Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

Happy Saturday, fam. In today's video, we lazily cast a net into the the waters of Prose., and reel in a haul refulgent with beautiful brains of madness and gorgeousness. Just a mellow morning of reading these greats with coffee and the hum of possiblity.

There is nothing finer.

Featured and flounced before you, and waiting at the end of this sentence, is the link to the channel.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=horH5hzrBmI

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Okay, so normally I wouldn't care much about what the Budweiser beer company does. It is my last choice in beer and I've always assumed Budweiser was German for, "Kaiser Piss." Surprisingly, this most domesticated of beers has taken a brave stance and made a transgender person a part of their advertising. Not surprisingly, the result of this inclusive add campaign is that it has ushered in a state of near pandemonium amongst many of those with a more conservative bent. Let's be clear here. This is an ad campaign. It is not an attempt to indoctrinate anyone into anything. From the reaction of many conservatives, it seems that they expect a paramilitary group of LBGTQA members to swoop in and lure these, "Good Traditional Christian Men and Women" into becoming, oh no, ONE OF THEM by exposing them to an endless loop of Will and Grace reruns and Judy Garland records!

Of course this is absurd, but it is just one symptom of a disease that has hit our country lately. No, it's not COVID and its not an especially nasty strain of antibiotic resistant gonorrhea, no it's a new disease aptly, named Grandiose-Prickitis, or GP for short. What are the symptoms you ask? Well, this is a new disease, so there is still much to learn, but thus far GP's symptoms include:

1. Holding to a somewhat unattainable standard which dictates sex is only between a man and a woman, not to be engaged in before marriage, and is a messy, sticky, shameful part of procreation that the couple should seek immediate forgiveness immediately after engaging in the horizontal bop. Of course, sex should also only be had after Bible study, in the dark, and the missionary position is the only remotely acceptable position, thus its name.

2. The belief that there is zero, zip, zilch, nada variation in gender even though gender fluidity is well documented and has existed in the animal kingdom since before we learned to walk erect.

3. The delusional belief that they are 100% sure that their beliefs about human sexuality is correct and it is their God given duty to condemn anyone whose beliefs don't line up with their stick up their ass belief system (the stick up their ass also being a no-no as foreign objects don't belong in the marital bed).

4. The belief that members of the LBGTQA community are incapable of offering anything beneficial to society.

An example of GP symptom presentation can be found in the fact that many conservatives recently got their totally holy and therefore totally unexciting britches tied in knots because drag queens were reading stories to children at the library (and looked FAB-U-LOUS while doing it). Of course, afraid that this would somehow usher in the apocalypse, they through a fit and demanded that the library be boycotted until it no longer allows drag queens to read to children. What is the problem here? They aren't handing out Camp Drag Queen brochures to the kiddos. In fact, many of the kiddos may not have a clue as to the nature of the kind person who is reading them a story at all. They're just happy to be read, "Green Eggs and Ham." As a social worker who serves developmentally delayed kiddos from 0-5 year old, I cannot count how many times I have asked a parent about story time and they admit to not reading to their kids at all. So, as far as I'm concerned, every library needs a drag queen story time because EVERY kid deserves to be read to. If mom and dad won't do it, someone should, and who better than the kind and generous (and once again FAB-U-LOUS) drag queens who understand the importance of reading to children.

It all comes down to this. Those who suffer from Grandiose-Prickitis have no right to run another person's life. They have not been given license to condemn people because they don't agree with how they live. Most importantly, those with GP should never be allowed to hinder or stop the good works of others just because they are different. So, I salute Budweiser and its ad campaign. Kuddos! But I still won't be drinking your beer.

Day 1: 2:00am:

Darkness. That is all I can see outside of the soft glow of the candle on my desk. No streetlights, no soft buzzing from my parent’s TV down the hallway, and no faint glimmer from nightlight that was located in the hallway. I awoke in sudden darkness, due to the nightmare that happened again. Traces echoed around me, teasing me from the darkness. I huddled closer the candlelight hoping to find some safety in the light. Hopefully, the outage would not last. I closed my eyes slowly pulling the blanket across my face. Sending one last prayer to some unknown power, I went back to the land of dreams and nightmares.

