The sky was impossibly distant above her as she lay in the dry grass.  Pale blue, like a bowl suspended, not a single cloud.  She had created a small nook for herself--crushed the tall grass below her stomping, bare feet and now she was concealed, a small boat sunk in a golden, rustling sea.

She'd come here often after the fire, walking the dusty road from the neighbors', escaping the heavy silence in the guest room she was sharing with her aunt, the closed drapes and kleenex wads and untouched tea mugs.  In retrospect, it seemed an odd choice, as it was this very same grass that had allowed the fire to spread so quickly, hungrily engulfing everything in its path, death and a blackened smoldering in its wake.

But the grass had grown back since that day, exactly three months ago.

Unlike so many other things, that disappear in an instant and are gone forever, like smoke dispersed in the wind.  

The charred remains of the house still stood, as though perpetually against the backdrop of a setting sun, blackened to silhouette.  If she sat up and turned east, she could see the roofline in the distance, leaning precariously, doomed to collapse when the winds picked up in early fall.

It had been a spring day, notable for its very ordinariness.  She'd eaten her breakfast of yogurt on the front porch, swinging her feet off the edge, watching their shadows pass over the ground.  It was quiet, a mild breeze stirring the yellowing grass, birds warbling in distant trees at the horizon.  Her uncle had gone out to start the tractor a half hour or so before, and she could see him now, out in the field, bent over the engine.  His red cap stood out like a beacon and he was dwarfed by distance and the rusting hood that hung open above him.  Inside, her aunt bustled about, humming distractedly as she passed from room to room, pushing windows closed against the gathering heat.

As she turned to open the screen door, she heard a shout, and wheeled about to see a looming tower of black smoke hovering, then moving toward her over the field.  Orange flames licked, rose, grew, reached and she could see nothing of the tractor or her uncle.

"Auntie!" she shrieked, and felt her voice strain against the roar in the air, in her ears.

She froze, paralyzed with panic.  No answer from inside.  She ran into the house, screen slamming roughly behind her, screamed.  Couldn't stop.  Heart in her throat, bursting.  Her aunt on the stairs, eyes wide with fear.  "Get outside, now!"

The porch, the field, the road.  Air that burned, hot and singeing her throat.  And the roaring that grew.  Tears on her hot cheeks and rasping, ragged breaths as she ran as fast and as far as she could, and then farther.

Neighbors' voices, loud and then very quiet.  The house, consumed, yellow paint melted, peeling, the brick chimney somehow bright, unscathed in the ruin.  Distant sirens howled, too late.

Her uncle, vanished, the tractor a shrunken smoking skeleton.  The ground black, the sky gray.  

Her aunt, silent in the midst of comforting arms, her mouth slightly open, still carrying a dishtowel in one hand.

Cry pity for

the butterfly

who races by

and dies in

your smoke

----

Image: Brian A Catnut

Carved into the rotting walls of the abandoned cabin were names; in a column against the wall facing east, each girl etched their memory into the house long forgotten. She sat facing the decaying wooden panels, rubbing her fingertips along the splintered edges of Sara, Emily, Jen, and the rest. The rock in her left hand trembled with her pulse. She remembered- she was not alone here. The others were here, up there, in her head. Nirvana's "Lithium" was right, she was happier now that she'd found her friends. Sara was the leader here, reminding her of her mother's choice to exit stage left so long ago. Emily was Sara's right-hand man, reciting personal mistakes in a circulating loop. It was Jen who stuck out; the quiet ones generally do, in their own way. Jen held the secret, the bona fide reason for this gathering. Jen was the little sister who had come some years before, chasing freedom from the taunting sneers of demons in a child's form. Jen looked with wide eyes from the corner, shaking subtly in the dark of the abandoned home. She could see her sister now, just as she'd found her, blood pooling around her blue skin; she was too late then, but now- now she had a chance. She convulsed momentarily, and took the next step, inscribing an F-R-A. Then she paused, reminding herself to savor these last breaths. She began again, N-C-I-N.. She dropped the stone and massaged her palm before completing the process: E. The room blurred into an abyssal lockdown as her mind spiraled into nothing. Her neck would be sore for eternity; her appendages cooled first as she dangled there. Outsiders and passersby saw names but no faces, knowing no more of the abandoned cottage than that it was a cute summer home now out of mind. The suffering held within those walls would shock the world into wellbeing, if only one girl survived to tell the tale of her hidden suffering. If only one girl lived on as more than a memory. 

When I was a child, God was male. A magical man-like being that lived in the sky.

I was terrified of him.

I used to sing in a church choir and remember each Sunday the Vicar would say "You MUST be born again!" and every Sunday I wondered frantically how the hell I was going to get back into my Mum's tummy and be re-born.

