Amanda was a little Manda-Panda and an Ama-Llama,

before she was Mandy with friends and Amanda for Momma,

long before she was any Mandy-candy with man drama,

two-facing her friends and bleeding the wrong kind of karma.

Tom was never a little Thomas or Tommy,

an adorable Tom-Tom with is Tom-Tummy,

who’ll always be Tom to his Dad and Mommy,

unlike those wish-washes Tom/Thomas and Michael.

Michael was an angel who became a tyrant,

went by Mike and held himself as a giant,

shows his sweet side for our compliance,

and is likely to rage if we’re ever defiant.

As a Mandy who was never an Amanda, I can say,

I’ve learned a lot, and still know so little, about names;

yet, in folks, I recognize what’s different and the same,

and knowingly used it whenever the notion came.

The funny thing about names:

They don’t define us any way,

we define them in what we do,

what we say, and convey.

You can make your name great.

-M.E.

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It's normal for me to sit here and think of what life means; what I mean. I can't help but think of how I'd be better off dead, or how I wish I could've had a different life. I've made so many mistakes in my life and I wish I could change that. I cannot undo them no matter how much I wish. No matter where I go or what I do, I am constantly reminded of how much I've messed up. Is it so much to ask for, to start again?

The weight of the world is too heavy for my shoulders. There's too much to think about and too much to worry about. If only I could just make it all go away. Is life even worth living? Life is stupid. There's too much hassle. It's too emotional. Some people have great lives and some people don't. It's hard to fathom how much someone goes through on a daily basis. They may seem fine on the outside, while they're a mess on the inside. You never know what others are going through.

I back down to people. I let them walk all over me. The taunts, the names, the hurtful things they say to me are just too much. There's only so much a single person can take. Everyone has limits. After a while the pain starts to fade and all you're left with is anger and then nothing.

Numbness.

It's terrible to feel nothing. It's as though you finally realize all the things they said are true. But are they? Are they really true? No. Yes. Maybe. I don't know anymore. Why would they say them if they were not the truth?

I walk through the school hallways alone. I am alone in a crowed room. Class is a bore. How can I pay attention when the back of your head is being bombarded with spitballs and wads of paper? The kids think it's fun to pick on someone like me. Why? I've never done anything to them. So what's their motive?

Different. Weird. Stupid. Ugly. Worthless. Unlovable. Freak. Abomination. Loner. Loser. Hopeless. Broken. Unfixable. Useless. Unwanted. Lost. Dumb. Fat. Faggot. Idiot. Lame. Disgusting. Disgrace. Creature. Punk.

Nothing.

Those words impact me. I've hear them so many times. I've never thought that I was anything worth noticing, I am nothing, and they were right. Those names do suit me. I've lost most of my feelings. My heart is decaying and I have no reason to care about anything. There's nothing worth staying alive for. They took it all away. The names took everything. I am nothing thanks to them.

But sometimes there are those rare moments I'm not numb. Sometimes I can feel that anger rage inside of me. The little sorrow I have mixes with my anger and I lose all control.

I have anger towards to people who called me names, but most of all, myself. I loathe myself. Everything they said was true and I was too stupid to realize it all until now. I am nothing. There's no reason for me to be here.

During the day I am all alone. School is torture. Can they not see the pain they cause me? Or maybe that's it. They want me to feel pain. They want me to suffer. That's just who they are, they're horrible. The teachers are far too stupid to realize that anything is going on. They look down on me as well. They look at me like I'm a mistake, an answer someone tried to erase, but didn't quite get the job done.

People are rude. They are cruel. How do they think it's fun to do these things? Who knows, maybe they're just trying to spare me and tell me how things really are? Yeah, that's probably it. I'm just worthless and needed to be told, so my hopes wouldn't be raised.

I'm thankful that people have told me what they think. Now I know that I am truly useless and have no purpose on this earth. People have proven that to me.

Every once in a while I get a glimmer of hope that someone out there could help me. Someone who could understand what in going through and tell me that everything's going to be alright and that everyone lied when they said those horrible things. But that'll never happen. No one ever talks to me anyway.

Anyone who's ever gotten close to me or tried to get close to me, only wants to hurt me in some way. I'm not fit to be around others. They just want to see me crumble. That's what they all want.

They. All. Want. Me. To. Break.

I don't understand why I even bother. People are doing a great job making my life a living hell. Any inkling of care that anyone had, had for me was long gone by now. I'm alone. Everyone is selfish anyway. No one wants to help others, they just want to tear each other down and watch each other suffer. Survival of the fittest.