Day 7: 3:00pm:

It’s been one week since anyone was able to get any form of electricity. I can only write now during sun light hours, due to all the candles now being pucks of wax, no longer useful. My parents are becoming agressive, with all this additional stress and no more distractions. Our cell phones have been long dead. I can hear people wondering around outside, not sure what to do with themselves anymore. People are now starting to talk to each other and explore the world around them more. This could be a good thing.

Day 30: 7:00am:

Mornings are the only time I can ever have any quiet. I feel like my head will split apart if I hear any more yelling. There are voices that are blaming the government punishing us for something. Some are blaming wild animals chewing the lines. Other’s, like my parents, are blaming each other for chosing to live here. I stay in my room most of the time. That is where I feel the safest. I watch the world slowly desend into chaos from my window while it is light. It gets worse during the darkness. Evil uses it as a cover. I am usually curled up in a corner trying to block out all of the screams, praying for daylight to come quicker. Everyone is starting to lose their humanity.

Day 90 6:00pm:

Humanity is gone. The government tried to step in and prevent mass chaos, but they were easily overtaken. There seems to be no hope left. I believe my parents have been murdered, I can no longer hear their criticisms. I am too scared to leave my bedroom. The screams are now during the daylight as well. I can’t escape the sounds anymore. I can hear scavangers downstairs, hoping to find anything someone may have missed before. The sounds keep getting closer to my door. This is worse than anything I could have imagined, worse than my constant nightmares. There is pounding on my door now. I once again send a prayer to some unknown power. Please save m...

I felt the cylinder slide into my hands. Hard, cold, dense. It was small, too small, but I’d have to make do. I paid good money for this.

“That’ll be six double-A’s,” says the hooded man.

I fork over the batteries. The last of my stash. If this flashlight ran out of light, I’d have no way to replace it. No way to replace the batteries, no way to buy another one.

Our economy used to be powered by money. That’s why most of us leaped at the change when Zenith began.

Zenith, a nonprofit electricity company. Providing free energy to everyone, everywhere. It took a while for us to accept it, too afraid of a catch.

But there was no catch.

Or so we thought, until that Halloween when all the lights went out.

At first, we thought it was a joke. We wondered why none of the houses in our neighborhood had lights. Why no one was giving us candy.

Yes, 16 is a little old for Halloween. At least, some people think so. In my opinion, you’re never too old for free candy and gory costumes.

It was the first nice Halloween we’d had since 2029. Most of our Halloweens here are brutally cold. Rain, snow, sleet, hail. The whole shabang. One year, we even had graupel. That was the year I learned what the world “graupel” meant.

Four years of horrible weather. So in 2033, when sun and mild temperatures came together to create the perfect day, I figured everyone would be out on Halloween.

But all the lights were off. No one sat on their porches. And I didn’t know why until me and my brother John got home, discouraged and annoyed.

That’s when Mom told us what happened.

“Luke, John, come into the living room.”

For the first time in my life, the TV wasn’t running. My mom always had the TV running in the background; she said it helped her focus. I think she just liked watching General Hospital reruns and Family Feud.

But today, it was off; as were all the lights.

Not just here. Everywhere. Even from countries like China, electricity was out. The company of Zenith, which powered our world, had simply vanished overnight, leaving us in darkness.

My brother John was afraid of the dark. At 15, he constantly got made fun of for it. Once the power went out...

He couldn’t handle it. Three days after the blackout, he committed suicide.

It only took a week for the monopoly to begin.

Day 1: The panic. We waited for government officials to respond, to find a solution, to help us.

Nothing.

Day 2: The death: almost everything with a battery died. Phones, computers, even flashlights. Everything, in total sync. Almost as if it were planned.

But that’s crazy talk. I can’t afford to think like that. I have to keep living. Keep surviving.

I have to stay sane.

Day 3: The riots: People rose up, angry and scared. Libraries were raided, books were stolen. But with no lights, it was hard to read.

Most of the books ended up burned in the streets, bathing everything in a hazy red glow.

Book Burnings.

That’s how every tragedy starts, right?

Day 4: The crash: It’s a miracle it took this long, but finally, the stock market crashes. Money loses all value. And we desperately search for an alternative currency. Something with value. Something real.