When I was 7, I stole a SuperTed soap from a friend's bathroom and the next day at school I asked another friend, who I knew was pals with God, what would happen if you stole something? "You'll go to hell." she told me. I was petrified. I asked "What if it was just something really small?" and she said "It doesn't matter, you'll still go to hell". So I sobbed for weeks and prayed to God each night begging him not to send me to hell.

God, is dead.

Because, what I associate with God is this controlling, fearful, oppressive bullshit that causes fear and war and terror. God left my childhood with a darkness. I want to hug that 7 year old me that believed she would burn in hell.

I want to hug every child and adult the world over who is controlled by religious fear. Fear of whomever 'their God' is and what punishment awaits them. Or even worse, what reward awaits them for handing out punishment on God's behalf. It's dictatorial insanity. Why divide by fear when we can unite, as people of Earth?

Then, I discovered science. And thermodynamics. The first law of thermodynamics states that no energy is ever created in the universe and none is ever destroyed. Energy is constant. So when we die our energy continues, at one with galactic infinity. When stars die, they explode and blast out matter that then creates new stars and new planets. New life. One big cycle. Everything connected. Every atom in our body came from the nuclear furnace of stars. Stardust. We are.

I believe in energy. And through science I discovered my spirituality.

I believe that when you behave with compassion, with kindness and with love, you create positive energy that is sent out to your surroundings. When you say something nice to someone, it makes them feel good. The same works when you speak in anger, with disregard or contempt, you create negative energy and that is also transferred.

Some people say that that force, that energy, that infinity, is God. I think ultimately, every religion, spiritual belief and science text book are the same thing, when you take them to their highest possible level. God, Energy, The Universe. But when people label things; Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Paganism, then it becomes competitive and elitist. "My religion is better than your religion." "My God is better than your God." It's outdated. We've evolved past these segregated rules. Our language has evolved, our understanding, our scientific knowledge and our compassion. I love and respect kind people. I don't care what labels you want to give yourself or which religion you do or don't follow.

For me, this endless energy, radiating every particle of every single thing we know exists, that's not God. It's something far more beautiful and I can't possibly give it a name or a label. It just is.

The Universe. We're all connected.

Seek out the positive, the light, and be kind.

Peace and love to all.

"It was me",

She said

Inside her head.

Eye contact

Wishing to convey

That thing she won't say.

Unsatisfactory

Days without expression.

Heart under compression.

Not one so silent

A mouth open, no sound

She's done with her rebound.

i will give my daughters

complicated names,

names their teachers can't

pronounce,

names boys on the playground

will throw dirt at them for having,

names that are harsh on the

tongue, jagged against the roofs

of the mouths of men who

want to quiet them.

i will tell them when they are little

that they are strong, and they

will flex their muscles, and

i will tell them that they are

funny, and they will tell jokes

they made up at school that day,

and i will tell them that they are

smart, and they will write their

names and understand

how much

of the alphabet is theirs

for the taking.

i will teach them that they

can speak to the moon,

that the tides comes and go

in sync with their breathing,

that their bodies may be made

to bring life

but that could mean anything,

that there is life just in the sound

of their singing.

i will give my sons

sisters so they will understand

these things.

the truth never set me free.

the truth bound me in chains,

nailed me to floorboards in

dusty attics

where i can't even read

a magazine without

the lines from all the cages

i'm trapped in

making a checkerboard pattern

across my legs;

tall, but not too tall

thin, but not too thin

toned, but not bulky

white, but nicely tanned

hairless, blue-eyed,

and blonde, preferably.

turns out,

building the perfect woman

is not much different

from ordering a fine cut

of steak.

and i can't even watch

a movie without

seeing every strong female

character sexualized

by the industry

and then shamed when

she chooses to act

sexually, and we all have to

play this game,

walk the tightrope.

"do this balancing act

in lingerie

and stilettos

but for god's sake,

cover yourself up."

the other day,

i was walking down the street

and i saw an ad for a local

gym, the picture of a woman

cropped from her neck down to the

tops of her thighs.

no head, no legs.

no thinking, no getting away.

don't you want this body?

it asks me.

what good would that do,

i think.

they'd probably still ask us to smile

with our heads missing.

lizten keed

y MUST

y HAFTAH b

y HAFTAH b O KAY

GOTsit bud

ohl pal oh myne

tayk dees CAPshools

swahlo dem eeryday

and YUHLL be pee chee

"You still haven't explained the color orange to me yet..."

She sat there with a smirk on her face. Her beautiful green eyes looking aimlessly at my shoulder.

"Are you sure you are ready to learn orange? You were not too happy with red," I countered.

"That is because you gave me a second-degree burn on my hand!" she exclaimed!

"Hardly. It wasn't even a first-degree burn. Anyway, ok, time for orange, hold out your hands."

She held out her lithe, delicate hands, almost warily at this point. I gently placed an orange in her hands.

"So tell me," I asked with my professor mock-speech, "what are you holding, my dear?"

