Nowhere to move

No escape in sight.

A crack in the wood

No glimmer of light.

No motion or sound

No laughter or sighs.

No bending my knee

No tears in my eyes .

The loud moan from a dry mouth.

They noticed a shoelace hanging out.

The burial stopped and with no mistake.

The groundsman lived by a narrow escape.

Human life can be described as a series of narrow escapes. From the first seconds of conception, the sperm that survived the biological and anatomical gauntlet to fertilize the ovum experienced multiple narrow escapes. In its journey, to the fallopian tubes, that single haploid cell had to outlast the mother's natural defenses while using every ounce of energy contained within its tadpole-like tail to complete it's soul purpose, to begin the biochemical chain reaction that will result in a brand-new human being. The narrow escapes continue at fertilization as cells divide, the uterus quickens, and other natural processes play out. The end of this process is yet another narrow escape as the infant experiences its skull being compressed so that it can passthrough the birth canal and be expelled into the bright world through a 10 centimeter opening. The mother faces her own narrow escape as giving birth could lead to catastrophic hemorrhaging, potential organ failure, and a level of physical stress on multiple biological processes which could lead to death. Life is full of narrow escapes, but not all of them feel like the climax one expects to experience during a James Bond or Indiana Jones movie, some are slow burns where years may pass before we know if the escape was made. My narrow escape could be considered a slow burn to its conclusion.

I came into the world after experiencing alcohol, illicit drug, and nicotine exposure. I appeared to be a healthy newborn possessing all ten fingers and toes, a strong heart beat, and lungs which wailed in fear and anger as I entered the world. The narrow escape had begun while in the womb, but on August 1, 1974, no one know about this escape. The theory is that my very pregnant mom (smoking 2 packs a day because she had to give up the other drugs she so enjoyed) experienced a nearly fatal spike in blood pressure which caused little fetus Shallowgenepool to suffer brain damage. It wasn't until my grandparents asked why I wasn't walking at 2 years of age that my first-time, drug addled, parents had a clue something was wrong. A few appointments and tests with specialists provided a diagnosis, cerebral palsy.

Along with the diagnosis my parents were given a less than sunny prognosis. The neurologist explained that I suffered significant damage to the left motor control area of my brain and it was likely that I would never walk, experience cognitive delays, and pretty much be a life-long burden. My parents took the news with a, "Fuck that and fuck you" attitude. It was then that I made the most important narrow escape of my life because my parents could have accepted the prognosis and treated me like a fragile antique vase allowing me to never challenge myself, but they didn't. Instead, they worked to help me walk. Along the way the helped me learn how to challenge myself, avoid self-pity (though I am human), and to experience the unique joy that comes with proving mother fuckers wrong. At a follow up appointment with the same neurologist almost a year later, I walked in the door. I narrowly escaped the possibility of life in a wheel chair because my parents didn't accept the doctor's hopeless outlook and they took it upon themselves to make sure I would walk. give up and they made it their mission to to shove some success up the doctor's ass. They did this mostly out of love, but I think they also wanted to prove the doctor wrong. I was too young to remember that appointment, but to this day my mom has a Cheshire Cat grin on her face when she tells the story.

The narrow escapes continued through childhood because the effects of the cerebral palsy required bracing along with intensive occupational and physical therapy. In order to promote continued muscle and bone growth in my right leg, I had to wear a Forest Gump style leg brace on my right foot. This was accompanied by the most butt ugly old man shoes you could imagine. I was also left with about 40% use of my right hand and arm. The weakness caused my right wrist to hang limply from an arm that stayed in a partially bent position, neither of which could be hidden from cruel eyes.

In the Darwinian, survival of the fittest jungle that is an elementary school playground I was treated like a wounded zebra surrounded by a pride of hungry lions. Since there was no hiding my physical differences, I was immediately targeted by the bully packs that roamed the jungle gyms and swings. In order to keep my head out of the toilet, I needed to figure out a way to make frequent narrow escapes. It was here that I proved another part of the neurologist's prognosis wrong. I wasn't cognitively delayed (not much anyway) and I was blessed with an Irish Catholic, alcoholic, drug addict wit along with a touch of bad attitude. So, I used the only strength I had. I weaponized my sense of humor. Instead of beating on me, the bullies were entertained by my sense of humor. For those bullies who lacked a sense of humor, I would insult them in a way where their dim brains vaguely understood they were being insulted, but they didn't understand how. This confusion stunned the IQ deprived bully just long enough for me to make a hobbling get away.

The narrow escapes continued through elementary school and well into adulthood. I had to make narrow escapes from stereotypes, discrimination, and the feeling that I would always be seen as damaged goods. The thing that saw me through these tight spots was I never let the diagnosis define me. Instead, I made sure it refined me. Being disabled shaped and refined me into an empathetic, caring, and somewhat functioning human being who still loves to prove mother fuckers wrong.

