Good Morning, Prosers,

The way publishers find new authors might have just changed forever.

We are pleased to announce that we have joined forces with publishing giant Simon & Schuster, whose legacy includes Ernest Hemingway, Carrie Fisher, and Stephen King.

Simon & Schuster’s editing team hopes to discover the next generation of great authors by utilising our challenge feature and our social community, initially through a 500-2000 word writing challenge that ends June 1, prompting you to, “Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by Simon & Schuster’s editorial staff for consideration.”

This challenge stipulates a minimum of 500 entries and a maximum of 2,000.

We will announce the top-50 entries on June 21, 2017.

Here is the challenge URL: https://theprose.com/challenge/5367

We hope you are as excited about this as we are. If you know people who would like to get noticed by Simon & Schuster, spread the word(s).

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

Suspicion,

like a hangnail,

drags, opening a seam.

The whetstone of

lonely nights,

lonely thoughts,

peels the sharp blade

from the dull.

Overflowing

the jagged banks

the corpuscles and cells

that are half-mine

and half-hers

rush up against the levees

built and then untended.

The lower wards

feel something coming:

a voice beside and apart

hums How Great Thou Art

as a warm hand presses

firmly on your arm,

dreading to do more harm,

harming to do more dread.

I lost my student,

I gained his son.

Exiled to a land of sand,

I wait.

The Jedi shall rise again.

Come on, he had said, I'll teach you how to swim; and so here they are, standing in the evening light beside the pond behind the Anderson's barn. They knew each other somewhat from school, but today was the first time he'd seen her all summer. They'd run into each other outside the library and she had noticed he'd checked out a book about Mark Spitz, the Olympic swimmer.

They'd walked past the bank and the town hall, talking and laughing, and finally she'd admitted she didn't know how to swim. On the spur of the moment, he had said he would teach her and he knew the perfect place.

He'd swum here maybe a dozen times this summer; his family's property bordered the Andersons' and it was easy to reach, plus the pond was screened by a birch grove that gave a semblance of privacy.

The day had been hot and they could feel the warmth of the water as they stood in the tall grass near the edge of the pond. Let's go, he said, with a confident smile. He bent to untie his shoes.

Shirts, shorts, shoes piled in the grass beside them and they stood side by side in the tall grass, he in his underwear, she in hers and her undershirt. The grass was nearly waist high; it tickled his legs as it wafted across his skin. The icy pit in his stomach that had been slowly growing since he'd first suggested a swim lesson was now thawing in the warmth of her nearness, of her skin.

Are you nervous, he asked. The evening light turned her blonde hair to molten, fiery gold; he could see the thin white strip of skin where the strap of her undershirt prevented her from tanning, but the rest of her olive brown from the summer sun.

Yes, she nodded, smiling. Is it deep?

Not very, he said, and held out his hand. She took it gently, their fingers automatically intertwining, and he led her to the water's edge. Ankle deep, the pond was warm like bathwater.

Not so bad, right?

She laughed. It's just our ankles, she said.

The tall grass had hidden their lower halves and now they are bared to each other; he tried very hard not to look down her legs to her feet and back up, and did not succeed. Finally, he stepped forward, pulling her gently behind him.

The warm water slid up their legs step by step; the pond floor was slimy and hot and mud squished between their toes, and once she slipped and tottered into him and he wrapped his arms around her waist to keep her from falling in. She had laughed and said, Don't let go, and he had said to himself, How stupid would I be.

They reached the middle of the pond, the water up to their chests; she was close to his height, and her undershirt was wet to the underside of her small breasts. I think it's time, he said. He still held her hand, and now slid his arm around her waist. Lay back, he said, looking into her face as she leaned face up toward the sky.

It's easier to start on your back, he said, moving his other arm beneath her knees so she was level on the water. Arch yourself, stretch your arms out wide. She lay on her back, legs together, arms outstretched, back arced, face aglow. He watched her stomach rise and fall rapidly, the wet fabric clinging to her skin, and so not like fabric at all.

He let her float for awhile, then stood her back up; he swam back and forth, showing her how to kick, how to reach, how to plunge. As the evening unfurled into night, they twisted and turned through the warm water, her golden hair now wetted dark against the white of her shirt. He held his arms under her as she kicked and reached; he remembered his own mother teaching him to swim just like this when he was a child.

Arms and legs slithered around and between each other like eels; she was a natural swimmer, he assured her, she was doing great. She laughed, often, happily.

Finally, she said she wanted to get out, and he led her again by the hand through the warm mud, and they rose up, the water slipping down their bodies, the warm night air on their now-bared stomachs, thighs, shins. They stood again in the tall grass beside their piled clothes, as good as naked in their clinging white underwear.

How was that? he asked. Wonderful, she answered. He remembered her clinging to him, he remembered her weightless weight floating in his arms.

