The New Guy
"The new guy, what's his name? Scott? Sean? Steve?"
"Sam," I say.
"What?"
"Sam. His name is Sam."
"Ok, well he's an idiot," says Ray. "He seriously needs to get his head out of his ass if he ever wants to be a halfway decent conductor someday. Otherwise, the railroad is gonna chew him up and spit him out."
"Really. What'd he do? What happened?"
"It was when you were on vacation and he was covering your job -- and thanks, by the way -- for letting me get stuck with him. I owe you one, like right in the balls!"
"Sorry," I say, giggling. "You know how it is. Wine, woman, and sunshine were calling, plus I needed a break from the railroad, which you, of all people, I'm sure can understand. You being as old as God and everything."
"I understand, believe me. And, by the way, fuck you for calling me old. You wait, you'll see. You'll be in my shoes before you know it. Unfortunately, I'll be dead and won't be around to tell you I told you so. But you'll see. You'll see how time quickly goes by and bites you in the ass, before running you over."
"That's funny," I say, laughing. "That almost makes sense."
"What does?" asks Ray, half-smiling. "Whatdoya mean?"
"That last part. That thing you said. Never mind."
"Yeah, well, maybe I just need to retire. I could've gone three years ago. What the fuck am I still doing here, anyway? You probably think I'm crazy. I think I'm crazy -- in fact, I know I am. But what the fuck am I gonna do with myself all day? I'll drink myself to death in front of the TV and no one will find me until years later and all they'll find is my stupid skeleton, still sitting on the couch. Yeah, I should just keep working till they carry me off the train on a stretcher."
"That's hardcore, man," I say.
"Pathetic is what it is. Like my brain. So what was I saying before I started feeling sorry for myself? Oh, yeah, the new guy, Shane."
"Sam."
"What? Right. Sam. Fuck. Not the sharpest tool in the drawer, if you know what I mean. So, the dispatcher gets on the radio and tells us to stop and hand-line a switch. I grab my gloves, switch keys, and flashlight to go out and line the switch myself, and I think, no -- fuck it -- it's raining, it's dark and cold out -- I'm too old for this shit -- so I instead decide to send the new guy out. He doesn't even have a flashlight, so I give him mine, and then he goes out there to do this one simple thing. After all, it's not rocket science. But what does he do?"
"What?"
"He fucks it up, is what he does. Tries to line it back as we're about to pass over the switch. Luckily, the engineer noticed it and stopped the train just in time, before we all got fired. Then he gets back on the train and I really chew his ass out, almost making him cry. Dumb fucker."
"Wow," I say, "Sounds like a close call." Then I start thinking back to when I first started on the railroad, a decade and a half ago now. I was also the new guy once. I was also a dumb fucker. I didn't know my ass from a hole in the ground. But I learned. I'm not a quick learner, but when I get it I get it. And it stays with me forever. Some of these old heads, like Ray, forget what it's like to be new. They'll walk around, cocky as hell, like they were born with switch keys in their hands. Some of them, though, do remember. That's what makes us better, safer, more equipped to handle the job.
"Fuck it," says Ray. "I think I'm gonna do it."
"What's that?" I ask.
"I'm retiring. I'm pulling the plug. It's time to let all you new guys -- younger guys -- have all the fun and make all the money. I can't take it anymore. I'm tired."
My mind starts to wander a little, imagining myself at Ray's age, looking back at a life filled with trains and miles and miles of endless track, weaving in and out of the gray details, the pieces of a life lived outside of the railroad: lovers, marriages, divorces, children, addictions, death, the joy and suffering, the burning up of time gone by too quickly. Fifteen years, I think. I'm only at the halfway mark.
Flash Fiction: The Time-Traveler’s Dilemma
It had to be the 1950s. Had to be. Ill-fitting lab coats. Conservative haircuts. Government-issue eyeglasses. Sturdy yet un-stylish shoes. Yup. 1950s. Beyond that, Dr. Leonard Brock wasn’t sure. The faces seemed familiar, particularly the motherly female with hands shoved deep in her pockets and the guy (behind her) with arms crossed like a cross father. Brock’s brain was jumbled from the time-leap, but he became a bit more settled with each step; more focused. Halfway down the hallway, he suddenly recognized the balding man standing dead-center: It was his grandfather — and he had a gun.
Friday Feature: @misslittle
Friday Feature:
As the year soldiers on, then so do we with our regular Friday Feature. This week we showcase another Proser and probe them about all things wordy, booky and creative.
We’re are talking to Kim, “Just Kim. My dad was adamant that I was just called Kim, not Kimberly.” She tells us, and goes on to explain; ”My Proser name is @misslittle, because I really am small (4ft 11) God thought it would be really funny to tease me by being so near, yet so far, to 5ft.”