Rude. Bitch. Annoying. Rowdy. Bully. Prick. Asshole. Jerk. Self centered. Stupid. Evil. Narcissistic. Self-absorbed. Unintelligent. Selfish.

I don't need them. I don't need anyone. I'm better off dead anyway. No one cares. If they did they would have shown it by now and not let me suffer here. Maybe, just maybe it would have been different. But no this is the way it has to be.

They have made me believe there is nothing for me, and I'm done. People have led me to this. It's their fault I feel this way. I'm leaving. And I'm not coming back.

I have several types of pills lined up on my bathroom sink. They differ from shape, size and color. I'm only assuming that taking them in bulk will do the job. My bathtub is also filled. The water is cold. It welcomes me. It's as if its calling me; begging for me to join it.

I take each pill individually. It takes a while, but I want to make sure that they all go down. I'm unsure how many I've taken when I finish, but there was enough to make me feel slightly uneasy.

I step into the tub. I feel the water soak into my clothes and shiver. This is what I want. I think. I cover myself in water my head is the only part that is not wet. I slowly lean my head back, allowing my hair to become wet. Then my ears, and the ready of my head.

This is it. I'm done for. No more being made fun of, no more pain. But, maybe I should stay.. I didn't always feel pain. I remember when I was happy, when people were nice to me. Recently people have treated me badly, but that doesn't mean they'll always treat me that way. I always hear that things get better..

Maybe I just need to get out of this town and have a fresh start. Somewhere I can make friends, somewhere I can be happy. That wouldn't be so bad.

Maybe life is worth living. Just because some people believe I am something doesn't mean I am. They may say that I'm nothing, but they don't know what I'm like, what I'm capable of. I can show them. I will overcome this and show them that they were wrong. I'm worth something, more than they can imagine. Living overshadows dying. We all live and die, but I should not try to end my life. I'll die when I'm supposed to. When I'm older, not now.

Their words mean nothing. I chose to believe the so often lies that left their lips. How stupid of me to think less of myself just because someone decided to be horrible to me. I am what I want to be, not how someone perceives me. Some eyes tell lies. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but their words are nothing short of a lie.

Being different is what made them hate me, but being different is what's important. Now I see that I'd rather be different, and outcast, instead of being part of the cookie cutter world.

I open my eyes wide. I feel the water rush over them, as I'm still underwater. It begins to hurt my eyes, I open my mouth and water seeps into my lungs. I resurface and cough in order to exert the water from my lungs. I breathe in and out heavily, trying to regain my regular breathing rate.

I'm alive.

The freezing water still surrounds me. And I am confused as to why I thought this would be a viable way out. Nothing in my life would be worth this. If I were to die, they would win. I would be the coward. They would be right. Well, now I am the winner. I will not give into them.

Real revenge is making something of yourself. I plan on making them all see who I really am.

I call 911 and take a deep breath. I need to be here.

I am infinite; sempiternal.

i've called you every night

but you haven't even texted back

much less left a message

i wonder if i even have

the right number

there was no hand to

wipe away my tears

aside my own and where were you

when i left sixteen voicemails

in a single hour?

was it too clingy of me

to ask for a word of encouragement

was i asking too much

to want for things to be okay

i don't understand why

you never respond

maybe you're just not

getting any signal?

everyone says that you

always text back

even if the words come out garbled

but how can i heed a message

that i never received?

and you know what?

i'm starting to think that

you blocked my number.

Christopher Duncan was born in Liverpool England, but his parents moved to Sydney Australia when I was a year old, so he’s “a bit of a nomad in that regard,” he said. Now he lives in Portland, Oregon working as a mobile service engineer and will be starting his own company soon.

P: What is your current relationship with literature? How has it evolved?

CD: My relationship…it’s bitter sweet. There are days that I sit and stare at the monitor listening to crickets chirping all day long in my head, but when it finally hits me, and I pour out everything, it leaves me feeling excited and accomplished, even if I’m the only one to ever read it at the end of the day. I’ve been writing since I was a pup. My work has evolved a lot over the years, from young innocent observations to dark if not somewhat jaded views.

P: Briefly describe the effect that reading has on your personal and professional life.

CD: I love to read. Reading helps me to travel further, and helps me learn other writers’ techniques. At work I mostly read machine manuals and spreadsheets, but I’ve found that even those can be used in a story in some form or another.

P: How would you characterize your current literary pursuits? What can we look forward to in future posts?

CD: I have completed 4 books of poetry and am in the process of getting them published, plus a 3-book Sci/Fi story that I’m in the middle of so I’ve been pretty busy. A lot of my poetry and short stories are kind of dark, so you’ll probably be seeing more poems like “The Death of my Childhood.”

