, and everything in between

Skeptics and Soothsayers- works inspired by esotericism, religion, and spirituality

Psychonaut- creative non-fiction drawn from psychedelic experiences

Kintsugi- essays and memoir style creative non-fiction

Dreamscape- dreamy prose and poetry

Dungeoncrawler Daydreams- fantasy/sci-fi/horror short fiction

Kingdom- a medieval poetry collection

Justice- a mythical murder mystery series

Madame Kavindra's Freakshow Theatre- a horror(ish) anthology (in progress)

I've tagged people that I think would be interested in this. Thanks for your support (however you choose to give it).