Kim lives in beautiful Gloucestershire, within the bosom of the Stroud Valleys, in United Kingdom and she fills us in on what that’s like. “I absolutely love where I live. I'm a proper country girl at heart. I do enjoy the buzz of places like London and Birmingham, but I'm always happy to return home. I'm truly blessed to be somewhere that is a constant source of inspiration for me. Even Laurie Lee, the author of Cider With Rosie, wrote about the gorgeous area in which I live.”
We ask her what she does for a living “Full-time writer... Part-time mother? Lol... Let me explain. I used to be a teaching assistant, between having my six children. After the arrival of my twin girls, our family was well and truly complete, so I decided to become a full-time mummy. I made the choice to try and enjoy my babies being babies, instead of trying to juggle motherhood with work. I found the more children I had, the more unreliable an employee I became. It seemed that when one child was ill, the others would soon follow. It was like a domino effect of illness. I'm a perfectionist. I take pride in my work. If I had to stay at home with a sick child, I felt incredibly guilty, for letting work down. However after about a year of being at home, I felt like I needed to do something. I needed to find an outlet of some kind. So I began writing again. I hadn't written for quite some time, and missed it. I began reading a lot, too. I knew that I wanted to write a book, so eventually... I did!”
“Writing has consumed me since publishing my debut novel, and now I'm trying hard to spend a lot more quality time with my beautiful family. When you write, your mind NEVER switches off. There's a constant string of words that just go around and around in your head, not disappearing until you've written them all down. I can truthfully say, I'm only just beginning to balance out my life as a writer, mummy and wife... It's important to have that healthy balance.”
When prompted with what her relationship is with writing and how has it evolved, Kim explains, “I think I've kind of answered this question in my previous answer. Once you start writing, the ideas will simply pour from you. When you write every single day, you're perfecting your craft. I've just finished my fourth novel, and I know I'm still evolving as a writer. I know I've grown, and I'm continuing to grow. You would think I'd be this confident and self assured author by now, but the self doubt and confidence is something that still flits in and out of my life. Luckily, I have a wonderful support network that allows me to be the writer I am today. It's because of that support, that I have a better understanding of being a writer.”
“I write because I must. I write what's inside of my head and heart. I think when you do that, the doubts will lessen and the confidence will come. I'm learning to take the highs and lows of being a writer, because ultimately, it's what I love to do.”
“No pain, no gain, right?”
We want to know the value reading adds to both Kim’s personal and professional life. She enlightens us:
“When I'm not writing, I enjoy nothing more than to catch up on my reading. It's one of the rare occasions that I'm able to totally relax. When I read, it's like sweet respite from my own words. When I read something that is so good, I am able to immerse myself fully into someone else's story. I love being swept away by someone else's words. Reading enriches my life, it can also inspire my life. Being an indie author, has totally opened up my reading world. There are so many wonderfully talented authors out there, and to read their work, is uplifting and motivational.”
Kim explains what she’s up to now and what we can expect in future posts:
“I published my debut erotic romance novel, A Famous Affair in December 2014. It's about a married mother who thought she had it all. The perfect marriage, the perfect husband and perfect life. Then she meets the British actor and national treasure, Jonny Riley. For Jessica, meeting him completely turns her life upside down.”
“In February 2015, I published my cowboy novella, Hudson's Heart. It's about Georgina, a British woman who feels as though her life is going nowhere, fast.”
“She impulsively books a two week trip to Montana. She finds herself in the beautiful Prairie Point, where she also finds the intriguing Dade Hudson.”
“Just recently, I've published the final instalment of Jonny's and Jessica's story, Famously Yours. It follows their difficult relationship. How they adjust to being together, in the media spotlight and hopefully tying up any loose ends that were left in A Famous Affair.”
“Currently, I'm about to release my fourth book on Valentine's Day. It is called Written With Hearts, and it's about an erotic romance author who meets a cover model at her first book signing. Abby has insecurities that continuously drag her down, and although she feels attracted to Yate, her insecurities convince her that being with someone like him, would only make things worse.”
“After that, I'm going to be releasing a book on Halloween. I chose that particular day because this book will be my first step into the paranormal. This year, I'm continuing with my writing, and I may even branch out into other genres... I'll just have to see where the characters voices lead me!”
Wowzers, Kim is busy! We ask her to wax lyrical about Prose. She does:
“I love the diversity of writing, and I particularly like the indie author group. I love to meet and read, other writers. I enjoy the interaction with like-minded lovelies. Other writers are invaluable support because they know what it's like to be one. Those who don't write, can't fully appreciate what it's like to have a mind that never shuts off. Places like Prose, mean that we writers can all be somewhere that is fully supportive and understanding of one another. It's also a place where we can showcase our work, our words... That's like heaven to me.”