P: What does Prose mean to you?

CD: Prose means a lot to me. I’ve been a member of quite a few writers’ sites, and this one is the best I’ve found. The members are very nice, give good reviews and suggestions, a great group all round.

For more information about Chris, known here as @Draco, be sure to visit his website at: antsbeneaththefeetofgod.com.

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This #FridayFeature blog series is designed to help you get to know your fellow community members better. Would you like to nominate someone for interview? Have a question you’re dying to ask of someone on the platform? Send us a private message here or visit our contact page to get in touch: theprose.com/p/contact.

The foothills of the Appalachian Mountains have bred a wide range of wordsmiths and activists including Wendell Berry, bell hooks, and the legendary Hunter S. Thompson- to name a few.

Kentucky, in particular, has deep roots in literature despite the narrow views and stereotypes for which it’s known around the globe. For those of you that may not know, it’s also where I grew up. By teenage-hood, however, I’d set my sights on northwesterly terrain. For me, Seattle was the ultimate dream. A kind of Promised Land where the grass would be greener, the creative culture richer, and the sociological atmosphere much less conservative.

This week marks the year anniversary on which that dream became my reality.

Now, as an official resident of The Emerald City, I’ve found more creative opportunities and events than I could ever have imagined. It is here that the official Prose Headquarters are situated and where I’ve worked hard to build a life and a new home. For that, I couldn’t be more grateful.

You may remember our blog post from earlier this year in which we shared information about Seattle’s campaign bid for UNESCO “Creative Cities” certification as an international City of Literature.

A bit of background on the campaign:

UNESCO (the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) launched its Creative Cities Network in 2004 with the aim of "fostering international cooperation between cities committed to investing in creativity as a driver for sustainable urban development, social inclusion and enhanced influence of culture in the world."

The network covers seven thematic areas: Craft and Folk Arts, Design, Film, Gastronomy, Media Arts, Music, and Literature.

...

Look for the complete article by Prose's community director, media co-director, and admin-editor Maggie Greene (@MaggieGreene) later today on The Official Prose. Blog at: blog.theprose.com/blog.

The subject of this week’s “Proser Showcase” says that she didn’t have a given name at birth:

“My parents said “the first one out is Brandy,” and that wasn’t me. So, for hours I was “B baby, Elliott 2 of 2,” while my Mom and Dad vetoed name after name: Jasmine and Candy making the top of the list,. My Dad convinced my Mom that I’d grow up to be a stripper with either of those names.

“Finally, thinking about the radio, a nurse echoed my Mom’s thoughts and suggested “Mandy, like the Barry Manilow song,” and so it was and has been ever since.”

Her name is Mandy Elliott, though you know her here as @MEsolushospes. She was born “after a ride in a helicopter from the Melbourne hospital to the Orlando Hospital (that was better equipped to deliver premature twins),” and she refers to her hometown as the “rinky-dink, former Florida cow-lands of Palm Bay (which in my mind, includes the beach).” Palm Bay’s motto, “a great place to grow,” was in reference to families, Mandy said, “but they got a bunch of pot-growers and empty houses instead. If you can see it on a map, thank the bright young men who made it into the NFL. It is because of them that there was enough demand to know where this Palm Bay was, and we finally made it on non-local maps.”

After a two-year stint in the greater Cincinnati Area, she is now “in the heart of Virginia.” It is there that she teaches painting classes, supplying original and local-based art to local vendors, assist a local print shop when they get overwhelmed, and helps her grandmother to “do things she can no longer do (and sometimes my Grandfather when my Mother needs a break).”

Occasionally, she says, she also takes on private commissioned work. Such projects include portraits (“normally of pets, I prefer them to people”) and dreams. “Most of my commission work is in paint, but some of it has been charcoal, pencil, ink, photography, photo-editing/digital art, and creative writing/poetry to include transcribing the client’s original writing into my original (made-up) language as a decorative piece.”

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

1) I hated it. Writing was like Japanese to me, I had to memorize everything.

2) An English teacher introduced me to books I could enjoy reading, and it got me interested in story-telling.

3) I started playing online text-based games, which forced me to hone my spelling and grammar in order to inspire other writers to write with me.

4) Now, everything I do is tainted by my writing, either because it becomes the context, or I use the experience to learn ways to describe senses to a reader who wasn’t actually there.

5) In the last few years, I’ve begun sharing my writing online and widening my reading of individuals to a global level, thanks to venues like Prose.

In my journey I learned two things about writing that continue to help me improve:

1) A good piece of literature should be sound if read forwards or backwards.