The days seem long, the years go fast

ephemeral, it cannot last

life, love, the memories you share

dream of forever if you dare;

blink and the present becomes past

the days seem long, the years go fast

the path behind a vivid guide

death lies ahead, you cannot hide;

you gave your life for this moment

was it worth it? Do you own it?

the days seem long, the years go fast

the echos of yesteryear are vast;

do you rejoice in existence?

Meet time's passage with resistence?

Enjoy it all! The die is cast!

the days seem long, the years go fast.

Money doesn’t make the man,

his word does,

but loose lips grow quiet

in dark alleys,

not Nasdaq floors,

so, any decent man

would be detoured

from doing the right thing,

especially one with

mouths to fill

and a roof to keep.

I hang my head low

watching the ground move

beneath me as I walk home.

My pride and ego

both cleansed

by the emptiness of the morning,

but it’s within the shadows that I blend in.

I wear the black for them.

Upon my broken back

they eat their breakfast,

and wash it all down

with discounted milk

and cartoon giggles,

using my stained shirts as napkins.

I don’t care

because as long as they’re full,

they sleep well,

and make it to the bus on time

I am doing something right.

God knows there Ain’t much

I’ve gotten right,

but I’ve never begged, borrowed,

or cheated to survive.

Some do

and some win,

but most pay the price.

Living among the filth

keeps you true,

and most of the time

the truth is all you have—

And being quiet

adds another box on that calendar

to be Ex’d

filling you with the hope

that you’d be lucky enough

to find a way out

before it’s too late.

Even if all the riches

filled every ocean,

today’s children would drown

trying to swim them

because uncharted waters

and false horizons lead to certain death—

But wearing a suit of black

can be a heavy burden

dragging you under just the same,

especially as the riptide of the world

pulls at you.

So, why teach them how to wear that heavy suit?

Because I want them to struggle enough

to learn how to swim upstream,

and be learned enough to know

when the water’s too rapid

to get out.

I want them to hold their breaths knowing

that air will eventually come back

and they will resurface

because every night

they watched their dad disappear into the shadows

always bringing the sunrise back with him.

I want them to know

if he did it

then they could too.

To last night

Where I was traveling

Through alleyways

Hammered with starlight

On my way

Toward the unknown

David Burdett

6/25/2023

Hi Prose Family!

I've been writing on Prose now for a couple months and I realized that I've never asked if there is a specific etiquette, set of guidelines, or duties I should be aware of as a Proser. Do we even call ourselves Prosers? I really should have asked from the beginning. For all I know I am committing sacrilegious blunders every time I post.

So, let me apologize retroactively for any offenses I may have caused in my ignorance. Being that I want to be considered a model Proser I ask the veterans to answer the following questions:

1. Should I thank the challenge poster in the unlikely event I win the challenge? Or is it expected that the challenge winner provide the challenge poster with a nice fruit basket or bottle of wine?

2. Are there any ceremonies I am expected to perform? For example, on the night of the full moon, should I:

a) Strip naked in front of a public library (hopefully no one sees me right before they have dinner)

b) Give myself a deep and bleeding papercut from the first sheet of a freshly opened reem of paper.

c) Use my blood to sign my name on the inside cover of an unread copy of "Lord of the Flies"

d) Douse the unread novel in White Out

e) Finally, set the book aflame while reading aloud page 1 of Dante's Inferno?

3. Do we have secret ways to identify other Prosers and reveal ourselves to possible Prosers such as by using secret code phrases? For example:

Proser 1 Code Phrase: "I think I ruptured my semicolon."

Proser 2 Code Response: "A proctologist can repair that with an Iambic Pentameter."

4. Do we have a secret handshake?

5. Do we have an oath? For example, "As a Proser, it is my solemn duty to decry the evils of the double negative. I will promote literacy. I will hunt down anyone guilty of plagiarism and gut them until they can use their entrails as a belt with the sacred, ceremonial staple remover. I will remember the thesaurus and keep it holy (adjective): sacred, consecrated, divine, venerated, and hallowed. Finally, I will rejoice and celebrate all cleverly used double entendres, expletives, and use of the terms: anal, butt, labia, penis, erectile disfunction, STD, boobs, breasts, doggy style, cum bubble, dildo, vibrator, and gang bang because at heart, I have noticed most Prosers are dirty minded sixth graders."

I am eagerly awaiting the responses to my questions from veteran Prosers. If I have unknowingly caused Prose faux pas please forgive me. Also, because I am scatter brained and lazy I want to say, "Thank you retroactively and/or in advance for all challenges I participate in and awwww shucks to any challenges I might have won or could win in the future."

Yours in Merriam-Webster,

Shallowgenepool

“It’s getting hot. Let me drive you guys.” My mom called from her home office.