Batteries.

Day 5: The adaptation: Took us long enough, but finally, life settles into a post-apocalyptic rhythm. Still violence, still no word from the big guys in Washington (or from anyone, in any part of the world). That much hasn’t changed, and probably won’t for a while. But we have a routine. We wake up. We scavenge for batteries. We buy flashlights, conserve them, hoard them...

We have a routine, but we have no purpose.

Some people have a purpose. I heard there are people working to reinvent electricity. Build it up from scratch.

But a single spark isn’t enough to relight the fire.

Day 6: Yesterday, we heard the news.

The White House still had power.

They glowed like a light of salvation.

But there was one problem: the big guys don’t want to share their toys.

Just kidding. It’s not a matter of authority anymore. The White House has power, but there’s no one to use it. Washington is empty.

Why?

Above my paygrade. Everything is above my paygrade. I don’t get paid. And I haven’t found enough batteries to buy information. Not my problem.

I don’t care what happened to Washington. I’m too busy worrying about me.

Selfish? Old me would have thought so. Old me would have called me a selfish dick.

Old me died with the power. Old me died with my brother. There’s no trace of him left.

That brings us to today.

Today, I bought a flashlight.

And just in time.

Because today, the birds came.

Although I suppose they aren’t really birds. They look like birds.

But they flock to darkness.

As I sat in my dark house, trying to ignore the smell, I see the birds begin to run into my windows. Battering them down. Maybe they smell it too. The smell that comes from the kitchen.

The smell of death.

John died early enough that we could get him a proper burial.

But Mom...

Mom set the house on fire. When I doused the flames, using water from the melted ice in the fridge, she was a charred corpse. And that was only two days ago. Right as everyone else settled into a routine, Mom decided to end it.

And by then, it was too late to give anyone a proper anything. So I left her there. What choice did I have?

So I told myself that the birds were coming towards the smell, hoping for food. I couldn’t see them— it was too dark for that— but I could hear them, flapping their black wings and shrieking their black cries.

That’s how I knew they couldn’t be real birds. That sound, that horrible, horrible sound... it was less of a sound, even, more of a feeling. It was so loud that it became an overwhelming black, an all-consuming darkness.

I turned on my flashlight, hoping to catch a glimpse of their vile, twisted faces.

But as soon as the lights came on, the shrieks stopped. They stopped using their bodies as battering rams. They were nowhere in sight.

They were gone, vanquished by the light.

But I couldn’t keep the light on forever. I didn’t have the energy. I was out of batteries. But I’d keep it on. For now. At least keep it on at night. At night, when nightmares become real. At night, when darkness is everywhere.

Now I know why John was so afraid of the dark.

Maybe he knew. Maybe all along, he knew what was coming. He knew about the outage, he knew about the apocalypse, he knew about the birds. He always knew.

I should have listened to him. I should have been there.

I should have...

I woke up to a faint clicking sound.

chick... chick-chick-chick...

It was the sound of my flashlight flickering.

“No,” I whisper. “No, no-no-no.” I grabbed the flashlight and shook it.

How long was I asleep? I don’t even remember nodding off? How could it be out of batteries? It’s only been a day! It’s too soon! Too soon!

With a final “churk” sound, the light is off, and the birds are back.

No... I can’t accept this. I won’t be torn apart by these monsters. These aliens. These demons. I can’t do it. I can already feel it, their beaks pushing into my stomach, shredding my entrails, gobbling up my lungs.

their wings beat in a steady rhythm. flap. flapflapfwap. over and over again please make it stop.

its only a matter of time before they get in here. i don’t even know if anyone can read this anymore. my handwriting is shaking and looping and scrabbling just like my mind. i guess that’s what i get for turning my suicide note into a memoir. its too long. i need to cut it short. there’s more i need to say, but there’s no time. no time at all.

it’s too late.

the birds are only moments from breaking in.

This past week of my life has been one suicide after another. Bit by bit.

Now, I’m making sure that chain ends. Ends with me.

This will be the last suicide I ever have to witness.

I pick up the match and sigh.

Electricity and fire are so different, yet so similar. Both make light. Both can burn you.

And both start with a single spark.