2) Edit as a reader, not as a writer.

If you want to know more about me, visit these four former posts:

Three Truths and a Lie: https://theprose.com/post/29596/n-a

A letter from my future self: https://theprose.com/post/26558/30-extra-years

Autobiography Summary: https://theprose.com/post/29679/paper-trail

About MEsolushospes: https://theprose.com/post/26557/m-e-only-a-stranger

Briefly discuss the value that reading adds to both your personal and professional life.

Reading is brain food, and a steady diet is required for healthy brain living. Reading is like mind-melding so, trust the Vulcan grip of the writings you are drawn to and let them share with you.Reading won’t make you successful, but it will give you limitless tools to make your own success.

If you want to know more about my specific reading habits, visit this former post:

I never owned a TV so, I read a lot: https://theprose.com/post/26197/i-ve-never-owned-a-tv-so-i-read-a-lot

How would you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?

My extra time, which is when I write, has been limited as of late. That said, I am still working on the series of five interactive art/poetry journals dubbed “The P.E.A.C.E. Chronicles” so, expect to see more culture/social poetry and writing aimed at shining a light on consciousness, choice, and independent responsibility for the reality we all share. I’m also tentatively working on a few photo-books with true-story poetry in it, recounting real things that I’ve experienced or seen in my life. And finally, there is a small chance of a sci-fi erotica novel to be published in the future, which is purely my desire to be free of a particular dream I keep having in progressive chapters, and having fun in the process of writing it all down.

What does Prose. mean to you? Do you have a favorite feature or function on the app? What, if any, suggestions would you make that might improve or enhance your experience?

Prose. means creative freedom and constructive feedback, it’s a place, a word, and a culture (now) that alludes to a type of harmony that seems natural even if it’s purposeful. Prose. is my preferred place to write and socialize with other writers from across the world, even if I don’t have a mobile phone, let alone one that was smart enough to hold the Prose. app. But I do have a computer that gets online so, the website has been vital. I’m delighted it’s not exclusively a phone app, or I would be missing out.

My favorite function is the challenges because I am exposed to writers who are likewise inspired by that particular idea, and I have the same opportunity to expose my own writing to that audience. Additionally, and along the same lines, I enjoy being able to comment on any post, whether or not I’m following a particular Proser, and that’s a feature I can’t thank the Prose. programmers enough for.

I’d also give a shout-out to the “Explore” option, as I have found some very interesting writing/authors that way.

Features I would like to see:

1) The ability to sort challenges by word-count requirement. Sometimes I only have a few minutes, and I lose some of that time clicking into challenges that look awesome, only to find I don’t have enough time to write for them, even at 60 words a minute. If I could sort them by ascending or descending word count requirements, I could look at only those with counts in my time-frame, and therefore post more often.

2) The ability to save #tags I use often (like #archive, #truestory, #quote, #quickie, etc.) so that either I can click them in the overall list, or a list of most recent/most used tags populates first with an option to click into a master list or add a new tag. I apologize if that’s a big ask, it would be a time saver for thrifty-writers like myself.

3) Maybe it’s silly, and definitely not a priority, but I think it would be cool to have the word counts on our posts show up as a line underneath the tags, and in our profile as a total word-count for that author. I’m fascinated by quantifying our expressions at the same time as letting them free so, it’s just a suggestion.

Where else can we find you and your writing?

Presently, you can only find more of my writing on Tumblr (see comments below for links).

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This #FridayFeature blog series is designed to help you get to know your fellow community members better. Would you like to nominate someone for interview? Have a question you’re dying to ask of someone on the platform? Send us a private message here or visit our contact page to get in touch: theprose.com/p/contact.

In the past few weeks, people have come out from behind their writing desks in veritable droves to share their stories with us. As a result, we are learning more every day about the lack of transparency at Amazon.

We briefly touched on the topic in an article called “The Politics of Privacy” which referenced UK author and prolific book reviewer, Christoph Fischer. He agreed to give us an interview, in which he states that his recent experience with Amazon was a sobering one:

“Almost as soon as I had published my first book and was waiting and hoping for reviews, I understood their importance for indie authors. So I began to review everything that I read (including Stephen King and Armistead Maupin novels). I was a novice to social media and slowly got to know other authors and readers via Goodreads and Facebook author/reader groups. I learned how to use Twitter and my blog to connect with readers.

“I was naïve to connect to all of them, accepting all friendship requests and following everyone back on Twitter. On Twitter and FB, I also found many interesting books and invited authors onto my blog. Little did I know that this would come to haunt me and make me a ‘fraud’ in Amazon’s eyes. They even took my reviews for Maupin’s books down, thinking that I’m friends with him. (I wish!)