As always, we ask for the Book Before You Die that is another ongoing feature. She chews it over and illuminates us:
“That's a seriously HARD question! There are just so many books that I've read and been blown away by. I guess I'd have to say the one that began my love affair with reading, Anne of Green Gables by L.M Montgomery. I just adore the silent love that exists between Anne and Gil, it has forever captured mine and many hearts.”
Does Kim have an unsung hero who got her into reading and writing? "My dear friend Sonia, who read my first draft of A Famous Affair. I wrote it, then sat on it for a while, unsure of what to do with it. Sonia had read lots of erotic romance, so I asked her whether she would read it, and honestly tell me whether I was onto to something good with the manuscript. She read it. She loved it, and convinced me that I was indeed, onto something good. Without Sonia's belief in AFA, I doubt whether the manuscript would have ever seen the light of day!"
When we ask Kim for anything else she wants to extoll the virtue of or just tell other Prosers, she has only this to add: “Come and say hi. I love meeting new peeps, as I'm a proper chatterbox. I talk like I write... A lot!”
What are you waiting for Prosers? If you don’t already, please follow @MissLittle
Thanks to Kim for his time in answering our Friday feature questions. Are you an active Proser that would like to take part? If so, get in touch at info@theprose.com
Prose Challenge of the Week 5
Morning, Prosers,
It’s the fifth round of the Prose Challenge of the Week, and we have been getting great responses to all of our prompts, they’ve all been great to read! Thank you all.
Before we move on to announce the winner of last week's challenge, along with announcing this week's prompt, we’d like to address a concern some of you, our Prosers, have had. As a company, we will always listen to feedback, and where possible, apply changes to make your experience here as awesome as possible. It is because of recent feedback, that we are changing the way we judge our Challenge of the Week.
Prose is a place where we all share a common passion. Words. Whether that be reading or writing them. Words make our world go round. It is only right that the winner of the Prose Challenge of the Week is the entrant who really went ‘all out,’ pushed boundaries, used impeccable language and grammar, and showed the Prose community their skills as a writer.
We want to see your fire, your passion for your craft. We want to see you perfect your form. We want to see your creative edge, that very edge that knocks your competition out of the water. We all take words seriously, and words have never been more important.
From this day onwards, Prose will be judging the entries to each and every one of the challenges we post. Bookmarks and shares will be taken into consideration but will not be the deciding factor. The criteria that we will judge against are: fire, form, and creative edge.
With that being said, here is the next Prose Challenge of the Week:
In no more than 500 words, continue this sentence: The land was barren, the sky was black… The winner will be chosen by Prose based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Bookmarks and shares will be taken into consideration, but won’t decide the winner solely. Winner will receive $100. (link, as always, will be put in the comments)
On to the winner of last week's challenge, and the lucky recipient of $100. After reviewing all of the entries, and discussing as a team, the winner of the Prose Challenge of the Week #4 is @Amna with “The Girl Whose Ballet Shoes Were Taken.” Congratulations, we will be in contact shortly to organise the transfer of your winnings.
Think you've got what it takes to be our next Prose Challenge of the Week winner? The get writing, now!
The Hunter
She glances off into the horizon as the thirteen life stars journey the harvest sky. In the distance a hogsnatch screeches becoming ensnared in one of her traps. Silently, just as the elders taught her she glides through the trees towards the wounded beast, whispering prayers bringing her blade down.
Things Wind Down, preview
I remember a rough impact. I remember my arms being lifted and my back scraping against rough ground. I remember the wind of passing people, of a busy street. And that's all I remember.
Well, I remember myself. I remember my childhood, my birthdays. I remember algebra and essays and arguing over Twitter, how to drive and how to swim, and how not to ride a bike.
But I don't remember my name.
I don't remember friend's names. My mom's name. Nothing. Faces and faces and faces but no syllables to build them. I was glad to know who I was, but as I realized I didn't know who I am, a slow, foggy panic set in. Just enough adrenaline that my eyes... Opened.
If people 'slip' into comas, I did not. I must have jumped a fence and cliff dived into the very concept of unconsciousness.
And as my eyes opened and my eyelashes stuck for a moment, and I took a breath for what felt like the first time... I came free falling out of the aforementioned coma without a parachute to even slow my fall.
And that feeling you get when you dream about falling- that's a nice thought, that I might be dreaming- and your limbs jerk and you're suddenly more awake than you've ever been... I became that feeling. Sweat coated my back and I was suddenly very aware of it. There were sheets over my body and a hard floor under my back.
And one thing-- only one thing-- was I sure of.
My teeth felt sharper than they did before.
Indie Bookshops: Don’t let them dwindle to the Kindle
In the UK alone, the number of independent bookshops has dwindled considerably. That said, in the last three or four years, new ones have encouragingly begun to pop up here and there. In light of this, in such a digitally driven age, Prose wanted to give something back to the stores that we adore so much. We start with David’s Bookshop in Hertfordshire.