“You know, I could always drive… the library is not that far…” I had to try.

“Nope. It’s only a permit. Besides, you know you can’t drive with your brother in the car.”

Crap. It’s only two weeks until my driver’s license appointment.

“Okay," I sigh loudly "We’re hoofin’ it. No big deal.”

“Wear hats and take water bottles. Text me when you get there. Keep an eye on your brother.” She pleaded, peeking her head out of her office doorway.

Like I wouldn’t. It’s all I ever do: keep an eye on The Oblivious One. My mom clings to worry like a talisman. As if letting it slip from her hands meant inviting “something bad” to happen.

“Okay, Safety Sue…” I mumbled under my breath, walking away.

“I heard that.”

Wow. How did she even hear that? Her hearing is as stellar as ever.

“Love you, Mom.”

“Bye Momma!” My little brother called out in his annoying Texan twang as we left. His voice had changed recently, but it still cracked in strange places when he spoke. Freaking hilarious when it did. And when is he going to stop calling her “Momma”, like a baby? Gross.

Dear God, please tell me I was not that awkward when I was that age.

We walked out of our planned community and onto the main road. Four lanes and a center turning lane. I wished I were driving instead.

I heard the honking ahead of us before I could see what was happening. The danger soon came into view. A white, flatbed work-type truck was driving erratically and too fast. Weaving into oncoming traffic, traveling in our direction.

SHIT. No time.No time.No time.

I looked at my brother, walking slowly—always so damn slow! Fumbling with his water bottle lid. Not even paying attention to his surroundings as usual! Can he not hear the commotion?! I felt instant annoyance and gripping fear.

Unless the truck suddenly did something completing unexpected and even possibly defied physics, it was going to hit us. Immediately. I thought about Trig class. Yeah. I didn’t need any fancy calculations right now to tell me we were about to get crushed.

No time.No time. We’re about to die RIGHT NOW.

I grabbed my little brother by the scruff of his t-shirt and by the back waist of his jeans. I hefted his thin body roughly over the guardrail on our right, swearing at myself for skipping the bench press lately. He let out a strangled, mixed cry of surprise and anger. His cry quickly morphed into noises of pain as he landed, tumbling violently down a slight embankment.

Tuck and roll, bro. Protect your face and head. We’ll worry about the rest later.

I heard the truck’s engine nearing as I remembered that hurdles were not my event. Turns out, they’re even harder to pull off from a standing position. I didn’t clear it. My left foot caught on the guardrail. I tensed up, not knowing which impact to expect first: the ground or the speeding truck.

Time’s up.

I know a lot of people say their lives flash before their eyes when they are in mortal danger. That wasn’t the case for me. Besides rapid-fire associations having to do with the immediate situation at hand, all my memories were of my little brother:

Feeding him as a baby.

Helping him take his first wobbly steps.

Cutting food in half and giving him the smaller piece.

Pushing him on the swings at the park.

Me taking his Legos.

Him taking my Naruto books.

My jealousy of how he could pick up any instrument and play it skillfully.

The two of us sneaking candy into the movie theater.

Laughing at stupid videos together on family road trips.

All I knew at that moment was that I could not let anything happen to him. I didn’t even think of myself for once. I thought of the worry in my mom’s eyes this morning before we left. I thought of how I’d rather die than have to tell her I had lost my little brother.

I tumbled hard as the sound of twisting metal and splintering wood took residence in my ears alongside the pounding whoosh of my rapid pulse. I had come to rest in a patch of fading bluebonnets, hurting, but alive. My little brother was now sitting up, rubbing his bloody elbow and taking inventory of the damage to his knee. He looked around for his glasses that had been knocked off during his fall. I hurt all over, but I’d take a look at my injuries later. I helped my brother to his feet. People were now gathering around the accident scene on the hillside just above us, trying to help the trapped driver, and calling for EMS.

“Whoa… Momma’s gonna freak OUT, right?”

I paused, wondering if there was any way we could NOT tell her. Negative.

“You bet your ass she will. You have no idea.”

'I won't forget you,' he says.

And with those few final words, I am gone from his life forever.

But, wait. Let us start again. For this, our story, begins elsewhere.

Benedict Goodnight stands under a key-stoned archway in the cloistered quad of Wallsford Comprehensive and tries not to stare at Sundae Loving. He knows it is not polite to stare. Not that Mistress Loving would notice. Young Master Goodnight does not exist in her world. No more than we exist in his.

But all of that is about to change!

'Are you drooling, Goodnight?'

'Sir?'

'You are. You're positively foaming at the mouth, boy! Are you ill?'

'I'm in love, sir.'

'Love, eh? I wouldn't know the first thing about it. But do carry on.'