Yes, he agreed. You were a mermaid. She laughed again; a cricket began to chirp.

Every vulgar name is absorbed. They all fit, they all accurately describe.

It is at once the most important

and least interesting thing. Half of everyone

     is the same, generally speaking.

It is only a matter of degree.

No matter what is told and shown

you are still just a boy - no, not just.

Eyes will always look and appraise; 

there will be ecstasy, indifference,

amazement, pain.

A forearm, a horse, a likening

     to what is not,

a price to be paid, an exhibition.

Some people need to see to believe,

and every viewing takes

     one

     tiny

     bite

out of your soul.

To call it a blessing, a curse

is melodramatic. It just is.

I never would have married you if I had known you were my sister. Or is that true? People spend years of their lives and thousands of their dollars in therapy to rake their parents over the coals, but really I think our parents gave us the best thing they knew how. Their lies. Is not the comfort of all humanity built on lies?

Father - you called him John growing up - loved me; he loved you, too, I have no doubt. Mother - Kathleen - was ill; we were more than she could bear. Quite literally. And so, lies stepped in and you were sent away. I had no memory of you, my twin. We were together for nine months and seventeen minutes.

And yet, when I met you the first time, I knew you. Our years apart vanished in an instant, and everything Father had told me fell into place like a beautiful mosaic. The girl in Oregon was my cousin; she was fragile, and that was why she couldn't come to us, why Father had to go to her, without me, because she was excitable around children her age. These untruths that he wove around us kept us safe for one another.

I am not angry at him, far from it. He did what he knew was best. He would, of course, not understand what happened after we finally met, but in his own way, he had had a part in it, for he had crafted you in my mind and my heart, a faraway valkyrie to come and collect my mortal soul, to wing upward together, entwined, twinned, united. 

Secrets hidden

Will soon be revealed

From the seed we planted

Lies that sprouted, out

To prevent them from seeing

The love that we built

We lock and cage it

Protect and nurture

So they can't break

This fragile love

Forbidden by nature

Avoided by most

But I've already fallen

It's inevitable

Your beauty, your grace

Your smile and your laughter

The images of your face

I still remember

When you cried

Because you couldn't take

Living with this lie

But I can't give up

Sanguine and hopeful

That one day we can live

Free from the judgement

Accepted by all

Holding your hand

Until we grow old

I awoke to the smell of smoke filtering into the room. I coughed and groped along the floor; finally my hands encountered the towel. It must have fallen off in the night. I moistened it with my water bottle, then stuffed it back into the window. I would have to use more duct tape if I wanted it to stay, but since it dried out quickly it didn't matter either way. I never thought I would go so long without being able to get that stupid broken window replaced, though.

I yawned and stumbled toward the kitchen. Best to start with breakfast, today would be a long day. It's always a long day. As I went down the hall, Fraidy meowed and rubbed by my ankles. I stopped to pet her grey fur even though I knew she was just hungry. She could feed herself by dealing with the pests, but I always gave her some food in the morning to make sure she stayed healthy. As far as Fraidy Cat is concerned, that makes me the best owner on the planet.

I dug through the icebox in the fridge. I still had eggs, a bit of bacon, and some fruit, but I was low on supplies. That could wait until late morning, though. Though I am a world class chef, I was in a hurry, so I scrambled the eggs and bacon, then scraped a bit into Fraidy's bowl. She made the oddest grunting sounds as she ate. That always makes me laugh. I'd be much lonelier without her. When we were both done eating I cleaned the plates and utensils.

First order of business after that was cleaning. I decluttered, dusted, swept, sanitized the bathroom, and did laundry. It's not like anyone but me would see it, but I can't stand living in a house that isn't tidy and clean. I must be the biggest neat freak in existence. I grinned as that thought flickered through my head; my mother never would have suspected me of that trait growing up. My room was always so messy she finally gave up and kept the door closed. 

Next order of business: food. I headed to the living room, which I had converted into an indoor garden. The big glass windows let me grow plants year round, or at least keep them alive. Some plants simply refuse to yield fruits and vegetables in the winter no matter how much sunlight they get. However, it was not winter. In any case, there were some ripe tomatoes, zucchini, and strawberries. I drooled when I found flowers on the eggplant vine; soon I would feast.

After returning my precious harvest to the kitchen, I headed out back to the chicken coop. I grabbed my gas mask on the way out, quietly commending myself on being able to rig up an automatic feeder for the chickens so I wouldn't have to venture outside as often. Clearly I am the most intelligent person on the planet. The fans I set up cut down on the smoke certainly -- otherwise I wouldn't be able to keep the chickens alive at all. However, I still didn't like going outside.

Was the smoke unpleasant? Sure, but I could manage. And the landscape I could ignore by looking in front of me. But the silence just outside the door reminded me that I am the loneliest person on the planet.

After all, I'm the only person left on Earth.