We met with Paul Wallace, the owner of David’s Bookshop. The shop itself is well known and has been in Letchworth Garden City now for 52 years, where they pride themselves on stocking the most comprehensive range of items for many miles. With over 50,000 books on two floors, and a wide range of maps, you can happily while away hour upon hour there. The rather enchanted second hand book department covers two floors, with everything from low cost paperbacks to antiquarian and collectors' volumes. In addition, they have a café there where customers are invited to browse over a tea of coffee and a slice of cake. Sounds good, doesn’t it?
We asked how Paul felt about the decline of Indie Bookshops in Britain.
“Statistics say that the number of independent bookshops on the high street has fallen below a thousand. In that nine-hundred-and-something number, over three hundred of those are Christian bookshops, so in fact the number of independent stores offering a wide range of genres number in the six hundreds. There are new bookshops opening all the time, but unfortunately, they’re closing at a faster rate. We have the record shop here as well, and they number only in the three hundreds at the moment, although they are on the increase.”
Read the rest of the feature on blog.theprose.com later today - 6pm GMT/10am PST
Prose.
I'm quite biased, but Prose is also my favorite app for a reason.
It's not the beauty, despite how beautiful a work of art Prose is. It's the soul.
The soul of the design, the functionality, the content, and the people. Prose is a safe environment in which I can express my soul completely, and in which I can listen to other soul express themselves completely.
The soul of Prose, and its constituents, emanates aliveness, passion, wonder, elegance, depth. It embraces the full spectrum of light and dark and rejuvenates me like a literary fountain of youth.
Love you, Prose.
Ghost Stories
Chapter 2: Mysteries and Riddles
When Harry Creek awoke the next morning he was a mess. His bedsheets were soaked with perspiration, the result, he was sure, of another night-sweat. He lifted his head from his pillow. His neck was stiff and sore, his throat parched. Rolling onto his side, Harry reached for the rocks glass on the nightstand. He raised the remains of last night’s vodka to his lips and drained the half-glass in one gulp. The alcohol burned his esophagus, making his body shudder and jolting him awake. Harry shook his head and ran his hands through his matted hair, curled and damp with sweat. He took a deep breath as he sat up and reached for his black horn-rimmed glasses. As his eyes adjusted to the morning sun coming through the blinds, Harry focused on the ceiling fan turning slowly above him. Out-of-balance, it rocked hypnotically. Falling back onto his pillow, Harry ran his hands over his tired body until his fingers found the stream of still- wet semen that ran from his stomach to its source. He didn’t remember masturbating last night, but then again, Harry didn’t remember much from last night. There were no torn foil condom wrappers strewn about...no lipstick stained high-ball glasses next to his own...no foreign cigarette butts crushed out in the ashtray. No, from all empirical evidence Harry had spent the night alone. Judging from the volume of ejaculate, Harry thought, it must have been one hell of a dream...
Blinking his eyes, Harry shook off the remaining fog and finally sat up. Swinging his legs over the bedside, he put his feet on the floor and stood. He walked to the bathroom without staggering, thanking whatever powers he didn’t believe in that the hang over wasn’t as bad as it could have been. He flipped on the fluorescent light over the vanity and winced as the flicker and pop strained his still-tired eyes. Harry walked across the cold tiles, pulled back the shower curtain, stepped into the tub, and turned on the water. Steam filled the room as he let the water run over his body, washing away the sleep and sweat and semen from the night before. Reaching his hand between his legs and taking hold of his penis, Harry steadied himself and urinated, emptying his bladder of last night’s anesthetic. Relieved, he put his head under the torrent and let some water fill his mouth, swishing it from side to side, and spit it down the drain. Harry began to turn his back to the shower but jumped when the hot water stung the flesh between his scapulae. From the rear of the tub, Harry adjusted the cold flow so that the water no longer scalded his skin. Leaning back under the shower he washed his hair and soaped his body. Sufficiently cleansed, Harry turned off the water, grabbed a heavy white bath sheet from the wall hanger, and dried himself.
Harry emerged from the steamy bathroom and walked back into his bedroom. He grabbed a pair of black knit boxer-briefs from the top drawer of his dresser and, bending at the waist, stepped into them, pulling them up over his thighs. From the next drawer down he grabbed a white crew neck undershirt and pulled it over his head. Turning to make his bed, Harry Creek stopped with a shudder. The white sheets on top of which he had slept the night before were streaked with blood, outlining the shape of his torso. He reached for the rocks-glass on the nightstand but it was empty. Turning away from the bed, Harry doubled over and vomited the liquid contents of stomach onto the wooden floor where he stood.