That was Benedict's problem. He never had. Carried on, I mean. With anyone. And certainly not with Sundae Loving. His heart was pure, and his thoughts were chaste. She was his Earth and he was her moon. Constantly in orbit. Unable to move away, and equally unable to move any nearer. A satellite love.

'And Goodnight?'

'Sir?'

'Try not to drown in your own saliva.'

Uncommon beauty is commonly overlooked. And while Mistress Sundae could not be considered a classical beauty, her whole was greater than the sum of her parts.

And Master Benedict? He was kind and honest. And the space between his ears was not an empty one. He was neither attractive nor unattractive, but your plain, ordinary, average boy on the street.

This is where I come in. My name is Giacomo Girolamo Casanova. And I happen to know a little something about love.

You will know, already, that I am dead. It happens. People die all the time. But death is not, necessarily, how you might imagine it. A life is not a candle to be snuffed out so easily. Sometimes a small wisp of smoke still lingers.

There are those who can hear me. Those who can see me. And those, though few, who can do both. Ben is one of them. As to whose shadow first crossed whose threshold, I cannot recall. It will suffice to say that we did meet, and were soon good friends.

One night, when he lay in his bed, and I was sitting in a chair by his window, Ben said, 'How do you get a girl to notice you?'

'Clothes,' I said. 'You must dress to impress!'

'Not helpful... Everyone at school wears the same uniform.'

'It is not what you wear,' I told him, 'but how you wear it. A tie is not a noose around your neck. A blazer is not a sack for harvesting vegetables.'

'Ok. What else?'

'Never tuck your shirt inside your underpants. Who taught you to do that?'

'I don't know. It's just something we do.'

'Who is we?' I asked.

'Guys, I guess. Boys?'

'A-ha! Yes! Little boys. Girls do not look at little boys. They cuddle them. They baby them. They bounce them them on their knees. Is that what you want? To be bounced?'

'Well... No.'

'Then you must be a man, and not a little boy. A young man, perhaps. But a man!'

'How do I do that?'

'First, you must think of yourself as a man. To think like a man, you must look like a man. Your hair. Your clothes. We will change everything! Trust me, my friend. You will not believe the difference!'

We began the very next morning. I laid out Ben's uniform while he showered. His body was nothing more, and nothing less, than I expected. Normal. There was nothing un-expected. The usual bits were in the usual places.

'Stand up straight,' I said. 'Do not slouch! Shoulders back! Chest out! Chin up! Now, repeat after me. I am a man!'

'I am a man.'

'You do not sound so sure. Say it. I am a man!'

'I am a man!'

'Better. A penis is not something to be ashamed of. Say it!'

'A penis - '

'No. No. I am a man!'

'I am a man!'

'Good! Get dressed. There is still much to do!'

When Ben was dressed to my satisfaction, I asked him if he was a sheep.

'What? No!'

'So why,' I said, 'do you comb your hair over your eyes? Who are you hiding from? Use your fingers to brush it back from your face. Show the world you are not afraid!'

'You're wearing a wig,' he said.

'It was the fashion when I was alive,' I replied. 'It is not the fashion now.'

'But you still wear it.'

'It suits me to do so. And we are not concerned with my appearance. So, my young friend, what are you?'

'A man?'

'Yes, you are! And do not forget it!'

At Ben's school, I pointed out Mistress Sundae.

'You will walk past her,' I told him. 'You will catch her eye. You will smile. But you will not speak.'

He shook his head. 'I can't.'

'Why not?'

'Her friends are there.'

'So? Are they gorgons to turn a man to stone? Go!'

And to his credit, he went.

He did the same thing the next day. And the next. Every day for a week. And what do you think happened on the Friday afternoon? As Ben was walking out through the school gates? She followed in the dance, of course!

Here is what I heard.

Her. 'Hi.'

Him. 'Hi.'

Her. 'You're Ben, right?'

Him. 'Yeah.'

Her. 'Cool.'

'Do not slow down,' I said. 'Keep walking.'

Mistress Sundae has to skip to keep up.

Her. 'You look different.'

Him. 'Do I?'

Her. 'That's my bus. I have to go.'

Him. 'Ok.'

Her. 'Will I see you Monday?'

Him. 'Sure... Maybe.'

'You were perfect,' I said.

Ben was not convinced. 'I dunno.'

'Wait,' I said. 'You will see.'

Monday morning came. Sundae was waiting at the school gates.

'Hi, Ben!'

'Hi.'

'You're here.'

'Yep.'

'I thought... When you said maybe... But here you are!'

'Here I am.'

'Cool. There's my friend Amy. Come and say hi.'

I never said the conversation was riveting.

On Tuesday they ate lunch together.

On Wednesday they held hands.

On Thursday they kissed.

On Friday they kissed again.

I did not stay to watch. I am not a voyeur.

On Saturday they met in a nearby park.

On Sunday -

Ah... Every day should be a Sundae!