“I’d heard of big review purges on Amazon when I first started out reviewing: They were mainly targeted at non-verified purchases and the problem was resolved by adding the phrase, “I was given a copy of this book in exchange for a review.” Many authors had, however, irretrievably lost hundreds of legitimate reviews over this. At the time I believed that Amazon had good reasons to do this, even though it felt odd. Amazon had welcomed me as writer with open arms and I didn’t want that romance come to an end over its reviewing policy. I carefully labelled all of my reviews according to that rule from day one.

“The other, more legitimate target was people writing multiple reviews. One author was rumoured to have written 600+ reviews for her own books by constantly creating new Amazon accounts and again, I naively stood behind this enforcement. I had met said author and deemed her capable of it. She had to be guilty. Amazon and Goodreads used IP addresses to stop this practise. However, what they also did was deleting reviews by husband and wives who shared a computer and a taste in similar books. The stubbornness and brutality that the victims of those purges reported astonished me.

“Since I never lost any reviews I still quietly trusted the system - until it happened to me. I only wish that I was actually friends with Armistead Maupin, whose books I reviewed. I wish Armistead Maupin and 1700 author ‘friends’ had paid me to review their books.

“All anger aside: I completely understand that Amazon needs to do something about fake reviews and can’t discuss its methods in public. But the cold, impersonal and authoritarian style it goes about it, and the lack of common sense, shows a bullying side to the company that has sobered me up."

...

Look for the complete interview later today on The Official Prose. Blog at: blog.theprose.com/blog.

I need to preface this post with the following disclaimer:

I am not a lawyer. I do not have a law degree, nor have I studied for one. These are my personal opinions and interpretations of what I have learned in my time as an author. All of the following applies solely to the Copyright of works produced in the U.S. by U.S. citizens. If you use only my advice, without doing further research for yourself, you do so at your own risk.

Copyright law effects writers. It is what protects us from intellectual property theft. The more we understand what a copyright is (it’s actually a bundle of rights), the better prepared we are for submitting for publication and dealing with infringers.

The moment you create a unique collection of words, whether it is any good or not, you possess the right to publish it in any format currently available or that may become available in the future. You have the right to publish it:

-In Print

-Digitally

-As Audio

-As a Movie

-As a Video Game

-Any Other Form of Media

Within each of these categories is a sub-bundle of rights. For instance, in the Print category there is:

-1st Publication

-Hardcover

-Mass market paperback

-As part of an anthology

-2nd Publication

Confused yet? And these are not all the rights involved with publishing in print. What’s more, each country where the work will be printed and/or sold has their own set of rights.

The good news is you do not need to know about every single variation of copyright in existence, just those that apply to your work. With that in mind, let’s do a little exploring.

...

Stay tuned for the complete post by indie author and Prose. blogger, Kendall Bailey (@KBaileyWriter) later today on The Official Prose. Blog at: blog.theprose.com/blog.

God is playing board games with Himself

Names and faces plastered all over buttons and dice

"Six" means Susie dies in a car crash

"Five" is cancer for Henry

"Two" drags Mary into that loveless marriage

And whiskey for all

Mary says no, however

To the loveless marriage

to the china plates

to pottery and embroidered lace

To that yellow-eyed boy with a toothpaste grin

Henry chooses to fight cancer

He survives

For a while

Then loses to a wave of uncertain diarrhea

Nonspecific, nasty and trailing behind him like a water current

Susie leaves behind two kids and an abusive husband

Kids get lost and found

All because of Susie

Turmoil and tragedy strikes

All because of Susie

Daddy dearest breaks a leg and a collarbone

One of 'em Susie's kids dies

All because of Susie

The other grows up

Foster kid, jumping from home to home

Along the way he writes

About a crazy father, an absent mother, a brother dying in pain

All the while he asks

"Why did you leave, Mom?"

"Why did you do it, God?"

"Are you there, God?"

But God just tosses the dice

Yet Susie's writer plots his life

It's man's word vs. God's word

"Dice never lie," God murmurs

But he likes the challenge

Despite "Three" meaning Susie's writer is too broke to go to college

The kid surprises God with wits and charm

and a rich benefactor

with dimples and a crinkle in his eyes

God hums to Himself

And sighs

He failed this game

Susie's writer wins

But the board game never ends

I love it

When you lie

Straight to my face

And you're so stupid to think

I don't have a clue

Kiss my cheeks like

A snake hissing on its prey

Slithing your way in

Just to benefit yourself

And again

You're so dumb to think

I don't have a clue