She felt the fruit in her hands, seeing it with her fingertips, "It is an orange. Ha! Ha! That doesn't help at all. You promised to explain all of the colors to me. I want to know what orange looks like, the color, not the fruit."

"Well, what color do you think an orange is? Lavender?"

"So for me, I am just to assume the color orange looks like a dimpled sphere?"

"No, here. Let me take it from you now."

I began to peel the orange in front of her. The oil and the juice from the orange, filling the air.

"That is what the color orange smells like," I said.

I broke off a wedge, burst some of the cells so it was dripping sweet, and placed it to her lips.

"That is what the color orange tastes like," I said as I watch her suck on the wedge of orange and then begin to eat it.

I caressed her cheek with the warmth of my hand.

"This is what orange feels like. Where red was hot, orange sits next to red and is warm instead. Inviting."

"So, besides an orange, what other things are painted orange?" She asked in a purr, sinking her cheek into my touch intimately.

"Even though you are a redhead, your hair is more like spun copper. It is closer to orange than it is to red."

"Really? After you scorched my hand the other day, I thought of my red hair as fiery. My mother always refers to me as being more fiery than her," she countered.

"No, your hair is orange. Warm, not hot. Fire can be red, orange, or yellow. It tends to be a blend of those."

"But, fire burns. Burns is Red, not orange. You said it yourself, orange is warm."

"Yes, the temperatures are emotionally relative. Technically, blue flame is hotter than red."

"But, you said blue is cold!"

"Blue can describe cold. Obviously, it can describe very hot stars as well."

"Confusing..."

"Yes, but do you even think you have a better idea what colors are? I have done my best to find creative ways to paint them for you without sight."

"Yes, I do. I appreciate it all. I was just teasing you."

Then she found my face with her hands, brought hers to mine and kissed my lips.

"And what color was that?" she asked.

"It was soft, sweet, gentle and tasted surprisingly like an orange. A light orange," I teased. She smacked me on the head, then kissed me harder, with more passion.

"And this one?" she asked, a bit more breathlessly.

"That one, as red as can be. I felt all of your heat and passion, so definitely red."

"Good, that is what I was hoping for. Maybe I am starting to see these colors after all."

She kissed me again, even deeper this time. We both bled to red as we succumbed to the dance of our lips, and tongues, and love.

For those of you that may not know, the Prose. Partner Program is an initiative by which select members of the Prose. community are recognized for their outstanding abilities in both writing and leadership.

Partners are a select group of our most talented poets, storytellers, and workers of words. Applications are reviewed extensively by our team and are accepted or rejected based on a number of factors including excellence in grammar and syntax, variation in style and post length, social media presence, and maturity.

These individuals serve as representatives for all Prosers, voices on which we all should rely to speak candidly if we’re not meeting your needs, ears that are always listening, and eyes that watch out for the best interests of you and your fellow penmen.

They are responsible for creating thoughtful and provocative challenges that encourage you to stretch your writing muscles, think critically, and further hone your skills as a reader. They are also writers and readers whose work we all admire and should look to for examples of the new-and-improved standards set by the recent launch of Prose. 2.0 (theprose.com/post/25270).

If you have ideas for challenges, trouble navigating through the various facets of the community, or are in search of support and encouragement, Prose. Partners – alongside the app’s administrators—are here for you.

Anyone that wishes to apply to become a Partner may do so (theprose.com/p/partners/apply). If you have applied and been rejected, do not be discouraged. This program is one of many more initiatives we've put together to grow the community and strengthen its integrity.

Our goal as the “top shelf” for writers is to generate high-quality poetry and prose while combating all forms of censorship and protecting you and your words from any threat of copyright infringement.

Prose. is a place for you to share your work, develop and refine your skills, and connect with others that love literature as much as you do.

Next week we will be launching a new blog series in which Prose. Partners will be sharing with you their own stories of how they came to the community. They’ll discuss what drives them to write and what they hope to see here in the future.

We all know the answer to the “Why write?” question is “Because Prose.”

But, why Prose.? Stay tuned at the Official Prose. Blog (blog.theprose.com/blog) to find out.

With that, we would like to once again welcome you.

Listed below, in no particular order, are your Partners. Follow them, engage with their work, and help us to celebrate their presence.

@The_N

@MElali

@OleanderPlume1

@StuartCA

@MetalSymphony

@T_E_Trueman

@JaylanSalahSalm

@aar_poetry241

@CRaMcGuirt

@MiGGiE

@A

@rioramireznovel

@Mog

@JaimeMathis

@DeanHurtt

@Sooz

@kwknox

@anitarosner

@DCEllsworth

@AlwaysInTao

@C

@LindynKF

@fantastical

@mrsmetaphor

@rh

@MaggieGreene

@sammielee46

@Valerie

@MurkCrary

@KBaileyWriter

@LittleOrangePen